rudyking

[rudyking]

100 FOLLOWERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[rudyking]

Vacay away!:

Rudy wraps up filming his movie, Reminders Of Him, and gets to take you on a little vacay.

The buzz of your phone on the nightstand is what startles you awake. It’s late, or maybe early, but you grab it anyway, squinting at the screen.

Rudy: Wrapped. Officially. I'm coming to get you. Pack a bag. Think sun.

A giddy, sleep-drunk smile spreads across your face. It’s been weeks of stolen FaceTime calls, texts sent at odd hours, and the constant, low-level hum of missing him. He’d poured every ounce of himself into playing Ledger in Reminders of Him, a role that was emotionally taxing and all-consuming. You knew he needed this break more than anything.

You scramble out of bed, pulling a suitcase from the top of your closet. Sun. That means swimsuits, sundresses, shorts, a floppy hat. You move on autopilot, a thrill buzzing under your skin. An hour later, just as you’re zipping the bag shut, you hear the familiar rumble of his car pulling into the driveway.

You practically fly down the stairs and swing the door open before he can even knock. There he is. His hair is a little longer than when he left, his tan a bit deeper from the Charleston sun, but there’s a weariness in the corners of his eyes that you want to smooth away. He drops his duffel bag with a thud and his face breaks into that wide, soul-brightening grin you love so much.

“There she is,” he says, his voice a low, happy rumble.

You don’t even answer, you just launch yourself into his arms. He stumbles back a step, laughing as he wraps his arms tightly around your waist, burying his face in your neck. He smells like airplane air and the faint, clean scent of his soap.

“God, I missed you,” he murmurs into your hair.

“I missed you more,” you reply, your voice muffled by his shoulder. “Are you okay? You look exhausted.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones. “I am. But I’m better now.” He glances at the suitcase by the door. “You ready?”

“Where are we even going?” you laugh.

“No questions. Just trust me,” he says, winking. He grabs your bag, slings it over his shoulder with his own, and leads you out to the car.

The drive to the airport is a blur of you catching him up on trivial gossip and him telling you behind-the-scenes stories from the set. His hand rests on your thigh, his thumb drawing lazy circles, a simple, grounding touch that says everything.

Hours later, after a flight where you slept soundly on his shoulder, you step off the plane and the air hits you first—warm, thick with salt and the sweet scent of blooming hibiscus. It’s tropical. You’re somewhere beautiful.

A private car takes you down winding roads flanked by lush, green jungle. Finally, you pull up to a secluded wooden gate. Rudy thanks the driver and leads you through. Your jaw drops.

Before you stands a private villa, all light wood and white linen curtains billowing in the breeze. An infinity pool glitters, seeming to spill directly into the turquoise ocean beyond it. A small, sandy path leads from the patio down to a pristine, empty stretch of beach.

“Rudy…” you breathe, turning to him. “This is… incredible.”

He’s not looking at the view; he’s looking at you, a soft, relieved smile on his face. “This is it, babe. Just us. No calls, no scripts, no early mornings. For one whole week.”

You waste no time. Bags are dropped, swimsuits are thrown on, and within ten minutes, you’re both launching yourselves into the pool with a whoop and a splash. The cool water is a balm. He pulls you to him, his hands on your waist, and for a long moment, you just float there, forehead to forehead, the rest of the world melting away. He’s shed the weight of his character and is just your Rudy again—playful, light, and endlessly loving.

Later, as the sun begins to dip towards the horizon, painting the sky in fiery shades of orange and pink, you walk hand-in-hand down to the beach. The sand is like powdered sugar between your toes. You sit on a towel, leaning back against his chest as he wraps his arms around you.

“It was a tough one,” he says quietly, his chin resting on top of your head. “Ledger… he’s got a lot of baggage.”

You turn your head to kiss his arm. “You were amazing, I know you were. But I’m glad to have you back.”

“Me too,” he sighs, his whole body relaxing into yours. “I felt like I was living someone else’s life for two months. I just needed to get back to us. This felt like the only way.”

He kisses the top of your head, then your temple, then a soft, lingering kiss on your lips that tastes of salt and homecoming. You stay like that until the last sliver of sun disappears and the first stars begin to prick the velvety sky.

“I ordered groceries to be delivered,” he says, his voice husky. “I was thinking grilled fish tacos and an entire bowl of guacamole that we don’t have to share with anyone.”

“You are officially the best boyfriend in the entire world,” you declare, scrambling to your feet and pulling him up with you.

That night, you eat on the patio under the stars, listening to the gentle crash of the waves and the chirp of unseen crickets. There’s no talk of work or stress, only laughter and easy conversation. It feels like you’re the only two people on earth.

When you finally crawl into the crisp, clean sheets of the big bed, the doors open to the ocean breeze, Rudy pulls you flush against his back, his arm draped possessively over your waist.

“Happy?” he whispers into the quiet.

You snuggle deeper into his hold, a profound sense of peace settling over you. “More than happy.”

You fall asleep to the rhythm of the ocean and the steady beat of his heart. The next morning, you wake up to the sun streaming in, the sound of the waves, and Rudy, already awake, just watching you with a look of pure adoration.

“Morning, sunshine,” he grins. “Ready for day two?”

[rudyking]

I'M ALMOST 100 FOLLOWERS!!!!!!!!!!!

LET'S GO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[rudyking]

WORK IN PROGRESS

[rudyking]

Can we get something Rudy x reader? Smutty/fluffy- maybe Rudy wraps a show/movie, after being very busy filming for a while, & gets to take reader on a vacay!!

OFC!!!!!!!!!!!

[rudyking]

Slim pickings:

Yn has an eating disorder, which JJ discovers and tries to help Yn through.

The humid air hung heavy and sweet with the scent of salt and pine, a familiar comfort for JJ. He tossed a half-eaten churro wrapper into the sand, watching seagulls squabble over a discarded fry. Beside him, Yn was meticulously arranging her small portion of fish tacos on a paper plate at The Wreck’s picnic table.

His eyes, the color of the shallow sound water, drifted over her. Yn, his Yn. Kind, warm, patient. The anchor in his chaotic Pogue world. He loved watching her, the way her brow furrowed slightly in concentration, the soft curve of her smile when she caught him looking. But lately, something felt… off.

She’d been quieter during meals, pushing food around with her fork, taking tiny, deliberate bites, sometimes sighing softly when she thought he wasn’t listening. She’d developed a sudden, fervent interest in the nutritional content of everything, a stark contrast to their usual 'can we afford this?' dining philosophy. And she was always cold, even in the July heat, wrapping herself in oversized sweaters that seemed to hang on her frame.

JJ, with his impulsive nature and smart-alecky defense mechanisms, wasn't exactly known for picking up on subtle emotional cues. But he was fiercely loyal, deeply protective of the people he loved, and Yn was at the absolute top of that list. His brain, usually buzzing with the next scheme or sarcastic retort, had shifted its focus to a quiet, persistent worry about her.

Today, the worry felt like a physical weight. She’d barely touched her tacos, making excuses about eating a late lunch, about the fish being “a little too heavy” for the heat. He’d seen her sneak glances at the trash can, a faraway look in her eyes. His stomach clenched.

"Hey," he said, trying to keep his tone light, forcing a dimpled grin. "These tacos are fire, babe. You sure you don't want more?"

Yn offered a small, tight smile. "They're good, JJ. Just... not that hungry right now."

He watched her, a knot tightening in his gut. Normally, she’d tease him about being a bottomless pit, maybe steal a bite off his plate just to annoy him. This polite refusal felt alien.

Over the next few weeks, the signs became harder to ignore. Skipped dinners disguised as headaches. Early departures from hangouts where food was involved. An almost obsessive need to exercise, long runs on the beach that left her looking drained, not energized. The loose clothes that used to be just her style now seemed necessary, a way to hide something.

His mischievous spark dimmed, replaced by a constant hum of anxiety. He tried talking to John B, to Pope, even Kie, but framing his worry felt impossible. How did he say, "I think something's wrong with Yn, and I don't know what, but it feels big and scary"? They'd just tell him he was probably overthinking it, or offer some well-meaning but unhelpful advice. This felt like something he had to figure out himself, protect her from, like he protected them all.

One sweltering afternoon, they were out on the Pogue, just drifting in the sound, the water glassy and calm. JJ had packed a small cooler with drinks and snacks – chips, a couple of sandwiches he’d pilfered from his fridge, some fruit. He offered Yn a sandwich.

"Nah, I'm good," she said softly, turning her face towards the sun.

"Come on, you haven't eaten all day," he pressed, his voice a little sharper than he intended.

She flinched slightly. "JJ, really, I'm not hungry."

He dropped the sandwich back in the cooler, frustration and fear warring inside him. Why wouldn't she just eat? Was she sick? Was it something he did? His mind raced, landing on the worst possible scenarios.

Later that day, back at the Château, he found her in the bathroom. The door was slightly ajar. He heard sounds that made his blood run cold. A retching sound, followed by the flush of the toilet, then the running water.

His breath hitched. He stood frozen for a moment, the carefree Pogue facade shattering around him. His heart hammered against his ribs. Vulnerability, a feeling he usually buried deep, surged to the surface, raw and terrifying. He didn't know what he was hearing, but he knew instinctively it was connected to the food, the quietness, the weight loss. It was wrong.

He pushed the door open gently. Yn was splashed water on her face, her knuckles red, her eyes wide and startled when she saw him. Her face was pale, drawn, framed by damp strands of hair.

"JJ!" she gasped, her voice thin.

He didn't say anything, couldn't. His blue eyes, usually sparkling with mischief, were dark with confusion and pain. He just looked at her, really looked at her, seeing past the forced smiles and oversized clothes to the fear etched on her face, the fragile way her body seemed to shrink in on itself.

Slowly, he stepped inside the small, cramped bathroom, closing the door behind him. He didn’t accuse. He didn't yell (though the urge, fueled by fear and anger at whatever was hurting her, was strong). He just stood there, his gaze unwavering, his presence a quiet demand for truth.

Yn’s eyes filled with tears. Her carefully constructed wall crumbled. She sank back against the counter, trembling. "JJ, I..."

"Hey," he said, his voice low and rough, crossing the small space to kneel in front of her. He reached out hesitantly, taking her cold hands in his. "What's going on, Yn?"

The question wasn't an accusation, but a plea. His thumb gently stroked the back of her hand.

Tears spilled down her cheeks. "I... I haven't been doing well, JJ. With food. With... with myself."

It spilled out then, hesitant at first, then a torrent of whispered confessions about feeling out of control, about the fear of gaining weight, the distorted reflection in the mirror, the cycle of restricting and purging. The eating disorder – the term hung in the air, heavy and suffocating – was a secret she'd carried, a dark passenger on their sun-drenched island.

JJ listened, his heart breaking. He didn't fully understand the why, the complex psychological roots she tried to explain, but he understood the pain, the fear, the isolation in her voice. He saw the vulnerability she rarely showed, mirroring his own buried feelings.

He pulled her gently into his arms, holding her tight as she sobbed, burying his face in her hair. He was protective by nature, but this felt different. This wasn't a Kook to fight or a storm to weather. This was her fighting herself, and he had no idea how to swing a punch at that.

"Okay," he murmured into her hair, rocking her slightly. "Okay, Yn. I'm here. I'm right here."

That moment in the bathroom was the turning point. The discovery was made. Now came the trying to help.

JJ didn't suddenly become a therapist. He was still JJ – impulsive, sarcastic, sometimes bad-tempered when his fear got the better of him. But his fierce loyalty and love for Yn guided him.

His attempts to help were often clumsy, born more of instinct and unwavering devotion than clinical knowledge. He started by just being there. He’d sit with her during meals, even if she only ate a few bites, offering quiet encouragement, deflecting comments from the others without making a scene.

"Yeah, Yn's just powering up on sunshine today," he'd say with a wink, subtly covering her plate with his arm if anyone looked too closely.

He learned her triggers, the times of day or specific situations that made it harder for her. He tried to fill those times with distractions – spontaneous fishing trips, late-night swims under the stars, driving the Twinkie with the windows down and the music blaring, just talking about nothing and everything.

He’d leave little snacks for her – a piece of fruit, a granola bar – where she’d find them, not saying anything, just a silent offering of care.

He struggled with his own frustration. There were days she'd make progress, eating a little more, seeming a little brighter. Then there were days she'd retreat, the darkness settling back in her eyes, the excuses returning. On those days, his temper would flare, fueled by helpless anger.

"Yn, you have to eat something!" he'd snap, his voice raw with desperation.

She’d flinch, pulling away. "Don't yell at me, JJ!"

