#Dynamic Text Background Setting

[abbotjack]

Abbott with a ‘sir’ kink just feels right

(ps love your writing)

Oh absolutely—Jack Abbot with a ‘sir’ kink doesn’t just feel right—it explains so much. Man spent years in the military, still walks like command never left his body, and the second you call him "sir"? His jaw ticks. His breath catches. The air shifts. This is very him—and very you, ruined by him. 18+ ONLY. Do not interact if you’re a minor.

warnings/content: sir kink, emotionally repressed man finally losing control, rough sex, power dynamic tension, mentions of military trauma and death, alcohol (beer), reader is a fourth-year resident, Jack is Not Gentle™ p.s thank you so much to everyone who’s left kind words about my writing lately. it means more than you know <3

You weren’t supposed to be on shift. Memorial Day, supposedly protected on the schedule. But half the roster called off and you got the text at noon from Dana: we need you.

Jack was already in the trauma bay when you walked in—sleeves stained, voice low and clipped, the kind that made everyone fall in line without thinking. He didn’t say a word when he saw you. Just handed you a pair of gloves.

Now it’s past midnight. You’re outside the hospital, undershirt sweat-stuck to your spine. You could’ve walked home—it’s not far—but when Jack mutters, “You need a ride?” with his keys already in hand, you don’t say no.

His truck smells like unscented soap, clean cotton, and the faintest trace of leather—lived-in but scrubbed down, like everything else he keeps close. There’s nothing on the seats. No wrappers. No dust. Console organized, glove box latched. The kind of vehicle that’s been through things but still runs quiet—because he keeps it that way.

There’s a trauma kit in the backseat. You know without asking. Probably an extra pair of scrubs folded under it. Probably gloves in the door pocket, a stethoscope stuffed between the seats.

He drives with one hand on the wheel, wrist loose, posture upright. No music playing. Just the low, occasional murmur of the police scanner tucked under the dash.

He doesn’t talk while driving. He doesn’t fill silence for the sake of it. Jack Abbot isn’t wired for background noise. He reads intersections like patients—measures, anticipates, adjusts. Everything he does has a reason.

Even the way he glances over at you at the red light, like he’s making sure you haven’t slipped out of his orbit yet.

“You eat today?” he asks, like he already knows the answer.

You shake your head. “When would I have?”

He doesn’t respond right away. Just lets out a breath through his nose, turns the wheel one-handed.

“You’re coming back to mine,” he says.

Not a question. Not even an offer.

Just... routine.

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

You’ve done this enough times to know there’ll be cold beer in the fridge, maybe leftover pasta—if Robby didn’t steal it last time he dropped by. Jack won’t say a word when you kick off your shoes at the door like you live here, too.

The house is dark when you step inside, but it smells like cedar and clean soap and something warmer beneath it—wood polish, maybe. His kind of clean. The kind that comes from knowing where everything belongs and putting it there, every time.

He moves through the space like it’s muscle memory, like the floor was built to match his stride. The quiet step of his prosthetic against the hardwood is as familiar to you now as the creak in the cabinet hinge he still hasn’t fixed.

“You want one?” he calls from the kitchen, already pulling open the fridge.

You murmur a quiet yeah and drift in, leaning your hip against the counter as he cracks two beers open. He sets one in front of you without looking. The cap lands in the little dish on the windowsill with a soft clink—just like all the others piled inside it. A dozen, at least. Maybe more.

The house is nice. Not just for a guy like him, but nice by any standard. Exposed beams. Matte black fixtures. Shelves that look like they belong in a magazine but you know he built them himself. It’s the kind of place that doesn’t need decorating because it was built right the first time.

You take your beer and head into the living room. Sit where you always do.

He follows, lowering himself into the armchair across from you with practiced ease. Weight shifts left, then the soft tap of his prosthetic finds the floor. You know the rhythm of how he moves—how he balances, how he settles. He doesn’t hide it. Doesn’t explain it. And you’ve never needed him to.

You glance at him.

“What,” he says.

“You always sit like that,” you reply.

He arches a brow. Not challenging—just neutral.

“You lead with your left,” you clarify.

“I don’t think about it.”

You nod. “Yeah. I know.”

You both sip in silence for a while. There’s a radio scanner in the corner near the window. It’s on, low. Something crackles and fades out.

“Why do you always work Memorial Day?” you ask.

He shrugs. “Don’t like being told to take the day off.”

That makes you smile. “So, spite.”

He doesn't smile back, but his voice shifts just enough to tell you it landed. “Something like that.”

You stretch your legs out. Rest the bottle on your thigh. “You ever miss it?”

Jack looks at the wall behind you—not through you, just past. Not escaping. Recalling.

“No.”

You wait.

“I miss the parts that made sense. Waking up every day with a mission. Knowing the rules. Knowing what mattered.” He looks at you. “But I don’t miss the heat. The sand. The sound a man makes when he thinks he’s going to die.”

You nod, slow. He’s not looking for sympathy. You don’t offer it.

You shift a little on the couch, not even thinking before you say, “Do you miss the authority? Like... being called ‘sir’ all the time?”

He glances at you. Not sharply. Just long enough to let the question hang.

Then he looks away again. Back to the bottle in his hands.

“I miss not having to explain myself,” he says. “That’s about it.”

You smile a little, trying to cut through it. “Well, you’re still kind of terrifying when you want to be.”

His mouth twitches. Almost a smile.

You tip your head toward him. “Sir.”

Just a murmur. Barely there. But he hears it.

He stills.

Doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t answer.

He just... sets his beer down.

Carefully. Quietly.

Jack leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he’s walking himself through something he already decided an hour ago.

He doesn’t raise his voice.

“Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

He holds your gaze, steady. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t move.

Just waits—like he’s giving you a last chance to pull back, even if part of him knows you won’t.

And when you don’t—when you just sit there, breathing quiet and not taking it back—

He stands and crosses the room—measured, quiet, with that same deliberate ease he always has right before everything changes.

You set your beer down without thinking.

When he stops in front of you, he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t touch you.

Just looks at you.

You’re still sitting, hands loose in your lap, heart loud in your chest. You tilt your head back to meet his eyes.

“Still sure?” he asks.

You nod.

That’s all it takes.

He leans in—both hands coming to your face, one curling against your jaw, the other threading into your hair—and kisses you like he’s been trying not to for a long time. His body tilts over yours, braced, sure.

It’s not gentle. It’s not rough. It’s need—heat, breath, a scrape of teeth. You tilt into it, fingers catching the front of his shirt, anchoring yourself like you’re afraid he might pull away.

When you stand—rising into him—it’s instinct, seamless. That’s when his hands find your waist, gripping like he’s finally letting himself touch what he’s wanted all along.

“You want this?” he asks, breath hot against your cheek.

You nod, already breathless. “Yes.”

He steps back—not far. Just enough to let you follow.

You do.

No words. No second thoughts. Just the sound of your breathing and the quiet creak of floorboards beneath his steps.

The bedroom is like the rest of the house—dark, clean, minimal. Black sheets. Hardwood floors. A space that’s only ever held him, until now.

The door barely clicks shut before he’s already working your pants down—no fumbling, just intent. Mouth on your jaw, breath hot and uneven as he pulls them past your thighs.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he says, almost under his breath.

You do. Of course you do. Every look, every shift in his voice, every beer he handed you with his jaw clenched too tight.

You step out of the last of your clothes. He does the same—fast, practiced, stripped down to nothing but need.

He backs you toward the bed, then pushes you gently by the hips. You go easily, falling back onto the sheets, legs parting before you even think about it.

Jack stares.

His body over yours—solid, scarred, familiar—but his face?

Wrecked.

“This,” he says, low, like he’s not even speaking to you, like he’s talking to the version of himself that told him not to touch you. “This was always gonna happen.”

Then he’s on you.

No teasing. No delay.

Just his mouth, hot and heavy between your legs, tongue dragging slow and purposeful until you’re arching off the bed with a sound you barely recognize as yours.

You grip the sheets. His shoulders. Anything.

He doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t even look up.

Just groans low into you like he’s addicted to the way you fall apart under his hands.

You’re already shaking when he pulls back, mouth wet, chest rising.

“Turn over,” he says, voice wrecked.

You hesitate just a beat—enough to see the way he breathes when you do it. When you shift onto your stomach, hips lifted, arms bracing.

You hear the sound of the condom, fast. Efficient.

And then—

Jack’s hand on your lower back. Steady.

And the way he slides into you? Slow. So deep it knocks the air out of you.

He curses under his breath. Grips your hip with one hand and the back of your neck with the other—not to force you down. Just to hold you there. Like he needs you solid. Still.

You moan into the mattress. He groans above you, pace already building.

Every thrust is measured. Heavy. Earned.

“Fuck, you feel—” he breaks off. “I can’t—Jesus.”

You push back into him, and he snarls something low and wordless. One of his hands slides around to your front, fingers finding you again.

“Come for me,” he growls. “Right fucking now.”

And you do.

Hard.

So hard your voice breaks.

He groans—sharp, wrecked, desperate—and follows you over the edge with one last thrust, hips grinding against yours as he comes with a sound that tears right through your spine.

You both collapse, tangled, shaking, breathless.

Nothing moves for a long time.

You stare up at the ceiling, lips parted, chest still rising and falling.

Then, quiet—almost lazy—you murmur, “I guess I should start calling you that more often.”

Jack doesn’t lift his head, but you can feel the tension in his body change. Loosen. Settle.

“You do that,” he mutters, voice half-buried in your neck, “and I’m not gonna make it to shift tomorrow.”

You turn toward him, drape an arm across his chest, skin still hot against yours.

“Guess we’ll test that theory.”

Jack exhales, something low and rough in his throat—just close enough to be a laugh.

[sundrop-writes]

Meddle About

Sub!Spencer Reid x Dom!Fem!Reader

‘Cause it's not just a figure of speech - you got me down on my knees.

It's gettin' harder to b r e a t h e .

Summary:

You hate it when Morgan teases Reid. So when Morgan says that you are Reid's 'Mommy' - you verbally fire back without even thinking about it.

Reid vastly overthinks it.

So much so that he ends up calling you Mommy by mistake. And you definitely don't hate the sound of that word coming off his lips.

Sub!Spencer Reid x Dom!Fem!Reader. Co-Workers to Lovers. Smut. Set during Season One.

Word Count: 6,300

Criminal Minds Masterlist | AO3 Link

Detailed warnings and author's notes below the cut.

Warnings: general smut fic - porn with some plot; dom/sub dynamics (but this isn't a pre-discussed dom/sub relationship, the characters just fall into these roles naturally), Spencer is submissive and the reader is dominant; the main theme is Mommy kink - Spencer discovers that he has a Mommy kink after a joke that Morgan makes, referring to the reader character as Spencer's Mommy; Spencer calls the reader 'Mommy' and the reader also refers to herself with that title; the reader uses she/her pronouns and has a vagina (and breasts); it could be interpreted that the reader has larger breasts/is plus sized (but I think anyone of any size could enjoy this fic); the reader is part of the BAU; this is meant to take place during season one (baby Spence my beloved) but there are no other major canon events mentioned and the case being discussed is one that I have made up; some very background typical elements of Criminal Minds - murder, killing, systemic vicimization of women/violence from men towards women (passing mention of bodies being consumed by wild animals); the reader and Spencer fuck while on a case (but they aren't endangering anyone's lives from lack of their attention, so it's fine); mentions of potential injuries from a car accident (theoretical - doesn't actually happen during the fic); very slight threads of Morgan x Reader (mentions of Morgan being attracted to the reader - it could be one-sided); very passing mention of Reid having breeding kink (doesn't take place during the fic, just one of his thoughts); for the actual smut section: this could be interpreted as virgin!Spencer but that's not explicitly stated here (at most, this is just inexperienced!Spencer) (the reader is definitely way more sexually experienced than him); praise kink (we all known Spencer is so eager to be praised); mentions of breastfeeding - Morgan makes a joke about the reader breastfeeding Reid, which later turns into faux breastfeeding kink (the reader doesn't actually lactate, but she lets Spencer suck on her tits and calls it breastfeeding); the reader calls Spencer: 'baby', 'good boy',; descriptions of subspace - but it's not specifically called 'subspace' in the text; thigh humping - Spencer humps the reader's thigh; cumming in pants (Spencer); multiple orgasms/overstimulation (Spencer receiving); handjob - the reader jacks Spencer off while he is sensitive after his first orgasm; using lube as cum; dumbification kink - the reader calls Spencer 'dumb baby' and generally enjoys seeing his intellect drop the more turned on he becomes (Spencer also likes being called this); technically the reader doesn't get to cum, but she gets turned on from treating Spencer like the good boy that he is (and this is more about him). I think that's everything.

A/N: This was directly inspired by the scene from Reid's birthday party, where Morgan says 'Mommy to the rescue!' (talking about JJ) and then Spencer says '...Mommy?' and it seems like he is discovering his Mommy kink in real time. Especially because he is then trapped between Elle and JJ and he makes direct eye contact with their boobs, and he just has such a look of scared kink realization in his eyes. I considered copying that moment exactly and just replacing JJ with the reader character, but this seemed like more fun lmao. I had so much fun writing this and I think this is one of my best fics in a while. I hope you guys enjoy it!!

...

Generally, you hated being stuck with grunt work. 

You knew that it was all part of the job - an important part of it. Paperwork, side interviews, background checks. Sifting through someone’s apartment looking for aspects of what kind of person they were based on their everyday life. 

But you thrived more on being right in the middle of things. You preferred interacting with suspects, chasing people down, harsh confrontation. 

Gideon said that you were overly controlling, impatient, brutally honest - that you had an ‘abrasive personality’ that put most men off. But that was why he often brought you into interrogations with male suspects. Many of the people you caught - men with superiority complexes who targeted the weak to make themselves feel powerful - they hated that you weren’t intimidated by them. That aspect of abrasion between you and the suspects often brought out a lot of information - things they spewed out trying to intimidate you. 

But you weren’t needed on that front today. 

No - instead, you were doing grunt work. The kind of work that made you impatient and generally aggravated. 

The only upside was that you got to do it with Spencer. 

He was one of the only men that voluntarily worked so closely with you so often, because he wasn’t intimidated by you. He took orders from you very well and naturally fell under your authority, bringing a natural chemistry to your partnership when you worked with him. Plus - his seemingly endless stream of ‘fun facts’ was like listening to the radio, which did help to soothe your boredom during these kinds of mindless tasks. 

You were on a case in Texas. Five women raped and tortured before having their bodies hung from a tree and consumed by cotoyes that the UnSub knew lived in the area. Since police had closed in on him, he had gone on the run. He had killed three more women since fleeing, while leaving no clues as to what his ultimate endgame would be or where he would be going next. 

Hotch sent you and Reid to find that out while the rest of the team worked victimology and profiled the scenes of the most recent murders, following the trail he was leaving. 

After spending hours sifting through the suspect’s house, looking for any small clue about where he might be going - you came up empty. When you touched base with Hotch, he told you that you and Reid would be going to visit the suspect’s ex-wife - who lived four hours away. You needed to interview her to see if she could give you any further insight to the man, and perhaps - beat him to the house if she was the ultimate target. 

(A lot of the victims looked like her, and it couldn’t really be a coincidence.) 

You knew that lives were at risk, and it was juvenile of you, but all you heard was: long, boring drive. Boring day. You hoped that Reid would be good company through it. 

Now, you were waiting outside of the police station in the bureau-issued SUV, waiting for Morgan to come and give you the file with the ex-wife’s address and contact information. 

“Did you know that over forty-six percent of Texans own a gun? Texas is second only to Montana in registered gun ownership, where over sixty-six percent of citizens proudly tote their right to bear arms.” Reid told you, continuing to look over the case files that were sitting in his lap. 

When you looked over toward him to reply to this odd factoid, your mind got caught up on something else. 

“Reid, come on, take your feet off the dashboard!” You told him, reaching over to gently smack his knee, trying to encourage his legs down from the awkward position. 

It bothered you for several reasons - the idea that he would leave shoe prints on the dashboard, which was minor and cosmetic, but still annoying. And the fact that if the car did happen to get hit head-on, the air-bag would explode out and push his knees into his chest, causing his shattered leg bones to pierce his organs and possibly kill him. (At the very least, he would never walk again.) 

Speaking of which: 

“And put your seatbelt on!” You barked, now noticing that he wasn’t wearing it past all of the files he had piled into his lap. “You of all people should know how many deaths are caused by not wearing a seatbelt.” 

Spencer opened his mouth to spout out this exact statistic, but before he could get the words out, another voice entered the conversation. 

“Aw, Reid, listen to your Mommy.” 

You were almost startled by Morgan’s voice coming from the open driver’s side window so suddenly. His appearance there as if out of nowhere was so jarring that you couldn’t get caught up on the way he had called you Reid’s Mommy. Your head whipped toward Morgan so quickly that you didn’t notice the flash across Spencer’s features - worry, dawning. You didn’t take note of the way he rushed to comply with putting on his seatbelt. As if he was rushing to please you, even unconsciously. 

“I bet if you’re a good boy, she might even breastfeed you when you get there.” 

Morgan then pursed his lips and made loudly suckling noises, clearly imitating breastfeeding in what he thought was a comedic way. 

Again - glaring at the muscled man through the open window, you didn’t see Spencer’s reaction. You didn’t see the way his large, glassy eyes flickered to your breasts (only emphasized by your own seatbelt crossed over the center of your chest) before he forced himself to focus on the files in front of him so that he wouldn’t feel so caught.

“Shut up.” You told Morgan, your voice so commanding and firm that his simple order was enough to get him to stop his antics. 

“And give me the address already.” You held out your hand expectantly, and Morgan handed you the file, which you placed onto the center console. 

Then, you turned back to him for one last point, determined to have the final word in the conversation. 

“Besides, we both know that you’re the one who’s got an obsession with my breasts, anyway. Just because you stare while wearing sunglasses, doesn’t mean I don’t notice. My eyes are up here, pal.” You told him sharply. 

He let out a scoff at this, and rolled his eyes behind his dark frames - but he made no clever comeback. 

You had successfully bested him. And with that knowledge, you rolled up the window and left him standing dumbly in the parking lot as you sped off. 

… 

You pulled over later to put the address into the GPS system, and you let out a long-winded groan when you found that it was more than four hours away. Four hours and twenty five minutes. 

So you pulled over again to get gas and stocked up on snacks, and you were surprised that Reid wasn’t giving you some lesson about the colloquial use of ‘soda’ and ‘pop’ (thinking that you hadn’t listened the other ten times when he had gone on the same rambling point about linguistics and how language evolves). 

He was being far too quiet for your liking. 

But he was keeping his eyes glued to the files, and you guessed that he was churning over something in that big brain of his, like he usually was. 

You were entirely surprised when the next time he spoke - it wasn’t about the case at all. 

“How - how do you know that Morgan likes your breasts?” He asked, his voice low and mousy, looking straight ahead as he fidgeted with his hands in his lap. 

“What?” You gaped, the word flying out of your mouth as your brain was utterly slow to process what he had just said. 

Hearing Spencer use the word ‘breasts’ was jarring, but somehow utterly adorable. You found it stirring a slight heat within you. Especially because he was still so shy. The whole thing made you want to pin him down and force the shyness out of him. 

Spencer felt the need to further explain himself. 

“When - when you were talking to him, you said: ‘we both know that you’re the one who’s got an obsession with my breasts.’” He said, repeating back what you had said, word for word, using that perfect memory of his. 

You wondered if that’s what he had been doing, sitting there in his seat so silently for the past hour of the car ride - going over the conversation again and again in his head, trying to make sense of it. And because he couldn’t make any sense of it by himself, now he was consulting you. 

Again, you found it so utterly adorable. 

“Morgan didn’t deny it. So - was it a hypothesis based on something, or did you just call him out hoping that you weren’t wrong?” Reid continued, sparing only a singular glance in your direction, a look that you caught out of the corner of your eye with your gaze still mostly focused ahead on the road. 

You found it intensely cute that he was using the word ‘hypothesis’ in this situation. You wondered if he ever turned it off - the textbook big words and the intellect that he always carried himself with. You wondered if you could make him turn it off. You wondered if there was any situation where Spencer Reid could be as stupid as any other man - chasing a bone, desperate to get his nut off. 

For the first time ever - you imagined Spencer Reid underneath you, blabbering nonsense, begging for release with your hand around his cock as you pumped him, red and aching, so slick in your palm. Desperate, empty-headed, beautifully stupid. 

(See, this was what happened when you were forced to do grunt work. You got bored. And when you got bored - you had to entertain yourself somehow.) 

“It was a pretty well-informed hypothesis.” You replied. Now that Spencer had brought the topic up, you certainly weren’t going to shy away from the discussion. “Morgan often brings up my sex life, and wants to engage in detailed discussions about my sexual encounters with me. So I assume that he spends a fair amount of time thinking about me in a sexual way.” 

Reid let out a choked-off noise at this. 

You continued. 

“Plus, he’s always staring down my top. He’s not exactly subtle.” 

“You - you actually notice that kind of thing?” He chirped, his voice becoming a few octaves higher as worry flooded him. 

You bit your lip, suppressing a grin. 

Of course, you had noticed the times that Spencer stared at your breasts as well. He was even less subtle about it than Morgan was. You didn’t mind it when he did it, because you knew that Spencer wasn’t exactly casanova. He didn’t have a different girl every other week like Morgan did, so taking a glance down your shirt when he passed you a morning coffee was probably about as much action as he got. 

Secretly, letting him get away with it was your gift to him. 

“Don’t worry about it, baby.” You told him, the pet name slipping out mindlessly as you reached over and gently patted his knee as a form of reassurance. 

This movement unintentionally drew his eyes toward your chest, especially in his desperation to look anywhere but your face, not wanting to make eye contact with you. But he found his eyes glued to the swell of your breasts once again - hating how perfect they looked, even through the simple cotton shirt and plain bra that you wore. 

“Sorry, Mommy.” The word slipped out before he could even consciously process it. “Sorry!” 

Spencer raised a hand to smack his own face at lightning speed, and slumped down into his seat in embarrassment. 

You bit your lip to suppress a grin. It stirred a filthy heat in your belly. But you knew that Spencer likely needed a while to sit with this and wouldn’t want to talk about it - not yet. So you reached over and turned on the radio, letting the music fill the space so that the silence wasn’t so awkward and gutting. 

…

Spencer didn’t talk for the entirety of the rest of the car ride, which didn’t surprise you. 

When you finally arrived at the ex-wife’s house, his hands were shaking with nerves as he tried to unlatch his seatbelt. You probably should have just left him alone to struggle, but an evil spark, likely fueled by the boredom of the day, flared up inside of you. You couldn’t resist the urge to lean over the console, very purposefully showing off your breasts as you gently pushed his hands away and undid the belt for him. 

“Here, let Mommy get that for you.” You said, distinct teasing on your breath as you mumbled the words into his ear. 

Spencer huffed out a deep sigh and collapsed back into his seat, and pushed his hair out of his face in frustration. But he didn’t say anything more as you gathered the files in preparation for the interview. 

He only spoke when you moved to get out of the car. 

“Look, I-” He began a half assed explanation, and you easily cut him off. 

“You let Morgan get in your head too much.” You told him with a chuckle, opening your door and getting out. 

But as he forced himself to follow you with numb limbs - he knew that this definitely wasn’t all Morgan’s fault. 

… 

The ex-wife didn’t know much. 

She described the marriage as hell - the suspect exhibited all the typical behaviors as a husband that they would have expected. He hated women, and he wanted full control over his wife at the time, which eventually led down the path of divorce. They had to sell the house they had bought together, but neither of them had moved out of Texas since. But he hadn’t contacted her in years. 

She had two young kids from a new relationship, and when the woman stepped out to take a call, you picked one of them up to soothe his cries, hushing him gently while you rubbed his back. 

Because of this, Spencer found himself even more dizzy and confused. 

He knew that it was Frueadian - some deep, misguided part of his psychology - something broken and missing inside of him because of his own fractured childhood. 

But seeing you being so sweet with a kid, especially after the day he’d had - he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be your baby, or if he wanted to shoot his cum so deep inside you that it would ensure he could give you one. 

(Ultimately, he knew that it was likely both - and that didn’t answer any questions for him. It just gave him far more questions.) 

… 

Even though the ex-wife couldn’t give you guys much more than you already knew, Hotch wanted you and Spencer to stay close by in case the suspect decided to make his ex-wife the end game. The two of you would be able to make it to her first if she called for help. 

So you and Spencer had dinner at a random local barbeque place off the highway and Spencer still didn’t talk much through it, other than posing some theories about the case. Even though he was a bit more talkative, he still refused to look at you - he stared down at his plate the whole time. Though whenever he did look up, you noticed that his eyes lingered on your chest - and he still wouldn’t look you in the eye. 

By the time the bill came around and the two of you were ready to leave, you knew exactly what you had to do. 

… 

Spencer waited by the car with his bag while you checked in and got a motel room (needing to stay in town, you got a room for the night). When you came back, you handed him the room key and then moved to get your bag out of the car. 

“Do… you already have yours?” He asked quietly. 

“Hmm?” You hummed in reply, slinging the strap of your go-bag over your shoulder before you closed the back door and used the remote to lock up the car. 

“Your room key?” 

You suppressed another grin. 

“I only got one room.” You told him. “You don’t mind sharing with me, right?” 

You gave him a purposeful look - looked at him through your lashes, bit your lip slightly, and subtly squeezed your breasts together with your upper arms, emphasizing them. You knew exactly what you were doing to him, but hopefully it seemed subtle. 

“I - uh - no.” Spencer stuttered. “It’s fine. We can share.” He gave a grin, not wanting to appear upset, even though his entire body was racked with nerves. 

Spencer followed you to the room and he fumbled with the key with shaking hands for a moment before he sighed and then handed it to you. 

His insides quaked when he saw that there was only one bed. 

He wasn’t sure if he should say anything about it. The two of you had slept in the same room before, but you had never shared a bed before. Sure, you had slept near each other before. He had accidentally fallen asleep on your shoulder on the plane or vice versa. But you had never crawled into bed together with the intention of sleeping together. 

And yes, just the entendre behind it made Reid’s head spin. 

He had a heavy knot in his gut, and hatefully - a distinct stirring in his crotch. He could only imagine how embarrassing it would be for you to wake up and see him compromised in some way. Or god forbid, if you caught him moaning in his sleep because of unconscious dreams that he couldn’t stop - for you to think that he was some kind of dirty sex pervert because of it. 

He felt an overwhelming need to clear the air overtake him. He had no clue how to broach the subject, but he knew that he wouldn’t be able to spend the night like this. He wouldn’t be able to sleep with this anxiety hanging over his head. 

He studied you carefully as you sat down on the edge of the bed, ditching your bag off to the side and heaving out a tired sigh as you began taking off your shoes. 

Spencer put down his own bag and then stood there, fidgeting nervously as he searched for words. 

“I - uh - I am sorry about earlier.” He mumbled out the beginnings of an apology. “What Morgan said was stupid, and I-” 

“I don’t think it was stupid.” 

You let out a chuckle, and reached up the back of your shirt. Spencer found himself frozen, his eyes tracing your every moment as you unhooked your bra underneath your shirt and then moved to maneuver the straps out from your short sleeves while you kept talking. 

“I think he had a point.” You added on. “Good boys should get a reward. And I think you were fairly good today. You didn’t eat all your veggies at dinner, but you kept your feet off the dashboard and you were quiet during the car ride. You definitely get points for being patient during such a long trip, baby.” 

Your voice smoothed into a soothing tone, that word - baby - melting like butter over your tongue in a way that made Spencer’s knees wobble. He hadn’t known it until right now, but you calling him a ‘good boy’ and listing off such mundane things he had done that made him worthy of a reward fired off sparks inside of his brain. 

A breath choked off inside of his throat as you stood up off the bed and peeled your bra completely out from under your shirt. Somehow it was one of the sexiest things he had ever seen, revealing the hard peaks of your nipples and the beautiful natural teardrop shape of your breasts to him through the cotton fabric. 

Spencer wanted to speak, but his tongue felt so heavy and dry inside of his mouth. He knew that he was staring at your chest so blatantly now, but he couldn’t peel his eyes away. He couldn’t even feel ashamed anymore. 

That dull tingle in his crotch had turned into a full on stinging interest, and he unconsciously pulled at the fabric of his pants, trying to loosen some of the tension that was growing, not even considering how it might look to you - him dumbly reaching for his crotch to make it look looser when his hardening bulge was becoming more obvious by the second. 

It was one of the most ‘caveman’ things he had ever done in front of you - standing there with his mouth hanging slightly agape, pulling at his crotch without caring how it looked. You definitely wanted more, wanted to see how dumb he could get. How far you could make him devolve. 

“So what do you say, baby boy?” You hummed, stepping close into his personal space now, causing him to get a whiff of your perfume - something that was only a dull trace after such a long day, but still smelled so good. “Do you want Mommy to breastfeed you? Do you wanna suck on my tits as your reward?” 

You gently ran a thumb across his cheek, and paired with the words, Spencer’s brain short-circuited. 

He knew realistically that you weren’t actually offering to breastfeed him. There was no evidence in your life to say that your body could actually support the production of milk currently - but you were offering to let him play pretend. To suck on your tits with a very sexual air, to call you Mommy without the teasing humiliation behind it that Morgan had hinted at (or maybe Spencer liked that humiliation, he wasn’t even sure). (He hadn’t even known before this morning that he liked the idea of calling you Mommy, but here he was). 

All he could conjure in response was the dumbest, non-human sound. 

“Nngh.” 

It was a grunt from the back of his throat - too much blood swelling to his cock all at once and too much direct attention from you making him dizzy. 

You giggled quietly. 

“Come on, baby. Just say the word. And Mommy will give you everything you need.” 

Spencer inhaled sharply. At this point, he was desperate to get some oxygen to his brain. 

His mind was racing, chanting out: 

‘Yes! God, yes! I want it so badly, Mommy! I want anything you’ll give me. I need you. I need you so badly.’ 

But all his lips could form in the wake of such dizzying lust was: 

“Please.” 

“Good boy.” You sighed. 

You used a hand on his chin to tilt his face up to meet yours, and you consumed him in a kiss - he was hungry and eager to meet your touch, moaning loudly into your mouth, his hands racing to touch you now, rushing up to grip on your hips in the most utterly needy way. He balled the fabric of your shirt in his fists, like he couldn’t get enough of you - like he was afraid you would dissolve away if he let go of you for even a second. 

It was cute, to say the least. 

You only let the kiss last for a moment, though. You pulled away to a disappointed whine from Spencer, which you quietly hushed. 

“Hey, it’s okay baby.” You soothed him. “Come here. Mommy’s gonna take good care of you.” 

You lead him toward the bed, getting rid of his tie in the process, and Spencer stepped out of his shoes along the way. You slid onto the bed and laid up on the pillows on your back, Spencer clumsily following you, crawling on all fours. The two of you had barely started, but he was full-on panting now, racing to catch his breath while his blood hammered through his veins. 

He watched on with eager curiosity while you got comfortable, fluffing the pillow under your head before you then reached down and pulled up your shirt. You pulled the fabric to sit up under your chin, finally revealing your gorgeous breasts to him. 

If he was lost for words before, then he had receded back to a total neanderthal now. 

His mouth fell open and his salivary glands started working overtime as his eyes raked hungrily over your chest - enjoying the pure beauty of the fatty mounds, striped with zig-zagging stretch marks and completed by your hard peaked nipples. 

“Here, come on, baby.” 

You had to remind Spencer what the goal was, guiding him into place with a hand on the back of his head. You helped ease his body to lay on top of yours as he relaxed into you - and his mouth finally found its rightful place on your breast. He became greedy, suctioning hard on your nipple as though he might actually get something out of it. 

Truthfully, he did get something out of this. 

It definitely wasn’t any form of nutrition, but it was something that drove him lustfully insane and made his head fuzzy and warm in the best way. This was the only time in his entire life that he didn’t have ten thousand thoughts running through his mind like the news blasting on television in the background. This was the only time since his first conscious memory that he had actually known his mind to be quiet. 

He felt intensely thankful for it. Intensely thankful toward you for giving him this feeling. 

In that moment, without all the noise, all he knew was the comforting feeling of your fat tit under his mouth, the heat of your body under his own as you cradled him. The soothing firmness of your hands through his hair and down his back - and the distant, sweet purring of your voice in his ears. 

“Good boy.” You hummed, loving the feeling of him moaning around your nipple - so constant and so greedy now that you were sure he didn’t even know that he was doing it. “Such a good boy for me. Such a good boy for Mommy.” 

Your cunt was humming between your thighs, aching so hard at seeing Spencer like this. The usually composed, intelligent, practically robotic Doctor Reid reduced down to a blubbering, moaning, needy mess just because he wanted to suck on your tits. 

Just because you had called yourself Mommy a few times in his presence. 

It was so utterly beautiful, and you wanted more. 

(You didn’t think that you could ever let him go after this. You probably wouldn’t be able to stand the idea of another woman touching him after this. But you would have to think on that more later.) 

You noticed Spencer canting his hips, unconsciously seeking friction against his hard cock while he continued to suck on your breast. With his eyes closed blissfully, drool gathering around his lips where they met your skin in the most utterly adorable way. You couldn’t help yourself - you scooted your knee between his thighs. You then used a hand to help his hips into place, adjusting him so that he was getting good friction against your denim-clad thigh. 

“There you go. There you go, sweet boy.” You hummed, feeling another jolt through your body when he let out a sharper moan against your tit, and began humping your leg in earnest. 

You were quick to encourage him, putting both hands on his hips and helping him along while he greedily hung onto you. He had on your hip, the other hand slipping up to cup fingers around the bottom of your breast, making sure you didn’t escape him while he moved his body against you so frantically. 

“That’s just what you needed, isn’t it, baby?” You moaned out, your voice wavering slightly as the pleasure of it all thrummed through you. “Just a dumb little baby who needed Mommy’s tit.” 

The term ‘dumb little baby’ came flying out of your mouth before you could stop it. Though you knew exactly why it happened. Seeing such a brilliant genius reduced down to this truly did something to your ego. And apparently hearing those words from you did something to him, too. 

He whined sharply against your skin and his hips stuttered abruptly. You knew it wouldn’t be long before he came in his pants, his cock throbbing against the friction of your thigh. And this thought alone caused your mouth to run off without restraint. 

“Such a needy little thing.” You sighed. “You love being Mommy’s dumb baby, don’t you? Not a single fucking thought between your ears, just sucking on Mommy’s tit without a care in the world.” 

Spencer moaned and it sent another jolt through your body - another harsh pang through your cunt. You loved how much he needed you. You loved how much he was clearly eating this up. 

You didn’t even care if you got to cum tonight; you just wanted to exhaust him for all he was worth. Because he was so fucking pretty like this. 

“You gonna cum for me, baby boy? You gonna cum for Mommy? Come on, baby. Cum for me.” 

These words were what ultimately sent him over the edge. Well that along with your strong hands on his hips, encouraging him along while he was mindless and busy mouthing on your breast.

His jaw dropped open, finally loosening that desperate suction on your now slightly sore nipple as he began to pant frantically over your now spit-soaked skin. He moaned hotly while he humped you in an entirely adorable, almost distraught manner - absolutely desperate to have the most friction on his cock while his orgasm overtook him. 

You could feel his needy cock throbbing against you, trapped inside of his pants, shooting off hot ropes of cum that quickly soaked into his underwear and even then, seeped into the fabric of his slacks. You grinned and bit your lip as you felt that wetness even beginning to soak into your jeans, knowing he must have set off quite a big load. 

Spencer soon collapsed on top of you, gulping in air as he tried to catch his breath. 

Any normal person would have taken pity on him (seeing as he was clearly nervous and inexperienced) and wound things down to end the night here. Anyone else would have likely let him rest. 

But again, you felt devilish temptation overtake you. (It was a feeling that seemed to be much more ripe around Spencer Reid.) 

You just felt thankful that your temptation and inclination toward chaos came in the form of lust, rather than something more violent, like the people you studied every single day. Everyone around you should be thankful for that. 

You used your leverage (and the fact that you weren’t nearly as exhausted from the experience) to flip him over onto his back. He let out a surprised sound as his back made contact with the mattress - blinking up at you with shocked, glassy eyes as you moved down his body slightly. 

“Wha-?” He mumbled out the question, only getting out part of the word before you reached for the zipper on the front of his now wet pants. 

“Hey, shh, baby. I just wanna see you.” You told him quietly, causing him to stare down the length of his own body at your hands as you worked. 

You got the button and zipper undone quickly and you let out a quiet ‘fuck’ as you peeled back the wet fabric of his grey slacks to reveal the sight of his simplistic (very Reid) white cotton underwear slightly transparent and stuck tight to his cock, coated in wet, sticky cum. 

“So pretty baby.” 

He only whined in response. 

You couldn’t help yourself - you reached up and pulled down the waistband of his underwear, feeling more lust pricking through you as he was truly revealed to your eyes. He was perfect. Glossy and wet with his own release, his cock pinky red from the exertion and friction, still half hard. You pulled the clothes down over his hips and he lifted his body to help you, clearly glad to be rid of the mess, and the second you untangled the fabric from his ankles and ditched everything aside, you were back on him. 

You skimmed the tips of your fingers oh-so-lightly up his shaft where it was sprawled across his pelvis, and his hips jolted. He let out a bitter gasp - as though cold water had been splashed across him. 

“You said-” He choked on the words as you ran your thumb right underneath the crown, gently pressing into the head, causing him to choke on a moan while his knees quaked. 

You sat on his knees to keep him still and his head became so fuzzy once again. 

‘You said that you only wanted to look.’ 

The sentence died off in his lungs somewhere, and truthfully - he didn’t want to protest. He didn’t want you to stop. 

“Sens-sensitive.” He whined. “Too much.” 

“But you’re so pretty, baby.” You replied, your voice turning smooth and warm like butter again, melting over his whole body, causing all of his muscles to go soft and pliant for you. “Your cock is so pretty. I need to touch you.” 

He let out another strangled noise when you cupped your hand and took him fully in your grip this time, giving one good tug across his cock from root to tip. When you did this again, faster this time, his lungs seized inside his chest - trying to take in oxygen so quickly, as though he were drowning on dry land. 

“You gonna be good for me, baby?” 

“Yes.” He gargled back in response. “Yes, Mommy.” 

He was already so wet from cumming in his pants, and he let out a pathetic dribble of precum as you continued to move your hand - so it was an easy, slick slide. One that sent harsh shockwaves through him from overstimulation. Against his own will, he soon ballooned back to full hardness - becoming painfully swollen in your hand while you sped up your touch and closed your fist tighter around him. It caused the most wonderful hurt between his legs, and made a downright filthy wet sound as you pumped your grip faster along his needy cock. 

Spencer heard wailing and felt the soreness against his throat before he realized that he was the one making those desperate sounds. He distantly wondered what it might sound like to someone else, if the rooms on either side were occupied, if the motel would receive a noise complaint about some frail woman getting fucked to death by her husband next door - because that’s what he sounded like in his own ears. 

But any of those half-thoughts were chased out of his brain the second you flicked your thumb up over the head of his cock and your dirty mouth filled his ears once again. 

“Gonna milk this pretty cock, baby.” You told him, your voice firm. “You gonna show Mommy how much you can cum for me? Gonna show me what a good boy you are?” 

Spencer let out another pathetic sound, his body singing with pleasure at his pure need to prove to you that - yes, he was a good boy. 

He felt tears wet on the side of his face before he realized that he was crying, but it was all too good to ask you to stop. 

You used your other hand to cradle his balls and you swooped down to capture his gasping mouth in another kiss (a very messy, open mouthed kiss that Spencer could barely pay attention to). Spencer screamed into your mouth while he painted his stomach with cum once again.

You only stopped jerking his cock once you had truly milked every last drop from him, his hips seizing up off the bed and your hand almost slipping off him completely from how sloppily wet it was with more of his cum added to the mix. 

He was purely exhausted then. His eyes blinked heavily, struggling to stay open. He vaguely remembered you cleaning him off and tucking him into bed - but he definitely enjoyed falling asleep curled up next to your warmth. 

…

The next morning, Spencer felt hungover. 

He wondered if that’s what good sex always felt like - the combination of endorphins rushing through your body and physical exertion tackling you over. His legs were sore, as though he had run several miles. (Which wasn’t even something he could make a bold comparison to anyway, because he didn’t exercise nearly as much as he should for someone with this job). He woke up starving, grateful when you drove to a diner down the road after checking out of the motel and planted him in one of the booths before going outside to call Hotch in order to touch base with the rest of the team. 

You came back with a small grin on your face. 

“Turns out that tip the ex-wife gave us about their first house in Arlington was pretty solid.” You told Reid. “They caught the guy on his way there. He had another girl in the trunk. They got her back mostly unarmed, and took him into custody.” 

Spencer nodded. “That’s good.” 

When he moved to grab another sugar packet out of the caddy on the side of the table, three of them already open and empty beside his cup of coffee, you grabbed him by the wrist. 

“That’s enough, baby.” You told him. 

His stomach curled, that distinct feeling running through him again. And against his will, that word slipped out - again. 

“Yes, Mommy.”

...

A/N: This is a standalone oneshot. There won't be a sequel or a continuation, so please do not ask for one. If you liked the fic, please comment about the body of work that has been written, or consider reblogging to show your appreciation. If you want to see more Spencer Reid fics that I have written, you can check out my Criminal Minds Masterlist, or you can check out my Masterlists for other fandoms to see if anything catches your eye. Thank you for reading!

[luvleyshif4]

rafe x reader.... she's touchstarved. Maybe size/height difference. Just the wonderful feeling of him being the protector (and 'provider'). They've only been dating for a little while but he figures out that her love language is physical touch. And she's so surprised bc she isn't used to receiving love. Prob a bad family setting... thanks, love <33

JUST HOLD ME

Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: Mention of family issues, emotional vulnerability, emotional repression, medium angst turned into fluff, reader is touch starved, implied toxic family dynamics, reader might have body dysmorphia (N/A).

Word count: 1.22k words

Authors note: heyy bb!! Tysmmm for requesting this!!! I already had something like that sitting in my drafts so I thought I’d just add some changes to suit your idea🤞🏽🤞🏽🤞🏽honestly your idea made it sooo soo much better!! HOPE YOU LIKE IT CAUSE I KNOW I DO💗💗 (also I didn’t proof read this so let me know if there’s any grammar mistakes😝😝)

The night was quiet, the kind of stillness that felt heavy yet comforting. Rafe’s truck hummed softly beneath you, the glow of the dashboard lights casting faint shadows across his face.

He had picked you up an hour ago, like he always did when your texts grew short and vague, as though he could sense the things you didn’t say. The roads were empty, a blur of dim streetlights and the occasional flicker of passing headlights.

You sat in the passenger seat, curled slightly toward the door, your oversized hoodie swallowing you whole. Rafe’s hand rested on the gear shift, his fingers drumming a slow rhythm as the faint hum of music played in the background.

He wasn’t saying much tonight, giving you space like he always did, but you could feel his eyes flick toward you now and then, studying you.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he finally asked, his voice breaking the silence but staying soft.

You didn’t answer right away, your fingers playing with the strings of your hoodie. The truth was, you didn’t know how to talk about it—the way your chest felt tight every time you thought about home, the way your family’s sharp words had a way of cutting deeper than they should. It wasn’t new, but it felt heavier lately, like you were dragging something you couldn’t shake off.

“I’m fine,” you said, the words automatic and hollow.

Rafe glanced at you again, his jaw tightening slightly. He didn’t press, though. He never did. Instead, his hand shifted, brushing lightly against your knee before returning to the gear shift. It was such a small gesture, but it made your throat tighten. You turned your head, staring out the window, hoping he wouldn’t notice the way your hands were trembling slightly.

The silence stretched on, comfortable for him, suffocating for you. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust Rafe—you did, more than you’d ever thought possible for someone you’d only been with for a few months. It was just that you didn’t know how to let someone in like this. You didn’t know how to let yourself be seen, not when you’d spent so long trying to shrink yourself down, to take up less space.

Rafe, of course, noticed everything.

He didn’t say anything at first, but you felt the shift when he slowed the truck down, pulling over to the side of the road. The engine idled softly as he put the truck in park, turning to face you fully. His brows were drawn together, his blue eyes searching yours in the dim light.

“Talk to me,” he said, his voice low but steady.

Your chest tightened again, and you shook your head, biting the inside of your cheek. “It’s nothing,” you muttered, barely meeting his gaze. “Just a long day.”

Rafe let out a soft, disbelieving huff, leaning back slightly. He didn’t look frustrated, just… concerned. And that concern was somehow worse, more overwhelming than if he’d been annoyed.

“Come on,” he said, his tone lighter but still holding that edge of care. “You don’t get this quiet unless something’s really messing with you. I’m not going anywhere, so you might as well tell me.”

The weight of his words hit you harder than you expected. You glanced at him, your lips parting as if to say something, but the words stuck in your throat. Rafe’s gaze softened even further, and without thinking, he reached over, his hand hesitating for a moment before he grazed the back of his fingers against your cheek. The touch was featherlight, and yet it sent a shiver through you. You didn’t pull away. Instead, you leaned into it, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment as if savoring the warmth.

Rafe stilled, watching you as though you were the only thing in the world that mattered. His hand lingered there, his knuckles brushing over your skin softly, reverently. “You’re allowed to let me in,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your breath hitched at his words, but you didn’t pull back. Instead, you let yourself lean into his hand fully, your head tilting slightly as though you didn’t want him to stop. His thumb shifted, lightly grazing your chin, and your eyes opened just in time to catch the way his gaze flicked down to your lips.

It wasn’t rushed or sudden. His movements were deliberate, careful, giving you every chance to stop him. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. When his lips finally met yours, it was soft and slow, like a promise. He kissed you with a tenderness that made your chest ache, his hand still cradling your face as though he couldn’t bear to let go.

Your body melted into his touch, your fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt to steady yourself. The kiss deepened slightly, but it stayed unhurried, every movement of his lips against yours making you feel like you were coming undone in the best possible way.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his thumb brushing gently over your chin. He didn’t say anything at first, just looked at you, his blue eyes filled with something you couldn’t quite name but felt down to your core.

“You don’t have to tell me everything right now,” he said, his voice low and steady. “But I need you to know that you’re not alone. Not with me.”

Your chest ached at his words, and you opened your eyes, meeting his. There was no judgment there, no expectation. Just him, just Rafe, offering you something you didn’t know how to accept but desperately wanted to.

Your lips parted like you might say something, but no words came. Instead, you let out a shaky breath and leaned into him again, resting your head on his shoulder this time. His arms wrapped around you without hesitation, holding you tightly, protectively, as though shielding you from all the things you couldn’t put into words.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself be held. Safe, warm, and, for once, not alone.

[togglesbloggle]

I know it's been nearly two years since you said this so you don't have to answer this in any way shape or form if you simply don't remember, but in the post where you and fnord888 talked about Link from the Legend of Zelda series, what exactly did you mean by "lets them keep doing the princess-rescuing quests without awkward questions like you get with Bowser and Peach"?

(about this)

I mean sex.

Bowser isn't the most textually sexualized Nintendo character out there, but he's pretty far along the spectrum- there's the outfit, the muscular physicality, the fact of his having kids, and of course the enduring focus on Princess Peach. Just as sexualization of a female character would usually take a passive or aesthetic form (e.g. a large bust or revealing outfit), the sexualization of Bowser focuses on his active and agentic traits; beyond just the imposing body, the social power of monarchy, and the tendency towards violence, Bowser is a character who pursues and desires women. In a word, he's horny.

(I'm just pointing at this very very briefly rather than going in to details, and none of this is original to me; if you poke around online, you won't have trouble finding some pretty interesting analysis of Bowser's relationship with gender and sexuality. Among other things, he's something of a gay icon.)

It's easy, almost to the point of being reflexive, to read the Peach-Mario-Bowser dynamic as being a love triangle of one sort or another, no matter what the official lore of the games has to say; the form of what we see on-screen matches some very well-worn and explicitly romantic narrative archetypes. Even the official movie made Bowser's attraction to Peach text, rather than subtext.

Tying this back to the original post about Link-

Back then, I was arguing that Link's "silly little guy" factor means that stories about him tend not to be read as sexually motivated. Even as he spends game after game actively in pursuit (in some sense of the term) of a woman, there's no real sense of Link as pursuing Zelda sexually.

Link and Mario are both, sort of, doing the same thing in the same way- exploring dangerous unknown terrain filled with many enemies, in pursuit of a high-status woman. But Mario is a grown (albeit goofy) man with a mustache and a blue-collar background, and his princess is held captive by an amorous and heavily-muscled opponent who wears a spiked leather harness to work; the audience reads these cues and infers a particular set of motives and a particular kind of subtext. Link is a very different silly little guy; his motives are explicitly holy and implicitly chaste. The kind of silly that Link is- and the kind of villain he fights- provides a subtle and I think very interesting contrast with Mario, one that allows for the games to translate Arthurian romances, and the sometimes very strange narrative forms of the knight-errant, to modern and even postmodern audience tastes.

[pupyuj]

→ “favorite pastime.” || ahn yujin x jang wonyoung fic.

— despite being in the same group, it was hard for yujin and wonyoung to find time to be normal girlfriends in the middle of a world tour, so when they are finally granted a break, they decide to make the most of it...

word count: 4.7k.

dynamic: dom!vers!ahn yujin x sub!vers!jang wonyoung.

warnings: established relationship, fingering, clit play, scissoring, body worship, ya'll why is there like no other tags here hello, this fic is EMPTYYYY, this actually started out with more tags AND IT WAS GONNA BE FREAKYYYY, but it just got soft LMAO.

requested?: nope.

a/n: a little treat before the long trek that is the witch liz fic💕 i made this doc around the time they were still on the swih tour so that's why the setting is the way it is 😭 and i've been kind of writing it in the background while i worked on other, bigger stuff so no, i didn't take this long to create something so short! 😤 personally, this is like my one of the favorite things i've written 🥺 idk why i cooked so hard for annyeongz out of all things but ykw i'll take it! enough yapping, I HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE THIS 💖💖

1:37 am.

jang wonyoung had no business being up this late when she, as well as her group members, finally had the luxury to sleep to her heart’s content and not worry about being late to rehearsals and soundchecks. today’s show was the last one until a long while, which means the members of ive have the time to explore the current city they’re visiting or relax in their lavish hotel rooms for the next few days before they fly back to south korea and do some real relaxing there. wonyoung already had her next day planned out, as she always does, and thus had nothing much to think about in her mind.

except the fact that she was up at an ungodly hour brushing through her beautiful locks with her favored hairbrush in front of a vanity mirror. her doe eyes glancing at the clock each minute, getting increasingly impatient and disappointed whenever her gaze turns to the empty and cold queen-sized bed behind her. wonyoung had already done all of her post-concert routines and was more than ready to hit the sheets and sleep until nine in the morning, maybe even ten! but what was the point of resting if she didn’t rest well?

to put it simply, jang wonyoung needs only one important thing to complete her night, and that came in the form of ahn yujin, who was currently not in their shared hotel room.

pouting, wonyoung took a glance at her phone. no recent calls or texts from her dear girlfriend. before leaving the room in a hurry, yujin informed wonyoung that the managers needed to have a talk with her ‘for a bit’, but exactly three hours had passed since! it worried wonyoung, to be frank. why weren’t the other members talked to? was yujin in trouble? were they all in trouble and it was so serious that the managers needed to talk to only the leader about it? wonyoung knew in the back of her head that it was probably just company gibberish that even yujin doesn’t have all the energy to actually talk about, but wonyoung being wonyoung—being yujin’s girlfriend—she still can’t help but be concerned!

now don’t get her wrong! most of the time, wonyoung can sleep without cuddling with or even when she’s not with yujin! it’s just… she thought tonight was going to be special for the two of them. maybe they were going to spend the entire night talking about the show, how fun it was, how great they all did, and how they can’t wait for the next ones. maybe they were going to bundle up in the blankets and cuddle each other to keep warm while watching movies until they fell asleep. maybe they were going to share small and funny anecdotes about their own personal adventures in every city they’ve been in! whatever it may have been, wonyoung would’ve loved it.

she missed yujin, so much. yes, they’re together for literally every second they’re alive because duh, they’re in the same group, but wonyoung misses her in a… girlfriend kind of way. she misses their talks, their jokes, their staring competitions, their hands holding, their lips locking—she misses everything about her relationship. truthfully, wonyoung might just be a little bit dramatic because it’s not like yujin went to war or something but can anyone really blame a girl in love!?

wonyoung sighs, putting down her hairbrush and fixing her bangs with her hands. she felt (and is!!) so pretty but yujin wasn’t even around to ogle at her! she stands up, grabs her phone and pulls up yujin’s contact from her long list. she was about to press the ‘call’ button until the hotel door clicked and swung open, and entered a very smiley ahn yujin in her charming oversized flannel shirt, thick-framed glasses, and her favorite bottoms to wear lately, some… jorts.

yup, this is the girl jang wonyoung is down terrible for. a loser.