He'd immediately regret it, his face falling. "Shit, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell. It's just... I don't know what to do, Yn. I just want you to be okay." His vulnerability, usually masked by humor, was laid bare.

She'd reach out tentatively, touching his arm. "I know, JJ. I know you do. It's just... it's hard."

His protective instincts were constantly on high alert. He found himself watching her with a hawk-like intensity that sometimes made her uneasy. He had to learn to balance his need to protect her with giving her space, understanding she needed to find her own strength.

He educated himself, quietly. He’d look things up on his phone when no one was around, reading articles about eating disorders, trying to understand the complex psychology, the difference between nourishment and self-punishment. He learned words like "recovery" and "relapse" and "therapy." The realization that she needed professional help dawned on him, and having that conversation with her was one of the hardest things he'd ever done.

"Yn, you're the smartest person I know," he started one evening, sitting with her on the porch swing, the crickets chirping around them. "And you're strong. Stronger than you think. But... maybe this is too big to fight alone? Would you... would you think about talking to someone? Like, a real doctor? Who knows about this stuff?"

He braced himself for resistance. But Yn, with her quiet strength and insight, surprised him. "I've been thinking about it too, JJ," she admitted softly. "Just... didn't know how to start. Or who to ask."

He felt a surge of relief and pride. "Okay. We'll figure it out. Together."

Finding resources in the Outer Banks wasn't easy, but they navigated it, him fiercely advocating for her, her bravely reaching out. It was a slow, often painful process. There were appointments, good days and bad days, steps forward and steps back.

JJ remained her constant. His playful humor, usually used for mischief, became a tool for comfort, teasing her gently, making her laugh until the strain on her face eased. His affection was a quiet anchor, holding her hand, a squeeze of reassurance, a soft kiss on her forehead. His presence was a steady, unwavering light in the darkness of her disorder.

He learned patience, a virtue not usually in his repertoire. He learned empathy on a deeper level than he thought possible. He learned that loving someone meant standing by them even when you couldn't fix their pain, just share the burden.

One afternoon, months into their journey, they were sitting by the water's edge, watching the waves. JJ had bought them ice cream from the convenience store – something she rarely allowed herself. She was eating it slowly, deliberately, but she was eating it.

She looked at him, her blue eyes clearer than they had been in a long time. A genuine, relaxed smile touched her lips, bringing out the deep dimples he loved.

"Thank you, JJ," she said softly, licking melted ice cream from her thumb.

"For what?" he asked, though he knew.

"For... everything. For seeing me. For not giving up. For just... being you."

He swallowed past the lump in his throat. He didn't have a smart-aleck reply ready. He just reached out and took her hand, lacing their fingers together.

"Don't gotta thank me, Yn," he said, his voice a little husky. "You're my best girl. My anchor. We're in this together, okay? Always."

It wasn't a cure. Recovery wasn't a straight line, and he knew there would be hard days ahead. But sitting there, under the vast OBX sky, the taste of salt on the air and ice cream sweet on his tongue, holding her hand, JJ knew they could face whatever came next.

He had discovered her secret, yes, but in trying to help her through it, he had also discovered a depth of love, loyalty, and strength within himself that he never knew existed. And that, like the enduring pull of the tide, was something truly powerful.

[rudyking]

The great fingernail incident:

JJ accidentally hurts his baby while cutting their nails, and it destroys him.

Inside, a scene of almost shocking domesticity was unfolding. JJ Maybank, a man more accustomed to piloting a stolen boat through a hurricane than navigating the placid waters of fatherhood, was on the floor, legs folded, humming a tuneless rendition of a sea shanty. His focus, however, was laser-sharp, directed at the ten perfect, impossibly tiny fingernails of his four-month-old son, Scott.

He’d done the research. Three separate parenting blogs, each with conflicting advice that he’d synthesized into a master strategy, and two YouTube tutorials featuring unnervingly calm dads, had prepared him for this moment. He was armed with a pair of blue, whale-shaped baby nail clippers and the fierce, protective love of a man who had never had anything so fragile to care for before.

“Alright, Scotty my boy,” he murmured, his shaggy blonde hair falling into his eyes. “Operation Tiny Talons is a go. We’re gonna make these little murder-mittens safe for public consumption. No more scratching up your handsome dad, okay?”

Scott gurgled, kicking his chubby legs against JJ’s thigh. JJ took a deep, steadying breath, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. He held Scott’s miniature hand, a delicate starfish in his own calloused palm, and positioned the clippers. He’d read you were supposed to press the finger pad down, away from the nail. He did. With the concentration of a bomb disposal expert, he brought the clippers together.

Click.

One perfect crescent of nail fell onto the worn rug. Success. A grin split JJ’s face, revealing the deep dimples that Scott had, much to his delight, inherited. He was a natural. A prodigy. He was Dad of the Year. He moved onto the next finger, humming with renewed confidence.

Click. Another success.

He was on the third finger, the index finger, when it happened. A slight wiggle from Scott, a fractional loss of focus from JJ, a miscalculation of microscopic proportions.

Snick.

It was a different sound. Softer, yet infinitely more horrifying. JJ froze. On the tip of Scott’s tiny finger, a minuscule drop of blood, no bigger than a pinprick, welled up. A tiny pink welt bloomed around it like a traitorous rose.

For a single, silent second, nothing happened. Scott blinked his wide, curious eyes, his gaze fixed on his father’s suddenly ashen face. Then his lower lip trembled, his face crumpled, and he let out a confused, hiccuping wail that pierced the tranquil afternoon air.

The sound shattered JJ’s composure into a million pieces. His blood ran cold. The whale clippers fell from his numb fingers. He stared at the tiny wound, a scarlet beacon of his own incompetence. This perfect, flawless creature, entrusted to his care, and he had wounded him. He had drawn blood. He, JJ Maybank, was a monster.

He snatched Scott up, cradling him against his chest with a gasp that seemed to pull all the air from the room. “What have I DONE?” he choked out, his voice raw with panic. He rocked the now-sobbing baby, his own heart thundering a frantic, guilty rhythm against his ribs. “Oh god, buddy, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

His mind, usually a chaotic playground of sarcastic quips and get-rich-quick schemes, had become a desolate landscape of failure. Yn would leave him. Scott would grow up to resent his clumsy, brutish father. He’d be known forever as JJ “The Mauler” Maybank. This was it. This was how his perfect life ended. Not with a bang, but with a snick.

Yn found him five minutes later, still rocking a now-calm Scott, whose only remaining sign of trauma was a faint glistening of tears on his eyelashes. JJ, on the other hand, looked like he’d just witnessed a naval disaster.

“Hey,” she said softly, her calm voice a stark contrast to the klaxons of doom blaring in his head. “What’s wrong? I heard crying.”

JJ looked up, his eyes wide with a tragic, self-flagellating horror. He held up Scott’s hand, presenting the microscopic wound as if it were Exhibit A in a capital murder trial. “I hurt him, Yn. I’m a menace. I shouldn’t be allowed near him. I’m… I’m a danger to my own son.”

Yn’s gentle expression barely flickered. She leaned in, kissed Scott’s head, and then examined the finger. “Oh honey, it’s just a tiny little nick. It happens to everyone.”

“Everyone?” JJ repeated, his voice cracking. “Does it happen to everyone, Yn? Or does it just happen to flawed, impulsive, ham-fisted monsters who have no business being fathers?”

Before she could answer, he was on a mission. He placed Scott gently into her arms, his movements filled with a new, solemn purpose. He marched over to the fireplace, which sat cold and empty in the summer heat. With the grim determination of a king banishing a traitor, he picked up the offending whale clippers, held them aloft for a moment of silent condemnation, and then tossed them dramatically into the hearth, where they landed with a pathetic, metallic clatter.

“They are banished,” he declared to the empty fireplace. “Never again shall their evil touch our son.”

He then stalked over to the kitchen table, grabbed a pen and a stray napkin, and began to write with a feverish intensity.

To my son, Scott, If you are reading this, it means you have survived my care. Know this: on this day, I failed you. I, your father, a man who would fight a shark for you, was defeated by a fingernail. I am flawed. But I love you with trembling hands and a heart that now bears this scar of guilt forever. Forgive me. Your Humbled and Broken Father, JJ.

He folded the napkin with reverence and tucked it into the pocket of his board shorts. Then, without another word, he turned and stormed out of the Chateau, letting the screen door slam behind him.

Yn, holding a giggling Scott who was now trying to eat his own fist, just sighed and shook her head with a fond, knowing smile. “Your dad is a drama queen, little man,” she whispered. “But he’s our drama queen.”

Eleven minutes later, the screen door burst open again. JJ stood in the doorway, panting slightly, his arms laden with spoils. He had acquired, in his brief and frantic sojourn, a giant stuffed giraffe, a plush octopus, a teddy bear that was nearly as big as Scott, three smaller, more manageable stuffed sloths, and—the pièce de résistance—a soft-shelled baby helmet.

He dropped the menagerie of plush onto the sofa and presented the helmet to Yn with a triumphant, albeit still deeply troubled, look. “For protection,” he announced. “From me.”

An hour later, the Pogue Emergency Summit was in full session at the Boneyard. The Twinkie was parked near the dunes, its back doors open to the ocean breeze.

John B, ever the pragmatist, leaned against the van, sipping a beer. “Bro, it’s a nick. He’s probably forgotten about it already. You, on the other hand, are about to have a full-blown aneurysm. Chill.”

JJ, who was pacing frantically in the sand, shot him a look of pure betrayal. “Chill? John B, ‘chill’ is not in the vocabulary of a man who has inflicted physical and, no doubt, lasting psychological trauma upon his own infant son.”

From inside the van, where he’d set up his laptop, Pope cleared his throat. “Actually, JJ, your reaction is not entirely without merit.” He turned the screen around, revealing a meticulously crafted PowerPoint presentation. The title slide read: 'MICROSCOPIC WOUNDS: A MACRO-PROBLEM IN INFANT CARE.'

“I’ve prepared a 47-slide presentation,” Pope announced proudly. “Slide 12, ‘Epidermal Breaches: They’re Still Breaches,’ seems particularly relevant. As does Slide 28, ‘The Trust-Betrayal Complex in Pre-Verbal Subjects.’”

Kiara, sitting on a log with a thermos, rolled her eyes at Pope before getting up and wrapping an arm around JJ’s tense shoulders. “Okay, no more presentations. JJ, you’re a great dad. You were trying to do something caring, and you made a tiny mistake. It’s okay.” She handed him a steaming mug. “Emergency chamomile tea.”

JJ took a sip, his shoulders slumping slightly. “It doesn’t feel okay, Kie. It feels like I failed the most important job I’ve ever had.”

It was then that Yn, who had been quietly listening, stepped forward. She was holding Scott, who was happily chewing on the ear of his new stuffed giraffe. She gently took the chamomile tea from JJ’s hand and replaced it with his son.

JJ’s entire body softened as he held the warm, solid weight of Scott in his arms. The baby looked up at him and offered a gummy, drool-filled smile.

“Look at him,” Yn said, her voice a soft anchor in his storm. “He’s not traumatized. He’s not planning his revenge. He’s happy because his dad is holding him.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out something she’d crafted from an old beer bottle cap, a safety pin, and a piece of duct tape on which she’d written in Sharpie.

“We forgive you,” she said, her eyes twinkling with humor and deep affection. She pinned the makeshift badge to his shirt. “But you will never clip again.”

JJ looked down. The badge read: ‘RETIRED DAD GROOMER.’

A slow smile, the first genuine one in hours, spread across his face, his dimples reappearing. He looked from Yn’s loving face to his oblivious son, and the mountain of guilt began to crumble into a much more manageable molehill.

That night, long after Yn and Scott were asleep, JJ couldn’t quite let it go. He pulled a spare mattress onto the floor of the nursery and lay beside Scott’s crib. In his hand, he held a tiny gel ice pack shaped like a blue dolphin, which he periodically and very gently pressed against his own cheek as a form of penance.

“I’ll be better, buddy,” he whispered into the dark, his voice thick with sleep and sincerity. “I promise. No more mauling. Just… soft edges. From now on.”

Scott, blissfully unaware of the dramatic vigil being held in his honor, shifted in his sleep, let out a soft sigh, and continued chewing on his sock.

The next afternoon, Yn came home to find JJ sitting on the living room floor, in the exact same spot as the day before. The light streamed in, illuminating a bowl of green grapes beside him. In his hands, he held a new pair of baby clippers—these ones equipped with a tiny magnifying glass and a plastic safety guard that made them look like a piece of equipment from a sci-fi movie.