“honey, i’m home—oof!” yujin nearly gets knocked back out of the door after wonyoung tackled her for a hug. in a fit of laughter, yujin embraces her girlfriend tightly, giving her quick kisses on the side of her head in the process. yujin uses her leg to close the door shut behind the two of them before awkwardly shuffling further inside the room while still hugging wonyoung, who just refused to remove her head from the crook of yujin’s neck. the older girl wasn’t about to start complaining though—wonyoung was usually so reserved and, well, classy. only behind doors does wonyoung become this clingy, adorable creature that is always seemingly shooting hearts from her eyes while looking at yujin.

lately, they haven’t been given a lot of privacy so yujin missed her cute, loving girlfriend too! the two of them collapse slowly on the bed, where yujin immediately peppers wonyoung’s face with kisses while the younger girl laughs at the way it all tickles. eventually, yujin’s lips landed on wonyoung’s own and the latter made sure it stays there! taking yujin’s face in her hands and keeping her still, gently locking their lips in a soft, warm kiss that even makes yujin melt so quickly that she kisses back earnestly.

it was pretty easy to get lost in a searing kiss for the two of them. eventually only the smacks of their lips and their hums were heard in the room, with the occasional shuffling of the mattress underneath wonyoung and the sweet sounds that left her mouth. with the younger girl’s top slightly lifted, yujin had no problems putting her hand on wonyoung’s toned stomach and slowly dragging it upward to where wonyoung obviously wanted to touch her the second most.

“hmn.. ah, yujinnie…” how cute. yujin already had her moaning like that. yujin slides both of her hands further up until she was cupping wonyoung’s soft breasts and at the same time, she slots a knee in between the younger girl’s legs and pressed it lightly against her clothed pussy. wonyoung, being so desperate to feel yujin, starts to grind on the older girl’s knee, moaning softly at the added sensation of yujin toying with her nipples underneath her shirt.

wonyoung allows yujin to slip her tongue inside her mouth—an act that was always messy but did wonyoung ever care? of course not, not even when there was drool running down the side of her mouth. the messier the better, and wonyoung hoped that it gets worse from here because they both deserve this.

it wasn’t long before wonyoung was practically humping on her girlfriend’s thigh. her needy moans only intensified the longer yujin took to just rip her clothes off and make her see the stars. the older girl was adamant on keeping their clothes on, only merely pulling up wonyoung’s top to expose her pretty tits but never actually taking it off. and at this point, wonyoung had successfully popped open four of the buttons on yujin’s flannel shirt and was only slightly disappointed to see that yujin had been wearing a tank top and a bra underneath. but that still didn’t stop wonyoung from trying to feel yujin’s skin on her own.

“someone really missed me, huh?” yujin chuckles, watching as wonyoung struggled to open the rest of the buttons on her shirt. wonyoung ignores her teasing, however, and tugs impatiently on yujin’s shirt. and if yujin wasn’t completely smitten and head-over-heels for her girlfriend, she wouldn’t be yujin at all! so, yujin slips out of her shirt, as well as her tank top like wonyoung whined to her about, and smirks at how the younger girl seemed to be at a loss for words. still though, wonyoung finds enough control in herself to carefully and gently run her hands all over yujin’s chiseled features. everybody knows yujin works hard to shape her body to perfection, but wonyoung still finds herself in sheer awe every time she sees the results.

yujin working out was always a sight that wonyoung constantly looked back to and secretly admired. and even though they’re dating, wonyoung is still a bit too bashful to admit that even just the slightest glimpse of yujin’s muscles can make her crumble as her members always teased her about it to the point it would reach yujin’s ears, and then yujin would tease her and it would just be a lovely mess wonyoung would rather avoid. but at least right now they were in their own world, wonyoung has nothing to be ashamed about here. delicately, wonyoung pushed yujin back until the latter was standing up properly and wonyoung herself was sitting up on the bed.

wonyoung, looking up at her girlfriend whose eyes were riddled with curiosity, places her hands on yujin’s hips and pulls her closer and closer until her lips were touching yujin’s abdomen. for the next few minutes, ahn yujin finds herself feeling… shy as she watches her girlfriend leave soft, loving kisses all over the exposed skin on her stomach. why, wonyoung had to appreciate all the effort yujin puts into working out! what better way than this? kissing her firm abs, feeling and making random shapes on the other well-defined muscles on her back… hearing yujin’s soft laughs was a bonus, too.

“hey… i’m supposed to take care of you.” yujin runs her fingers through wonyoung’s hair, taking note of how smooth and soft it was and noticing that the chair in front of the vanity mirror was in slight disarray. now she knows wonyoung had been patiently—well, impatiently—waiting for her to finally join her in the night while looking all pretty for her.

“we can take turns.” wonyoung whispers softly. her kisses continued on rising and soon enough, her lips were on yujin’s chest. it was hard for the older girl to not melt on the spot when wonyoung looks up at her with pleading eyes—sure, there has never been a moment where yujin was able to resist those eyes, but something about this night was making her just a tad bit more vulnerable to them than usual. or perhaps it was just her immense love for wonyoung that made her so freaking soft. reaching behind, yujin unclasps her bra and allows it to fall to the ground, smirking slightly at the way wonyoung blushes at the sight of her bare breasts.

wonyoung leaned back, propping her hands up behind her to get a good look at her girlfriend who was now completely topless. “you’re so pretty, unnie…” she said, and even in the softness of her voice, yujin could hear her desire and it only adds up to the excitement of it all. wonyoung watches with anticipation as yujin takes off her shorts, failing to fight back the urge to bite her lip because good god did her girlfriend look amazing wearing only a pair of dark blue-colored panties, and how could she even pretend to not notice that wet spot on the fabric? wonyoung was delighted to know that she has such an effect, it makes her heart swell with pride… and she could tease yujin about it, see that deep blush on the older girl’s face that always looked so cute on her, but the only thing wonyoung wanted to do right now was feel her.

but wonyoung has been disciplined well enough to know she can’t do that until she has yujin’s permission, and so she watches as the older girl lays down on the bed. it wasn’t until yujin beckoned wonyoung over that the latter finally moved, crawling over on top of yujin quite eagerly.

“you want to take care of me, hm?” yujin tucks a strand of hair behind wonyoung’s ear.

jang wonyoung—the idol that everyone knows to be perfect, reserved, and elegant beyond comprehension. who would have thought that she would have such an astonishingly different side to her behind closed doors? in the outside world, wonyoung would not be caught having an expression that did not scream her genuine compassion and kindness but here she was on top of her group leader, her best friend, the love of her life, looking like she wanted to eat her whole. yujin wasn’t shy to admit that the way wonyoung carried herself right now only made that pool in between her legs get worse, but at least she had the fastest way to relieve herself of that ache right in front of her.

“go on then.”

ahn yujin—ive’s strong-willed leader that can do anything and everything except one: give up control. even right now, when her girlfriend is right on top of her, giving her neck spine-chilling open-mouthed kisses and sucking on her skin enough to leave a trail of quickly-blooming marks from her jawline down to her collarbone, she refuses to relax and actually allow wonyoung to take care of her. she keeps her hand buried on wonyoung’s beautiful locks, tugging slightly every time she feels something that makes her thighs twitch and her core beg for much-needed attention. but that was all okay to wonyoung; there was nothing more she loved than being bossed around and told what to do by her leader.

finally, after what seemed like forever, yujin feels wonyoung’s tongue on her hard nipple before she feels her warm mouth wrap around it, eliciting a beautiful moan that stirs something inside wonyoung. the latter reaches down and slides her hand inside yujin’s panties, palming her wet cunt and pressing her thumb against her clit.

again, yujin moans loudly and struggles to keep her composure. but still, she finds her ways. “g-good girl… oh, fuck… you always know know how to make me… f-feel good, hm?” she knew that the smallest of praises was enough to dumb wonyoung down into her personal pleasure toy that she can play with to do whatever she wants her to do—and her praises were not short of effect, as usual. wonyoung’s whines are muffled with her mouth around yujin’s nipple, her tongue too busy swirling and playing with the hardened bud to push out some words. she feels her own pussy creating a mess in her underwear, but yujin’s voice silences her needs.

“hmmn.. ngh… ahh—” every gasp, every hiss, and every little sound yujin made as wonyoung pinched, pressed on, and toyed with her clit reverberates through the younger girl’s fogged up brain and feeds her all the energy she needs to make her lover feel even better. “god… just fill me up, princess…” and that pet name was the icing on the cake.

impatiently, wonyoung rips off yujin’s panties with haste and throws it off to the side. her mouth finally leaves yujin’s nipple, which allows yujin to easily pull her back up and kiss her, hungrily and possessively. completely different from the sweet kisses they usually shared in secret rooms, behind the privacy of some curtains, in the dark corners of a set, and amidst unsuspecting eyes. and thank god for the kiss, because the room next to them surely would have heard the sound yujin made upon getting stuffed full with two fingers if her mouth hadn’t been busy being on wonyoung’s.

a loud whine from wonyoung manages to escape their locked lips when yujin pulls on her hair harshly, controlling the kiss as she pleases while simultaneously bucking her hips up to meet wonyoung’s thrusts. god knows how much she needed this. months long of touring, rehearsing, endless vocal warmups, and being on-the-go for hours on end… ahn yujin deserved the utmost care right now, and luckily for her wonyoung was more than willing to give her just that.

wonyoung’s pace increases, making yujin throw her head back in pleasure as her hips struggle to keep up. her moans were now loud and free with only wonyoung’s lips silencing her every now and again but even then, the latter was too busy leaving more marks on her leader’s neck. mine, she wants everyone to know even when they shouldn’t. wonyoung bites on yujin’s collarbone, and the older girl’s free hand clutches her shoulder, nearly piercing her skin. mine, she wants everyone who thinks they can win over yujin’s heart to know that she belongs with someone else already. her.

but now that yujin thought about it… wonyoung herself worked hard all tour long too, and what kind of girlfriend would yujin be if she didn’t make her feel good in return?

yujin tugs on the waistband of wonyoung’s shorts, “i wanna.. hah… feel you too, baby… take this off.” of course, wonyoung obeys her almost immediately. it was something about her that yujin always loved: whether she’s talking to her as her group leader or as her girlfriend, wonyoung will always listen to her and do what needs to be done at the drop of a hat. and before yujin could even think to open her eyes and take her mind off of the sensation of wonyoung’s fingers inside her, the younger girl has already taken off her shorts as well as her underwear.

wonyoung stares at yujin for a good minute—taking in every single one of her facial features as if she doesn’t already do just that every night they’re together. she then decided that her lips were feeling a bit too cold, so she paused her actions and leaned down to kiss yujin. the latter didn’t seem to mind prolonging her climax. even going as far as to allow wonyoung to pull her fingers out of the older girl’s cunt just so she can hold her face as they kissed. yujin could feel her cheek getting wet with her own slick but she didn’t exactly care when her heart felt like it was going to explode with the sheer amount of affection she was feeling for her lover.

and for a while, they got lost in each other’s lips and even forgot that they were in the middle of something. yujin holds wonyoung softly, both hands firmly but gently holding the latter’s waist as she takes control of the kiss. with their lips still locked, yujin flips their position and now that she was on top, she can truly show wonyoung how much she missed her. especially during these last few hours that she had to endure listening to her managers talk on and on about the precautions the girls should take before walking around the city and whatnot.

all yujin wanted to do at that time was to melt in her girlfriend’s arms and hold each other until the next afternoon. but unfortunately, a few minutes became a few hours. frankly, yujin felt bad that wonyoung had to stay up so late waiting for her. she should have been sleeping considering that it was quite the long and tiring show that they had that day, but she really waited for her. it was impossible for yujin to express her appreciation with just words… and actions, really, but she’ll for sure try her damn best.

“you can relax now, princess… it’s my turn to take care of you.” yujin says, giving the younger girl a last peck on the lips before leaning back. while she got herself situated, yujin smiles briefly at wonyoung, who blushed as she just sat there watching her girlfriend. it was stupid how she still sometimes felt like she was crushing on this ‘cool, funny unnie’ because for the longest time, that was really the farthest wonyoung got with her feelings.

some people like to tell her that it was actually quite cute how wonyoung still behaves like a high school girl who was in love for the first time and to that she thinks: sure, it could be cute… if it wasn’t so embarrassing at the same time! because come on, she was swooning over her girlfriend looking so handsome on top of her!

upon the realization that she looked quite stupid being flustered over literally nothing, wonyoung covers up her warm face with her hands, opting to only look at the older girl from behind the gaps between her fingers. yujin, unfazed, grins at her cute girlfriend, taking a mental note to tease her all about it tomorrow. it’s what she always does the morning after having sex! wonyoung has gotten used to it by now, but that doesn’t mean that she doesn’t get embarrassed whenever yujin starts to lay out whatever details she remembers from the night before.

“let me see you, wonyoung-ah,” yujin takes her girlfriend’s hands and holds onto them tightly. she laughs seeing wonyoung’s tomato-colored cheeks and ears. “you’re so red! are you okay?” adorable. wonyoung was never not going to be the cutest thing in yujin’s eyes, that’s for sure.

suddenly, those three simple words that she has gotten used to saying all these years have become so difficult to push out of her mouth. not because wonyoung didn’t want to say them, but because even she herself could make fun of just how much she means them. “i love you, yujin-unnie…” wonyoung managed to blurt out. her eyes were everywhere except on yujin’s own, afraid of getting teased to hell by the older girl and wonyoung always knew exactly when the teasing would come. yujin would usually slowly start giggling before she was full-on throwing her head back from laughter, and then she would pinch wonyoung’s cheeks and fawn over how adorable she was.

wonyoung was waiting for it. she was waiting for yujin’s soft laughs, waiting until her face was being peppered with kisses once again, and until the leader completely disregarded the situation the two of them were in and just flatter her until dawn… but strangely enough, none of it ever came. so, wonyoung finally looked yujin in the eyes and found her girlfriend blushing just as wildly as she had been.

well, that was certainly a brand new sight.

“i love you too… so much.” yujin replied rather breathlessly. it might be cheesy as fuck, but she feels her heart growing twice its size the longer she stared at wonyoung, who smiled so adoringly at her that she thought she would melt. it was at this moment that yujin decided she was willing to endure all the exhaustion that came with being on tour for almost an entire year four times over if at the end of everything, she would come home to wonyoung’s warmth. 

she realizes now that that was made the long, long nights of working so worth it to put up with. she was never going to take fleeting moments such as this, where they are able to just be them, for granted ever again.

yujin leans forward, slowly, and holds back a chuckle upon seeing wonyoung close her eyes immediately, knowing full well what was coming. god, yujin could swoon. she technically was! deep inside! but she had to pull herself together—wonyoung had needs too and it was about damn time yujin fulfilled one of her many duties as her loving girlfriend. yujin puts one leg over wonyoung’s and gets real close until she able to catch her lover’s lips with her own, and simultaneously, she rocks her hips forward, giving both herself and wonyoung the absolute pleasure that was the feeling of their clits clashing against one another.

“oh…! gosh—” wonyoung takes a hold of yujin’s arm with one hand and a fistful of the white sheets below with the other hand, clutching both with an iron grip as the older girl continues on. her whines were muffled by yujin’s lips, the very same trick that she had pulled on her earlier when their positions were switched. yujin puts her hand on the back of wonyoung’s thigh, pushing her leg upwards slightly to give herself more room as her thrusts get faster.

wonyoung starts doing her own work as well, using her hips accordingly and still taking such good care of yujin even though it was ‘her turn’ to be coddled. wonyoung just couldn’t help it. every time there was a surge of love coursing through her veins, she just had to pour it all over yujin. and this was only one of her many methods of doing so.

“good… yes…!” yujin cries out. her eyes were shut tight, one hand almost piercing through her lover’s skin and the other practically nearly tearing the sheets off the bed. wonyoung, despite her hazed mind, takes yujin’s free hand in hers and holds it tight. it helps both of them a lot. that, they know.

“god… if only… we had a strap, huh?” yujin says with a big, stupid grin. wonyoung must not reveal to yujin that she had intended to bring one but ended up forgetting due to the million other problems she had to sort out. she would never hear the end of it… and yujin might just end up visiting a sex store in the city the next morning!

the younger girl fought the greatest urge to break into a smile, but ultimately failed. “s-stop joking around… just fuck me… p-please, unnie…!” wonyoung pleaded. and she didn’t have to tell yujin twice. the older girl decided to shut up then, and pins wonyoung’s hand above her hand, thrusting faster than ever with only one objective in mind. 

now they were really going to get complaints from the next couple of rooms. poor gaeul, who had actually been staying in the room directly next to theirs, probably won’t be able to even stand next to them tomorrow! neither of them could suppress their sounds—merely a chorus of whines and each other’s names left their mouths until finally, yujin’s hips come to a stutter as she came. wonyoung followed soon after, with a single tear rolling down her cheek as a mere proof of yujin’s very successful efforts.

the exhausted older girl collapses on wonyoung’s chest, gathering the very little strength left in her body to stay awake. wonyoung held her girlfriend tenderly, fixing the mess that was her hair while simultaneously getting themselves into a more comfortable position on the bed. yujin laid somewhat on top of wonyoung still, but a lot of her weight rested on the soft mattress of the bed as well.

not a lot of words were shared between the two of them as they laid there catching their breath. in fact, wonyoung thought that yujin had fallen asleep until she felt the hem of her shirt being tugged. the leader raises her head and stares at the oddly familiar graphic tee wonyoung was wearing, and then she smirks.

“my love… is this the shirt that has gone missing from my luggage for the past two weeks?” yujin asked, stifling a giggle.

“i-i didn’t think it was a big deal—i mean, you have so many shirts! a-and… i really like this one,” wonyoung, cheeks as red as a blood moon, takes the collar of ‘her’ shirt and sniffs. “it smells a lot like you too. i just… miss you a lot these days.”

yujin takes wonyoung’s hand and plants a kiss on her knuckles, “i don’t mind, baby. and i miss you too.” and every time those exact words are said, wonyoung will never not feel giddy.

the younger girl manages to compose her heart and says, “we’re lucky we get to be normal people for a while then! i have a lot planned for us, and the girls too.” wonyoung exclaims rather excitedly. while yujin had been busy being held up by the managers a few hours before, wonyoung spent all of that time making a list of all the worthwhile things they could do in this foreign city once the sun comes up. she had been wanting a chance to feel like a group of friends with her members as well, and now that she was able to be lovers with yujin for a night, who’s to say she won’t have just as much of a fun time being normal with her members too?

yujin lays there, utterly speechless at how she was actively still falling in love with wonyoung’s smile after all these years. still, she gets a hold of herself and kisses the younger girl’s hand again, “really? tell me all about it! but um… do make room for another night like this, hm?” she joked.

wonyoung pinches the bridge of yujin’s nose, laughing when the latter whines about it. she quickly kisses her forehead as compensation, “don’t worry, unnie. we have lots and lots of time just for the two of us.”

“good,” yujin hums. she places her head on her girlfriend’s chest, listening to her heart. it was the most comforting sound in the world, even more so when she knows that it beats solely for her. “you and me—my favorite pastime.”

[thegeminisage]

SPOCKANALIA VOLUME 1 IS NOW ON AO3!

do you like vintage fanzines, but hate reading tiny font? do you love spock, but hate the headache you get from squinting at textured paper and imperfect scans? are you someone who wants to read SPOCKANALIA but has trouble getting your screenreader to cooperate with 60-year-old PDFS? have we ever got news for you. @maulthots and i have been very, very, VERY hard at work digitizing SPOCKANALIA, a SFW star trek fanzine about spock first published in 1967, and now you, YES YOU, can read it on AO3!

updated features of SPOCKANALIA on AO3 include:

text has been meticulously retyped and can now be read at whatever size you have your browser settings on, which means the line width also changes based on the width of your browser window or device screen

images are dynamic to fit on your screen whether you are on a pc or a mobile device so you don't have to scroll until your hand breaks and still only see mr. spock's eyelashes (you have to turn work skins on for this feature)

backgrounds/paper texture/echoes of ghost text removed (by hand!) from images for easier viewing, and in some cases the images have been rotated to correct tilted/sideways scanning

images come with ALT TEXT for those using screen readers!

here are a few before/after shots for your perusal:

so what are you waiting for?! get your inner 60s fangirl (gender neutral) on and read SPOCKANALIA today!!

and if you think this is COOL AS SHIT (i do), please consider giving this post a reblog or leaving us some love on AO3! we have only your good vibes to fuel us as we contemplate volume 2 💪

[esthelle-wanders]

Warriors and Artemis: What The Heck Is Going On With Them (a self-appointed analysis)

SO I don’t tend to get too involved with shipping— but during my time in the Linked Universe fandom, I’ve noticed something consistent: while everyone has their own set of headcanons for favorite couples, Hyrule Warriors Zelink is the princess-hero duo with the widest variety of interpretations.

Aside from other factors— like Warriors fans living for angst— I think this stems from the reality that, in the context of Linked Universe specifically, the dynamic between Wars and Artemis is among the Link-Zelda relationships we know the least about.

Hence, in light of the recent holiday, I wanted to take a moment and collect all the clues we’ve gathered for this relationship over time. And, maybe, spark some conversation! (Buckle up and maybe make some hot chocolate, there’s surprisingly a lot to talk about)

[All image credits go to Jojo, with thanks!]

Part 1: Jojo’s Hints

When considering any Link-Zelda dynamic in Linked Universe, the easiest place to begin is Jojo’s response to the “love interest” question…aka, Default Zelink.

Obviously, this response doesn’t define the limits of fandom creativity, or invalidate the thousands of excellent stories we can tell with our own interpretations. It is, however, incredibly helpful as a starting point when we’re trying to puzzle out where Jojo might take a relationship in future updates!

Note: Redacted

[Originally, this next section included my analysis of a Q&A Jojo gifted to the Linked Universe Discord server. It was brought to my attention that this material was not meant to be shared outside the server. Of course, I have removed it. Creator boundaries are very important, and regardless of my intent or awareness, I want to honor that. Thanks to @luna-loveboop for catching this!

For the purposes of this analysis, I’m leaving my conclusions intact, and replacing this specific section with a link to the LU Discord server. If anyone wants to read the evidence there, along with a host of lovely lore tidbits, absolutely check it out!]

Analysis Resumes:

So, here’s what we know:

1. Wars and Artemis are almost certainly romantically involved.

2. It’s more than mutual feelings, but less than an established relationship.

3. It’s been at least SIX years since the end of their adventure.

Obviously, I still have questions. Chief of which is: what does it mean that this is where their relationship stands, when it’s been 6+ years since their mutual adventure?

This sparks a few more questions.

1. If there’s mutual interest, why hasn’t it progressed?

2. Are there obstacles to a definite relationship?

and, of most interest to me:

3. If there’s an obstacle— are either Warriors or Artemis the reason for this?

Conveniently, that part’s next!

Part 2: Warriors and Artemis

A. Warriors’ side

Thus far, Wars has referenced Artemis (directly) exactly once (in “Moving Forward”):

This doesn’t tell us anything about the specifics of their relationship, but it does show that

1. Artemis is a fond subject for Wars: he cares about her.

2. She’s an exception to his hangups with secrecy: he trusts her.

(I considered providing instances of the “Wars and Not Being Told Stuff” saga, but that would 1. take forever and 2. test Tumblr’s image limit. I think we can all agree that this is a trait of his.)

This is a pretty reasonable indicator of how Wars feels about Artemis… for now. He cares about her, and even more notably, he trusts her.

But what about the princess in question?

B. Artemis’ side

As of now, the Zeldas have only come up a handful of times in LU.

Aside from background comics and cameos, references in the main story are largely restricted to Time giving Sky relationship advice in “Miss Her,” Wild addressing his thoughts to Flora at key moments in the aftermath of Twilight’s injury, and Time mentioning Lullaby in “Timeline talk 1.”

And then, of course, there are the Malon chapters.

Romance, as it pertains to the Links, is the subject of conversation at multiple points throughout this “arc”— but for my purposes, the most important stuff is this panel from “The Bet.”

Okay, aside from Wars making political-intrigue fanficcers very happy, this is super informative. A few key takeaways:

1. Wars also assumes Default Zelink.

2. He doesn’t see birth or status as an obstacle to marriage.

3. He’s so confident that he’s willing to bet on it.

(Admittedly, the Chain places a lot of bets— but it’s still worth mentioning that he’d stand his ground on this)

From here, I think we can make three statements and remain well within the realm of probability:

1. Wars thinks very highly of his Zelda.

He sees how much Time loves his wife, and Time’s general self-possession, and assumes it has to be the princess.

2. If there are obstacles to HW Zelink, they probably aren’t external.

Wars treats public support as a given, as long as the involved parties can play the political game.

3. He seems to be speaking from experience.

There’s no signs of frustration, or even a hypothetical here— he’s talking about this like it’s par for the course. Ergo, he probably hasn’t experienced anything that would contradict that assumption.

My conclusion: Artemis isn’t the obstacle. There’s no indication here that Wars’ Zelda is unable or unwilling to make the political arrangements he mentions. In fact, given how unconcerned Wars appears, I’d say it was never a point of contention at all.

That’s as far as I’m willing to go with this panel alone— but if we factor in Zelda’s attitude in Hyrule Warriors proper, I think it’s reasonable to assume that Artemis is open to taking this relationship to the next level.

*inhale*

So. If there’s mutual feelings, and there aren’t any external obstacles, and it’s been 6+ years— why aren’t they a couple?

Part 3: Let’s talk about Wars

Specifically, Wars and his relationship with… relationships. Of the romantic kind.

Since the earliest years of the LU fandom, it’s been fairly well-established that Wars is the resident flirt.

This comes from a few of the side comics, but also from the first-ever Linked Universe post:

Over time, the fandom’s interpretation of these traits seems to have shifted a bit.

Early fanworks tended to depict Warriors as the “Casanova” of the group. More recently (within the last few years), I’ve seen the widespread reading that “women problems” has more to do with Wars’ personal trauma than with a hypothetical reputation as a womanizer.

While these alternate perceptions have a big impact on how we might interpret situations like this—

— surprisingly, it makes very little difference to this self-appointed investigation. Whether he’s a chronic flirt, processing trauma, or both, the fact is that Wars doesn’t seem interested in “settling down” with a definite relationship.

This is clearest, I think, in this panel from “Powerful Ring”:

Warriors is being a tease here, but using the term “shackle” telegraphs a pretty clear opinion. Time even draws a bit of attention to it with his good-natured “aside.” It’s not something you’d say if you were actively looking to get into a long-term, committed relationship.

We’re encroaching on the image limit, but it’s worth noting that Wars’ attitude here contrasts sharply with Sky’s, and even Hyrule’s. Sky is all bashful interest, and Hyrule expresses doubt over his own ability to “settle down” as the Hero. Meanwhile Warriors, who sits between them on the Zelink romance scale, projects pointed, if very light-hearted, distaste (or at least disinterest).

So here’s Warriors’ side, updated:

1. Warriors cares about Artemis, a lot.

2. He also trusts her, a lot.

3. For whatever reason, he doesn’t want to be in an official relationship with her.

Part 4: Conclusion

Okay! Time for the TLDR:

1. Wars and Artemis are almost certainly romantically involved.

2. It’s more than mutual feelings, but less than an established relationship.

3. It’s been at least SIX years since the end of their adventure.

and, finally,

4. Wars himself is the obstacle to taking the relationship further.

Annnnd that’s as far as I can go, without veering off the tracks into headcanon territory.

Of course, while I tried to be as neutral and “canonical” as possible, at the end of the day, this is just speculation! And Esthelle amusing herself tracking down hyper-specific panels in Linked Universe like it’s an Important Assignment and not an Excuse To Read The Comic Again.

Whatever it turns out to look like, there’s so much potential in the Wars-Artemis dynamic! They’re interesting, and we should talk about them more— even if I didn’t plan to write quite this much about them in one post. I can’t wait to see what Jojo has planned.

Thanks for reading if you made it this far! If you have additions, corrections, theories, or general thoughts, I’d love to read them.

[wesstars]

touch

jenna ortega x fem!reader (no pronouns)

summary: jenna, your lovely girlfriend, has been away filming for far too long, in your opinion. she thinks so, too. wc: 2.6k tags: explicit, MINORS DNI. all characters are 18+. phone sex, masturbation, bad dirty talk lmao, this is basically all bad dirty talk, light D/s dynamics, name calling/slight degradation, praise, reader is a soft dom, strap-on referred to as “cock,” horribly excessive use of italics, feels a bit odd writing rpf… a/n: @crazyoffher :) returning the favor!

masterlist

6:01 pm

call u in a sec?

A grin lighting up your face at the text, you hurriedly type an affirmative reply as you unlock your apartment door. Dropping your bag, you kick your shoes off, sighing as you shed your coat. Making a beeline for your bedroom, your eyes slide shut as you flop down on your gigantic bed. You’d washed the sheets earlier, and they were feeling extra soft. If Jenna were here, she’d be rolling around in them, covering her own scent with one of fresh linen.

Usually, she was—you were lounging in your shared apartment, a wide open space near the top of a sleek, tall building. Every evening in LA, the two of you could be found here, the appeal of a night in far exceeding that of a night out. A bottle of wine and a packet of popcorn to share wasn’t rare either, the expensive drink wasted on you two young lovers. 

Everything had happened so quickly, but you loved it. A chance meeting on a plane had led to a long conversation about anything and everything, so common for new couples, and one-drink dates across busy nights had culminated into a fateful party invitation and an equally fateful blushing confession. Your relationship was wild, and crazy, and everything you could’ve wanted. A year later, Jenna had surprised you with a set of keys. It was a certain kind of promise that made those long nights, waiting for a phone call from half a world away, so worth it.

As if on cue, your phone buzzes in your pocket. Seeing the ID, you instantly pick up.

“Jenna?”

“Hey,” her familiar voice comes shyly through the speaker, a comforting sound. “Are you busy?”

“No, I just got home from work.”

Jenna hums in a way that tells you she’s plotting something, and her little stifled giggle just confirms your suspicions. You fake a sigh, happy to venture into her ploy.

“Jenna, did you have something to drink?”

“No.” She huffs a laugh. “I just miss you. Tired of me already?” She asks, with innocent veneer.

“Of course not,” you say. “It’s good to hear from you, you're so busy now, I had to talk to your secretary,” you teased. She was busy, but you’d already done the calculation of Jenna’s timezone to yours—for her, filming would’ve just wrapped up in the midnight hours. For you, the setting sun was just beginning to stream through the glass walls, and you pressed the button on the nightstand to draw the curtains.

“Well, if you’re not busy,” Jenna presses on casually, “I miss you.”

“I miss you too, Jenna,” you smile. It was a dialogue you two had often, something you never tired of. 

“Mmm,” Jenna’s voice tugs in your stomach, lilting into a whine at the end of her emission, “I miss you, baby.”

Your mouth goes dry; it’s an automatic reaction. Damnit, this girl—she knew what kind of effect she had on you. You were glad the room was dark, because if you had to face your own blushing cheeks in the light, you might’ve just collapsed. You pull the phone away from your ear long enough to take a deep breath. “Do you, Jen?” Keeping your voice composed, you roll the end of the duvet between your fingers to keep you grounded.

“Miss you so much,” she says, the rustling in the background telling you she’s rolling on the covers. She lets out a lilting laugh, the sound sending a swooping, giddy feeling into your stomach. Jenna’s trying to lure you in; it was her game: enticing you with that docile, persuasive tone.

You decided to play, though you held back just a bit. “How much?”

“Some of your clothes still smell like you,” she says in lieu of a direct answer. “So I’m wearing your big shirt, the black one.” You’d been wondering where that shirt went, one you often slept in. Even now, you can see in your head how Jenna looked when she stole that shirt: it cut off at her thighs, the kind of sacrilegious short that inspired crimes. It reminds you of countless times she’d surprised you, when you slid your hands up under the hem to find—

“What else, Jen?”

“No bra,” she replies sweetly, laughing lightly at the end. 

“No bra, huh,” you repeat. You can practically feel your pupils dilating, the heat around your collar. “Good.”

“And this,” Jenna sighs, “lace number I got here; it looks like the one you gave me last year.” 

Your jaw clenches, and you glance at the clock, looking but not seeing. You remember what she’s talking about—a pair of panties, an expensive little excuse for fabric that grew dark at the slightest moisture. Jenna’s birthday had ended in a long, long night.

“It’s red,” she says, “just like my nails.”

Fuck. Everything feels hot, and you can just picture her in that standard issue trailer, lights dimmed, alone in a way that should be illegal. “How much time do you have?”

“Not a lot… got an early morning tomorrow.” There's a trailing edge of disappointment in her voice, but you’re familiar with her—she’s looking, hoping for you to guide her, to push her in the way only you know how.

You breathe in, deeply, your own desire quickly falling prey to Jenna’s. She had you wrapped around her little finger, that’s for sure, but she trusted you to hold her down. “Hand in your hair, Jenna. Gentle,” you instruct.

You hear her sharp inhale, but you have no question that she’ll listen. When Jenna gets like this, playful but pliant, you know she’s willing to go with just about anything you ask. It’s torture for you, each second you wait. “Now pull.”

Her responding whimper sends a bolt of heat down your neck, and you let out a silent breath. Jenna loved it when you would touch her hair, even when it was as innocent as just braiding it. The haze in her eyes when you’d tug on her locks, telling her how good she feels, was your favorite. “Harder. Do you like it?”

She breathes out, “yeah.”

“Good,” you say. “Tell me what’s been on your mind to get you eager like this.” She’s shy, you hear it in her sigh, even though her hands are still running in her hair. “C’mon.”

“I miss your mouth on my neck.” The words tumble out of her almost immediately, and you dare to wonder if that’s been on her mind all day. The bruises you’d left there before filming started were long gone, no doubt. She’d begged you to make them darker, and you were all too happy to please. “I miss the car, before the airport…”

Those frantic, heated ten minutes you two were able to spare in the car before Jenna’s flight were chastised by her manager and makeup team, but you wouldn’t have traded them for anything. “That’s perfect Jen,” you coax gently. She liked your encouragement, you knew. 

“And…” it’s as if something snaps in the air on the telephone line, pushing both you and Jenna’s inhibitions to the ground. “I wish you were here,” she whispers, the cliche line sending equally cliche butterflies rushing through your lower stomach. “I’d be on my knees for your cock right now, and you’d pull my hair, so I’d-” she whines, a small and breathless noise-“suck it so good ‘cause I know where it’s going next—”

“Fingers in your mouth,” you interrupt, blood rushing in your ears. “And listen to me.” If you’d let Jenna keep going, you might’ve just booked a plane ticket right then and there. You can hear her obey you through the speaker, moaning softly. “Play with your nipples under your shirt. Be gentle.” It’s a warning, you know she knows, and a reminder that you control her pace.

“Mmm,” she hums, complying. It’s practically confession on bended knee, how her muffled whimper makes something shoot through your lower stomach.

“Press down on your tongue.” You hear her breath shaking, right in your ear. It makes you bite your tongue to keep from moaning out loud. “Don’t gag, don’t be greedy, Jenna.” She whines around her fingers, and you know her telltale little cry as she touches herself as instructed. You can hear that she’s not being as gentle as you wanted, but you had always been weak for your girl.

“You wanna put on a show for me, honey? Twist.” You wouldn’t know it, but Jenna instantly closes her eyes at the word show, her pulse spiking.

Jenna’s uneven breaths are pure song to you through the speaker, and it puts your every nerve on edge, remembering how she would sprawl on your sheets, just like how you were now, happy to be over or under you. She’s so vocal tonight, every exhale coming out with a small oh, and it makes you wonder if it’s because of something more than just the distance and time between you two.

The cadence of her breathing matches your stuttering heart. “For someone that likes having her mouth stuffed,” you mutter, “you sure wanna talk real bad.”

The whimper Jenna lets out is enough of an answer.

“Alright babydoll, you can take your fingers out.” Almost immediately, you can hear her panting. You keep your voice even, despite the heat on your cheeks. “I bet you’re soaked, aren’t you?”

Her voice is raspy when she speaks. “I am…”

“Two fingers in your cunt.”

“What about-” you can hear her swallow- “what about my underwear?”

“Push it to the side,” you say, dismissive. You could practically see Jenna like this, warm brown hair splayed on the pillows, shirt rucked up to her breasts, with enough want to end a war.

It’s silent on the other side of the line, save for the shallow breaths you hear her taking. “Are you waiting, good girl?”

She hums an affirmative. 

“Go ahead, I won’t make you beg right now,” you say with a nonchalance you absolutely do not have, “fuck yourself.”

Her breathy laugh in response would drive a saint to sin, and she’s only all too eager to comply. Jenna’s shudder comes out in her moan as she shoves two fingers in herself, shameless in her need.

You close your eyes, her quiet little moan telling you all you need to know. The impatient groan she gives you is just vulnerable enough to be desperate, and it makes your head swim.

Jenna’s voice is small. “You know…”

“What is it, darling?”

“Wish I could put this on a camera for you, baby,” she whines, breath hitching. “Wish you could watch me right now.”

The mere thought of it is enough to have you biting your lip, hard enough to bleed. With the way that Jenna loved to perform, the idea had occurred to you before, but you were always too hesitant to bring it up. “You want me to see you, don’t you? Blushing and wanting all by yourself,” you mock, your arousal overriding your rationality, “you need someone to fuck you, is that it?”

“I need you to fuck me, fuck me so hard that I don’t remember it all, and,” her voice breaks, “you’ll make me watch our video later, to make me like this again.” You close your eyes again, your knuckles growing white around the sheets fisted in your hand. 

“Like what, Jenna?”

“Messy, and-” her voice climbs higher with a gasp-“needy.”

The words cling in your mind, ivy on a terrace. It only takes half a moment for your mind to conjure her up again, flushed cheeks and two fingers deep in her pussy, framed by red lace.

“Is that what you are, mmm?”

She gives a moan, and you laugh because she’s embarrassed. It’s nearly pathetic, how bad you wish you could see Jenna’s face.

“Want…” There’s a hesitant pause. “Want your hand around my throat, too.”

God, no one knew how to play you quite like Jenna did. “Jenna,” you groan, your facade rapidly crumbling, “you’d look so pretty like that, baby.”

“Yeah,” Jenna agrees mindlessly, “I like it ‘cause…” her voice is strained in a way that you just know she has her head thrown back, strong and delicate, “you’re so gentle.” It’s with a bleeding intimacy that momentarily makes you forget you’re thousands of miles away from Jenna, and the only thing you can think of is her warm eyes on yours, just begging for you to touch her.

She quiets down, and in the damning silence that follows, you hear her fucking herself. And because you know your girl, you know she wants you to hear.

“That’s filthy, Jen,” you say, matter-of-factly. It makes your head spin, the knot in your stomach tightening.

“I know,” she whines, and you can hear her going just that bit faster. “Fuck-” she exhales sharply- “I’m—I’m close.”

“Already?”

“I’m sorry,” Jenna whispers, and you know with every hitched moan, she’s hitting that spot inside of her. She’s not sorry, and you certainly aren’t either. “I can’t help it…”

You hum noncommittally, feeling anything but. “Don’t come until I say, alright?”

Jenna moans right into the receiver, and you can tell she’s frustrated to high hell. You laugh lowly, something cruel, and it only serves to fuel the way your fingers crave the smooth of her skin, how your tongue wants for her taste.

But that’s when you hear it, blazing through the fog in your mind, of brown eyes and pink lips. “Please…”

“Please what?”

She falters, breathing ragged. “Please let me…” A beat.

“Let you…?” You press on. 

“Please,” her voice edges on the right side of desperate, the side that makes all of you pulse. “Baby, I’m so close…”

“I know,” you say simply. 

There’s a silence that hangs in the air, and you know without seeing that Jenna’s cheeks are so red with her embarrassment that you could’ve slapped her and not gotten that same glow. You wait, patiently, nails biting into your skin.

“Let me come, please.” Her voice comes out like a quiet sob, resistance broken by her desire.

Letting out a long breath, you press the phone harder to your ear, feeling your fingers tremble. “You’re such a needy slut, Jenna.” She whines again, pleading and keening.

“I know,” she’s soft with it, “I am… so, please?”

You bite your lip, mind swimming, letting her plea hang in the air. 

“Come for me, Jenna.”

It's quiet, at first, and then you hear it—a soft, little ah from where she’s clapped a hand over her mouth, and then muffled moans spilling out from behind as she tries so desperately to not let anyone else hear. You clench your jaw, wanting so bad to tear Jenna’s hand from her mouth just so you can take in every little whimper, quiet her with your mouth instead. But you whisper praises into the phone instead, coaxing her through her orgasm. She comes hard, you can hear it in the way she pants after she’s calmed down.

Jenna’s breathing evens out, and you know it before she does—she’s asleep. Your eyes close again, fist clenched in your bedsheets. It wasn’t the first time that she’d fallen asleep right after she came, and it makes a soft little grin play on your lips. The other end of the line is a loving, sated silence. You keep your voice low, not wanting to wake her.

“God, the things I’m gonna do to you, Jenna.”

--

please do not repost, reproduce, copy, translate, or take from my work in any way. thank you!

masterlist

[movingmusically]

Hi I have a request that the female lead is also an actress and austin thinks she is cheating on him with her co star make it angsty but with a happy ending please

And I love your fics btw

Author’s Note:

I used Luke Grimes as the costar because I binged Yellowstone over the holidays, and, well, let’s just say he made me feel a certain type of way. Feel free to replace him with someone else when you read!

Word Count: 10,785

Masterlist

The Way Back

The days on set blurred together, one long string of early mornings, late nights, and quick meals eaten out of styrofoam containers. This project was the biggest of your career so far—a gritty, romantic drama with sweeping landscapes and an emotional arc that pushed your limits. It was the kind of role you’d dreamed of since the start of your career, the kind that could define everything that came next.

You loved it, truly, but it was exhausting. And demanding. Every ounce of your focus had been poured into the project for the last two months, leaving little time for anything else—especially your relationship with Austin.

Not that he didn’t understand. He did. Austin had spent years working the same unpredictable schedules, throwing himself so completely into roles that you’d once joked he could disappear into them entirely. He’d laughed, saying he’d come back in one piece—but understanding each other’s worlds didn’t make the strain of long-distance easier to bear.

Lately, the distance had felt sharper. Calls had grown shorter, text exchanges briefer. You told yourself it was the hectic pace, that Austin had his own obligations, and you both trusted each other. But there were moments—like now, when the pang of missing him felt sharper—that made you wonder if it was enough.

Your co-star, Luke Grimes, had made the process more bearable. From the start, the two of you had clicked in a way that felt easy and natural, finding camaraderie in the chaos. Luke was laid-back, quick to laugh, and refreshingly grounded—a sharp contrast to the pressure surrounding the project. He’d been the one to make the cast group chats less awkward and to break the tension during gruelling days on set.

Most importantly, he was professional. There was a clear boundary of mutual respect between you, a comforting balance of work and light-hearted friendship. It was the perfect working relationship.

But even perfect could be misread.

It hadn’t escaped your notice that Austin wasn’t entirely sold on the dynamic. He’d teased you about it early on, his tone light but carrying the faint edge of something unspoken. You’d brushed it off, assuming he’d get used to hearing Luke’s voice in the background when you called him from set or mentioned something funny Luke had said.

“You’ve got quite the scene partner, huh?” Austin had remarked once during a late-night call. His voice had been warm, but the faintest thread of tension laced his words.

“He’s great,” you’d replied, keeping your tone casual. “Super professional. It’s been a lot easier having him around.”

Austin had hummed, a sound that was neither agreement nor disagreement. “He sounds like a good guy,” he’d added after a pause, but there’d been something in the way he said it that stayed with you long after the call ended.

Now, weeks later, you couldn’t help but wonder if that lingering doubt had grown.

The day’s scene only added fuel to the fire. It was one of the film’s most pivotal moments—an emotionally charged kiss between your characters, set in a sweeping meadow under the golden light of late afternoon. The director wanted raw vulnerability, an authenticity that meant rehearsing the scene over and over until every movement, every glance, felt seamless.

Luke, as always, had been a steadying force. “We’ll get it,” he’d said after the first take, flashing you a reassuring grin. “It’s like muscle memory. Just don’t overthink it.”

You’d nodded, grateful for his calmness. By the time the cameras started rolling, you’d slipped into the rhythm of it, the rest of the world fading as you and Luke worked through the scene.

What you hadn’t accounted for were the fans and paparazzi lurking just beyond the set’s fence line. You’d caught glimpses of them between takes—fans with their phones out, photographers with long lenses, all of them angling for the perfect shot. It wasn’t the first time you’d had to deal with onlookers, but the weight of their stares, paired with the intimacy of the scene, made your chest tighten.

By the time the director called it a wrap, the sun had dipped lower in the sky, bathing the field in warm light. You were drained, your mind already drifting to the quiet comfort of home—and Austin. It had been days since you’d had a proper conversation, and guilt tugged at you as you packed up your things.

“I’m out for the night,” Luke said, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He paused, his easy grin softening. “You good?”

“Yeah,” you replied quickly, offering a tired smile. “Just ready to crash.”

“Same. Don’t let the vultures get to you.” he added with a chuckle, nodding toward the edge of the set where some photographers were still milling about. You laughed lightly, waving him off before heading to your car.

By the time you got home, exhaustion had won. You barely made it through a shower and a quick attempt at dinner before collapsing into bed, your phone charging on the nightstand. The thought of calling Austin lingered, but sleep overtook you before you could press the button.

The buzzing of your phone woke you the next morning. You blinked against the sunlight streaming through the window, your stomach sinking as you saw the missed calls and unread texts from Austin.

10:12 p.m.: Hey, call me when you can.

11:45 p.m.: Are you okay?

1:00 a.m.: Never mind. Good night.

Shit. You groaned, running a hand through your hair as guilt settled like a stone in your stomach. You’d slept through all of them. With a sigh, you typed out a quick reply.

Morning. I’m so sorry, I crashed early last night. Call you soon?

With no response, you set the phone down and got ready for the day, trying to shake the unease creeping in.

But when you arrived on set, unease gave way to dread. Crew members whispered in tight circles, their voices carrying snatches of words like “chemistry” and “photos.” You didn’t need to ask what they were talking about; the look your makeup artist gave you as you stepped into your trailer said it all.

Your hands shook as you unlocked your phone. The headlines were everywhere. Paparazzi photos of you and Luke from the previous day’s scene were splashed across every entertainment site—intimate, romantic shots of the kiss, interspersed with candid moments where you and Luke had laughed between takes.

You felt sick scrolling through them. Headlines like “New Power Couple?” and “Chemistry On and Off Screen?” blurred together as your chest tightened. This wasn’t just invasive—it was wildly misleading. Luke was married, for God’s sake.

You didn’t even notice you’d been holding your breath until it rushed out in a sharp exhale. Slamming your phone face down on the counter, you closed your eyes, willing the tightness in your chest to subside. This was the last thing you needed.

The day passed in a haze. You texted Austin a few more times but got nothing back. By the time you finally worked up the nerve to call him during your lunch break, his voice on the other end felt distant.

“Hey,” you said softly, leaning against the wall of your trailer. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“Yeah,” he replied, his tone clipped. “Saw your texts.”

Your chest tightened. “Austin, if this is about the photos—”

“I didn’t say it was,” he cut in, though the tension in his voice was unmistakable.

Your stomach twisted. “Okay.” You took a steadying breath. “But it feels like it.”

There was a long pause on his end, the kind that made your throat tighten and your heart ache. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, but the edge hadn’t disappeared. “I just… I don’t know. It’s just… hard to see. That’s all.”

You closed your eyes, willing yourself to stay calm. “You know what the job is. You know this doesn’t mean anything, right?”

“I do,” he said after a beat, but his hesitation cut deeper than his words. “It’s just… hard to see you like that with someone else.”

You exhaled softly, trying to keep the frustration out of your voice. “Then let’s talk about it properly. When are you free?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, long enough to make your heart tighten. “I’ve got Sunday off,” he finally said. “I could drive up.”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you. “Good. Come here, and we’ll figure this out.”

“Okay,” he said after a moment, his voice softening just enough to give you hope. “I’ll see you Sunday.”

When the call ended, you let your phone fall to your lap, staring at the blank screen as a dull ache settled in your chest. You’d made plans to talk, but the unease lingered. It wasn’t like Austin to hold back, and the weight of his hesitation hung heavy in your mind.

You pushed the thought aside, telling yourself that Sunday would come soon enough—and that you’d make him see what you already knew in your heart.

Sunday came quicker than you expected, though the week leading up to it had felt like an endless slog of rehearsals, night shoots, and rushed meals. You barely had time to think, which in some ways, was a relief. But as soon as you woke up that morning, nerves churned in your stomach like a storm waiting to break.

The day crawled by in slow motion, each hour stretching as you tried to focus on anything but Austin’s visit. You cleaned your apartment twice, rearranged the throw pillows on the small couch, and rehearsed conversations in your head until none of them felt right. By the time his knock came in the early afternoon, you were almost too tense to move.

But when you opened the door and saw him standing there, your heart lurched in recognition. Austin looked like he always did—comfortable, familiar, achingly handsome in his usual jeans and t-shirt. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, and though he smiled, it didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was a shadow there, subtle but undeniable, that made your chest ache.

“Hey,” you said softly, stepping aside to let him in, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Hey.” He hesitated for the briefest moment before leaning down to press a kiss to your cheek. His touch was warm, but fleeting, and it left a hollow feeling in its wake.

As he stepped inside, you caught the faintest scent of his cologne—woodsy and clean, something that always felt like home. He looked around the small space with an air of quiet restraint, his movements careful, like he wasn’t sure where to land. You gestured toward the couch, and he followed, sitting with his elbows resting on his knees, his gaze fixed on the floor for a moment before lifting to meet yours.

The silence between you was heavy, thick with everything unsaid. You sat beside him, your hands clasped tightly in your lap, and started with the basics. You talked about the week—how hectic it had been, the night shoots, the endless rehearsals—and he told you about his latest projects, his words measured but distant. The conversation felt stilted, like a puzzle with missing pieces, and every pause only seemed to magnify the distance between you.

Finally, you decided to address it head-on.

“I saw the photos,” you said carefully, your voice steady but soft. You watched his face for any sign of reaction, your pulse quickening when he stiffened slightly. “I know they didn’t help.”

Austin let out a long sigh, his hand running through his hair as he leaned back against the couch. The gesture was familiar, but the weight behind it wasn’t. “It’s not the photos,” he said after a moment, though his tone told a different story. “I mean, yeah, they’re hard to look at. But it’s more than that.”

His words hung in the air, heavy and unresolved. You frowned, shifting to face him fully. “What do you mean?”

He hesitated, his gaze flickering to the floor before meeting yours again. His shoulders rose and fell in a slow breath, like he was bracing himself. “It’s just… we haven’t had much time together lately. And with everything going on, it’s easy to let my mind wander.”

The honesty in his voice cut through you like a knife. Your chest tightened as you reached for his hand, your fingers brushing his hesitantly before lacing through his. His grip was warm but hesitant, and it made your heart ache even more.

“Austin, you know what the job is,” you said gently, trying to meet his eyes. “You’ve been here. You’ve done this. You know how much it means to me.”

“I do,” he said quickly, his gaze softening just slightly as it met yours. “And I’m proud of you. I really am. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy.”

You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening around his. “I miss you too. And I hate that this has been so hard. But you know I’d never… I mean, Luke and I—”

“I know,” he cut in, his voice firm but steady. “I know nothing’s happening. But seeing those photos… hearing his voice when we talk—it’s just been a lot.”

His words were careful, but the vulnerability behind them was unmistakable. You exhaled softly, squeezing his hand as you leaned closer, your voice unwavering.

“Then let me make this clear,” you said, your eyes locked on his. “I love you, Austin. You. Not Luke, not anyone else. You’re it for me.”

For a moment, he didn’t respond. His eyes searched yours, the tension in his face slowly unraveling as your words sank in. His shoulders relaxed, his grip on your hand tightening just slightly as he let out a quiet breath.

“I know,” he said finally, his voice softer now, almost a whisper. “I just needed to hear it.”

You stayed like that for a moment, the silence between you shifting into something lighter, more fragile but no longer heavy. Slowly, you felt the weight begin to lift.

The rest of the day passed more easily. You walked through the quiet streets near the set, your fingers brushing his as you strolled past shopfronts and small cafés. The conversation flowed more naturally, laughter slipping back into the spaces where tension had lived just hours before. When you sat down for a late lunch at a cozy café, it almost felt like nothing had changed.

By the time Austin left that evening, the warmth between you had returned. He kissed you before he left, his hands cradling your face with a tenderness that made your heart ache. It was a kiss that said more than words, one that carried the promise of everything you’d built together.

But even as you stood in the doorway and watched him drive away, a small part of you couldn’t shake the unease lingering in the back of your mind. You’d made progress, yes—but something told you the worst wasn’t behind you yet.

The following weeks passed in a blur, the rhythm of set life pulling you back into its relentless pace. You and Austin texted more often, exchanged calls when you could, but the strain of distance still lingered in the quieter moments. It was better, but not perfect. And you weren’t sure if “better” was enough to soothe the tension simmering just beneath the surface.