With the same intense concentration he’d displayed twenty-four hours earlier, he picked up a single grape, held it steady, and with a deep breath, performed a perfect, clean clip on its taut skin.

He looked up at Yn, a flicker of pride in his eyes.

“Just practicing,” he said, his voice low and serious. “Getting my confidence back. A dad’s gotta be ready to get back on the battlefield.”

Yn leaned against the doorframe, watching the man she loved so fiercely prepare for his next great battle against the treacherous enemy that was infant fingernails. And as he meticulously groomed a piece of fruit, she knew, without a single doubt, that Scott was the luckiest boy in the entire world.

[rudyking]

Saw that you’re gonna be back to posting soon. Are you taking requests? :)

OF COURSE!!!! LAY IT ON ME!!!!!!!!

[rudyking]

I'll be back to post soon!!!!!

[rudyking]

The dare list:

JJ Maybank and Y/N, friends with undeniable chemistry (maybe something more, maybe just acknowledged tension), find (or create) a list of dares or prompts together. What starts as a silly way to kill time – takes a sharp turn when one of the prompts is explicitly sexual.

In the sweltering haze of a Outer Banks summer, the air hung thick and heavy, like a blanket woven from sea salt and forgotten dreams. The treasure hunts that usually ignited JJ Maybank's rebellious spirit were on hold—some snag with permits or a rival crew, who cared? The days dragged on, lazy and uninspired, with the sun beating down on the weathered boardwalks and sun-bleached houses of Kildare Island. JJ, with his shaggy blonde hair tousled by the breeze and his blue eyes squinting against the glare, felt the boredom gnawing at him like a bad habit. He was a live wire, impulsive and carefree, always itching for the next thrill. But today, even the ocean's roar seemed muffled.

Then there was Y/N. She was the calm to his storm, a steady presence with a gentle smile that could cut through his sarcasm like a knife through warm butter. They were friends—good ones, with that electric undercurrent that JJ pretended not to notice. Maybe it was the way her eyes lit up when she laughed, or how she always seemed to understand his impulsive rants without judgment. They'd spent countless evenings on the beach, sharing stories and stolen glances, but nothing more. Not yet.

That night, as the sun dipped low, painting the sky in streaks of orange and pink, JJ and Y/N found themselves on the old pier, their bare feet dangling over the edge. The heat lingered, wrapping around them like a second skin. JJ cracked open a couple of beers from his backpack, his deep dimples flashing as he grinned. "This island's deader than a washed-up fish," he said, his voice laced with that signature sarcasm. "What's a guy gotta do for some excitement around here?"

Y/N chuckled, her calm demeanor a soothing contrast to his restlessness. She was patient like that, always seeing the best in people, especially him. "We could make our own fun," she suggested, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes sparkled with playfulness, a side of her that matched his mischievous streak without the edge.

JJ raised an eyebrow, his mind racing with ideas. He was observant, always picking up on the little things—the way her fingers traced patterns in the sand, or how she leaned in a little closer when he spoke. "Alright, smart-ass," he teased, using the term affectionately. It was his way of showing he cared, even if his bad temper sometimes got the better of him. "How about a game? Like, dares or prompts. Something to shake things up."

Y/N tilted her head, intrigued. "Okay, but nothing too crazy. We're not kids anymore." Her voice was gentle, but there was a hint of maturity in her tone, a reminder that she could handle whatever came next.

They pulled out a crumpled notebook from JJ's bag—one he'd scavenged from an abandoned boat—and started jotting down ideas. It began innocently enough, a list born from boredom and unspoken tension. "Dare to make me laugh so hard I cry," JJ wrote first, his handwriting sloppy but enthusiastic. Y/N added, "Prompt: What's your favorite sound?" They laughed as they brainstormed, the game feeling like a harmless way to pass the time.

For JJ, it was a relief. Deep down, he was vulnerable, protective of the people he loved, and Y/N was at the top of that list. But admitting that? Nah, not yet. Not when he could hide behind his humor and mischief.

They decided to play right there on the pier, the waves crashing below as their soundtrack. JJ went first, drawing a prompt from the list with dramatic flair. "Alright, Y/N. Prompt: What's your favorite sound?"

She thought for a moment, her expression thoughtful and insightful. "The sound of rain on a tin roof," she said softly. "It's like the world whispering secrets, you know? What about you?"

JJ smirked, his blue eyes twinkling. He was smart-alecky, always turning things into a joke. "Easy. The sound of a cold beer opening on a hot day." But as he said it, he felt a pang of something deeper. The real answer was the sound of her laugh, but he kept that locked away, afraid of what it might mean.

Y/N rolled her eyes playfully. "Your turn. Dare: Make me laugh so hard I cry."

Oh, he was good at this. JJ launched into a ridiculous impression of their friend John B, mimicking his wide-eyed enthusiasm with exaggerated gestures. "And then he says, 'Treasure's out there, man!' like he's Captain Ahab on a surfboard!" Y/N burst out laughing, her gentle nature shining through as she doubled over, tears forming at the corners of her eyes. JJ felt a rush of affection—he was impulsive, sure, but moments like this made him feel alive, connected.

As the night wore on, they cycled through more prompts, the game evolving naturally. "Prompt: Tell me a secret you've never shared," Y/N said, her voice steady and understanding.

JJ hesitated, his carefree facade cracking just a bit. He was loyal to a fault, but vulnerability wasn't his strong suit. Still, he trusted her. "Fine. I hate how my dad used to yell at me as a kid. Makes me lose my temper sometimes, even when I don't mean to." It slipped out before he could stop it, raw and honest. Y/N's eyes softened, and she reached out, her hand brushing his arm. The touch lingered, electric, and JJ's heart raced. He quickly deflected with sarcasm. "Your turn. Don't go easy on me."

She shared a lighter secret, something about a childhood crush, and they moved on. But the air between them was shifting, growing thicker with unspoken longing. The prompts started to escalate, almost by accident. Maybe it was the beer, or the way the moonlight danced on the water, but Y/N suggested, "Prompt: Describe your ideal kiss."

JJ's pulse quickened. He was observant, noticing how her cheeks flushed under the stars. From his perspective, this was uncharted territory. He wanted to bolt, his impulsive nature screaming to run from the vulnerability, but he stayed. "Alright," he said, his voice huskier than intended. "My ideal kiss? Slow, like the tide coming in. Not rushed, just... feeling everything. The kind that makes you forget where you end and the other person begins."

Y/N met his gaze, her calm exterior hiding a playful spark. "That sounds nice," she replied, her words laced with maturity and insight. "My turn to dare you: Act out a fantasy, but keep it PG... for now."

JJ laughed, but it was nervous, edged with the passion he usually kept buried. He described a silly fantasy—surfing a massive wave in the dead of night—but his mind wandered to her. The game was changing, pulling them closer.

By the time they reached the later prompts, the night had deepened, the heat wrapping around them like an intimate cocoon. They moved to a secluded spot on the beach, away from prying eyes, the sand cool under their feet. JJ drew the next one: "Prompt: What's something you've always wanted to try, but never have?"

Y/N bit her lip, her gentle nature making her hesitate. "Dancing in the rain during a storm. What about you?"

He grinned, but his thoughts were elsewhere. "Jumping off a roof into the water—done that. But... something else. Something with you." The words hung in the air, charged. JJ's mind raced; he was protective, caring, but this was new territory. He wanted her, had for a while, but fear of ruining their friendship held him back.

Then came the turning point. Y/N pulled out a prompt she'd added earlier, one that had slipped in among the others: "Dare: Touch me in a way that makes me shiver." It was explicitly sexual, a bold step they hadn't anticipated. JJ's breath caught. His heart pounded, a mix of curiosity and longing fueling him. He was impulsive, after all—why not see where this went?

"Are we really doing this?" he asked, his voice low, vulnerable.

Y/N nodded, her eyes locked on his. "Only if you want to."

From JJ's perspective, the world narrowed. He reached out, his fingers brushing her arm, tracing a slow path up to her shoulder. The contact was electric, sending shivers through both of them. "Like that?" he whispered, his sarcasm gone, replaced by raw affection.

She shivered, as promised, and leaned closer. "More," she murmured, her playful side emerging.

What followed was a series of encounters over the next few nights, the game becoming a guided exploration of their desires. They met under the stars, the prompts escalating in intimacy.

One night, it was "Prompt: Whisper something only for me," leading to heated confessions that blurred the lines between friendship and something deeper. JJ's hands explored her skin, gentle yet passionate, his mischievous grin fading into genuine tenderness.

Another encounter: "Dare: Kiss me like you mean it." JJ obliged, his lips meeting hers with a hunger he'd suppressed for too long. It was awkward at first stumbles and laughs breaking the tension—but it evolved into something intense, physical. From his view, it was like unlocking a door he'd been afraid to open. Y/N's patience guided him, her understanding making him feel safe.

And so it began, a game of back-and-forth dares and provocations, each trying to outdo the other in cleverness and creativity. The prompts started off innocuous enough: "Dare to make me laugh so hard I cry." (JJ succeeded, much to Y/N's mortification.) "Prompt: What's your favorite sound?" (Y/N's answer of "The sound of waves on the shore" earned her a dreamy sigh.)

But as the sun began its lazy descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in vivid streaks of orange and pink, the prompts took a decided turn for the risqué. JJ, emboldened by the charged atmosphere and perhaps a bit too much rum punch, jotted down: "Prompt: Describe your favorite way to touch yourself."

Y/N's eyes widened as she read the words, a hot flush rising in her cheeks. Her pen hovered over the page, then she slowly, deliberately began to write. When she passed the leaflet back to JJ, his eyes widened in turn, a look of undisguised hunger flickering in their blue depths.

"Fuck," he breathed, "Y/N..."

She met his gaze steadily, her own eyes dark with a want she could no longer deny. "The game's the game, JJ. You started it."

And so they played on, through the deepening dusk and into the throbbing heart of night. The prompts grew filthier, more graphic, each daring the other to explore and confess their deepest desires. They whispered and moaned, their voices husky with need.

"Touch me," Y/N begged, shivering as JJ's clever fingers danced over her heated skin. "Touch me like you want to devour me."

"Ah fuck, you taste good," JJ groaned, his mouth hot and wet on her aching flesh. "Wanted this, wanted you, for so goddamn long..."

Their clothes lay discarded on the cooling sand, their bodies writhing together in a tangle of eager limbs. JJ's lips and teeth and tongue blazed a trail of fire down Y/N's trembling body, pausing to lave at the sensitive hollow of her throat.

"Please," she keened, nails scrabbling at his shoulders, "Christ, JJ, please..."

He didn't need to be told twice. With a grunt of triumph, he sheathed himself deep inside her welcoming heat. They both cried out at the sudden, perfect fullness, lost to everything but the slick slide of their bodies and the pounding rhythm of their hearts.

They made love with an urgency that bordered on violence, all grasping hands and bruising kisses, a desperate clash of hips and lips and teeth. JJ pistoned into Y/N with abandon, spurred on by her high, breathy moans and the exquisite clench of her inner muscles around his aching cock.

"Fuck, yes," he growled against her throat, "Gonna make you come so hard, Y/N. Wanna feel you shatter around me."

She was only too happy to oblige, her climax crashing over her in a tidal wave of ecstasy. JJ followed a heartbeat later, shuddering and cursing as he spilled himself deep inside her quivering sheath.

They collapsed together on the sand, sweat-slicked and sated, their limbs still twined together. Y/N's head lolled on JJ's chest, listening to the thundering of his heart gradually slowing.

"Christ," JJ huffed, his voice a bit hoarse. "That was..."

"Intense," Y/N finished, lifting her head to meet his dazed gaze. "JJ, I... we..."

He hushed her with a gentle finger to her lips. "Don't. Not yet. Let's just... be, for now."

And so they were, wrapped in each other's arms as the night breeze cooled their overheated skin. The game of prompts had burned away the last of their hesitation, leaving only the pure, aching need between them.

They made love again, and again, throughout the long, languid nights of that endless summer. By the time the sun-kissed weeks drew to a close, they were mates in every sense of the word - joined body and soul, two halves of a whole forged in passion and pleasure.

Through it all, JJ reacted with a mix of humor and honesty. He'd crack a joke to ease the awkwardness—"If this is a dare, I'm acing it"—but his thoughts revealed his depth. He was protective, ensuring she was comfortable, and affectionate in ways he'd never shown before. Y/N, in turn, brought her calm insight, helping him navigate his impulses.

By the final night, as they lay on the beach watching the dawn, the game had transformed their relationship. What started as silly prompts had become a catalyst for intimacy, stripping away the barriers. JJ realized he loved her—not just as a friend, but as someone who completed his chaotic world. "This changes everything, doesn't it?" he said, his voice soft.