You threw yourself into a surprise you’d been planning for his birthday, something to bridge the gap even though you wouldn’t be together on the actual day. It had started as a small idea—a collection of your favourite photos and videos together—but as the days passed, it evolved into something more. Late at night, after long days on set, you poured hours into a video montage. It became a celebration of your story: grainy selfies from the early days of your relationship, clips of Austin laughing, candid moments of him playing guitar, and quiet shots of him lost in thought. You even found a video he’d taken during one of your first dates, his voice narrating the scene as he tried to make you laugh.

You added everything you could find—every moment that made your chest ache in the best way. The video felt like a love letter, stitched together from fragments of your life together, and the thought of showing it to him filled you with equal parts excitement and nervousness. Would it be enough to remind him of everything you’d built? Of how much he meant to you?

Luke had unknowingly helped in other ways. During one late-night conversation on set, he’d mentioned a rare book Austin had been hunting for, something he’d talked about months ago when the three of you had chatted over dinner. “I think I know a guy who can track it down,” Luke had offered casually, his easy grin making it clear he didn’t think twice about it.

“Seriously?” you’d asked, your eyes lighting up. “That would be amazing.”

He’d waved you off with a chuckle. “Leave it with me. I’ll see what I can do.”

You poured every spare moment into the birthday surprise, letting it be your anchor amidst the chaos of work and distance. The thought of seeing Austin’s reaction—of being there to celebrate, even if a little early—kept you going.

By the time the video was finished, you couldn’t help but watch it back late one night, headphones in as you lay curled up in your apartment. The soft glow of the screen illuminated the quiet pride on Austin’s face after wrapping a show, the way his smile widened when he realised you were filming him. You’d added your favourite song to the background—a track he’d played for you during one of your first road trips together—and the combination was enough to make your throat tighten.

You saved the file, feeling a little lighter as you closed your laptop. Luke had managed to find the book for you, and everything was falling into place. For the first time in weeks, you felt hopeful.

With the video complete and the book set to arrive soon, the timing couldn’t have been better. A holiday weekend meant you had a rare break from filming—a whole two days to spend together without the interruptions of work or distance. You’d already arranged to drive to Austin’s place, planning to surprise him with an early birthday celebration. The thought of watching his reaction to the video, of handing him the rare book he’d been searching for, filled you with a quiet thrill.

This wasn’t just about his birthday; it was about reminding him of everything you’d built together and why it was worth fighting for. You couldn’t wait to bridge the gap, to let the moments you’d worked so hard to collect speak louder than the distance ever could.

The morning you left for Austin’s, you were buzzing with anticipation. The drive felt endless, even though you’d timed it perfectly to avoid traffic. As you navigated the familiar streets leading to his apartment, the weight of the past few weeks began to lift. For the first time in what felt like ages, you allowed yourself to hope—hope that this weekend would bring you both back to where you belonged.

When you arrived, Austin opened the door with a soft smile. “Hey, stranger,” he said, pulling you into a warm hug. You melted into his embrace, breathing him in as his arms wrapped around you.

“Hey,” you murmured, looking up at him. The tension from your last conversation seemed to have eased, though there was still something guarded in his eyes. You brushed it off, determined to focus on the time you had together.

The evening unfolded quietly, the two of you slipping into an easy rhythm of takeout and soft conversation. It felt familiar—comfortable even—and you let yourself hope that maybe the weekend would bring you closer again. But as the night wore on, there was an undercurrent you couldn’t quite shake, an edge to the silences that stretched between you.

After dinner, as you curled up on the couch scrolling through your phone, a message from Luke popped up: Book’s been shipped—should be there tomorrow. Glad I could help with this one.

You couldn’t help but smile, relief flooding through you as you read the words. Finally, the last piece of the birthday surprise was falling into place. Quickly, you typed out a thank-you message, your fingers flying across the screen: You’re the best. This is going to mean so much to him.

When you glanced up, you caught Austin watching you. He was leaning against the armrest of the couch, his head resting on his hand, his expression unreadable. “What’s got you smiling like that?” he asked, his tone light, but something in his eyes gave you pause.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, locking your phone and setting it aside. “Just finishing something up.”

He nodded, but his gaze lingered a little too long before he turned back to the movie playing softly in the background. You felt the weight of his unspoken questions pressing against you, but you pushed it aside, determined not to let anything ruin the weekend.

The next morning, the atmosphere was still quiet but tense. Austin had been up before you, brewing coffee and scrolling through his phone at the kitchen counter. You tried to shake the unease creeping in, focusing instead on the anticipation of the book’s arrival.

Just before noon, your phone buzzed with an incoming call. Glancing at the screen, you recognised the delivery service number. “I’ll be right back,” you said casually, as you headed for the door.

Austin looked up from his mug, a questioning flicker in his eyes, but he didn’t say anything.

Outside, the air was warm and thick, clinging to your skin as you made your way to meet the courier. A small smile tugged at your lips when you saw the package in his hands—small, neatly wrapped, and containing the rare book you’d gone through so much effort to track down. You signed for it quickly, tucking it under your arm as you headed back inside, your excitement bubbling.

When you walked through the door, Austin was standing in the living room, his arms crossed and his jaw tight. His gaze dropped to the package in your hands before snapping back to your face.

“Who was that?” he asked, his tone sharper than you’d ever heard.

“Just a delivery,” you said lightly, stepping past him to set the package on the coffee table. “Why?”

His eyes followed you, narrowing as the tension in the room thickened. “You’ve been sneaking around all weekend,” he said, his voice low but taut with frustration. “Always on your phone, stepping outside to take calls… What’s going on?”

Your chest tightened as you spun to face him. “Austin, it’s nothing. I told you, I’ve been working on something.”

He took a step closer, his tone rising with anger. “With Luke? Is that what this is about?”

Your heart dropped. “It is Luke I’ve been talking to, but—”

“But what?” he interrupted, his voice rising. “You’ve been glued to your phone, smiling at his messages, sneaking off to take his calls. What the hell am I supposed to think?”

You froze, disbelief washing over you. “Are you serious right now?”

“Yes,” he said bitterly, his voice trembling with restrained anger. He hesitated for a beat, his jaw tightening, before the words spilled out. “Are you fucking him?”

The words hit like a slap, the room spinning for a moment as they sank in. You stared at him, stunned, your pulse pounding in your ears. “What the hell did you just say?”

“I don’t know what to think anymore!” he snapped, his hands thrown up in frustration. “You’ve been so secretive—what else am I supposed to believe?”

Anger flared in your chest, hot and blinding. Without thinking, you grabbed the package and shoved it into his chest. “This!” you yelled, your voice trembling. “This is what I’ve been sneaking around for!”

He stared at the package, taking it from your hands, his expression flickering from anger to confusion. “What…?”

“It’s for you!” you shouted, tears pricking at your eyes. “For your birthday! I’ve been working on a surprise—putting together a video, finding this book. Luke helped me track it down because I wanted it to be perfect. And now you’re standing here accusing me of cheating? With him?”

His expression crumbled, regret flashing in his eyes. “I didn’t mean—”

“You did!” you interrupted, your voice breaking. “You did mean it, or you wouldn’t have said it. You just assumed the worst.”

The weight of his words—and the betrayal they carried—crushed you. Tears spilled over as you stepped away from him, your hands trembling. “I can’t believe you’d think that of me.”

“Baby, I—”

“No,” you said firmly, holding up a hand to stop him. “You don’t get to ‘baby’ me right now. “I trust you, Austin. When you’re surrounded by people who adore you, working with beautiful women—I trust you. The way you look at everyone, always charming, always making people feel like they’re the centre of your world—I never question it, because I know you, and I know us. And I thought you knew me, that you trusted me the same way.”

His lips parted as if to respond, but you pressed on, your voice firm. “Trust isn’t negotiable, Austin. If you can’t give me that, then I don’t know what we’re even doing.”

The room fell silent, the weight of your words hanging heavy between you. Austin reached for you, his hand hovering just inches away before dropping back to his side. His face softened, his shoulders sagging as his anger dissolved. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his voice cracking. “I messed up.”

“It’s not just a mistake,” you said, your voice trembling but resolute. “If you can’t trust me, we don’t have a future.”

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by your shaky breaths. You took a step back, your voice softening. “I love you, Austin. But I can’t stay here right now.”

Without waiting for a reply, you turned and walked toward the bedroom, the weight of your heartbreak settling over you like a storm. Your vision blurred with tears as you packed your bag, trying to ignore the sound of Austin’s footsteps behind you—or the way his voice cracked when he said your name.

“Please, don’t go,” he said softly, his voice raw with regret.

You paused but didn’t turn around. “I need time. And I think you do too.”

You finished packing and zipped your bag with trembling hands. Before you left the bedroom, you reached into the side pocket and pulled out the small memory stick containing the video. You walked to the counter, placing it down gently with a handwritten sticker that read Play Me.

“Happy birthday,” you said quietly, your voice breaking as you turned to the door.

His eyes searched yours, the regret in them almost enough to shatter you. “I don’t want to lose you.”

You didn’t answer, stepping out into the warm air as the door clicked softly behind you. Your heart ached with every step, the sting of his accusation lingering like a wound, raw and bleeding.

The hotel room was small but clean, its walls painted in muted tones that felt both calming and stifling. You sat on the edge of the bed, your hands clasped tightly in your lap, the weight of the day pressing down on your chest.

You’d left Austin’s apartment hours ago, but the tension lingered like a storm cloud, heavy and unrelenting. Every word of the argument replayed in your mind, cutting deeper each time. You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes, willing the tears to stop.

Your phone buzzed, the sound sharp in the quiet room. You hesitated before reaching for it, your heart sinking when you saw Austin’s name. A voice note.

For a moment, you debated letting it sit there, unheard. But your thumb moved on its own, hovering over the play button before finally pressing down.

His voice filled the room, raw and heavy with emotion. “I know I’m probably the last person you want to hear from right now, but I need to say this. I messed up today. I let my insecurities get the better of me, and I hurt you in ways I never should have.”

You closed your eyes, the sound of his voice twisting something deep inside you.

“There’s no excuse for what I said, and I don’t expect you to forgive me easily. But I need you to know how deeply sorry I am.”

The words hung in the air, each one a mix of regret and desperation. His voice cracked as he continued. “I watched the video. I… I don’t even know how to describe it—seeing every moment you chose to include, hearing our song in the background. You put so much love into it, and I… I let my own fears blind me to everything you’ve done for us.”

Your throat tightened, a fresh wave of tears pooling in your eyes as you listened.

“When I think about the way I looked at you today, the things I said… I hate myself for it. You’ve always trusted me, even when you had every reason not to. And instead of showing you that same trust, I doubted you. I doubted us. That’s on me, and I’ll carry it until I can prove to you that I’ll never make that mistake again.”

The note ended with a long pause, as though he were gathering himself. “I don’t want to lose you. But I know I’ve given you every reason to walk away. If you can give me another chance—whenever you’re ready—I’ll be here. I love you. Always.”

The recording ended, leaving a deafening silence in its wake. Your hands trembled as you set the phone down, Austin’s words echoing in your mind. Tears came then, hot and unstoppable, as you curled into yourself on the bed. The ache in your chest didn’t lessen, but the sharp edges dulled just slightly.

You weren’t ready to respond—not yet. But as you stared at your phone, Austin’s voice still lingering in the room, a sliver of hope pushed through the cracks.

The next morning, sunlight filtered through the thin curtains of the hotel room, soft and unassuming. You woke up with a dull ache in your chest, the weight of Austin’s voice note from the night before lingering. Sleep had been restless, your mind replaying his words alongside every sharp moment of yesterday’s fight.

You sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the packed bag sitting near the door. The thought of leaving felt heavy, but not for the reasons you’d expected. The weekend you’d planned—filled with laughter, connection, and the hope of repairing the distance—had turned into something entirely different. And now, there was nothing left but to move forward.

After checking out of the hotel, you slid into the driver’s seat of your car and gripped the steering wheel, staring out at the quiet street in front of you. The video, the book—they’d all been meant to remind Austin of your love, to pull you both closer. But now you wondered if they had only exposed the cracks you hadn’t realised were there.

The drive back to your apartment near the set felt endless, the road stretching out in front of you. The radio played softly in the background, but even your favourite songs couldn’t break through the thoughts swirling in your mind. You hadn’t responded to Austin’s voice note yet. Every time you reached for your phone, the words you wanted to say eluded you.

By the time you pulled into the lot outside your building, the sun had begun to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in muted oranges and purples. You grabbed your bag from the trunk, the familiar rhythm of life near set tugging at you like an anchor. But even as you walked toward your apartment, the weight of everything you’d left behind refused to lift.

Inside, the space felt cold and empty. You set your bag down near the door and wandered into the small kitchen, absentmindedly filling a glass with water as you tried to push the unease from your chest. Tomorrow’s schedule was packed, and the last thing you could afford was to let your personal life bleed into your work. But the thought of stepping onto set, of pretending everything was fine, felt like an insurmountable task.

Your phone buzzed on the counter, the vibration breaking the silence. You glanced at it briefly, a notification flashing across the screen—a low battery warning. Your hand hesitated before reaching for it, you knew exactly what still waited. Austin’s voice note, daring you to listen again. You didn’t press play. Instead, you opened a blank message, your fingers hesitating over the keyboard.

I made it back safely. Thanks for the note. I need some time, but… I heard you. I’ll let you know when I’m ready to talk.

You hit send before you could overthink it, your chest tightening as the message delivered. Setting the phone aside, you walked into the living room and sank onto the couch, your elbows resting on your knees as you stared at the floor.

Tomorrow would come too soon, but tonight, at least, you could sit with your thoughts—however heavy they might be.

The next day started earlier than you wanted it to. The sun wasn’t even up when your alarm cut through the quiet, pulling you from restless sleep. Your first instinct was to reach for your phone, but you hesitated, fingers hovering over the screen. You had nothing to say yet—nothing that wouldn’t unravel everything you were holding together.

By the time you arrived on set, the hum of activity pulled you into its current. Crew members bustled around, adjusting lights and equipment, while the director barked instructions. You kept your head down, focusing on the pages in your hand, but the weight in your chest refused to ease.

Luke’s voice broke through your thoughts. “Hey.”

You looked up to see him leaning casually against the craft services table, his coffee in hand. His expression softened when he saw you. “How was your weekend?”

The question hit harder than it should have. You opened your mouth to respond, but the words tangled in your throat. Tears welled up unexpectedly, and before you could stop them, they spilled over.

Luke’s eyes widened in alarm. “Whoa, hey, what’s wrong?”

You shook your head, swiping at your cheeks. “Nothing. It’s fine. Just—just a long weekend.”

He frowned, stepping closer. “This doesn’t look like ‘nothing.’ Come on, talk to me.”

You wanted to tell him it was fine, that you didn’t need to unload on him. But the concern in his voice—and the fact that he wasn’t letting it go—made you falter. Finally, you exhaled shakily and whispered, “It’s Austin. We… we had a fight.”

Luke’s expression shifted, a mix of sympathy and curiosity. “About what?”

You hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. “It’s complicated. Just… things got tense, and I left early.”

Luke nodded slowly, his brow furrowing. “Did he say something stupid?”

You let out a hollow laugh. “Yeah. He said something really stupid.”

Luke crossed his arms, his brow furrowing thoughtfully. “Did he… at least like the book?”

The question caught you off guard, and your composure cracked further. A sob escaped before you could stop it, and you pressed a hand to your mouth, shaking your head.

“Oh, shit,” Luke muttered, stepping closer with a look of alarm. “I didn’t mean to—”

You waved him off, managing to choke out, “I don’t even know if he opened it.”

Luke’s expression softened, and he let out a quiet sigh. “Hey, whatever it is, it’ll work out. He’s a good guy, but even good guys can be idiots sometimes. And if he doesn’t realise how lucky he is, that’s on him.”

You managed a weak smile through your tears, appreciating the sincerity in his tone. “Thanks, Luke.”

He shrugged, his grin returning. “Just telling the truth. But seriously, if you need anything, I’m here.”

His words settled something in you, a small crack of light in the darkness you’d been carrying. You wiped your eyes and gave him a grateful nod. “Thanks.”

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of rehearsals and blocking, the familiar rhythm of set life forcing you to push everything else to the back of your mind. The scene you were working on wasn’t particularly emotional, but holding it together felt like walking a tightrope. Every word, every movement felt like a performance within a performance, your heart and mind elsewhere entirely.

During a short break, you found yourself sitting in a quiet corner near the trailers, scrolling aimlessly through your phone. You weren’t even sure what you were looking for, but the sight of Austin’s name in your contacts made your chest tighten all over again.

You set the phone down and pressed your hands against your eyes, trying to will the ache away. You’d responded to his voice note, but you hadn’t heard back. It wasn’t surprising—he was likely giving you the time and space you’d asked for—but the silence felt heavier than you’d expected.

Luke appeared again, holding two bottles of water. He held one out to you, his expression careful but warm. “Thought you could use this.”

“Thanks,” you murmured, taking it gratefully.

He sat down beside you, his usual easy confidence tempered with quiet concern. “You holding up okay?”

You nodded, though it felt like a lie. “Yeah. Just… trying to focus.”

Luke studied you for a moment before leaning back, stretching his legs out in front of him. “You don’t have to pretend you’re fine, you know. It’s okay to feel like crap sometimes.”

You let out a soft laugh, more out of surprise than amusement. “Is that your motivational speech for the day?”

“Hey, I’m full of wisdom,” he said with a grin, but his tone softened as he added, “Seriously, though. You don’t have to carry all this on your own. It’s okay to let people in.”

His words stayed with you long after he left, echoing in your mind as you went back to work. You weren’t used to leaning on people—not really. But maybe, just maybe, he was right.

That evening, you sat cross-legged on the floor of your apartment, the faint hum of the city outside your window the only sound. Your script was open in front of you, but the words blurred together as your thoughts drifted back to Austin.

The video had been meant as a celebration of your relationship, a reminder of everything you’d built together. But now, it felt like a painful question mark—something you weren’t sure he’d even wanted to watch. You stared at your phone, wondering if he’d responded to your earlier message.

Your heart skipped when you saw a new notification. Not a text, but another voice note.

For a moment, you debated leaving it unread, the fear of what it might contain weighing heavily on you. But your thumb moved on its own, pressing play as the sound filled the room.

“Hey,” Austin’s voice began, softer this time, like he was treading carefully. “I didn’t want to overwhelm you, but I’ve been thinking about what you said. And I know I screwed up—badly. But I just… I wanted you to know I’m trying to figure out how to make it right.”

There was a pause, and you could hear the faint sound of him taking a shaky breath. “I watched the video again. Twice, actually. And I can’t stop thinking about everything you put into it. The way you see me… it’s more than I deserve after everything I said.”

Your chest tightened, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

“I know you need time, and I’m not going to push you. But I just… I want you to know that I’m here. And when you’re ready, I’ll do whatever it takes to fix this. I love you.”

The message ended, leaving you in the quiet once again. You set the phone down slowly, Austin’s words still ringing in your ears. The ache in your chest was still there, but it felt just a little less heavy.

For the first time, you allowed yourself to hope.

The end of the shoot was still three weeks away, but the pace on set had only intensified. Every day felt like an uphill climb—early call times, late nights, and a director who was determined to wring every ounce of emotion out of every scene. You kept your head down and pushed through it, pouring yourself into the work, but the weight of everything happening with Austin lingered like a shadow you couldn’t shake.

It had been three days since you’d sent that message from your apartment: I need some time. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to reach out—it was that you didn’t know how. What could you even say? The apology he’d left in the voice note had been heartfelt, but the hurt from that weekend still sat raw in your chest.

Each night, you’d lie awake in the quiet of your apartment, your phone sitting untouched on the nightstand, as you turned the argument over in your mind. You hated how it had ended, but you hated even more that you didn’t know how to fix it.

A few nights later, after another exhausting day on set, you sat on the couch with your dinner untouched on the coffee table in front of you. Your phone was in your hand, your thumb hovering over Austin’s name in your messages.

Finally, after what felt like hours of debating, you typed out a short message:

I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know how to feel right now. But I think we need to talk.

Your finger lingered over the send button before you finally pressed it. The moment the message delivered, your stomach twisted in a tight knot of nerves. Would he respond? Did he even want to?

Your phone buzzed almost immediately, his reply popping up on the screen.

I want to talk. Whenever you’re ready.

You stared at his reply, the words blurring slightly as your emotions twisted in ways you couldn’t quite name. Relief, guilt, and the lingering ache of hurt all tangled together, leaving you frozen in place. You wanted to reply—to say something, anything—but no words came. How were you supposed to move forward when it felt like the ground beneath you wasn’t steady?

Setting your phone aside, you leaned back on the couch, closing your eyes as the exhaustion of the day pressed down on you. His words had been clear, open, and patient. But patience wasn’t what you needed from him right now. You needed effort. You needed proof that he saw what he’d done, that he understood how much he’d hurt you. And that he was willing to do something to fix it.

As the week dragged on, you buried yourself in work. The director’s intensity left no room for distraction, and every scene demanded more than the last. But even as you poured everything into your performance, Austin lingered in the back of your mind. You thought about the way he’d looked at you that weekend, the way his words had sliced through you like a blade.

It wasn’t fair—what he’d accused you of, how quickly he’d jumped to the worst possible conclusion. But the more you thought about it, the more a troubling realisation began to take shape. Austin wasn’t insecure because of you. He was insecure because of himself.

You’d always admired his charm—the way he could make anyone feel special, the way his confidence seemed unshakable. But now you wondered if that confidence had always been a mask. He’d never talked much about his struggles in the industry, but you knew they existed. The pressure to stay relevant, to be perfect, to constantly prove himself—it had to weigh on him. And maybe that weight had bled into your relationship, twisting his perspective until he saw threats where none existed.

It didn’t excuse what he’d done. Not by a long shot. But it gave you context, a glimpse into why he might have doubted you so deeply. And as much as it hurt to admit, part of you still wanted to find a way back to him.

The weekend came and went, the end of the shoot creeping closer with each exhausting day. You hadn’t responded to Austin’s last message, and the silence between you felt heavier with each passing moment. It wasn’t that you didn’t care—it was that you didn’t know where to begin.

One evening, as the sun dipped low on the horizon, you found yourself sitting on the balcony of your apartment, the city stretching out below you in a wash of golden light. Your phone rested in your hand, the message thread with Austin still open.

You took a deep breath, letting the cool evening air fill your lungs, and typed out another message. This time, it was longer, less cautious:

I’ve been thinking a lot about what happened. I know you’re sorry, and I know you meant what you said in your message. But I need to understand why you doubted me. Why you doubted us. I need to know that if we move forward, it won’t happen again. Because I can’t go through that twice, Austin. I can’t.

You hesitated for a moment, your thumb hovering over the send button. Then, with a shaky exhale, you pressed it. The message disappeared into the ether, leaving you staring at the screen, your heart pounding in your chest.

This time, his response didn’t come immediately. The minutes stretched into an hour, the silence gnawing at your resolve. You tried not to overthink it, telling yourself he needed time to process your words.

When your phone finally buzzed, the tension in your chest loosened, but only slightly. You opened his message, your eyes scanning the words.

You’re right. You deserve answers. Can I come see you? I want to explain everything. I need to.

You blinked, your mind racing. Having him here—face to face—felt overwhelming. But at the same time, it was what you needed too. You couldn’t do this over text. Not when there was so much at stake.

Your fingers moved quickly, typing out your reply before you could second-guess yourself.

Okay. Let me know when.

The moment the message sent, your stomach flipped. You didn’t know what he would say, or if it would be enough. But at least now, there was a chance to find out.

You’d known Austin would arrive that evening, but it didn’t stop the nerves from settling in your stomach throughout the day. He’d texted that morning, letting you know he’d leave around noon, and you’d spent every spare moment bracing yourself for the conversation ahead. Knowing didn’t make it easier—it only gave your mind more time to overthink.

The shoot felt endless, every scene dragging as the director pushed for perfection. You threw yourself into the work, but the hours ticked by slowly, each one pulling you closer to the moment you’d have to face Austin.

By the time you wrapped for the day, exhaustion clung to you, but it wasn’t just from the work. As you stepped out of the building, the late summer sun hung low in the sky, casting everything in golden light. You paused for a moment, drawing in a deep breath as you tried to steady yourself. This wasn’t going to be easy, but you’d both made it clear that talking was the only way forward.

When you arrived home, the quiet stillness of your apartment greeted you, a stark contrast to the turmoil in your chest. You set your bag down and wandered into the kitchen, trying to distract yourself with the small rituals of unwinding—filling a glass with water, rinsing out a mug that had been sitting on the counter since morning. But no matter how hard you tried to settle, the anticipation of Austin’s arrival gnawed at the edges of your focus.

It had been two weeks since you’d seen him. You didn’t know exactly when he’d get there, but the waiting felt endless. Every sound outside the window made your heart jump, and by the time you heard the knock on the door, your hands were trembling.

You opened it slowly, your breath catching when you saw him standing there. His hair was slightly disheveled, and his eyes were red-rimmed, like he hadn’t slept—or like he’d been crying. He stood there for a moment, just looking at you, his expression a mix of exhaustion, regret, and something else you couldn’t quite place.

You didn’t speak. Neither of you did. The silence hung heavy between you, until your tears spilled over, hot and unstoppable. That was all it took—Austin stepped forward, his arms wrapping around you almost instinctively, pulling you into a hug so tight it left you breathless. For a moment, you stayed stiff, unsure whether to let yourself give in, but the warmth of his embrace, the way his hands pressed into your back like he was holding on for dear life, finally broke through. Slowly, you melted into him, your face burying against his chest as the sobs you’d been holding back poured out.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I’m so damn sorry.”

You couldn’t bring yourself to respond—not yet. You just stood there, wrapped in him, the warmth of his embrace cutting through the chill that had settled over you for weeks. It felt safe. It felt like home. And for a moment, you let yourself lean into it, your fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt like you might lose him all over again if you let go.

He slid one hand up to gently cradle the back of your head, his fingers threading softly through your hair. He rested his chin on the top of your head, holding you close as if trying to steady both of you. You stayed like that, the quiet intimacy of the moment wrapping around you like a cocoon. Then he tilted his head, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the crown of your head.

His hand stayed at the back of your head, his thumb brushing gently against your hairline, and his other arm tightened around your waist, keeping you impossibly close. You could feel his breath against your skin, shaky and warm, and the moment stretched between you, fragile but full. He tilted his head to look at you, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your chest tighten.

Before you could register what was happening, he leaned in, his lips brushing softly against yours. It was tentative at first, as though he were afraid to push too far. But there was a quiet urgency in the way his lips moved against yours, a deep longing that poured into the kiss. For a moment, you let yourself respond, your lips parting as you kissed him back. It felt like coming home, like warmth flooding into every frozen corner of your heart.

But then the weight of everything settled in, and you turned your head, stepping back just enough to break the contact. “No,” you said quietly, your voice trembling as you met his gaze. “We can’t just… go back to that. Not yet.”

Austin froze, his expression crumbling for a moment before he nodded, his hands falling to his sides. “You’re right,” he said softly, his voice laced with pain. “We need to talk.”

Austin stepped inside hesitantly, his hands shoved deep into his pockets as he glanced around the familiar space. You closed the door behind him, leaning against it for a moment to gather yourself. The weight of the past weeks sat heavy between you, the silence stretching like a thread waiting to snap.

You nodded toward the couch. “We should sit.”

He followed without a word, settling on the edge of the cushion with his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped tightly in front of him. You sat across from him, leaving enough space to remind yourself why you couldn’t just fold back into him, no matter how much you wanted to.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then he let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Try the beginning,” you said softly, your voice steady despite the storm swirling in your chest. “Why, Austin? Why did you think that about me?”

He winced, your words hitting like a physical blow. His shoulders sagged as he looked down at his hands. “It wasn’t you,” he said finally, his voice rough. “It was me. My own shit—my own insecurities. I let them take over.”

You frowned, searching his face. “What insecurities? You’ve never been like this before.”

He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “I’ve always been like this. I’m just good at hiding it. You’ve always been so sure of yourself—so confident in who you are and what you want. It’s one of the things I love most about you. But me? I’ve spent so much of my career feeling like I’m one misstep away from losing everything. Like if I’m not perfect, it’ll all fall apart.”

You stared at him, his words sinking in.

“And when I saw those photos—when I saw you with someone who’s just as talented, just as driven—I let those insecurities take over. I let them convince me that I wasn’t enough. That maybe you’d realise it too.”

Your heart twisted at the raw honesty in his voice. “Austin…”

He shook his head, cutting you off. “I know that’s not an excuse. What I said to you—it was cruel and unfair. I didn’t trust you, and that’s on me. Not on you. You’ve never given me a reason to doubt you, and I hate that I made you feel like you had to defend yourself.”

Tears pricked at your eyes, but you blinked them back, refusing to let them fall.

“I need you to know that I see how badly I messed up." he said quickly, his voice cracking. "And I’ll do whatever it takes to earn your trust back.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of his words pressing against the walls you’d built since that weekend. “Austin… I appreciate what you’re saying. And I believe you mean it. But trust isn’t something you can just fix overnight. It takes time.”

“I know,” he said quickly, his voice firm. “And I’m not asking for you to forgive me right now. I just want a chance to show you that I can be better. That I can be the man you deserve.”

The sincerity in his voice made your chest ache, but the hurt from that weekend still lingered. “You accused me of something I would never do. Do you know how much that hurt?”

He looked up then, his eyes red and glassy. “I do,” he whispered. “And I hate myself for it. You trusted me, and I broke that. I don’t know how to make it right, but I’ll spend the rest of my life trying if you’ll let me.”

You stared at him, the weight of his words settling over you. There was no doubt in your mind that he meant them—that he was genuinely sorry. But the hurt was still there, a wound that hadn’t yet healed.

“I want to believe you,” you admitted, your voice breaking slightly. “But I’m scared, Austin. What if this happens again?”

“It won’t,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion. “I promise you, it won’t. I can’t lose you. I don’t want to lose us.”

“You need to understand something,” you said, your voice steady but firm. “I chose you. Every day, I choose you. And if we’re going to move forward, you need to trust that—completely. Because I can’t keep doing this if you don’t.”

He nodded, his expression resolute. “I do trust you. I’ll prove it to you, I swear. Just… tell me what I need to do.”

You shook your head, a soft, bittersweet smile tugging at your lips. “It’s not about what you can do, Austin. It’s about what you believe. Do you believe in us? Do you believe I’m in this with you, no matter how hard it gets?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation, his voice steady despite the tears shining in his eyes. “I believe in us. And I’ll never doubt you again.”

The sincerity in his words broke something inside you, the last wall you’d built around your heart crumbling under the weight of his apology. You leaned forward, your hands trembling as they found his. “You really mean that?”

“Every word,” he said softly, his hand lifting to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. “I love you. More than anything. Please… don’t give up on me. On us.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, and he reached up to wipe it away, his touch gentle. “I love you too,” you whispered, the words trembling on your lips. “But this isn’t going to be easy.”

His fingers tightened around yours, his breath hitching as relief washed over his face. “I don’t care how hard it is,” he said, his voice unwavering. “As long as it’s with you.” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

For the first time in weeks, the weight in your chest began to lift. It wouldn’t be easy—he’d hurt you in ways that would take time to heal. But as you looked at him, his face open and raw with emotion, you knew one thing for certain: he was worth it. You were worth it. And together, you’d find your way back.

The rest of the evening passed in gentle conversation, the kind that reminded you why you’d fallen in love with Austin in the first place. There were no grand declarations, no over-the-top promises, just quiet honesty and mutual understanding. The two of you sat close on the couch, your hands brushing occasionally, until the night deepened and the quiet hum of the city outside became the only sound in the room.

When you finally stood to clear away the empty mugs and plates from your impromptu dinner, Austin followed, taking the dishes from your hands and placing them in the sink. His presence was steady, grounding, and when you turned to face him, his gaze softened, his hand brushing against your cheek.

“Do you want me to go?” he asked quietly, though there was a hesitation in his voice, as if the thought of leaving you again was something he couldn’t bear.

You shook your head, the weight of the day finally slipping from your shoulders. “Stay,” you murmured, your voice soft but resolute. “I want you to stay.”

Relief flickered across his face, and he leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Okay,” he whispered. “I’ll stay.”

The rest of the night passed in quiet intimacy—not the charged kind that had defined so much of your relationship before, but something softer. He held you close on the couch, your head resting on his chest as his fingers traced lazy patterns against your back. For the first time in weeks, you felt like you could breathe, the tension between you slowly unraveling with each steady beat of his heart.

By the time you both moved to the bedroom, the exhaustion of the past few weeks caught up with you. Austin pulled you close under the covers, his arms wrapped securely around you as if to shield you from the weight of everything that had happened. His lips brushed against your hair, and you felt his breath hitch as he whispered, “I love you.”

You didn’t respond with words—there was no need. Instead, you reached for his hand, lacing your fingers through his as sleep began to pull you under. For the first time in weeks, the ache in your chest felt manageable, the steady warmth of his presence a quiet reminder that you were moving forward together.

By the time morning came, the warmth of Austin’s presence lingered like a quiet reassurance, even as he kissed your temple softly and promised to be waiting when you got home. The day on set was as hectic as ever, a blur of lines, takes, and the ever-present hum of final-week chaos, but the thought of him waiting for you brought a grounding sense of calm.

When you finally stepped through the door that evening, the first thing you noticed was the soft glow of candlelight. Your living room, usually cluttered with the remnants of long workdays, had been transformed. A simple dinner for two sat on the small table by the window—pasta, wine, and a plate of your favourite garlic bread. Austin stood near the table, his hands in his pockets, looking almost shy.

“Hey,” he said softly, his lips curving into a tentative smile.

You froze, the day’s exhaustion melting under the warmth of the scene. “What’s all this?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, a little self-conscious. “I know we’re not supposed to just jump back to normal, but I wanted to do something for you. To say thank you—for giving us another chance.”

Your chest tightened, but this time, it wasn’t with pain. It was the kind of emotion that made you want to cry and laugh all at once. “Austin…”

“I know it’s not much,” he interrupted, stepping closer. “But I’ve been thinking about what you said—about choosing each other every day. I want to start showing you that. Not just in big ways, but in the little ones too.”

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat making it difficult to speak. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

“I wanted to.” His voice was steady, but his eyes were vulnerable, like he was waiting for you to tell him if he’d gotten it right. “Because you deserve to be reminded how much you mean to me. Every day.”

The words landed like a balm on the raw edges of your heart. Slowly, you stepped toward him, your fingers brushing against his. “You’re doing it, Austin. You’re proving it.”

His relief was almost palpable, the tension in his shoulders easing as he smiled. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

Dinner was quiet, intimate, filled with soft laughter and the kind of conversation that came naturally between the two of you. It wasn’t perfect—not yet. But it felt like a step forward, like you were slowly finding your way back to the connection that had always been there.

Later, as you sat on the couch with Austin’s arm draped around your shoulders, he pressed a kiss to your temple. “I’ve been thinking about something.”

“What’s that?” you asked, your head resting against his chest.

“You’re almost wrapped here, right?” His voice was careful, but hopeful.

“Yeah.”

“I thought… maybe we could take a trip. Just the two of us. Somewhere quiet, where we can spend time together without distractions.”

You tilted your head to look up at him, surprised. “You’d want to do that?”

He smiled, his fingers brushing against your cheek. “I want to go wherever you are.”

The simplicity of the statement made your heart swell, and for the first time in weeks, the ache in your chest was replaced with something lighter. It wouldn’t be easy. But as you looked into Austin’s eyes, you knew you were both ready to fight for what you had.

“I’d like that,” you said softly.

And when he leaned down to kiss you, it felt like the start of something new—fragile but full of hope, with the promise of better days ahead.

[hyomaslut]

──★ ˙🍒 ̟ !! SAY THAT YOU MISS ME. 18+!

☆⌒(ゝ。∂).ᐟ ʙʟʟᴋ ʙᴏʏs ɢᴏɪɴɢ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴇx

✿ ─ characters: bachira meguru, chigiri hyoma, rin itoshi ✿ ─ cw: somewhat angst, nsfw, smut, gn!reader, afab!reader, no pronouns, aged-up!characters(21+), established relationships??, exes to lovers, kissing, groping, dirty talk, semi-public sex, lots of jealousy, alcohol use, posessiveness, unprotected sex, cunnilingus, toxic behaviors/dynamics, use of foul language, suggestive themes, proofread?? ✿ ─ notes: they are straight up drabbles. i wrote hyoma's first and i was like, omg this is way too long. fuck it, hope i can get the others close to this word count. and then they were longer. im so sorry i promise next time i wont be so long winded.

BACHIRA MEGURU is unsettled by the silence that lingers in your absence...

he honestly doesn’t know what to do with himself. the heavy loneliness he feels in a bed far too big for just one person is almost enough to push him to call you, staring at your contact for at least an hour. you were best friends. partners in crime. a power couple. how could things be over? he misses your voice more than anything else, all the time in his day usually spent deep in conversation with you now feeling empty.

he could tell that he reached a real pathetic stage of heartbroken when he started listening to old voicemails from you at night, but couldn’t find it in himself to care as he smiles at your laugh and tears up at your i love you’s. that turns into scrolling through photos he has of you, and then that has his mind drifting to the hidden album he has dedicated to you, full of the numerous risqué shots you’ve sent him over the course of your relationship. meguru doesn’t dwell on the moral dilemma of keeping the pictures, they were his after all. either gifted to him or taken by him, so he feels he has some sort of right to them. when he scrolls to a particular video from his point of view of your pretty mouth wrapped around his tip, his hand almost immediately moves to palm his crotch. he tugs down his boxers to stroke himself to the scene of you deepthroating his cock, the sweet sound of your moans and sputters through his phone speaker making both his dick and his heart ache for you.

after some time spent desperately trying to create a cheap imitation of the pleasure you make him feel, bachira grows frustrated. it’s really unfair now that he thinks about it. how could you indulge him in all his deepest fantasies and give him the wildest hottest fucks of his life only to leave him high and dry in the end? finally giving up on cumming, covered in a thin layer of sweat, he opens his phone again in some lust fueled bravery, texting you hey can we talk?

in your apartment, you were dedicating your evening to trying not to think about all the ways you missed your ex, knowing that the first few weeks of a break up were the hardest. you stand up from the couch, breaking out of your thoughts and hoping to just distract yourself for the time being. picking up your cell was extremely counter productive in that regard, your heart jumping at a text from megs ‹𝟹. he wants to talk. seeing that the text was sent half an hour ago, you jump to reply yeah sure. when? you don’t even think before accepting, the chance to bask in his attention one more time is too tempting when missing him this much. the contact picture you set for him pops up, indicating an incoming call.

you take a breath in the tense silence, offering a somewhat unsure, “hello?” his end of the call comes to life all of a sudden, finally connecting through his current shoddy service. he sounds slightly out of breath and you hear a faint ding in the background. the grainy noises let you know that he probably wasn’t in the quiet privacy of his home as he usually would be at this time. “meguru? is now a bad time to talk?”

“no! now's a good time,” he reassures, “i’m in the elevator up to your place.”

“you’re what?”

there’s some more shuffling from him and quick footsteps that echo both from the call and the hallway outside your apartment. “open up.”

there’s apprehension floating somewhere in your mind, but the big part of you that was very much not over him moves your feet towards the door, unlocking it. as soon as the physical barrier between you and him is gone, there is a completely different tone that settles and you almost sense it before it happens when he pushes forward to crash his lips onto yours. he didn’t exactly have a plan showing up, but seeing you, there was only one thing his body wanted to do. your back collides with the wall of your entryway, one of his hands already on the back of your head to cushion the blow, his other arm coiled around your waist to press you flush against him. unaware of it, the two of you share the same thought. this is 1000 times better than being alone tonight.

“meguru.” you call out trying to gently push against his chest to create some room between you. trying to be the rational one and state the obvious facts. you broke up with him. he shouldn’t be here. it’ll just cause more heartache for the both of you. but tingles run up his back when you say his name that way, breathless as he steals all the air from you. fuels his need to hold onto you tighter and not let you go this time around. eventually you manage to get your hand over his mouth to stop him from kissing you before your resolve really breaks and you let this go too far. “megu we shouldn’t. this is hard enough as it is-”

he pries your fingers away, and just when you think he is going to say something, convince you, justify himself, he dips his head down to capture your lips again, gently sucking on the bottom one to draw out a gasp so he can shove his tongue in. greedy hands grab at your thighs, lifting one of your legs to wrap around his waist so he can shamelessly rut his hips against yours. he makes it hard to think straight, pulling away after a moment to stare into your eyes, giving you that signature wild look that causes your knees to go weak. “tell me you don’t want me.”

“huh?”

“look me in the eyes and tell me you don't want me.” he watches you expectantly, his impatience showing when he begins softly rocking into you. “cause we both know nobody else can make you cum like i can. let me make you feel good.”

you don’t find the strength to turn down his offer, not when you’re already panting at the affection he’s given you and soaking from the rhythmic press of his hard cock against you. bachira relishes the relief and arousal that floods through him when you wrap your arms around his neck to drag him into another sloppy kiss, and you feel his grin grow against your lips. the competitor in him recognizes a challenge, his heart pounding in perverse excitement. he has one chance to prove to you just how much you need him. lucky for you, that’s the kind of risk your ex gets off on.

CHIGIRI HYOMA is unreasonably bitter...

you and him are a perfect match, and the thought of you ever replacing him makes him sick. the egoist in him can’t stand the idea of someone stealing his role in your life. someone else taking you out, having your attention, putting their hands on you. deep down some rational part of him knows that he doesn’t stake any claim over you anymore, but the sinking pit in his stomach does nothing to alleviate the gut instinct that you’re his.

it eats at him. chigiri feels childish stalking your social media or casually asking mutual friends about you. he doesn’t want to seem affected, but he just can’t help but give into his curiosity. this same ‘curiosity’ is what leads him to hanging out in the bars he knows you frequent, either with friends or without. he hardly admits to himself that he’s hoping to run into you, but when it actually does happen, hyoma doesn’t hesitate to approach. he’s unsure if it’s the irresistible pull of being within arms reach of you again, or the selfish intuition to make his move on you before anyone else has the chance.

it seems innocent enough. he’s as charismatic and lighthearted as ever, offering to catch up, buy you a drink or two. chemistry you’ve always shared slowly surfaces through conversation. there was no denying that he had his charms, ones that hit all your soft spots just like the first time he won you over. so when he ‘accidentally’ bumps into you on your way out of the bathroom, and wraps his arms around you so you don’t fall over from tipsy imbalance, you barely even question it. being in his embrace is familiar and there is a glance shared between you with a certain spark to it that it’s only natural he leans down to kiss you. hyoma is nothing if not an opportunist, smoothly steering you back into the small bar bathroom, his lips and tongue never leaving you.

he’s panting into your mouth between hungry kisses, hands already tugging at your clothing. his teeth find your neck, sucking and biting warm bruises in his wake, eager to mark every inch of skin he can latch onto. before you get the chance to playfully tease him about crawling back to you, your body is twisted around and bent forward over the sink. your eyes dart to the mirror in front of you, meeting his smug grin as he yanks your pants and underwear down your thighs.

hyoma reaches his hand around to dip between your folds, deft fingers rubbing languid circles into your clit the way he knows you like. if it werent for the cocktails you would be embarrassed by the way you immediately melt into his touch, whimpers readily escaping you. “you’re already whining like that and i’ve barely even touched you, this pussy must’ve really missed me, huh?”

pleasure shoots up your core, arching your back at the feeling, pressing your ass into the bulge straining against his jeans. a moan bubbles up in his throat, but he’s quick to close his mouth, muffling the sound to a soft grunt, not willing to indulge you in the reactions you always seek to draw out of him. his hips push forward to grind into yours, the hard outline of his cock enough to remind you of what more you could be having instead of this PG13 dry humping session. you try to catch his gaze in the mirror, but it never leaves the place where you connect, giving you only soft thrusts while his fingers are unrelenting against your clit. “hyoma.” you manage to get out between heavy breaths. pink eyes finally travel up to meet yours. “please give it to me.”

and on a normal day, your ex-boyfriend would’ve dragged out the foreplay and teased you until you’re near tears and begging him for more, but something about the way you ask feels like a confession. that you wanted him just as desperately as he had been craving you. it sparks a fire up chigiri’s spine, wasting no time shoving the tight denim down to release himself. soon enough the tip of his pretty dick is squished against your entrance. his jaw is clenched from the restraint it takes not to immediately bury himself balls deep, grabbing your waist to keep steady.

any doubts that he had about still pining after you are gone, because the first tight clench of your cunt around his tip confirms what he’s always wholeheartedly believed. you were fucking made for him.

“god fuck,” he mutters breathily, biting down onto his bottom lip as he watches your hole swallow his entire length. his hips wind back, not getting far before the grip your walls have on him forces him to slowly sink back in. “anyone else fill you up this good, angel? get you this wet?” he asks, one of his hands grabbing hold of your hair to make you properly face him in the reflection again, wearing a cocky smirk that makes your stomach do flips.

a pout forms on your lips at his leisurely thrusts, far from enough to satisfy you, especially when you’ve seen firsthand the speed and effort he is depriving you of. “i don’t know, im getting a bit bored here princess,” you mock, despite the way you’re barely able to contain your noises as is.

without warning his pace becomes the staple unrelenting and overwhelming one you fantasize about while futilely trying to get off on your own. hyoma lets go of your hair in favor of clamping down over your mouth, loud moans already beginning to spill out around his fingers. the sight of the typically cool-headed prince losing his nonchalance, fucking you with pure ego and a savage glimmer in his eyes isn’t something you’ll easily forget. “this what you wanted? only satisfied when i fuck you stupid, right?"

ITOSHI RIN is not a fan of losing you, but loves getting you back...

rin doesn’t fall in love easily. he doesn’t know exactly how you managed it, but you barged into his life unannounced and dragged love out of him with your unrelenting company and killer smile. and rin was no willing victim either, figuratively kicking and screaming the whole way with his many cold moments and guarded emotions. in the end you won, with him wrapped helplessly around your finger. while rin would prefer to deny you any power over him, there’s a fire that burns in his chest for you that demands he give you everything he has. and he does.

but his love proves to be too much and not enough. too much in the ways of his possessive tendencies and clinginess and toxic defensiveness. and not enough in the way that it doesn’t keep you around. not that he blames you for it, although he does get the occasional bitter thought that you should’ve known to leave him alone from the start. deep down he knows he doesn’t really mean it, preferring even this pitiful longing you leave him with to the dark cloud that was his life before you. and it’s what he fears of returning to if you ever manage to fully pull away from him one day.

the first time you break up, rin admittedly doesn’t deal with it well. after endless calls and texts and showing up at your place with flowers and vulnerability, you take him back, only to return to the same arguments when his jealousy issues get out of hand. he wished he could say the second or third time went differently. fourth time around, however, rin gains some semblance of dignity and decides to keep his distance. maybe it was time to give moving on the good old college try. what other option did he have? as in love with you as he was, he couldn’t force you to stay and wasn’t well equipped to do the soul searching necessary to rid himself of all the behaviors that bothered you. maybe this was a lesson he needed to grow into the type of guy you could see yourself with. at least he intended to take that route, until you showed up at his house a few days later begging for him to forgive you for ever thinking you could live without him. he doesn’t even feel embarrassment over how easily he caves. it can’t be his fault when that night you swore you’d always belong to him while screaming his name. that same night he resolved that no matter what happened, you were it for him, and until you told him without a shadow of a doubt that you no longer loved him, he would return to you every time.

it started this viscous cycle of an on and off again relationship, fueled by passion and possession from both parties. one that rin never planned on ending as long as it was the only way he got to call you his, feeling a deep sense of comfort in the fact that you were weak for him too. that’s why he’s unsurprised hearing a knock on his door at 11PM. a new record considering it only been a day since the huge fight that caused your latest break up, not that rin was keeping count.

he has to stop himself from running to the door, because if he was honest he was thinking of grabbing his keys and heading to you minutes earlier. it doesn’t take more than a, “i’m so sorry baby,” to have him scooping you up into his arms on instinct. the familiar security of your legs wrapped around his hips, hands grabbing at your ass as he carries you to his bed, makes up for the self-loathing mess he becomes in the aftermath of every separation.

none of that other stuff matters when he gets to have you under him like this, already whining in anticipation as he peels away your bottom layers. rin can’t resist leaning in for a quick kiss to your clit before looking up at you from between your legs. a finger ghosts along your slit causing you to squirm and lean up towards the touch before one of his strong hands pushes you firmly to the bed, resting just under your navel. fortunately for you, rin is terrible at denying you the things he knows you want. especially when he’s practically drooling for you, letting the excess spit dribble out of his mouth and onto your cunt. you feel him lick long stripes from your entrance to your clit before wrapping his lips around it.

rin eats you as if it were his first meal in days. being apart from you always seemed a whole lot longer when he has to fear if you really mean it this time when you say you wanna stop seeing him. so he allows himself to be greedy, laves at your slick ravenously with a loud groan and humping his hips against the mattress to relieve his cock that’s already leaking in his boxers. your hands bury themselves in his hair, throwing your head back in pleasure as he bites down into your thigh, leaving an imprint of his teeth. “god you taste so good. you’re fucking criminal for trying to keep this perfect pussy from me.”

his free hand wanders to your core, two fingers easily slipping inside from a mix of your juices and his drool, curling to just the right spot. he sucks your clit into his mouth, your sweet moans fill the air and he has to stop his thrusts to keep himself from cumming in his pants at the sound, pulling away from you with a lewd pop. “‘ts mine,” he grunts out, “you’re fucking mine, and no one can make you feel like this but me. say it.”

“only you rin! ‘m yours!” you choke out, bucking against the pressure he puts on your stomach. satisfied with your response, he dives back in, fingers pumping into you with steady rhythm and using his tongue to lap up everything that leaks out. his intense gaze stays trained on yours with a newfound determination to make you feel so good, you’re ruined for anyone else but him.

“all mine.”

◑.◑ its honestly tempting to write a whole fic for rin…

© 2023 hyomaslut. please do not copy, translate, or repost any of my content onto any other sites.

[bunnywritesjunk]

My King

Series summary: Your parents signed you up for an Alpha Omega Match company when you were eighteen. It took years for them to find your match, but you meet the giant austrian man. Will he be a good partner?

Chapter summary: You are settling in to living in a new country. Your Alpha wants to show you how important you are to him.

Pairing: König x Fem Reader

Warnings: A/B/O dynamics (Never use this abbreviation without the slashes it is an indigenous slur) 18+ MDNI (no others for this chapter)

Word count: 3.4k

Genre: Mostly Fluff a little angst here and there.

A/n: Oh my GOD. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! I can't believe the amount of love this fic is getting. I just had to write another chapter for you guys asap. I have a taglist so comment if you'd like to join it.

Previous Chapter

Chapter Two:

You sigh as you take in the barren state of your room. All that was left was boxes and your suitcases. Your mom is going to send the rest of your belongings after you arrive in Amsterdam. You were sad to leave your childhood home and your parents but, excited to see what the future holds. Especially now that you have a very sweet Alpha taking care of you. As much as you hate to admit it, your inner Omega has longed for this day. You still couldn't shake the nerves of moving to a completely different country. The AOMO assisted you with your visa which was easy to get approved for. Countries were more lenient with citizenship when it came to obtaining a mate. You haven't seen König in about a week. He went back to Amsterdam to prepare for your arrival. A knock sounded at your door before it opened. 

“You ready?” Your Dad asked, moving to grab your suitcases for you. 

“Yeah.” You followed him out of the room.

Your Mother was standing near the door, her eyes filled with tears that threatened to spill. You went over and hugged her. 

“My baby girl, moving out. I'm gonna miss you.” 

“I'll come visit, don't worry.”

“You better.” Your dad called an Uber to get to the airport.

The drive was silent besides the quiet radio in the background. The airport was busy. This was your first time flying by yourself, you took a deep breath to calm your nerves. You gave your mother and father one last hug before to went to check your bags. Your mother shed a tear and adjusted your protection collar again, urging you to be safe. You bid them goodbye and headed to check your bags and go through security. Once you made it to your gate your phone vibrated. You didn't recognize the number. 

'Hello liebe, It is König. Kara has given me your number.'

'I am not used to texting, I text no one. Are you at the plane?'

Your heart jumped with excitement hearing from him. 

'Hi König, I am at my gate. It boards in about an hour I think.'

'Wonderful, I will be waiting for you when you arrive.' 

'See you then.'

You suppressed a squeal as you put your phone away. Your inner Omega was getting a little out of hand with her feelings about him. You felt like a middle schooler with a crush. You distracted yourself by using the bathroom and buying some expensive airport snacks to tide you over on the ride. It was a seven-hour overnight flight set to arrive at eleven am Netherlands time. Once you boarded the plane you got comfortable for the long flight. You brought a blanket from home and a neck pillow. Kara set you up with a window seat. As you took off you silently said goodbye to the big city and hello to your new future. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You woke as the lights of the plane cabin turned on. The flight attendants told everyone to prepare for landing. You gathered your things and gazed out your window. The city was lush, the leaves were turning slightly as fall rolled in. Your heart pounded against your chest with excitement, your Omega desperately wanted to see König. You still had to go through customs and baggage claim. 