Y/N smiled, her hand in his. "Only if we want it to."

In the end, the summer wasn't so boring after all. It had given them a list, a game, and a chance to find each other.

[rudyking]

Guess who's back?!!!!!!!

[rudyking]

Hey just wanted to say hope your taking care of yourself. And excited for the future of your tumblr. Have a wonderful week. 😊

I am! Thanks for the ask!!!

[rudyking]

Check out this blurb!!!!!

The subway thief:

<Part 1>

Detective Nicholas Chavez knew the rhythm of Manhattan's underbelly like the beat of his own heart – a syncopated, sometimes violent drum. The precinct, nestled somewhere in the concrete labyrinth, was a constant hum of ringing phones, weary sighs, and the bitter scent of lukewarm coffee. It was a place where the city’s darkness pooled, and he was one of the few tasked with stirring it, hoping to expose the rot beneath.

He was a man carved from granite and wrapped in surprisingly soft layers. Tough, undeniably. His dark brown hair was often a little disheveled from running a hand through it in frustration, and his brown eyes held a gaze that could pierce through lies, yet soften with genuine empathy. He was determined, his jaw often set with a stubbornness born of principle, but beneath the serious exterior lay a deep well of kindness and a protective instinct fierce as a cornered animal’s.

His partner, Detective Kyle Brandt, was the steady, pragmatic anchor to Nicholas's more intense nature. Kyle was sorting through paperwork when Nicholas slammed a file onto his desk, the sound echoing in the tired bullpen.

"New one?" Kyle asked, not looking up immediately.

Nicholas nodded, running a hand over his face. "Subway assault. West Village line. This morning."

"Weekend crowd?"

"Nah. Early commuter. Brutal from the initial report. Victim's at St. Luke's." Nicholas’s voice was tight, already shifting into the serious, focused mode that defined him on a case. "Jumped her in the car, alone. Took her necklace. Beat her pretty bad."

"Just a necklace? Sounds... personal, or desperate," Kyle commented, finally looking up, his expression serious now.

"Could be either," Nicholas said, picking up his jacket. "I'm heading over there. See if she can talk."

St. Luke's smelled of antiseptic and hushed fear. Nicholas navigated the sterile corridors, the city's grimy reality feeling miles away here, yet its consequences starkly visible. He found the room number and paused outside, taking a deep breath, shedding the precinct’s cynicism like a coat. He needed his gentler side now.

He pushed the door open quietly and stepped inside. The room was dim, the blinds partially closed against the bright afternoon sun. Lying in the bed, pale and bruised, was Yn.

Even through the visible trauma, her presence was calming, almost radiating a quiet strength that starkly contrasted with the violence she’d endured. Her eyes, though shadowed with pain and fear, held a clear intelligence. She had a bandage taped to her temple, a cut on her lip, and her arm was propped up, likely sprained or broken.

Nicholas approached the bed slowly, his footsteps soft. "Ms... Yn?" he said, his voice low and gentle, nothing like the firm tone he used with suspects.

She turned her head slowly, her eyes fixing on his. A Flicker of something – trust? Relief? – crossed her face. "Yes," she whispered, her voice raspy.

"Detective Nicholas Chavez. NYPD." He held up his badge briefly. "My partner and I are investigating what happened this morning. I'm really sorry you had to go through that." He pulled up a chair, sitting down beside the bed, making sure he wasn't too close, giving her space. His intimidating presence seemed to shrink, replaced by a quiet, patient watchfulness.

She managed a faint, shaky smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Thank you for coming."

"Of course. It's my job," he said, though he felt a pull that went beyond routine duty. He looked at her, really looked. Her face was lovely despite the bruises, her eyes captivating even with the fear clouding them. He noticed the way her fingers trembled slightly on the sheet. A protective warmth spread through his chest, immediate and unexpected. This wasn't just a case file; this was a person who had been deeply hurt, and something in her quiet dignity resonated with him.

He began to ask questions, carefully, patiently. He guided her through the terrifying minutes on the subway car. She recounted being alone, the man appearing seemingly out of nowhere, his sudden, brutal attack. She described the pain, the shock, and the chilling feeling of helplessness. When she spoke of him tearing the necklace from her neck, her voice cracked.

"It was... it wasn't just jewelry," she murmured, tears welling in her eyes. "It was my grandmother's. It felt like... like he didn't just hurt me, he took something that mattered."

Nicholas felt a surge of anger, hot and swift, at the casual cruelty of it. His jaw tightened, but he kept his expression calm for her sake. "I understand," he said, his voice steady. "Can you describe the man, Yn? Anything at all? Build, height, clothes, voice... anything you remember."

She closed her eyes, concentrating, a hint of that calm focus returning despite her pain. "He was... average height, I think. Stocky. Wore a dark hoodie... pulled up. I didn't see his face clearly. He didn't say anything. Just... grunted when he grabbed me. His eyes... dark, angry."

Nicholas listened intently, absorbing every detail, his detective brain filing it all away, looking for anchors, for threads. Dark hoodie, average height, stocky build, dark eyes. Not much to go on in a city of millions, but it was a start.

"The necklace," he prompted gently. "Can you describe it?"

"Yes," she said, her voice a little stronger, focusing on the object instead of the trauma. "It's silver. An old design... European, I think. My grandmother was from Poland. It has a small, blue stone in the center. Oval shape. It's unique."

Unique. That was something. Thieves often fenced stolen goods, but something unique was harder to move without raising suspicion.

He stayed with her for a while longer, not just asking questions, but listening, letting her talk when she needed, sitting in comfortable silence when she didn't. He saw her intelligence, her resilience, her sweet, kind nature shining through the fear.

He found himself wanting to protect her, to shield her from the world that had done this. And yes, a small, unprofessional current ran beneath the surface – an undeniable appreciation for her quiet beauty, a flicker of desire that he immediately compartmentalized, locking it away behind his professional facade. It was a dangerous line to walk, attraction to a victim, but it was there, a quiet acknowledgement in the back of his mind.

"We'll do everything we can to find him, Yn," Nicholas said, standing up slowly. "And to get your necklace back." He hesitated, then added, "Don't hesitate to call if you think of anything else. Or if you just... need to talk." He scribbled his precinct number, and his direct line, on a notepad by the bed.

"Thank you, Detective," she said softly, her eyes meeting his again. "Really. Thank you."

Back at the precinct, Nicholas briefed Kyle. "Not much to go on. Stocky guy, dark hoodie, didn't speak. Got her necklace. It's personal, or he just liked the look of it."

"Did she seem like someone who'd be targeted?" Kyle asked, reviewing the report.

Nicholas thought of Yn, her calm demeanor, her quiet strength. "No. Just... wrong place, wrong time, maybe. But the brutality for just a necklace..." His gut instinct prickled. It felt off. More than just a quick grab. It felt... directed.

They started the legwork. Canvassing the subway station area. Checking surveillance cameras. Hours spent poring over grainy footage. The attacker was a shadow, a figure in a hoodie, lost in the crowd before and after the attack. No clear face, no distinguishing marks. Just a dark shape moving through the station.

Witnesses? Commuters were notoriously oblivious. People were in their own worlds, headphones on, buried in phones. No one saw anything distinct. The few who noticed a commotion just saw someone rushing out of the train car.

Nicholas felt the familiar frustration building. It was a city of ghosts and shadows, and attackers like this faded back into the anonymity that protected them.

He was working late again, the precinct quiet except for the hum of the computers and the distant city noise filtering through the windows. He had ordered pizza, forgotten to eat it, and was staring at the blurred image of the hooded figure from the subway camera footage. It was maddening.

He pulled out the notepad with Yn's number. He shouldn't call her. It wasn't protocol unless there was a development or a need for more information. But he felt a pull, a need to check on her, to offer assurance that they were working the case, even if they had nothing.

He dialled. Yn answered on the second ring, her voice still a little fragile.

"Detective Chavez? Is something wrong?"

"No, no, nothing's wrong, Yn," he said quickly, his tone soft again. "Just... checking in. Seeing how you're doing. And letting you know we're still on it. Working every angle."

A beat of silence. "That's... kind of you, Detective. Thank you. I'm... okay. Sore. And a little afraid, honestly. It's hard to feel safe now."

"That's completely normal," he said, his voice full of understanding. "Take your time. There's no rush to get back out there. Your apartment is safe. We'll keep an eye on things." He meant it. He'd already subtly asked a patrol car to do extra passes on her street.

They talked for a few more minutes. About her recovery, about the city, about anything but the case. Nicholas found himself smiling, relaxing slightly as he listened to her calm, intelligent voice. He learned she was a librarian, that she loved old books and quiet evenings.

He felt that protective warmth again, stronger this time. And the small current of attraction was still there, a quiet hum under the conversation. He appreciated her strength, her resilience, the warmth that radiated even over the phone line.

When they hung up, the silence in the precinct was heavier. He looked back at the blurry photo, a renewed surge of determination hardening his resolve. He would find this guy. Not just because it was his job, but because this guy had hurt Yn, had stolen her sense of safety and a precious piece of her history.

Days turned into a week. The leads went nowhere. The necklace hadn't shown up at any pawn shops on their radar. The subway footage yielded nothing concrete. The city swallowed the attacker whole.

Nicholas was relentless. He followed up on every tip, no matter how small. He re-interviewed the few noncommittal witnesses. He visited the subway station multiple times, trying to see it through the attacker's eyes, looking for anything they might have missed. Kyle kept up, steady and thorough, but even he admitted this one was a tough nut to crack.

Nicholas found himself thinking about Yn often. He pictured her quiet strength, the lingering fear in her eyes, the story of the stolen necklace. He sometimes walked past her apartment building, just to make sure things seemed quiet. He told himself it was part of keeping an eye on the victim, ensuring her safety. But he knew it was more than that. He wanted to see her, to make sure she was okay, to offer a reassuring presence. He was becoming personally invested in a way he usually avoided.

One evening, he stopped by. He brought her groceries – just essentials, nothing fancy – explaining he was in the neighbourhood. She was hesitant at first, cautious opening the door, but when she saw it was him, her face softened into a grateful smile that made something in his chest clench.

She invited him in briefly. Her apartment was warm and inviting, filled with books and plants, reflecting her gentle nature. She was still healing, moving slowly, but she seemed a little less frayed than in the hospital. The fear was still there, a subtle tension in her shoulders, but her innate calmness seemed to be winning out.

They talked for a while, the conversation easy and flowing. He admired her collection of old books. She asked about his work, showing genuine interest in the gritty details he usually kept separate. He found himself opening up more than usual. He saw her intelligence, her quiet depth, her warmth. The attraction was undeniable now, a quiet ache beneath his protective instincts. He wanted to help her heal, to banish the fear from her eyes, to see her truly smile again. It was more than just lust; it was admiration and a burgeoning affection, tangled up with his fierce need to bring her attacker to justice.

Leaving her apartment, stepping back out into the impersonal city streets, Nicholas felt the weight of the unsolved case even more acutely. He had seen firsthand the impact of the crime, the fear it had instilled in someone he was coming to care about.

Back at his own apartment, a spartan space compared to Yn's cozy haven, Nicholas couldn't sleep. He sat in the quiet darkness, the city lights painting faint stripes across his wall. He thought of Yn's face, the way her eyes lit up when she talked about her grandmother's necklace, the vulnerability beneath her calm exterior. And he thought of the hooded figure, a faceless threat lurking in the anonymity of the subway system.

He reviewed the case details in his head for the hundredth time. Subway car, early morning, stolen necklace, brutal, silent attacker. No witnesses, limited forensics, useless video. The case was cold, frustratingly so.

His gut instinct screamed that this wasn't a random act, not entirely. The brutality felt personal, or perhaps the target – Yn, or the necklace – had significance they didn't understand yet. He felt a fierce, burning determination unlike anything he'd experienced before. He wouldn't let this fade into the backlog of unsolved cases. He couldn't. Not when he knew the victim, not when he saw the fear she lived with, not when he felt this growing connection to her.

The attacker was still out there, a shadow in the city. But Nicholas wasn't giving up. He would keep digging, keep watching, keep pushing. Finding the man who hurt Yn wasn't just a case anymore. It was a promise. A silent vow to the woman who had, in the midst of trauma, reached something deep within his protective, complicated heart. The hunt was far from over. It had just become intensely personal.

[rudyking]

The little mermaid:

JJ steals Rafe's girl and lets her seduce him to be his little mermaid.