König wasn't much better. Throughout the week he had distracted himself by cleaning and buying things for your arrival, but that did little to quell the Alpha in him. He brought new bedding for your nest. He didn't know what kind you'd like so he got a little bit of everything. Fluffy faux fur blankets, cooling quilts, silk sheets, you name it. He also started putting aside t-shirts he has worn in case you wanted them for your nest. His apartment had two bedrooms, one of which he never used. It had a bed and that was about it. Although he desperately wanted you to sleep in his bed, he knew Omegas needed their space to nest and feel at home. He furnished the room with a desk, nightstand, dresser, and TV. He would leave the decorating up to you as that has never been his strong suit. He waited outside of baggage claim tapping his foot anxiously. He had arrived entirely too early but couldn't stand to sit in his apartment any longer. 

Customs went by smoothly. You scanned the conveyor belts for your luggage. The longer the wait was the more your heart pounded. You were starting to sweat making your scent waft to the people around you. You moved to a corner with fewer people to avoid the annoyed looks people would give you. Your luggage finally made its round in the rotunda and you snatched it as fast as you could. You walked outside to the pickup area the sun blinding you for a moment as you looked around. You inhaled deeply trying to pinpoint König's scent. The faint smell of bread and cinnamon entered your nose through the breeze. You looked to the left seeing a familiar mop of hair behind a black SUV. He was too tall not to be the Alpha you were looking for. You walked up to him his back turned to you. 

“König.” You said happily. 

He turned to you surprised. “You're here.”

König was trying to contain his excitement. His inner alpha pressured him to pick you up, to hold you. As if reading his mind, you hugged him. He wrapped his arms around you, dwarfing you. He bent down resting his nose in your hair, savoring your scent. You looked up at him keeping your arms around his waist. He had his black surgical mask on. 

“I'm so happy to see you.”

“I spent every day thinking of you liebe.” 

He reluctantly released the embrace and opened the passenger side door for you. You sat in the car and watched him load your luggage into the trunk. He slid into the driver's seat glancing at you before pulling off onto the road. His scent sweetened the longer he was in your presence. 

“How was the flight?” He asked.

“It was easy, I just slept.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Yeah, I could eat.” 

König reached behind your seat to the back and grabbed a white paper bag. He handed it to you all without taking his eyes off the road. Inside was a croissant and a peach Danish. 

“Oh thank you König. You really know the way to woo me.” You chuckled taking a bite of the Danish. 

He responded with 'hmm' and a content smile. The ride was about thirty minutes. You gazed out the window taking in the sights of your new city. Many people rode bikes and there were endless cafes. König parallel parked onto a quiet residential block. You got out of the car taking in your surroundings. The houses were all unique in color and style. Only one person was walking down the street. König unloaded your bags and put them on the sidewalk. You went to grab them but he shooed your hands away. He locked the car and started walking. The house he led you to was a brick home with a few steps leading to the foyer. He opened the door and let you walk inside first before carrying your bags in with ease. You walked up the two flights of stairs. 

“The door is open.” König said from behind you. 

The second door came into view and you opened the door for him. He sets your bags down and closes the door behind him. The apartment was furnished but bland. Not much decor or color. It was obvious he doesn't spend much time here as it did not look lived in. 

“Come.” He said leading you down the small hallway.

 He opened the first door, it was the bathroom. Quite large for an apartment bathroom, you were excited to use the tub. He then lead you to the second door it was a nice furnished bedroom there were a lot of shopping bags near the bed. 

“This is your room. I brought nesting material for you but, I was not sure what you liked.” 

You walked in. The natural light of the morning flooded into the room through the large windows. The building was high enough that you had a decent view of the neighborhood. 

“König, you didn't have to buy all these for me.” 

“Nonsense.” 

You smiled. “Thank you, Alpha.” 

König's heart thumped against his chest. He didn't expect you to use his title so soon, but he was over the moon.

“You're welcome Omega.” He purred.

Your Omega preened at the title. Although the situation was new, you felt safe and cared for. You started opening some of the bedding to assess them for your new nest. There was a large dark blue comforter with matching silk sheets. You knew you should focus on unpacking but the temptation to build your nest was too high. König watched you from the door with adoration. He was proud of himself for making his Omega feel happy and safe. He brought your luggage into your room to unpack whenever you were ready. 

You were completely engrossed in your nest you didn't realize König was watching you. You took off your shoes and jacket and started arranging the sheets first to have a silky base. Then you used the quilts as a border before you could arrange it properly your phone started ringing, taking you out of the daze you were in. You reached for your phone in your jacket pocket. It was your mom. 

“Mom it's so early there you didn't have to call now.” 

“I know sweetie I just was paranoid. Did you arrive safe?” 

“I did, I'm at König's now.” 

“Oh, great ok that's all I was worried about. I'm gonna head back to sleep. I love you, sweetheart.”

“I love you too Mom”

You hung up the phone and looked around at the mess of packaging on the floor. You were debating whether you should continue making your nest or clean your mess up. Sensing your internal struggle König spoke. 

“Let's unpack Schatz.”

“Oh, right.” 

You unzipped your suitcases and started sorting things into the dresser and closet. You instructed König to put your toiletries in the bathroom and put your clothes in certain drawers. He was happy to help, spending time with his Omega was the most important thing to him. König was given a little over three months' leave to settle with his Omega. After Christmas, he had to go back on missions. The thought made his heart ache. He shook off the negative feelings before she could pick up on anything, not wanting her to worry. König picked up the packaging placing it in one of the shopping bags. He went to the kitchen to throw it away. 

Now that he was here he did not know what to do. Does he give her space? Should he take her out? König wants to spend as much time as possible with her, but he did not want to be overbearing. Before he could overthink, he heard you calling him. Walking into your room he saw you kneeling on the bed. 

“Take off your shoes and come I want to test something.” You said. 

He obliged, taking his shoes off. You waved him over to your unfinished nest. He stepped up to you hesitantly not wanting to cross any boundaries with your nest. You grabbed his hand and made him lie down. König stiffened not wanting to ruin anything. He has never been invited into an Omega's nest before. You started arranging your nesting materials around him. Once you got a good sense of how many blankets you needed for both of you to be comfy, you released him. He sat up carefully trying not to disturb anything that you arranged. He was honored that you'd feel comfortable just being in the room while you created your space. 

While making your nest you noticed how barren the room was. You wanted it to be warm and cozy. You looked up at König. 

“Let's go shopping, Alpha. Can we?” 

“Sure, liebe.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

König was surprised you had so much energy after your night of travel. You took in the scenery of the local shops. You slipped your hand into Konigs and led him into a home decor shop. König let himself be dragged around as you browsed. Every shop they went into you picked up small things. A wall mirror, a pretty tapestry, a cute frog statue, you had to have it. One of the shops you walked into sold Omega protection collars. You sighed.

“I wouldn't mind wearing mine as much if it looked better.” 

The shop made custom-fit metal collars. There was a beautiful gold metal collar with a dangle charm in the center. It came down to a point near the clavicle. Contrary to your basic black leather one. 

“Would you like this one?” König asked. 

“Oh, no it's expensive.” 

You moved to walk out of the shop but you felt a hand on your waist stop you. König pulled you back to him gently and waved over the sales associate. 

“Can she try this one on?” The worker nodded and took the collar out of the case. 

You removed your collar with the key you kept in your wallet and let the worker place the gold one on you. You looked in the mirror and smiled. It complimented you in the best way, simple yet elegant. The worker explained that they do custom fittings that take a few days to make but it's worth it. You removed the collar and handed it back. 

“She would like to get fitted.” König said suddenly. 

“What? No König really it's too much.”

“Just in case.”

“In case what?” 

He didn't answer. The worker did a few measurements around your neck and the size and placement of your scent glands, writing them down on a form. After they were done they bid the both of you goodbye and looked forward to your order. 

“I don't think I'm gonna get it.” You told König.

“It's too much...” You added

“That's ok.” He said. 

He placed his arm around your waist as you walked, holding your shopping bags in the other hand. You had a feeling he was planning something but you let it go for the time being. 

By the time you got home, it was getting dark. König placed your shopping bags into your room. You yawned. 

“You should sleep liebe, you've had a busy day.” König said. 

“Yeah, I'll head to bed early so I can finish my nest.” You stretched your back and walked to your room. König followed behind you heading to his room. He grabbed your wrist spinning you back toward him. His other hand caressed your cheek while leaning down to your level. He pulled down his mask revealing his plump lips.

“Goodnight Omega.” He kissed your cheek. 

König felt it was only right to return the kiss you gave him before. He let the kiss linger for a few seconds before pulling away. Heat crept from your neck to your cheeks. König walked to his room smiling to himself. You leaned against your door, heart racing. You opened the door, your inner Omega was reeling from your Alpha's attention. Your alpha? You were completely smitten by the giant Apex. You closed the door, changed into pajamas, and jumped into your nest. You sighed into the pillows, fantasizing about your Alpha. You began adjusting your nest to your liking. It ended up taking you an hour to make it perfect, keeping in mind the space for König. You'd never made a nest with someone else in mind but it was nice. You got cozy and let sleep take over. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Light entered your room slowly waking you. You looked at your phone, it was 6:04 am. You sat up and stretched, happy that you beat the jetlag. Wondering if König was awake, you quietly stepped out of your room and down the hallway to his room. You knocked gently. König was a light sleeper. He heard your small footsteps before you knocked and went to open the door. He looked down at your face still flushed with sleep. 

“Good morning.” You said, absentmindedly rubbing your eyes. 

König purred deeply. You looked so cute in your PJs he wanted to pull you into his bed., for more than just cuddling. He leaned down and kissed your forehead. 

“Morning Schatz.” He guided you down the hallway to the kitchen. 

“I can make us pancakes for breakfast.” You suggested.

“Sounds wonderful.” 

König watched you flit around the kitchen. The kitchen was barely used because of his job, so it was nice seeing it get used. Your head snapped to the alpha when you realized he was watching you. 

“Go sit, I'll bring it to you.” 

König nodded and sat on the couch. He turned on the TV as he waited and listened to the kitchen utensils clanging in the background. A few minutes later you emerged with a plate for him topped with syrup. He took the plate and looked at the food quizzically. 

“What's wrong?” you asked. 

“These...are pancakes?” He analyzed the fluffy discs.

“Yeah, are pancakes different here?” He nodded.

“I'll try them.” He carved out a bite with his fork. You watched him intensely. 

“How is it?” 

“...Sweet, but good.” He said. 

You smiled and went to get yourself a plate. You plopped down next to him on the couch and you took a bite. You watched the random movie he put on as you ate, feeling perfectly content with your Alpha.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later, you were on the couch typing away on your laptop working on your next chapter. König was struggling to find something to do with himself. He wanted to give you space to write, but desperately wanted to spend time with you. He understood that your job was time sensitive. He was lucky to have you here at all. You heard König pacing behind you causing you to lose your concentration. You got up and went to your room. You rummaged through your suitcase, finding a copy of your fantasy novel. You walked up to König and handed him the book before returning to your spot on the couch. He appeared next to you on the couch glancing over the blurb. 

“I thought I had to buy a copy?” He said. 

“Well, you need something to do.” You chuckled. 

You two fell into a comfortable silence with König's mind now occupied. After a while, you glanced at the Alpha. He was engrossed in the pages well into the starting plot. 

“How is it so far?” 

“So good Schatz. I have not read a novel in a long time, I like it.”

“I'm glad.”

König bent the corner of the page he was on and closed the book. You nearly felt your heart jumped out of your chest.

“Ah! König!!!” You grabbed the book and attempted to straighten the corner out.

“This is a book sin!” You exclaimed.

“Oh? But I have no bookmark.” He gave you an amused look. 

“Ok just ask for one I have many!” You pouted.

“The book isn't hurt.”

“How do you know?” 

König laughed. It was so genuine and hearty that you almost forgot what you were upset about. You turned away and set the book page-side down. König's laughter died down and he looked at you. 

“You're adorable, Schatz.”

“Hmph.” You said. 

König reached around cupping your cheek. You turned to him. It was surprising to see his face a couple of inches away from yours. His eyes were soft as they gazed into yours, he looked down at your lips before capturing yours in a chaste kiss. Your eyes fluttered closed, leaning into the kiss. Your bottom lip slotted in between his in the most delicious way. He pulled away, resting his forehead on yours. You wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him again. One of his hands slithered around your waist pulling you flush against his torso. The other hand firmly gripped the side of your jaw. 

Your heart pounded so loud you swear he could hear it.

König smiled against your lips. He finally had his Omega. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Taglist: Comment to join

@that-fangirl-1106 @itsryuken @y2katsuki

[abbotjack]

Just Passing Through

summary : The house they once called theirs is still standing, but nothing inside it feels the same. Over quiet breakfasts, broken appliances, too-tight sheets, and middle-of-the-night confessions, they navigate the fragile space between intimacy and absence. What unfolds is not a reunion, but a reckoning—of what’s changed, what hasn’t, and whether love is something that survives return.

word count : 9,851

content/warnings : 18+ MDNI!!, grief, war trauma, PTSD, military deployment, emotional repression, complex romantic dynamics, slow unraveling of a relationship, implied mental health struggles, caretaking and emotional labor, quiet heartbreak, vivid early-2000s domestic detail, hurt/comfort, heavy angst, no smut, no tidy resolution, graphic description of battlefield injuries, implied death of a child, moral injury, survivor’s guilt, emotionally intense dialogue, depiction of male vulnerability, trauma recollection in a domestic setting.

Robinson Township, PA. Summer 2005 : The house already has his things in it. The question is whether it still has him.

The dishwasher finishes its cycle at 11:47 pm.

You stand in the middle of the kitchen barefoot, staring at the condensation on the cabinets—rich cherrywood, sealed to shine even when there’s nothing left to polish. You didn’t need to run the dishwasher tonight. There were only two glasses in the sink. You just needed the sound.

You reach for a towel and open the dishwasher, the steam curling into your face like breath. You dry the glasses. Slowly. Ritualistically. As if there's nothing else to do with your hands.

The house isn’t new. It never was. But it’s yours. Yours and his. The ours that only happens when two people commit to staying in the same place long enough to leave marks.

There’s a burn on the countertop from your first try at pork chops. A dent in the hallway from the time he kicked the wall at 2 a.m. and told you he couldn’t remember why. Three wine bottles above the fridge. Two of them are empty. One is unopened and dusty. You’d been saving it. You forget what for. The mirror by the front door is tilted. The throw blanket on the couch is too heavy for summer. The air conditioner makes that sound again—the one he said he’d fix when he got back.

That was four months ago.

You sleep in his t-shirts now. You tell yourself it’s because they’re soft. Not because they still smell like him, faintly—like desert wind, bar soap and the inside of his truck.

Your Motorola sits on the kitchen counter, charging. You watch the red backlight flicker off and on—old cord, half-broken port. It buzzes once.

Text message.

You don’t need to check who it’s from.

u still cleanin?

You don't answer.

Because yes, you’re still cleaning. And because you know what the next text will say.

Two minutes later:

better not b bleachin again u tryin to dissolve the whole damn house?

You flip the phone open and close it again without typing anything. T9 is too slow for what you're feeling. It was always too slow.

You press the phone to your ear, and call her. She picks up immediately. Doesn’t say hello.

“So what’s your plan?” Dana’s voice is rough from smoke, too many double shifts, and the hour. “Feed him? Fuck him? Pretend everything’s normal?”

You lean your head back against the cherry cabinet, eyes on the ceiling fan spinning slow. "I don’t have a plan."

"Bullshit," she exhales. You hear the click of a lighter in the background. "You’ve been bleaching countertops like you’re prepping for a damn magazine shoot."

“I didn’t bleach anything,” you say. “Just wiped it. Twice.”

“Mhm.”

The house smells like Warm Vanilla Sugar from Bath & Body Works and chemical lemon. You don’t smell it anymore. It just smells like trying too hard.

“He called yesterday,” you say, fingers playing with the fraying towel edge. “Said it was hot. Said the AC on the base broke again.”

“What else?”

“He asked if the door still creaks when you open it too slow.”

Dana pauses. You can picture her now—sitting on the steps behind PTMC, cigarette tucked between two fingers, leaning her head against the brick.

“What’d you tell him?”

“I said yeah. He said, ‘Good.’”

You hear her inhale.

“That’s how they know it’s real. Men like him, they come back looking for the things that didn’t change. That noise? That’s proof.”

“I fixed the porch light too,” you murmur. “But I didn’t tell him.”

“Good. Let him see something’s different. Let him wonder what else might be.”

You look at the boots by the front door. You moved them there earlier. The left one is scuffed—he caught it on the stairwell last winter when you argued about the electric bill. You didn’t have the money. He didn’t have the patience.

“I put out his mug.”

“The ugly one?”

“The World’s Okayest Cook.”

Dana groans. “Christ. That man loves a tacky cup.”

You smile. Just for a second. Then it fades.

“I don’t know what to say to him when he walks in.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” she replies. “Just be standing where he left you.”

“What if I’m different?”

“You are.”

You hold the phone tighter.

“What if he is?”

There’s a long silence.

“Then you meet him where he is,” Dana says finally. “You stop trying to rewind, and you let yourself watch the part that comes next.”

The light above the sink buzzes softly.

“I made his side of the bed,” you whisper. “Put his shirt on the pillow. Like muscle memory.”

“Don’t romanticize absence, kid. You’re not living in a Nicholas Sparks novel.”

You laugh—barely. “It feels like I am.”

"Only difference is your man’s got better arms and worse manners."

You stare at the candle. It’s almost out. The wax has swallowed the wick. The flame is a stubby blue whisper.

“You think he’ll come back like he left?”

“No,” Dana says. No hesitation. “But you’re not the same either."

“I don’t want him to flinch when he sees me.”

“He won’t. He’ll flinch when he sees the world kept moving without him.”

You fold the towel tighter.

“He’s only here six days.”

“Then make them real. Don’t waste them trying to make him comfortable. Let him be wrecked.”

“I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“That I won’t know how to hold him without breaking.”

Dana sighs. “Kid. If love doesn’t break you at least a little, you’re doing it wrong.”

You close your eyes.

“I should let you get back to work. Thanks for picking up.”

“Always.”

She hesitates.

“You want me to come over?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“You bleach anything else, I’m revoking your nurse’s license and mailing you boxed wine in retaliation.”

You laugh, for real this time. It cracks through you.

“Night, Dana.”

“Night, sweetheart.”

The phone beeps once. Call ended.

You set it back down on the counter. The charging light flickers. The cord sags loose again.

You met Dana three years ago. First week on nights at PTMC. You were twenty-three, barely out of nursing school, teeth clenched through your first trauma code. A car crash. A twelve-year-old. You froze when the girl coded. Couldn’t remember how to hold the Ambu bag. Couldn’t remember your name.

Dana moved your hands. Didn’t say a word.

Later that night, she found you alone in the stairwell with your head down and your badge still clipped to your scrub pocket. She leaned against the railing, and said:

“I’ve watched grown men piss themselves in that room. You didn’t.”

That was the closest she ever got to a compliment. You never forgot it.

Since then, she’s been a fixture. She doesn’t do small talk. Doesn’t do hugs. But she’ll hand you a chart the second a doctor disrespects you. She calls you kid when she means you did good. And when Jack shipped out last winter, she didn’t say she was sorry. She just started texting you around midnight every night, like clockwork.

Sometimes it was just:

u eat

Other times:

he call

And once:

ur stronger than u think but dumber than u know. pick one to fix.

You never responded. Not right away. But you always read them twice.

You leave your phone on the counter and walk through the living room. The rug is that deep olive shade that was trendy in 2003 and never stopped being a little ugly. There’s a brass tray on the ottoman holding three remotes you haven’t used in days. You walk past them and adjust the blanket even though no one’s been sitting there.

You light a second candle. The one in the hallway by the photo frames. Jack hates that one—calls it the “mall candle,” says it smells like the fitting room at a Bebe store.

You light it anyway. It means he’ll have something to complain about when he walks through the door.

In the bedroom, the sheets are too tight on the mattress. You re-made the bed this morning. Again. The hospital corners are habit now. You pull back the comforter and slide into the space where his body would be.

The ceiling fan ticks.

You stare at the shadow on the ceiling where the paint is uneven. You wonder if he’ll notice. He always does. Even the things that don’t matter.

Downstairs, the air conditioner cycles off. The house exhales with you.

You whisper into the quiet, “Don’t be a stranger.”

No one answers. But you imagine him on the plane anyway—hands folded, jaw locked, not sleeping.

You wonder if he misses this place. If he misses you in it.

Tomorrow, you’ll see his Army duffle by the door again—boots slouched beside it like he never left.

But tonight, it’s just the echo of him. And the house, waiting with you.

DAY ONE – THE KITCHEN

Feeding him is the first lie you tell yourself. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 7:23 a.m.

You’d cracked the eggs before you even heard the front door open.

Maybe twenty minutes before. Maybe thirty. You’d laid out the skillet. You’d sliced the bread. You’d turned the heat to medium and just stood there—still, blinking slow—until the oil popped and the pan hissed too loud.

And then he was there.

Not with a knock. Not with a shout.

Just the sound of the door opening, slowly, the scrape of the lock disengaging, and that familiar thud of boots—his boots—on the too-smooth floor you refinished last February. The sound echoed up into your chest before you even turned around.

He didn’t call your name. He didn’t drop his bag like he used to. He just stepped inside the kitchen like it hadn’t been four months since he last stood in it, like no time at all had passed, like memory could be picked up and worn like a jacket.

He was wearing military fatigue pants—heavy-duty, olive-drab, pockets down the legs, creased like they’d been folded too long. A black t-shirt clung to him, sleeves rolled to the shoulder. His dog tags flashed once, then vanished beneath the collar. He smelled like recycled air, sand, and something sharp and chemical—maybe jet fuel. His eyes moved slowly: the red walls first. Then the island. Then the boots you’d nudged closer to the mat by the door. Then you.

You opened your mouth to say something. But all that came out was,

“Shower still leaks.”

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a sentence. Just something to push into the silence.

He looked at you for a beat, unreadable.

“Good,” he said.

That was it.

Now, it’s 7:43 a.m.

The eggs are starting to cool by the time he comes back downstairs.

You’d scrambled them soft the way he used to like them. Butter, not oil. Black pepper and nothing else. Toast in the pan with too much margarine. The coffee’s been sitting in the pot for twenty minutes, burned just enough to taste like the night before. You’ve filled two plates, not because you think he’ll eat—just because not doing it felt worse.

He comes in barefoot, damp curls at the base of his neck, pants slung low on his hips. One of his old t-shirts—Army green, threadbare, stretched at the collar—clings to him like it’s afraid he’ll take it off again. He walks like someone who hasn’t taken a real step in weeks.

You don’t say anything at first. Neither does he.

He pauses near the kitchen island, eyes scanning the plate, the coffee, the candle still flickering beside the microwave—vanilla sugar, old, nearly spent. He doesn’t comment on the smell.

“I made breakfast,” you say, like it isn’t obvious.

Jack nods, but doesn’t sit.

You pull the second stool out. “You can’t just stand there.”

“I can.”

“Then I can throw it all in the trash.”

That gets a flicker from him—a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

He slides onto the stool, one hand curling around the edge of the counter like he’s bracing for something that might hit him.

You set the fork down beside his plate. He doesn’t pick it up.

“Looks good,” he says.

You pour him a cup of coffee. No milk. One sugar. The way he used to take it.

“I wasn’t sure you’d want it.”

Jack stares at the mug. “I haven’t stopped wanting it.”

He takes a sip. His jaw twitches. It’s too strong.

“Sorry,” you say, already reaching for the pot. “I should’ve made a new—”

“No. It’s good.” His voice is low. Final. He keeps drinking.

He picks up his fork. Cuts the eggs in half. Doesn’t eat them.

You sit across from him, elbows on the counter, your own plate untouched.

“How’s the water pressure?” you ask.

Jack chews a corner of toast. “Low.”

You watch him try to swallow the toast. He chews for too long. Washes it down with coffee.

You want to ask if he’s sleeping. If he still wakes up from dreams that don’t belong to this time zone. If his hands stop shaking long enough to write letters he never sends.

Instead, you ask, “You want jam?”

Jack looks up. Finally.

“Do I look like someone who wants jam?”

You smile. “A little.”

“Jesus,” he mutters, then shakes his head. “You haven’t changed at all.”

“No,” you say. “But I’ve gotten quieter.”

Jack puts the fork down. Rubs his hands on his thighs. His knuckles are cracked. He’s been picking at the skin again.

“I almost forgot what this place looked like,” he says. “I thought I’d walk in and feel something.”

“You don’t?”

“I feel... like I’m visiting someone who wears my face.”

You both go still.

The candle gutter-flames.

You say nothing. There’s nothing to say.

“I thought maybe I’d walk in and smell you,” he adds, voice quieter now. “But it smells like sugar and bleach.”

You look away. “I’ve been cleaning.”

“Why?”

You shrug. “Because everything felt dirty without you in it.”

That lands.

Jack shifts in his seat like he wants to say something back. But he doesn’t. Instead, he lifts the mug again and drinks until it’s empty.

You reach for the eggs, meaning to take his plate, but he covers it with one hand.

“Don’t clear it,” he says.

“You’re done.”

“I’m not ready for it to be gone.”

You sit back.

Jack doesn’t look at you. His hand stays on the plate.

The food’s cold now. The coffee pot’s off. The sun through the window is too bright for the both of you.

You both stay there a while, not eating, not talking, just observing a plate neither of you wanted.

“You’re here now,” you say. “That’s all I wanted.”

Jack swallows. You hear it more than see it. He blinks once.

“Is it enough?” he asks.

You pause.

You want to say yes.

You want to say I love you.

You want to say don’t go again.

Instead, you answer the way you always do when you’re afraid of telling the truth too early.

“I’ll let you know.”

DAY TWO – THE BATHROOM

The water doesn’t run hot. But he doesn’t stop scrubbing. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 5:06 a.m.

The sound wakes you before the light does.

Not an alarm. Not the soft whine of the AC unit kicking on. Not birdsong.

Just water.

A slow, constant stream—unnatural in the way only middle-of-the-night plumbing is. Too purposeful to be a leak. Too still to be a shower. It’s the kind of sound that pulls memory to the surface before consciousness catches up.

You blink into the dim morning, cold air settled low on the carpet, and reach instinctively for the other side of the bed.

His side is cold.

The sheets are undisturbed.

You sit up slowly. The clock reads 5:06 in cheap red digits that never dim. The ceiling fan above you ticks once—unbalanced again—and you stare at the sliver of light under the hallway door.