<Mentions of passionate sex>

The sultry summer evening air clung to JJ's skin like a damp, heavy blanket as he lounged on the beach, his ruggedly handsome face scrunched up in a scowl. The salty sea breeze tousled his shaggy blonde hair, carrying with it the distant sound of raucous laughter and upbeat music.

JJ's intense blue eyes narrowed, tracking the merrymaking to the bonfire about a hundred yards down the shore, on Rafe Cameron's turf. Rafe - that arrogant rich boy pretty boy, always throwing flashy parties and lording his status as king of the OBX social scene over everyone else.

But what really got JJ's blood boiling was the sight of Yn. His Yn, sweet Yn, hanging off Rafe's arm in an itsy bitsy string bikini that left little to the imagination.

The way Rafe's large hands openly groped and squeezed Yn's lush curves right there where anyone could see...it made JJ want to punch his stupid pretty face in.

"Down boy," JJ muttered to himself through gritted teeth, taking a swig of his beer. He told himself Yn could do what she wanted, that he didn't care.

Except his traitorous eyes kept drifting back to ogle her flawless sun-kissed skin, the way her ample breasts threatened to spill out of that miniscule triangle top with each breath, her toned tummy and full hips...her juicy, heart-shaped ass straining against the flimsy thong that disappeared between her cheeks.

JJ shifted uncomfortably, feeling himself harden at the sight. Damn her and her sinful body. Why did she have to look like that? It wasn't fair that she could reduce him to a horny, jealous mess so easily.

Lost in his brooding, JJ didn't notice Yn slip away from Rafe's side. He only became aware of her presence when a shadow fell across his sprawled out form. JJ squinted up at her with a scowl.

"Aren't you supposed to be over there being Rafe's arm candy?" he sneered.

Yn smiled sweetly, extending a hot pink nail tipped hand. "Come dance with me, JJ. I'm bored with that crowd. I want you."

JJ's eyebrows shot up. "I beg your pardon? You want me now? Since when?"

"Oh JJ," she sighed, her full breasts heaving. "Always so hotheaded. Aren't you curious why I really came over here and invited you to dance?"

JJ shrugged nonchalantly, but a flicker of interest sparked in his eyes. "I guess I am. Since you're here and all."

Yn's plump, glossy lower lip pushed out in a pout. "Well...I was hoping we could slip away somewhere more private and..." She trailed off, looking up at him from beneath thick lashes.

JJ's lecherous gaze raked over her scantily clad form, his pants growing uncomfortably tight. "And what, Yn? Say it."

"I was hoping you would let me seduce you, JJ," she breathed, her voice dripping with honeyed lust.

JJ made a strangled sound, his brain shorting out at the image her words conjured. "You're playing with fire, girl," he rasped.

"Maybe I want to get burned," Yn purred, her pink glossed lips curving. In a flash, she swept her strappy sandals off and began walking towards the dunes with a saucy sway to her hips.

JJ's eyes zeroed in on her ass, watching it jiggle hypnotically as she put more distance between them. "Yn, where the hell are you going?"

She glanced coyly over her tanned shoulder. "I'm going to get dressed up for you. So you can take me, right here where Rafe can see. I want him to know I belong to you now."

JJ's head spun. This was crazy. She was crazy. They shouldn't do this. Except...the mental image of her heaving tits bouncing as he pounded into her sweet cunt, her moans of ecstasy carrying over the waves...Rafe witnessing it all, knowing he'd been replaced, that JJ had stolen Yn away...it was almost too tempting to resist.

Biting off a groan, JJ surged to his feet, stalking after her lithe form with single-minded purpose. To hell with the consequences. He was going to fuck her so hard, she'd never even look at Rafe again.

He caught up to her by the tallest dune, where she'd collected an armful of fabric. "What the hell is that?" JJ asked, nodding towards the shimmering material.

"A mermaid tail," Yn said, stepping into the sequined green scales. "It'll show off my ass and tits to perfection while you rail me senseless."

JJ nearly swallowed his tongue as she wiggled the tight thong up her long legs, the flirty fins framing her juicy bubble butt. The green scales settled snugly over her heart-shaped cheeks, putting her plump ass on mouthwatering display. She grabbed a couple seashells and tied them over her huge, heavy tits, the creamy swells bursting over the edges.

"Fuck, Yn," JJ croaked, his cock throbbing with need. "You look good enough to eat."

Yn grinned, turning to present him with her thong-clad ass. "I thought you never wanted to share with Rafe again," she teased.

With a growl, JJ got behind her and ground his denim-covered erection against her barely-concealed slit. "Goddamn right I don't," he snarled, shoving the thong aside to feel her wet heat. "You're mine now, you hear me? No one else touches this sweet cunt but me."

"Oh JJ," Yn mewled, pushing back against his hardness. "I'm all yours. Ruin me for anyone else."

JJ didn't need to be told twice. Gripping her hips punishingly, he notched his broad tip at her sopping entrance...and plunged into her velvety clutch with one brutal thrust.

Yn keened, her spine curving into a bow. "Yes JJ, fuck me! Harder!"

He set a relentless pace, pistoning in and out of her tight snatch with animalistic grunts. The wet, obscene sounds of their fucking filled the night air.

Yn's heavy tits bounced wildly, the flimsy seashell bra falling away completely. She braced her hands against the dune, her pert ass jutting out invitingly as JJ hammered into her.

"That's it, slut," he panted, his fingers digging into her hips. "Take my cock. Milk it with this sweet little hole. No one else can make you scream like I can."

"Ahhh fuck JJ!" Yn wailed, her slick walls rippling around him. "I'm gonna cum! Don't stop!"

JJ snarled, rutting into her harder, chasing his own release. His balls drew up tight as her pussy clamped down on him like a vice.

With a hoarse shout, he exploded inside her, his seed spurting deep. Yn shrieked, her body spasming through her climax.

They collapsed together in a sweaty, satiated heap, JJ still buried balls-deep inside Yn's fluttering cunt.

"I'm not letting you go," JJ declared breathlessly, his face buried in her hair. "You're mine now, Yn. I don't give a damn who sees. Let Rafe eat his goddamn heart out."

Yn grinned over her shoulder, reaching back to palm his face. "I wouldn't have it any other way, love."

As their heart rates slowed, JJ became aware of a dampness spreading between them. He pulled out with a wet squelch, his softening cock coated in their mingled essence.

Yn turned to face him, a mischievous smile playing about her lips. "Oops. I guess I'm not on the pill, huh?"

JJ blinked, his brain struggling to process her words. Then it hit him - she wasn't protected. And he'd just pumped her full of jizz.

"Shit, Yn...are you okay? I didn't mean to...I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking..." JJ babbled, his face pale.

But Yn just laughed, pressing close to trail a hand down his chest. "You should see your face right now! Relax, JJ. I'm just messing with you. Of course I'm on the pill."

"Oh thank fuck," JJ wheezed, elbowing her lightly in the ribs. "You about gave me a heart attack."

"I thought it was pretty funny," Yn giggled, booping his nose. "But seriously...I didn't use anything else for a reason, JJ. I want to have your baby someday."

JJ's blue eyes widened, his heart stuttering at the casual way she threw out the bombshell. His baby. Growing inside Yn's womb. The idea sent a yearning ache through his chest.

"I'd...I'd like that," he said gruffly, unable to tear his gaze away from her face. "Having a family with you."

Yn cupped his jaw, drawing him in for a slow, tender kiss. "We'll get there, my love. One day. But for now...let's go back to my place and christen the sheets properly, hmm?"

JJ perked up at that, his battered ego pleased by the suggestion. "Yeah? You sure about that?"

Yn's violet eyes sparkled with promise. "I'm more sure than I've ever been about anything in my life, JJ Maybank."

He hauled her flush against him, relishing the feel of her lush body slotting against his harder planes. "Then what are we waiting for? Let's get out of here."

Hand in hand, hearts brimming with hope and desire, JJ and Yn slipped away from the bonfire and the prying eyes of their peers, ready to embark on a future filled with passion and possibility. Leaving Rafe and their complicated past to blow away like sand on the wind.

[rudyking]

Denver doesn't live here anymore:

JJ is left to deal with his emotions when his son is ready to leave the nest.

The Outer Banks sun beat down, shimmering off the water like a million scattered gold coins. Usually, this was JJ’s favorite sight, a promise of freedom, waves, and questionable-but-fun decisions. Today, though, it just felt… bright. Obnoxiously bright.

Inside the little house on the Cut, a cardboard box sat in the middle of the living room floor. Not a treasure box, not a cooler full of stolen beer, but a moving box. It was already half-full of Denver’s things.

JJ, with his permanent tangle of shaggy blonde hair and trademark mischievous flicker in his blue eyes, leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, trying to look casual. Casual like he hadn’t spent the last ten minutes watching his twenty-year-old son fold t-shirts with surgical precision. Casual like his chest didn’t feel like it was being squeezed by a particularly large, emotionally constipated boa constrictor.

Denver, a taller, slightly less chaotic version of his father with Yn’s calm grace, glanced up. "You just gonna stand there, Dad?"

JJ pushed off the frame, forcing a grin that felt glued on. The deep dimples creased his cheeks, but the usual carefree glint wasn't reaching his eyes. "Nah, just… supervising. Making sure you're packing the essentials. Like, uh, that worn-out surf mag with the picture of Laird Hamilton on page thirty-seven. Crucial."

Denver rolled his eyes, a familiar gesture. "Pretty sure they have surf mags in California, Dad. And textbooks are probably more crucial for college."

"College," JJ scoffed, running a hand through his hair. "California. The land of… kale smoothies and people who think 65 degrees is cold." He shuddered dramatically. "What could possibly be better than here? Salty air, questionable life choices encouraged, free therapy sessions via screaming at the waves…"

Yn emerged from the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel, a soft, knowing smile playing on her lips. Her presence was always a soothing balm in JJ's occasionally turbulent world. "He's going to study marine biology, JJ. It's a fantastic opportunity."

"Opportunity," JJ muttered, kicking lightly at the box. "Opportunity to… abandon his aging, vulnerable father? To trade perfect waves for… whatever waves California has?"

Denver paused his packing. "Dad, I'm not abandoning you. It's college. It's four hours away by plane."

"Four hours?" JJ’s voice went up three octaves. "That's like… forever! That's enough time for a hurricane, a rogue treasure hunt, and a warrant for my arrest! What if you need me? What if some Kook tries to sell you artisanal cheese and you don't know how to say no?"

Yn walked over, putting a hand on JJ’s arm. "He’ll be fine, honey. He's smart. He’s got a good head on his shoulders."

"He got that from you," JJ mumbled, leaning into her touch instinctively. "The smart part. I'm responsible for the questionable decisions part. Which is why he needs me nearby to veto them!"

Denver chuckled, shaking his head. "I think I've managed okay so far."

"Yeah, well, you haven't been fully exposed to the world's sheer potential for unnecessary bureaucracy and disappointing sandwiches yet," JJ stated with the authority of someone who had faced both extensively. He straightened up, suddenly decisive. "Alright. This calls for a Pogue summit."

Yn raised an eyebrow. "A Pogue summit? To discuss Denver leaving for college?"

"Exactly!" JJ snapped his fingers. "Strategic planning! Emotional support! Operation: Remind Denver How Objectively Awesome The Outer Banks Are So He Immediately Changes His Mind!"

Denver and Yn exchanged a look.

"Dad, that's not going to happen," Denver said gently.

"Oh, it's going to happen," JJ insisted, already pulling out his phone. His fingers flew across the screen. "Alright, group chat. Urgent! Wreck, sunset! Mandatory attendance! Bring snacks and existential dread!"

Sunset at The Wreck was supposed to be peaceful. Golden light, gentle waves, maybe a cold beer after a long day. Tonight, it was… chaos.

JJ was pacing the beach in front of the restaurant, a storm brewing in his blue eyes despite the tranquil sky. He was giving Sarah Cameron, looking elegant even in sand-dusted shorts, an impassioned lecture about the migratory patterns of college-bound youth, likening Denver's departure to the tragic, inexplicable flight of a particularly cool, loyal bird leaving the most perfectly good nest.

"It's unnatural, Sarah! He's got a perfectly good room! Surf's good this month! The chiggers are manageable! And he wants to go… west? Do you know what's west? Landlocked states! Deserts! People who wear socks with sandals unironically!"

Sarah, ever patient, offered softly, "JJ, it's California. It's on the coast."

"Details!" JJ waved a hand dismissively. "The point is, he's leaving. And I feel… weird. Like someone stole my favorite wrench. Or like the waves stopped breaking just for my board."

Kiara, wiping down tables with a sigh that suggested she'd already heard this speech three times today, leaned in. "You feel sad, JJ. It's okay to feel sad."

"Sad?" JJ scoffed. "Nah, not sad. More like… existentially aggravated. Like the universe is playing a cruel joke. For twenty years, I've been perfecting the art of being JJ Maybank, Defender of the Realm (specifically, the Realm of 'Denver Should Probably Not Do That'), and now the Realm is... relocating!"

Pope, meticulously arranging cutlery inside, peered out. "Statistically, JJ, most offspring leave their parental units between the ages of 18 and 22. It's a predictable developmental stage."

"Predictable? Pope, nothing about my life has ever been predictable! That's the whole brand! This is a rogue variable! An anomaly!" JJ threw his hands up.

John B arrived, arm around a laughing Yn. "Dude, we got the distress signal. 'Existential dread,' huh? Sounds like a Tuesday for you."

"Ha ha, Maybank Jr.," JJ grumbled, though a sliver of his usual humor peeked through. "This is different, Balboa. This is the next generation! My legacy! Taking off! What if he forgets everything I taught him? Like, the optimal angle for slingshotting a beer can into a trash bin from fifty yards? Crucial life skills!"

Yn squeezed John B’s hand then went over to JJ. "He won't forget, honey. And you taught him a lot more important things than that."

"Like how to hotwire a golf cart?" Pope muttered.

"Exactly!" JJ pointed at Pope. "See? Practical skills! What if his college doesn't offer a 'Fundamentals of Evading Law Enforcement by Kayak' elective?"

Kie finally finished her task and joined the circle. "JJ, he's going to be fine. You're a good dad."

"A good dad who's about to have an empty nest that smells vaguely of old surf wax and teenage boy," JJ lamented, running a hand over his face. He looked genuinely lost for a second, his usual bravado faltering. "What am I supposed to do? Surf all day? That gets lonely after… like, three hours."

Sarah stepped forward. "You'll still surf. You'll still have us. You'll still have Yn. And you'll visit him. He'll visit you."

"Visit?" JJ brightened slightly, then the cloud returned. "Yeah, but it's not the same as him being right there, you know? Asking me some weird question about fixing his bike, or needing ten bucks for a pizza, or just… being in the next room. What if I have a brilliant, completely spur-of-the-moment plan to, I don't know, sail to the Bahamas on a whim, and he's not here to talk me out of it?"

Pope sighed. "We can still talk you out of it, JJ. That’s kind of been our primary function for decades."

"Yeah, but it's not the same family dynamic!" JJ insisted. He looked at them, his blue eyes wide and earnest beneath the disheveled hair. "Guys. I need… I need support. I can't just... process feelings logically like Pope. Or gracefully like Sarah. Or empathetically like Kie. Or... whatever it is John B does."

John B smirked. "I distract you with even worse ideas, usually."

"Exactly! That's what I need!" JJ snapped his fingers. "Operation: Distract JJ So He Doesn't Permanently Attach Himself To Denver's Ankle With Superglue!"

Yn chuckled, shaking her head fondly. "I was hoping you'd get to this part."

"Alright, what's the plan?" Kie asked, despite herself. She knew resisting JJ's manic energy was futile.

JJ rubbed his hands together, a spark of his usual mischief returning, albeit tinged with desperation. "Okay. First, we gotta make Denver's last week so epic, so undeniably Outer Banks, that California pales in comparison. Like, extreme fishing. A bonfire that's slightly too large. Maybe a final, glorious attempt to retrieve something valuable from the swamp, just for old times' sake?"

"Absolutely not the swamp," Yn said firmly.

"Fine, fine. No swamp. How about… we build him a going-away present? Something he can take with him. Something… excessively JJ."

"Like a personalized shiv?" Pope deadpanned.

"Pope!" Sarah scolded.

"Hey! I was thinking more like… a really well-made, slightly illegal speargun!" JJ defended.

"Or maybe," Yn suggested gently, "we just spend time with him. Do the things he loves. Have a big family dinner with everyone. Talk. Listen."

JJ blinked. He hadn't considered that. It sounded… simple. Too simple for his complicated, panicky brain. "But… where's the controlled chaos? The potential for minor property damage? The essential JJ-ness of it?"

"The essential JJ-ness," Kie said softly, "is you being there. Being you. Loving him enough to let him go, even when it hurts."

JJ looked out at the ocean again, the vibrant colours of sunset starting to fade. He knew she was right. He did love Denver fiercely. Loved him enough to want him to have the opportunities JJ never had, the stability he’d yearned for. It just… hurt. A lot.

"So," John B said, clapping him on the shoulder, "Operation Distract JJ... phase one: ice cream. Phase two: listen to JJ complain about California weather for an hour. Phase three: figure out something that doesn't involve weaponry or maritime law violations."

JJ managed a small, genuine smile. It faltered quickly, but it was there. "Fine. Ice cream. But it better be the good stuff. This level of emotional turmoil requires premium dairy."

The last few days before Denver left were a blur of forced cheerfulness, sudden silences, and JJ's oscillating moods. He’d swing from being overly enthusiastic about packing (shoving random, unnecessary items into boxes) to sitting in Denver's room, staring at the shrinking pile of belongings, looking utterly desolate.

He insisted on a "Farewell Surf Session," which mostly involved him paddling aggressively and shouting half-ironic, half-serious warnings about California undertows at Denver. He organized a huge Pogue dinner at the Wreck, where he was simultaneously the loudest, most boisterous person at the table and the one who kept giving Denver long, searching looks when he thought no one was watching.

One evening, sitting on the porch swing with Yn after Denver had gone to bed, the carefully constructed façade finally crumbled.

"It's just… quiet, you know?" JJ said, voice rough. He ran a hand over his face. "Soon. It's gonna be so damn quiet."

Yn leaned her head on his shoulder. "We'll still have our noise, JJ. Just different noise."

"Yeah, but his noise." JJ sighed, a heavy, shaky sound. "His mess. His… himness. It's been here for twenty years. It's part of the furniture." He paused. "Remember when he was little? Used to follow me everywhere. Tried to wear my bandanas. Called me his 'super-dad'."

"I remember," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion too.

"I wanted him to get out," JJ confessed, the words tumbling out, raw and vulnerable. "I mean, really wanted him to have more options than I ever did. To not feel… trapped. To see the world. To be safe. To not have to worry about… everything I worried about. And he is doing that. He's doing exactly what I hoped he would." He clenched his jaw, the dimples looking strained. "So why does it feel like… like I failed? Like I did too good a job, and now he doesn't need me anymore?"

"Oh, JJ," Yn said, pulling him closer. "He'll always need you. Maybe not in the same way, but he needs his dad. He needs your ridiculous stories, your terrible advice that sometimes actually works, your protectiveness, just… you. He’s leaving home, not leaving you."

He buried his face in her hair for a moment, letting the dam of panic and sadness crack just a little. "It just feels like the end of something."

"It's not the end," she said softly. "It's the next chapter. For all of us."

The morning of the departure was surprisingly calm. The Pogue crew gathered in the driveway – John B, Sarah, Kie, Pope – standing awkwardly beside the car packed with Denver's life. JJ was buzzing with nervous energy, fussing over tire pressure, checking oil he knew was fine, finding imaginary lint on Denver's packed bags.

Denver hugged everyone, easy smiles exchanged. When he got to JJ, he paused.

"Hey, Dad," he said, his voice low.

JJ swallowed hard, gripping his son's shoulders. He tried to keep his expression light, the smart-aleck ready. "Alright, listen up. California might have good beaches, but they don't have our beaches. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Don't trust anyone who calls sweet tea 'just tea with sugar'. And if you ever need anything, anything at all, you call me. Doesn't matter if it's three in the morning and you need me to bail you out because you tried to hotwire a scooter – though I taught you better than that, kid – you call me. Got it?"

Denver’s calm façade wavered, a flicker of moisture in his eyes. "Got it, Dad. I love you."

JJ’s breath hitched. The joke died on his tongue. He pulled Denver into a fierce hug, squeezing tight. "Love you, buddy. Go knock 'em dead out there." He held on for a long moment, burying his face in his son’s shoulder, the familiar scent of him, a mix of sea salt and laundry detergent, filling his lungs.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were suspiciously bright, and he was blinking rapidly. He clapped Denver on the back, trying to appear casual again. "Alright, alright! Don't want you to miss your flight or whatever. Text me when you land. And text me again when you get to your dorm. And text me every hour after that just so I know you're not trapped in a giant kale conspiracy."

Denver laughed, the tension breaking. "Okay, Dad. I'll text."

He got in the car. Yn was already in the driver's seat, giving JJ a soft, encouraging look. Denver rolled down the window.

"Bye everyone," he called.

"Bye, Denver!" the Pogues chorused.

JJ stood rooted to the spot, his hand raised in a half. His hand hung in the air for a moment, a solitary gesture against the setting sun casting long shadows across the sand. Denver waved back from the car window, a quick, almost shy movement, then turned forward as Yn gently pulled away from the curb.

The car rolled slowly down the familiar sandy track that led away from their little corner of the world, away from the life Denver had always known. JJ stood frozen, watching the tail lights recede, a bright red punctuation mark shrinking in the distance. The sound of the engine faded, replaced only by the gentle sigh of the waves and the calls of the gulls overhead.

Silence descended, thick and heavy, among the remaining Pogues. They stood there, a small, close-knit huddle, watching JJ. JJ didn’t move. His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed on the spot where the car had disappeared around a bend. He felt like a part of him was being driven away, taking with it the constant, tangible presence of his son. That little kid who used to trail him everywhere, the teenager who argued about chores but always had his back. Gone. Or going, anyway.

A cold dread tried to creep in – the world was big, dangerous. Things could happen. He’d spent Denver’s whole life trying to shield him, to give him the stability and safety he’d never had. And now he was voluntarily sending him into the unknown. The protective instinct, fierce and ingrained, screamed at him to run after the car, to yank Denver out and bring him back where he belonged, safe on the island.

But then, a different image surfaced. He saw Denver, not as the kid who needed protecting, but as the young man who stood tall, who was smart and funny and kind. He saw the way Denver had handled himself, the way he’d navigated tricky situations, the way he’d shown responsibility and independence. He remembered the quiet determination in Denver’s eyes when he talked about college, about his dreams.

He thought of Yn, driving him right now, her steady presence a mirror of the steady foundation they had built for Denver. He looked at the faces of his friends – Pope, Kiara, Sarah, the family that had surrounded Denver, teaching him, supporting him, loving him. They hadn't just raised a kid; they had raised a Pogue. A Pogue who knew how to hustle, who knew how to read people, who knew how to look out for himself because he'd grown up surrounded by people looking out for each other and teaching him how.

He wasn't sending a lamb to the slaughter. He was sending out a kid who was smart, resilient, and knew how to land on his feet. He had given Denver roots, yes, deep in this OBX sand, but he had also given him wings. And watching those tail lights vanish wasn't losing a part of himself; it was watching that part soar.

A shaky breath escaped him, but this time it wasn't caught in panic. It was a slow release, letting go of the tight knot of fear that had been lodged in his chest. He lowered his hand finally, turning back towards his friends. The bright, blinking eyes were still there, but the frantic edge was softer.

"He's... he's ready," JJ said, his voice a little rough, but firm. "We... we raised him right."

Kiara stepped forward, her eyes soft, and put a hand on his arm. Sarah nodded, a small, understanding smile on her face. Pope just stood quietly, a comforting, solid presence.

JJ looked at them, his family. They had done this together. They had given Denver the best possible start. He wasn't just sending Denver out into the world alone; he was sending out their legacy, a piece of their love, a testament to their strength.

He wouldn't stop worrying entirely – that was just built into his DNA, part of being JJ. But the suffocating, paralyzing fear had subsided. It was replaced by something quieter, a deep-seated trust. Trust in Denver, trust in the foundation they had built, trust in the fact that no matter where he was, Denver carried a piece of the Outer Banks, and a piece of them, with him. He would be safe because they had taught him how to be safe, and because he had learned to be strong on his own.

JJ finally managed a small, genuine smile, the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes but held a flicker of peace. "Right," he said, a little louder, clapping his hands together lightly. "So, who owes who a beer?"

The familiar, slightly absurd question, the shift back to their Pogue rhythm, hung in the air. It wasn't forgetting or moving on too quickly. It was acceptance. It was knowing that life continued, and the core of their family, whether together or miles apart, remained unbroken. Denver was gone, but he was also exactly where he was meant to be. And JJ, for the first time, truly believed he would be okay.

[rudyking]

My enemy's girl:

JJ is in love with Yn, Rafe Cameron's girl. One night he finds her with bruises all over her and JJ doesn't have to guess who the artist is.

The salt-laced wind was a familiar caress against JJ’s sun-kissed skin, whipping his shaggy blonde hair into a chaotic halo around his face. It was the kind of wind that tasted like freedom and uncertainty, a constant reminder that life on the Cut was a precarious balancing act between scraping by and chasing ghosts. JJ, with his deep-set dimples usually crinkled in a smart-alecky grin, felt that balance tipping precariously today. It always did when he thought about her.

Yn. The name was a soft cadence in his mind, a stark contrast to the rough edges of his world. She was sunshine on a stormy day, calm water in a hurricane. And she belonged to Rafe Cameron. The thought was a fist twisting in his gut, sour and bitter.

He’d loved her forever, it felt like. Long before Rafe's entitled claws had sunk into her, long before she’d started moving in circles he didn't belong in. He loved her for her laugh, which was like wind chimes in a breeze; for her eyes, which held an ancient kindness; for the way she looked at the world, seeing light even in the deepest shadows. He loved her because she saw past the defense mechanisms, the rebellion, the reckless facade, and saw him – the loyal, vulnerable kid who just wanted a safe harbor.

But she was with Rafe. The Kook prince, volatile and vicious, gilded with privilege and rotten to the core. JJ had seen the way Rafe looked at people, with a cold, calculating gaze that promised nothing good. He’d seen the rumors, heard the whispers. He knew Rafe had a temper that could ignite without warning, fueled by entitlement and whatever poison he was pumping into his veins these days.

JJ usually avoided the Figure Eight side of the island like the plague, but today, a delivery run for Heyward had taken him close. He was cutting through a less manicured path near the marsh, a shortcut he knew from years of exploring, when he saw her.

Yn. She was sitting on an overturned dinghy half-hidden by sea grass, staring out at the murky water. Her shoulders were slumped, her slight frame looking smaller than usual. Even from the distance, JJ felt the familiar pull, the instinctive need to make her smile, to chase away whatever shadow was dimming her light. He opened his mouth to call out, a playful, sarcastic greeting ready on his tongue, when he noticed it.

She was holding her arm strangely, cradling it close to her body. Her hair, usually neat, was slightly disheveled, and her clothes looked rumpled. A knot of unease tightened in JJ's chest. He approached quietly, his footsteps muffled by the sand and grass.

“Yn?” he called softly, his usual boisterousness muted.

She startled, her head snapping up. Her eyes, when they met his, were wide and filled with a raw, unprotected pain that punched the air clean out of his lungs. She quickly tried to smooth her hair, to straighten her clothes, a faint, strained smile appearing on her lips.

“JJ? Hey,” she said, her voice a little shaky.

He stopped a few feet away, his blue eyes scanning her face, her posture. The small smile didn’t reach her eyes. It looked fragile, ready to break.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice rougher than he intended.

She nodded, pulling her arm closer. “Yeah, totally. Just… enjoying the view.”

The view was marsh grass and distant mangroves. Not exactly postcard material. His gaze lingered on her arm. Then, he saw it. A dark smudge just visible beneath the cuff of her sleeve. Instinct, sharp and cold, told him it wasn't dirt.

He took a step closer, his usual playful demeanor replaced by a tense alertness that set his jaw. “What’s on your arm?”

She flinched almost imperceptibly, her smile faltering completely. “Nothing. Just… brushed against something.”

He didn't believe her for a second. His eyes narrowed, focusing on the shadowed area. He saw another hint of color, a darker patch near her wrist. And then, as she shifted slightly, he saw the edge of a bruise blooming on her cheekbone, partially obscured by her hair, a sickly yellow-purple against her skin.

The air grew heavy. The sound of the gulls, the distant hum of a boat engine, everything faded into white noise. JJ’s world narrowed to just her, sitting there, trying to hide the undeniable truth etched onto her skin.

Bruises. All over her.

His mind flashed with possibilities, quick, frantic excuses: She fell. Tripped. An accident. But the way she flinched, the way her eyes held a desperate, trapped look… JJ didn’t have to guess who the artist was. He knew. The images of Rafe Cameron, his sneering face, his unpredictable rage, slammed into him with visceral certainty. It was him. It had to be him.

A wave of pure, unadulterated rage washed over JJ, so hot and intense it made his vision swim for a second. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his knuckles turning white. Every protective instinct, every ounce of loyalty he possessed, flared into an inferno. He wanted to roar, to break something, to hunt Rafe down and make him pay for every single mark on her. His temper, usually simmering just below the surface, threatened to boil over.

But he looked at Yn again, at her vulnerability, the fear flickering in her eyes as she watched his reaction. He saw her trying to be brave, trying to minimize it, probably trying to protect him from doing something stupid. And the rage, while still burning, was tempered by a profound, aching tenderness and a fierce resolve. He couldn't scare her. Not now. He had to be the calm in her storm, the safe place she was clearly desperate for.

He forced himself to unclench his hands, though the tremor didn’t completely stop. He took a slow, steadying breath, the salty air doing little to cool the fire in his chest. He walked the remaining steps towards her, his gaze fixed on hers.

He knelt down in front of her, ignoring the damp sand soaking into his jeans. He kept his face soft, his voice low, stripping away the sarcasm, the smart-alecky edge he usually hid behind. This was just him, JJ, the kid who loved her, seeing the girl he loved in pain.

“Yn,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Show me.”

Her lower lip trembled. She looked away, out towards the marsh again. “It’s nothing, JJ, really. I just—”

“Don’t,” he interrupted gently, but with an unwavering firmness that brooked no argument. “Please. Don’t lie to me.”

He reached out slowly, giving her time to pull away. He hesitated for a moment, then gently, very gently, took her cradled arm. He carefully pushed up her sleeve, his heart sinking further with each inch of revealed skin. There were several dark bruises, varying in size and color, mottling her forearm. Some looked fresh, others older, a horrifying tapestry of violence. He saw the faint, finger-shaped marks on her wrist.

His eyes tracked up her arm, to her shoulder where the fabric of her shirt was twisted awkwardly. Carefully, with a tenderness that felt almost sacred, he adjusted the collar, revealing another bruise, larger and darker than the others. He saw the faint discoloration on her neck. His gaze went back to her face, confirming the bruise on her cheekbone.

He didn’t need to see any more. The truth was screaming at him from every mark on her beautiful, kind skin. Rafe. Rafe Cameron. He could practically see the bastard doing it, his face contorted in anger, his hands raised against her. The urge to stand up, to run, to find Rafe and beat him until he couldn’t stand was almost overwhelming. His muscles coiled, ready for action.

But Yn was still sitting there, watching him, her eyes full of a silent plea he couldn’t decipher – a plea for help? For understanding? For him not to do anything crazy?

He stayed kneeling. He didn’t touch the bruises, didn’t want to cause her any more pain. He just looked, taking it all in, letting the reality sink its cruel teeth into his soul. The playful, carefree exterior JJ Maybank was known for shattered like glass. What was left was devastatingly vulnerable, fiercely protective.

“He did this,” JJ stated, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, which somehow made it more terrifying. It wasn’t a question. It was a cold, hard fact he was speaking into existence.

Yn finally looked at him, her eyes pooling with tears she had clearly been trying to hold back. A single tear tracked a path down her cheek, dangerously close to the bruise there. She didn’t answer, but her silence was a louder confirmation than any words could have been. She just nodded, a small, jerky motion.

Seeing her cry, seeing the raw hurt in her eyes, broke something inside JJ. The rage shifted, transforming into a deep, aching sorrow and a burning, absolute certainty. He couldn’t leave her like this. He couldn’t let her go back to him. He couldn’t pretend he hadn't seen this.

He reached out again, this time to gently cup her face, his thumb wiping away a tear that had escaped. His touch was feather-light, infinitely careful.

“Hey,” he whispered, his voice thick with unshed emotion. “Look at me, Yn.”

She met his gaze, her eyes searching his.

“You don’t deserve this,” he said, his voice trembling slightly despite his effort to control it. “You don’t ever deserve this. Nobody does. Especially not you.”

He saw the flicker of surprise, then something else – relief? Trust? – in her eyes.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked, not accusatory, just wanting to understand.

She swallowed hard, her voice barely audible. “I… I thought… I thought I could handle it. That it wouldn’t happen again. He was sorry. He said he wouldn’t…” Her voice trailed off, the broken promises hanging heavy in the air.

JJ’s heart ached. He knew firsthand about cycles of abuse, about hoping things would get better, about the lies people tell themselves. He pulled his hand away from her face, balling his fists again, harder this time, digging his fingernails into his palms to ground himself, to keep the roaring beast of his anger contained.

“Sorry?” he scoffed, the word a bitter taste in his mouth. “Sorry doesn’t un-bruise you, Yn. Sorry doesn’t make this okay.”

He stood up, pacing a short distance on the sand, running a hand roughly through his hair. His mind was racing, formulating plans, discarding them just as quickly. Call the cops? Rafe was a Cameron, they’d find a way to bury it. Confront Rafe? That would end in a fight, maybe worse, and wouldn’t necessarily protect Yn long-term. What could he do? What should he do?

He turned back to her, kneeling again, needing to be at her level. He gently took her hands, holding them between his. Her skin was cold.

“Yn,” he said, his voice low and earnest. All the layers were gone now. This was the real JJ, the fiercely loyal, protective heart beating beneath the rebellious surface. “You can’t stay there. Not anymore.”

She pulled her hands away, wrapping her arms around herself again. “Where would I go, JJ? He’ll just find me. And he’ll be… angrier.”

The fear in her voice was like a physical blow. He knew the power Rafe wielded. He knew the danger. But he also knew he couldn't leave her to face that danger alone.

“You come with me,” he said immediately, the words out before he could fully process the implications. “You come stay with me and the guys. It’s not much, the shack, but it’s safe. He won’t find you there. And if he tries…” His jaw set, his eyes hardening with a dangerous glint. “If he tries, he’ll have to go through me.”

He meant it. Every fiber of his being was screaming at him to protect her, to shield her from the ugliness she’d been subjected to. His loyalty wasn’t just for his Pogue brothers; it extended fiercely, passionately, to her.

Yn looked at him, her eyes wide with surprise, maybe even a flicker of hope mixed with her fear. “JJ, you can’t. It’s too dangerous. For you.”

“Don’t worry about me,” he said, his voice firm. “Worry about you. Please, Yn. Let me help you.”

He saw the conflict in her eyes – the ingrained fear of Rafe, the uncertainty of stepping into his chaotic world, but also the desperation for a way out, for someone to just see and offer a lifeline.

He reached out and gently, so carefully, brushed the hair away from the bruise on her cheek again. His touch was a silent promise.

“Just for tonight,” he urged, pushing aside the logical voice that told him this was insane, that he was putting himself and the guys in danger. Logic had no place here. This was about love, about protection, about the fundamental need to keep the light of her safe from the forces trying to extinguish it. “Just come back with me. We’ll figure the rest out later. I just… I can’t leave you here like this.”

He waited, his heart pounding in his chest, watching her face, praying she would say yes. His vulnerability was laid bare, his deep love for her evident in the intensity of his gaze, the tremor in his hands. He wasn't just offering her shelter; he was offering her a piece of his soul, placing his own safety and everything he had on the line for her.

Finally, slowly, reluctantly, Yn nodded. It was a small nod, but it was enough.

A wave of relief, so profound it made him feel momentarily weak, washed over JJ. He managed a small, genuine smile, one that reached his deep dimples for the first time since he’d seen her face.

“Okay,” he said, his voice filled with quiet determination. “Okay. Come on. Let’s get you outta here.”

He stood up and offered her his hand. She hesitated for only a second before placing her small, bruised hand in his. Her fingers were cold, but her grip, though hesitant, was steady.

As he helped her up, keeping a careful eye on her injured arm, JJ’s gaze swept over the marsh, towards the direction of Figure Eight. The rage was still there, a cold, hard knot in his stomach, but it was now accompanied by a fierce, unwavering resolve. Rafe had laid a hand on her.

That was a line that couldn’t be uncrossed. JJ didn’t know exactly what came next, didn’t have a concrete plan beyond getting her somewhere safe. But he knew one thing with absolute certainty: he would protect her. Whatever it took. The carefree JJ had just died in the marsh grass. The protector had been born. And Rafe Cameron was about to find out exactly what happens when you hurt someone JJ Maybank loves.

[rudyking]

Late night fights:

JJ and you get into a huge fight, making you storm out of the house in the middle of the night.

The argument had started subtly, a low simmer of frustration over something you couldn't even fully recall now – his latest impulsive, borderline-illegal scheme, your nagging worry about his safety, the perpetual tightrope walk you both navigated between his wild heart and your need for stability.

But it had escalated fast, as it always did when his defenses went up. His inherent rebelliousness, fueled by years of fending for himself, clashed violently with your quiet concern. Your voice, usually calm and steady, had risen, laced with exhaustion and fear. His had met it, sharp and sarcastic, his playful mockery twisting into biting cruelty when he felt cornered.

"You think I want to do this stuff?" he'd snapped, his blue eyes, usually bright and full of mischief, clouded with a familiar, dark anger. "You think I enjoy dodging Kooks and cops? This is how we get by, okay? How I get by! How I keep a roof over our heads!"

"That's not fair, JJ!" you'd retorted, your hands clenching at your sides. "You know I work just as hard. And it's not just about getting by, it's about the risks! Why do you always have to push it? Why can't you just... just be safe?"

He’d laughed then, a harsh, humorless sound that scraped against your nerves. "Safe? This is the Outer Banks, Y/n! Safe is for tourists with khakis and matching suitcases! Safe doesn't exist here, not for us! Or maybe you forgot where you are, huh? Maybe you'd rather be somewhere... boring?"

That last word, "boring," landed like a punch. It was low, calculated, designed to wound. You knew he didn't mean it, not really, but the raw anger in his voice made it feel like a truth he suddenly believed. It hit on an insecurity – were you trying to change him? Were you not cut out for his world?

Your carefully constructed patience crumbled. "Boring? No, but maybe I'd rather be somewhere I don't have to worry every single damn second that you're going to end up in jail or worse!" Your voice trembled, tears pricking at your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. "Maybe I'd rather be with someone who doesn't make me feel like I'm the enemy for caring about them!"

His face hardened, the deep dimples you loved so much replaced by sharp lines of fury. "Oh, so I make you feel like the enemy? Is that it? Maybe you're just looking for a way out! Maybe you're tired of this, tired of me!"

"Don't you dare!" you cried, your voice breaking. "Don't you dare twist this! I'm tired of feeling disposable! Like my feelings don't matter because you've got some hero complex to fulfill!"

"Disposable?" He took a step towards you, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His shaggy blonde hair was messy, falling into those intense blue eyes. "Is that what you think? After everything? After us?"

"Yes!" The word was ripped from you, raw and painful. "Yes! Because you keep doing things that put you in danger, that put us in danger, and you never listen! You never think! You just act, and then you expect me to just... clean up the mess and pretend I'm not terrified!"

He flinched back as if you'd slapped him. For a split second, you saw a flicker of vulnerability in those blue eyes, the hurt beneath the bravado. But it was gone just as quickly, replaced by a cold, hard mask. "Fine," he bit out, the single word loaded with venom. "If that's how you feel. If you think I'm so messed up, so disposable... Maybe you just shouldn't be here."

The silence that followed was deafening, punctuated only by the distant, rhythmic wash of the waves on the shore. The air crackled with unspoken words, with regrets already forming, but the pride and pain were too deep to let them surface. His meaning was clear. He wasn't saying he wanted you to leave, not explicitly, but he was saying if you felt that way, if you couldn't handle him, then there was the door. It was the ultimate test, the reckless gamble of his impulsive nature betting that you wouldn't call his bluff.

But this time, you couldn't stay. The hurt was too profound, the feeling of being misunderstood and dismissed too overwhelming. Your chest ached. You couldn't breathe properly. Being in the same room felt like suffocation.

Without another word, you turned. You walked towards the small table by the door, your movements stiff and deliberate. You grabbed your keys, your phone, whatever lightweight jacket was within reach. You didn't look back at him, couldn't bear to see the expression on his face, whether it was still anger or something else entirely.

You fumbled with the lock, your hands shaking slightly. The door creaked open, revealing the inky blackness of the late night and the oppressive humidity of the air outside. The sound of the cicadas was loud, a buzzing counterpoint to the silence you were leaving behind.

You stepped out, the warm, damp air enveloping you. You pulled the door shut behind you, not slamming it, but closing it with a quiet finality that felt louder than any shout.

The porch steps creaked under your feet as you descended. The familiar sandy path leading away from the house felt alien beneath your worn flip-flops. You didn't know where you were going, only that you had to get away. Away from the tension, away from the pain, away from him, just for a little while, long enough to catch your breath.

You started walking, your pace brisk and determined at first, then slowing as the immediate adrenaline faded, leaving only a hollow ache in your chest. The streetlights cast long, distorted shadows. The air smelled of salt and marsh and something else, something floral and heavy thriving in the coastal heat. The sound of the waves grew louder the closer you got to the beach road.

You reached the road and turned towards the nearest public beach access point. The sand was soft and cool under your bare feet once you kicked off your flip-flops. The roar of the ocean was a constant, powerful presence, soothing and overwhelming all at once. You walked towards the water's edge, letting the cool foam rush over your ankles, the retreating tide tugging at your feet.

The sky above was a canvas of a million stars, scattered across the vast darkness like glitter. The moon was a sliver, casting a faint, ethereal glow. It was beautiful, peaceful, and utterly lonely.

You hugged your arms around yourself, shivering despite the warmth of the night. Replaying the fight, every harsh word, every accusation, every cutting silence echoed in your mind. Had you pushed too hard? Had you been unfair? Had he really meant what he said, about you not belonging here, about you being tired of him?

Your heart ached with a confusing mix of anger, sadness, and a terrifying knot of fear. Fear for him, always fear for him, but now also fear for the future of... whatever this was between you. You loved him so fiercely, more than anything. His loyalty, his unexpected kindness, his playful humor, even his infuriating impulsiveness – they were all part of the complex, fascinating person you had fallen for. But his tendency to self-sabotage, his inability to process difficult emotions without lashing out, his reckless disregard for his own safety... sometimes it felt like too much.

You walked for what felt like hours, the sand cool beneath your feet, the waves a constant murmur. You passed silent, darkened beach houses, the occasional distant light from a fishing boat out on the water. You felt utterly alone in the vastness of the night and the ocean.

Around you, the character details of the Outer Banks were present – the salty air, the sound of the surf, the feel of the sand, maybe the scent of Confederate jasmine trailing from someone's yard.

Suddenly, you heard it. A familiar sound, cutting through the drone of the waves. The distinct engine of JJ's beat-up truck.

Your breath hitched. You hadn't heard it pull up, hadn't heard him call your name over the sound of the ocean. Had he been looking for you? How long had you been gone?

You saw his headlights sweep across the sand, briefly illuminating a stretch of beach before they were cut off. Then, his figure emerged from the darkness near the access point, silhouetted against the faint glow of the distant streetlights.

He looked disheveled, his shaggy blonde hair even messier than usual, his shoulders slumped slightly. He walked slowly, scanning the beach.

"Y/n?" His voice reached you, a little hoarse, edged with uncertainty and something else... relief? Fear?

You didn't answer immediately. A part of you wanted to run, to disappear into the darkness and make him understand the depth of the chasm that had opened between you. Another part, the part that was kind and loving and fiercely cared for him, felt a jolt of something akin to hope, quickly followed by apprehension.

He saw you then, a lone figure by the water's edge. He started walking towards you, picking up his pace, his steps quicker now, more purposeful.

You stood your ground, watching him approach. As he got closer, you could make out his features in the faint light – the worry etched on his face, the way his blue eyes searched yours. The usual carefree swagger was gone, replaced by a raw vulnerability that you rarely saw.

He stopped a few feet away, hands shoved into the pockets of his shorts. He looked lost, unsure of what to say, which in itself was telling for someone usually so quick with words.

"Hey," he said, his voice soft, hesitant.

You didn't respond. You just looked at him, waiting.

He shifted his weight. "You, uh... you okay?"

The question, so simple, felt loaded. Were you okay? No. You were hurting. You were angry. You were scared. But you were also standing there, waiting for him.

"I needed to clear my head," you finally said, your voice quiet but steady.

He nodded, understanding. He glanced out at the ocean for a moment, then back at you. "I... I shouldn't have said that stuff, Y/n." He swallowed hard. "About you being tired of me. That was... that was stupid. I didn't mean it."

His admission hung in the air. It wasn't a full apology, not yet, but it was a start. It was him showing that flicker of vulnerability you had seen earlier, letting it linger this time.

"It hurt, JJ," you said, your voice still low. "A lot. It felt like you were throwing everything away because I was worried about you."

He finally stepped closer, reaching out a hand tentatively, letting it drop before he touched you. "I know. And I'm sorry. I... I got scared, I guess. Scared you meant it, scared you were like, done with me. And when I get scared, I say stupid shit." He ran a hand through his shaggy blonde hair, restless. "It's not an excuse, I know. I just... I don't know how to deal with it sometimes. When you worry, when you... care so much. It feels like... like pressure. And I mess it up."

He was being honest. Brutally, painfully honest. It was the most vulnerable you had seen him in a long time, maybe ever. The usual smart-alecky humor and deflective sarcasm were notably absent.

"I care because I love you, JJ," you said, the words heavy with emotion. "Isn't that obvious? I don't want to change who you are, but I can't just stand by and watch you constantly put yourself in danger. It's terrifying."

His blue eyes were fixated on yours. In the faint moonlight, you could just make out the hint of his deep dimples, softened by the seriousness of the moment. He took another step closer, closing the small distance between you. He reached out again, this time tentatively touching your arm, his hand warm against your skin.

"I know," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I know you do. And I... I love you too, Y/n." He tightened his grip on your arm slightly, pulling you gently closer. "More than anything. That's why... that's why losing you scares me more than anything else out there. More than Ward, more than the Feds, more than drowning. Losing you..." He trailed off, unable to articulate the depth of that fear.

He pulled you fully into his arms then, holding you close. His embrace was tight, protective, almost desperate. You could feel the rapid beat of his heart against yours. You buried your face in his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of him – salt, sunscreen, and something uniquely JJ.

"I'm sorry," he murmured into your hair, the words quieter this time, a true apology filtering through the raw emotion. "I'm so, so sorry, Y/n. I didn't mean to hurt you. I was just... fighting myself, I guess. And I took it out on you. That was messed up."

You clung to him, letting the tears finally fall, wetting his shirt. They weren't just tears of pain anymore, but also of relief. Relief that he had come for you, that he was admitting his fault, that the connection between you hadn't been irreparably severed.

"I was so scared," you confessed, your voice muffled against his shoulder. "When you said that... I just... I didn't know what to do."

He held you tighter. "I know. That was the dumbest thing I've ever said. And I've said a lot of dumb things." He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at your face, his hands still on your shoulders. His blue eyes were filled with a mixture of regret, love, and a lingering fear. "Don't ever... don't ever think I don't need you, Y/n. Don't ever think I'm done with you. Okay? You're... you're everything to me."

He reached up and gently brushed a tear from your cheek with his thumb. His touch was soft, affectionate. The deep dimples were visible again, but they didn't signify a smile; they were just part of the landscape of his face, visible in his earnestness.

"Okay," you whispered back, a fragile promise hanging in the night air. It wasn't a magic fix. The argument had exposed deep-seated issues, old wounds, and unresolved conflicts. There would be other fights, other moments of fear and frustration. But this... this was coming back from the brink. This was him showing you the vulnerable heart he usually kept hidden behind bravado and sarcasm. This was you choosing to stay, to work through the mess, because the love was worth fighting for.

He leaned down and gently kissed your forehead, then your temple, and finally, your lips. The kiss was soft, tender, full of unspoken apologies and desperate affection. It wasn't passionate in the way your kisses usually were; it was something deeper, a reaffirmation of connection broken and tentatively mended.

When he pulled back, he kept his forehead resting against yours for a moment, both of you just breathing, the sound of the waves a gentle backdrop.

"Come on," he murmured, his voice low and kind. "Let's go home."

Home. The word felt different now. It wasn't just a place; it was the space you built together, imperfect and messy and sometimes painful, but undeniably yours.

He took your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. His hand was warm and strong, a comforting anchor. You walked together back towards the sandy path, leaving the vast, lonely expanse of the beach behind. The stars still glittered above, the humid air still hung heavy, the waves still crashed against the shore.

But the oppressive silence and the chilling loneliness were gone, replaced by the quiet reassurance of his presence beside you, hand in hand, walking back towards whatever came next. It wouldn't be easy, nothing with JJ ever was, but as you glanced over at his profile in the dim light, seeing the lingering worry in his blue eyes but also the steady resolve as he led the way, you knew you were facing it together. And for now, in the quiet middle of the night, that felt like enough.