You pull your sweatshirt over your tank top, press bare feet to the carpet, and follow the water sound down the hall.

The door to the bathroom is cracked open half an inch.

You hesitate.

Then you push it open.

Jack is hunched over the sink like he’s prepping for field surgery.

Barefoot. Boxers. A damp grey undershirt clinging to his ribs. His dog tags are swinging faintly, brushing the ceramic bowl. One of his knees is braced against the cabinet beneath him like he’s holding pressure somewhere.

His hands are under the water. Not resting. Scrubbing.

The bar of soap—yellow, waxy, no scent—is ground between his palms. Hard. Fast. Like if he just goes hard enough, long enough, it’ll come off. Whatever it is.

You stay in the doorway. You don’t speak.

The mirror is fully fogged over except for the bottom third, which is smudged clean from the swing of his elbow. You can see his mouth reflected—tight. His chin—unshaven. His eyes—not there.

He hasn’t heard you.

Or maybe he has, and he’s ignoring it.

Either way, he doesn’t stop.

The sink is half-full now, the drain slow. You watch suds and skin particles spiral together in faint gray water.

Then, suddenly—he drops the soap.

It hits the porcelain with a sickening clack.

He makes a sharp noise in his throat and grabs the basin with both hands, breathing heavy, like he might throw up. His head drops between his shoulders. The dog tags knock against the sink.

You take one slow step forward.

Then another.

The tile is cold. There’s mildew in the grout near the baseboard you always meant to scrub.

You cross to him. Carefully.

“Jack,” you say, softly. “Hey.”

He doesn’t look up.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, but his voice is shredded. His fingers flex against the ceramic. “Just needed to wash up.”

You take another step. You see his hands now—red, rubbed raw at the knuckles, half-pruned from too much water. Not washed—scoured.

You look at the towel rack. One bar is bent. The hand towel is floral, too pink. A gift from your mom last Christmas. He hated it.

You reach for it anyway. Hold it out.

He doesn’t take it.

His eyes are bloodshot. Not from crying—from not sleeping. From rubbing. From dust. From whatever he saw in the tent, on the cot, on the ground, in the sand, behind someone’s teeth. You don’t know. He’ll never tell you all of it.

But he meets your gaze.

“I don’t feel clean.”

You lift your hand, slowly—like you’re approaching an animal that might bolt—and press your palm over his.

“It's okay”

His voice drops to almost nothing. “It's not.”

The faucet still runs—thin, faltering—like even the house doesn’t know how to stop. Jack speaks again.

“There was a kid. We found him—twelve, maybe. Half his stomach was gone. His arm too. He kept trying to sit up. I told him he’d be okay. I said—”

His voice breaks off, caught in his throat.

You don’t interrupt.

Jack drags the heel of his hand across his eye.

“I told him he’d see his mom. I didn’t know if his mom was alive. I just needed him to stay down long enough for me to close the wound.”

Silence.

“I was elbows deep. And he was still saying ‘okay, okay’ over and over like—like he was trying to help me.”

He stares at the water.

“I haven’t told anyone that.”

You squeeze his hand. You don’t say thank you. That would make it smaller.

“I should’ve been faster,” he whispers. “That’s the thing. I wasn’t fast enough.”

You shake your head.

“Jack.”

“I had blood in my teeth. I smelled it in my hair. I kept thinking—if I can just get my hands clean…”

You gently turn off the faucet.

The sink gurgles. The water stills.

Then you take the towel—the ugly pink one—and press it gently into his hands.

“They’re clean.”

“They don’t feel it.”

“Then I’ll keep telling you until they do.”

Jack holds the towel like it’s a wound dressing.

His hands shake. Yours don’t.

Not this time.

You don’t speak as you lead him downstairs.

He follows. Not because he’s ready. Not because he wants to. Because there’s nothing else to do.

The kitchen light is off. You don’t turn it on.

The dim grey of early morning is enough. You’ve lived here long enough to know where the corners are, even when your eyes are wet. Even when his boots—still by the door—remind you that he hasn’t really unpacked. That he might not.

Jack lowers himself into the nearest kitchen chair like his body isn’t quite calibrated to this furniture anymore. It creaks. He doesn’t react.

His hands are wrapped in the floral towel. Still.

You move quietly, like sudden noise might undo everything.

You pour coffee. The same pot from last night, reheated on the burner. Bitter. Burned. Familiar.

He doesn’t look at you when you set it down.

You say, “It’s hot.”

He says nothing.

You sit across from him. You don’t touch your own mug. Your hands are too warm already from holding his.

After a long time, he drinks.

One sip. Then another. Like his throat still hasn’t forgiven him for what he said upstairs.

You stare at the tile. You only just notice the floor’s still damp near the fridge. The ice maker leaks again.

The silence grows legs.

Jack clears his throat. Swallows something that isn’t coffee.

Then says, “You want to know the worst part?”

You look up.

“There’s a piece of me that misses it.”

He doesn’t look at you. He stares down at the table like it might open up and swallow the words.

“I miss the certainty,” he says. “I miss knowing exactly what to do. Where to stand. When to grab the gauze. Who needed me most.”

You nod. Slowly.

“You still know how to do that.”

He finally meets your eyes. “But it’s different here.”

You tilt your head. “Because no one’s dying?”

“Because no one’s listening.”

You open your mouth. Then close it again.

Because he’s right.

Jack rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand. Winces like he forgot how raw his skin was. The towel slips off his lap. You lean down to pick it up, fold it, and place it beside his mug.

“I didn’t mean to say any of that,” he says.

“I know.”

“You were supposed to get a version of me that could handle this.”

You lean forward, arms crossed over the table.

“I didn’t want a version. I wanted you.”

Jack’s fingers curl around the mug. He looks like he’s trying to grip it hard enough to keep from shaking.

“You don’t get to fix me,” he says. It’s not cruel. It’s not sharp. It’s a line he’s rehearsed. Probably in silence. Probably at night.

You don’t flinch.

“I wasn’t trying to.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“Letting you fall apart. And staying.”

That breaks something. Not all the way. But enough.

Jack pushes the mug toward the center of the table like he’s done with it. Like it’s too hot, or too honest.

Then he sinks back in the chair, palms flat to the edge.

His eyes trace the room—cabinets, sink, toaster, stove. You. Slowly. Like he’s trying to remember what each thing used to mean.

“Last time I sat at this table,” he says, “we were fighting about laundry.”

You smile, just a little. “You said I folded your shirts like a civilian.”

“You said I was lucky I even had clean shirts.”

“I said that?”

“Yeah.”

“I was right.”

He huffs a breath. Almost a laugh. It disappears.

You reach out. Not far. Just far enough that your fingers brush the edge of his.

“I don’t want you to be fine,” you say.

“I don’t want to be this.”

“Okay.”

“I just need a minute.”

“You can have as long as you want.”

The house creaks around you like it’s heard every version of this conversation.

Outside, the sun finally cuts over the roofline, pushing light in through the side window above the sink.

It lands across Jack’s shoulders.

He doesn’t move.

But for the first time in hours, he looks warm.

7:08 pm. The sidewalk doesn’t feel any narrower. But he walks like it might betray him.

The sun’s still out, but softer now. Late-day light, the kind that washes everything in the gold of almost evening.

You suggested a walk without meaning to. Just said, “Do you want to get out of the house?” and he nodded like it was a mercy. Like he’d been waiting for the walls to stop humming since the moment he stepped through the door.

He doesn’t ask where you’re going.

He just follows.

Jack doesn’t walk beside you at first. He walks behind, about half a pace. Not enough to make it weird. Just enough to feel like he’s tracking, not joining. You don’t push it.

The neighborhood hasn’t changed much since he left.

Cracked sidewalks. Kids’ chalk drawings half-faded on the curb. A recycling bin knocked over and not yet fixed. Someone grilling a few houses down—probably burgers. The smell hangs in the air like memory.

Your feet find the rhythm first. You’ve taken this walk a hundred times. It used to be your way to clear your head when he was gone—loop around the block, pass the blue house with the overgrown hydrangeas, cut through the alley where the pavement turns to gravel, come home when the porch light flickers.

Today, you walk slower.

Jack’s boots sound heavier than they should on the concrete. Like he’s used to dirt again. Like sidewalks don’t make sense to him anymore.

At the corner, you stop.

There’s a curb here—chipped, worn smooth at the edges. Jack used to park his truck here. He’d sit on the edge of the bed with his legs swinging, elbows braced behind him, watching the sky like it might start telling the truth.

You glance toward the space without meaning to.

Jack follows your gaze. Then says, “That spot still oil-stained?”

You nod.

“I checked last month. The outline’s still there.”

He breathes out, almost a laugh.

“That truck never stopped leaking.”

“You never stopped defending it.”

“She got me through two duty stations and your father’s wrath.”

You smile. “He said it looked like it belonged in a scrapyard.”

Jack shrugs. “It did.”

He doesn’t say what else happened in that truck. The nights when you climbed in beside him just to get away from the noise. The way he kept spare socks and granola bars in the glovebox like he was always half-deployed already.

You remember. He doesn’t have to say it.

You cross the street together now. Closer. His shoulder brushes yours on the corner, and for a second, he stops.

Right at the driveway of the blue house. The one with the busted birdbath and the plastic lawn chairs.

He looks down at the sidewalk like something might be there.

Then he says, “This is where I told you I didn’t want you to wait.”

You turn to face him.

“You said, ‘Don’t wait up.’ Not ‘Don’t wait.’”

Jack swallows. “Did I?”

You nod. “I wrote it down. In a notebook. Dumb things you said before you left.”

His mouth twitches. “How long was the list?”

“Longer than it should’ve been.”

He doesn’t laugh, but his eyes flick up. “You were mad.”

“I was scared.”

He nods.

And then: “I was too.”

That lands between you like it’s never been said before.

Because it hasn’t.

Jack exhales. Long. Slow.

Then he takes a half-step closer, eyes still on the sidewalk.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t think I’d make it back here. Not once.”

You blink.

“I thought about it,” he says, “but it never felt real. This. You. The sidewalk. The mailbox with the duct tape on the hinge. I thought I’d either die or disappear somewhere in between.”

You look down. At the exact spot his boot toe is nudging.

“You didn’t.”

“I know.”

“But I think part of you stayed behind anyway.”

Jack reaches up—slowly—and touches the side of your face. Not like he’s claiming you. Like he’s asking if you’re still real.

You lean into it.

Just barely.

He says, “Thank you.”

You say, “For what?”

“For being part of the part that stayed.”

You don’t respond.

You don’t have to.

Because you already know you’re walking side-by-side with a man who doesn’t believe he deserves this sidewalk, this sky, this chance. And you’re the only thing grounding him to it.

As you round the corner toward the house, you realize your steps are in sync now. His shoulder brushes yours again. This time, it lingers.

Not like contact.

Like remembrance.

Like maybe this is how it started the first time.

And how it might start again.

DAY THREE — THE BEDROOM

No one sleeps. But something breaks open. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 2:11 a.m.

The bed is too big.

You bought it together at Value City Furniture two summers ago, back when you thought buying things together meant something permanent. Something like safety. Something like a future.

It had looked romantic in the showroom. The wrought iron headboard, black and arched, advertised as “rustic elegance.” Jack rolled his eyes at the tagline, said the frame looked like a Civil War relic, but you caught him testing the edge with his boot anyway. Just to see if it could hold weight.

It squeaked the first night you slept in it. It still squeaks now.

Jack lies on top of the covers, arms crossed over his chest like he’s waiting for a command. His pants are creased, like they came off the floor. He hasn’t changed shirts since yesterday. You’re not sure he’s changed at all.

He doesn’t close his eyes. He just stares at the ceiling like there might be a sniper’s silhouette etched in the drywall.

You lie on your side, curled into the corner of the mattress, spine curved in on itself. Your knees pulled up like they might anchor you. You’re wearing the sleep shorts with the little ribbon on the waistband—the pair you bought during a clearance sale at Ross. You wore them the night before he deployed.

You remember standing in the hallway while he packed. The overhead light was yellow and humming, and you asked, “Should I bring you to the airport?”

He didn’t answer. Just zipped his bag.

You bought those shorts for him. He doesn’t notice them now.

At 2:57 am, you hear the floorboards creak.

Jack moves like someone trying not to make sound, but the house was built in 1961, and it remembers everything. Every board groans. The door clicks open, then closed. The stairs whisper.

You wait a few minutes.

Then you get up.

At 3:03, you find him in the kitchen.

The lights are off. The only glow comes from the microwave clock and the open fridge door.

He’s standing by the counter, drinking straight from the coffee pot. No mug. No ceremony. The pot’s heavy in his hand, the glass sweating cold from the fridge shelf. He winces when he swallows—the burn of something that’s meant to be hot but never got there.

You don’t say anything at first. Just lean against the doorway in your ribboned shorts and the tank top you wore to bed, arms folded. He notices you. Not with surprise. Just… resignation.

“Sorry,” he says, blinking like the light might change. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you say, and it’s true.

He sets the pot down, grabs a mug from the cabinet. The red one with peeling white letters that say “HOT STUFF.” You’d stolen it from a diner on Route 30 during a road trip that neither of you ever really talk about anymore.

You watch him hold it in both hands. You’re not sure if it’s a joke or a relic. He pours the cold coffee into it anyway.

“You remember that dog across the street?” he asks.

His voice is quieter now. Lower. Like the room has ears.

You tilt your head. “The one that used to bark every night?”

“Yeah.”

You nod once. “They moved two months ago.”

Jack doesn’t react. Not really. He nods back, slowly. His eyes stay trained on the window.

But you can tell—he’s still listening for it.

That dog used to be a warning.

Every night, it barked once before the porch light on your neighbor’s house turned on. Once before the sound of someone’s car pulled up. Once before the late-shift newspaper delivery.

It let Jack rest. Because if the dog wasn’t barking, there was nothing wrong.

Now, there’s nothing.

The silence is louder.

He exhales. Braces his hands on the counter. You step into the room, bare feet on cold tile. You don’t ask what he’s doing. You already know.

You reach past him to grab a second mug. Yours says Pittsburgh’s #1 Radiology Tech, even though you’re not a tech. Jack bought it as a joke your first year working.

He watches as you pour a little into your cup. Then he says, quietly, “I thought the bed would help.”

“What part?”

“The frame. The mattress. The idea of it.”

You sip. “And?”

“I laid there and waited for my heart rate to drop.”

“Did it?”

Jack shakes his head. “I laid there and counted shadows.”

You lean against the counter next to him.

He doesn’t move away.

“I don’t know how to sleep here anymore,” he says. “But I can’t sleep anywhere else.”

You glance at him. He looks tired—not in the face, not in the skin, but in the bones. His body is upright because it doesn’t remember how to rest. His hands are braced like he’s waiting to be called up. His mouth is a straight line.

You both stay in the kitchen, side by side, watching the space where the dog used to bark.

The silence is awful. But it's not empty.

It’s loaded.

The coffee’s cold.

The mug is warm.

The night keeps going.

And the bed?

It’s still upstairs. Still too big.

Still squeaking into the silence.

Waiting.

DAY FOUR – THE BASEMENT

Where the laundry runs too hot. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 1:34 p.m.

The dryer’s on its third cycle.

You didn’t mean to restart it. Your hands just did it. Automatically. Like the sound mattered more than the clothes inside. Like the tumbling noise was preferable to the silence in your chest.

The laundry room is suffocating. A concrete box with no insulation, barely enough ceiling for Jack to stand straight. A narrow block window lets in sunlight through cobwebs. Dust dances in it, but nothing else moves.

You’re barefoot, standing on the painted concrete, folding a pile of clothes you don’t remember washing.

T-shirts. Socks. A hoodie that still smells like wind. His fatigue jacket—the one that’s been draped over the back of the kitchen chair since the night he got home. It’s damp from the wash. You shouldn’t have washed it.

You tell yourself it needed it. You tell yourself that’s what home is.

You tell yourself he won’t notice.

Then you reach into the basket and pull it out—a plain, sand-colored combat shirt. Short sleeves. Tag nearly faded. The collar stiff. There’s a small puncture at the shoulder seam, the fabric there worn thin. The cotton feels heavier than it should. Like it held too much sun. Or too much blood.

You lift it gently. You don’t fold it.

You just stare.

Your fingers curl into the fabric. It’s still warm from the dryer.

Behind you, the door creaks.

You go still.

You don’t have to turn around to know it’s him. You can tell by the cadence—three steps too fast for a man not in a hurry. Heavy on the heel. Controlled on the descent. Like he’s been pacing the top of the stairs for minutes before deciding to come down.

When you finally do turn, he’s already halfway across the room.

And his eyes are on the shirt.

He stops like he hit something invisible.

You don’t say anything.

The dryer clicks and spins behind you.

Jack steps forward—deliberate, not loud—and holds out his hand.

You hand him the shirt.

He takes it quickly. Not rough. But not gently either. Like you’d handed him something flammable. Like it might disappear if he didn’t grip it tight.

His voice is low. Distant.

“Don’t wash these.”

You blink. “What?”

“They’re not dirty.”

Your mouth opens. Then closes.

Jack’s holding the shirt against his chest, knuckles white. His breathing is too controlled. Eyes wide but unreadable.

“I—I just thought—” you try. “You left it on the chair.”

“It wasn’t dirty,” he says again. This time louder. Not angry. Just breaking.

The basement hums.

You step closer. “Jack—”

He cuts you off without looking up.

“I wore this when Elliot died.”

Silence.

Jack’s hands tighten.

“There was nothing left of him but his legs and a boot. I packed what I could into my bag because I thought—I thought maybe his mother would want something. A sock. A photo. Anything. But we never got a body bag. So I folded my own shirt. Folded it clean. And kept it.”

He swallows. Hard.

“I’ve been carrying it for weeks.”

You want to say I didn’t know. You want to say I’m sorry.

But you don’t. You don’t interrupt him.

“It smells like diesel and antiseptic and the last hour of that day,” he says. “And I know that sounds fucked up, but that’s how I know it’s mine.”

You feel your chest cave in.

He still won’t look at you.

“I came home and I couldn’t sleep unless it was near me. Just in the room. On the chair. Something. It—”

Jack presses the shirt to his face. Not to smell it.

To stop himself.

His voice drops. Breaks.

“It was the only thing that didn’t forget me.”

You cross the rest of the room slowly. Step by step. Like any wrong movement might make him retreat.

He doesn’t move away when you reach him.

You lift your hand and rest it on his forearm, just above the place where his fingers are clenched in the fabric.

“I didn’t mean to erase anything.”

Jack shakes his head. His voice is a whisper. “You didn’t. I just—I didn’t know it would hit me like this.”

He finally looks at you.

His eyes are bloodshot. Still holding back. But this time, you can see the grief there.

You reach up. Brush his damp temple with your thumb.

Jack lets the shirt fall to his side.

His hand finds yours.

You both stand in the too-hot basement for a long time. The dryer clicks. The smell of cotton softener and heat fills the space. Jack exhales, long and quiet, and leans into you—not like surrender, but like memory finally letting him bend.

And the shirt?

It stays in his hand.

Unfolded.

Still his.

3:58 pm. You didn’t mean to come here. The hospital’s not where people go to breathe, but the parking lot knows your car. Your badge still opens the back entrance. And Dana? Dana never stopped answering your texts.

So you park where you always used to, next to the yellow-striped curb with the half-broken wheelchair sign. The air smells like brake fluid and hot metal and something floral that might be coming from the retirement home next door.

Dana’s already out there, standing under the overhang near the loading zone. Her scrubs are dark gray, faded at the collar. She’s got her ID clipped to her waistband and her lighter in one hand.

“You look like shit,” she says as you walk up.

“Thanks.”

“I meant that fondly.”

You lean against the wall beside her, arms crossed, heat still clinging to your shirt. You didn’t even change. You realize your hands still smell like dryer sheets and dust.

Dana lights her cigarette. Exhales smoke in the opposite direction, not out of politeness—just force of habit.

“How is he?” she says, not looking at you.

You shrug.

Dana snorts. “I’m not the press, kid. Don’t shrug me.”

You stare out at the edge of the parking lot. The wind lifts your hair, then drops it again. You don’t answer right away.

Then you say, “I washed one of his shirts.”

Dana raises her eyebrows. Waits.

“It—meant something to him. I didn’t know. He lost someone. He folded that shirt and carried it back like it was a body bag. And I washed it like it was laundry.”

Dana doesn’t speak. Just flicks ash from her cigarette with one practiced gesture.

“He didn’t yell,” you add. “He didn’t even get mad. He just looked like I’d taken something he didn’t have a backup of.”

Dana inhales again. Her voice is rough when she says, “That’s because you did.”

You look at her.

She exhales smoke slowly. Her eyes are on the street, but her voice stays with you.

“That’s the thing no one tells you about grief, or trauma, or whatever the hell you wanna name it. Half the time, it’s stored in the dumbest shit. Coffee mugs. Baseball caps. T-shirts that still smell like dirt and diesel. You think you’re doing something kind—putting it back in order—but to them, it’s erasure.”

You nod. Quiet.

“I don’t want to fix him,” you say.

Dana cuts her eyes at you. “Bullshit.”

You flinch.

“You want him whole,” she continues. “And I get it. But he’s not. And he won’t be. So either you love what made it back, or you keep waiting for someone who didn’t.”

The words land like bricks.

You breathe through your nose.

“I do love what made it back.”

Dana’s voice softens, just a little. “Good. Then start showing up for him—not the version you built in your head while he was gone.”

Silence again.

The sun slants gold across the top of the ambulance bay awning. Someone inside slams a door. You both ignore it.

“I miss who I was when he left,” you say after a long minute. “Back then I still had answers.”

Dana nods. “Now you’ve got questions.”

“Yeah.”

“You’ll live.”

You huff a breath.

Dana stubs out the cigarette on the cement with the toe of her shoe. She doesn’t look at you when she says:

“He’s lucky you’re still here.”

You blink. “That’s not something you say.”

“I didn’t say it for you. I said it because it’s true.”

You let your head rest back against the wall.

The sun dips lower. Somewhere inside, someone yells for a gurney. Dana doesn’t move.

Then she adds, quieter, “I’m around. If you need someone to call next time you try to launder someone’s soul.”

You laugh—sharp, real.

“Thanks.”

Dana flicks her lighter once before pocketing it. “Now get out of here before someone hands you a chart.”

4:46 pm. The house is quiet when you get back. Not still—just quiet. The kind that feels occupied, but not lived in. The TV isn’t on. No fan running. No clatter from the kitchen. Just the sound of your key in the lock, the door shutting behind you, and the faintest creak from the upstairs floorboards as the house settles around a man who hasn’t moved in hours.

You toe off your shoes, still holding the weight of Dana’s voice in your shoulders.

You walk upstairs.

The bedroom door is open a few inches. Just like he left it the night he got back.

You push it gently.

Jack is sitting on the edge of the bed. Elbows on his knees, fingers steepled in front of his mouth. He looks like he’s praying, but you know better.

He’s not praying.

He’s just trying to stay in his body.

The bedside light is on. The one with the too-warm bulb you used to complain about. It casts a golden pool across the blanket but doesn’t touch his face. He doesn’t turn toward you. But he knows you’re there.

You step inside.

He doesn’t speak.

You sit beside him. Not close enough to touch. Just close enough to feel the heat radiating from him like tension.

You don’t speak for a long time.

Then, quietly, “You’re still in the same clothes.”

Jack lets out a breath—something like a laugh, but it’s dry. Empty.

“I was gonna change.”

“I figured.”

His shoulders move, just barely.

“I came home,” he says, “but this won’t come off.”

He gestures down at himself. At the shirt. At the pants. At the version of him that hasn’t known softness in months.

You nod.

Then, carefully, you reach for the hem of his shirt. Your fingers brush the fabric. He doesn’t flinch. But he goes still.

You say, “Let me.”

He nods once.

You move slowly.

You slide your hands under the bottom of the shirt, just enough to lift it over his hips, then ribs, then shoulders. He leans forward as you ease it over his head.

It smells like sweat. Soap. Something older—metallic and dry. You fold it and set it beside you on the bed like it’s breakable.

He stays hunched over.

His back is scarred in ways you hadn’t seen yet. New calluses. Old burns. A dark bruise under his left shoulder blade, the kind that comes from armor worn too long or walls leaned against for too many hours.

You move to the belt.

Your fingers are careful. You don’t tug. You just unclip the buckle, slide the leather loose, and let the weight of it ease through the loops like a breath being released. His hands rest on his thighs. Still.

The pants slide down stiffly—heavy from wear, creased with memory. You pull them down to his ankles. He steps out of them wordlessly.

You fold them too.

Now he’s in boxers and socks. That’s all.

You kneel in front of him. Palms to his knees.

His eyes finally meet yours.

And for a moment, there’s no field medic, no trauma code, no silence. Just Jack. The man who came home. The man who’s still learning how to let someone see him like this.

You say, “Lie back.”

He hesitates.

You say it again. “Just rest.”

He exhales. Then does.

He lowers himself onto the bed, arms still too stiff, like he doesn’t quite know where to put them. You tug the blanket up over his legs. His chest is bare, rising steady, but you can still see the tension under the surface.

You crawl in beside him, fully clothed, facing him.

His eyes are open. Searching.

You reach out, lay a hand on his sternum.

Warm. Solid. Human.

Jack says, “I didn’t think I’d let anyone do that.”

You say, “You didn’t. You let me.”

His throat works. Then he whispers:

“Don’t leave.”

You tighten your hand against his chest.

“I won’t.”

And for the first time since he came home, he believes you.

DAY FIVE — THE KITCHEN

Where he reaches first. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 9:17 a.m.

You wake to the smell of something burning.

Not smoke. Just bread taken too far. A crisp edge curling up in the toaster tray, sugar from the crust turning dark and acrid. You blink into the morning light, still bleary, your legs tangled in the sheets.

Jack isn’t in the bed.

But the blankets are still warm where he was.

You sit up.

You don’t panic.

In the kitchen, he’s standing in front of the toaster, shirtless, barefoot, and blinking at the smoke like he forgot the world had timers. His dog tags are still on. You don’t think he ever took them off.

He hears you step in and glances up.

“Morning,” he says.

His voice is raspy but present. Grounded.

You nod. “You made toast.”

“I made charcoal,” he corrects. “The toaster’s got a vendetta.”

You walk over. He waves a dish towel in front of the fire alarm that didn’t go off. His eyes flick toward you, once, then away again.

You pull open a cabinet. Grab a plate. Set it on the counter between you both.

Jack says, “I was trying to let you sleep.”

“You did.”

“You came running.”

“I smelled crime.”

He huffs a laugh, then reaches down and pries the toast out with his fingers. Winces as it singes him.

You move before you think—grab his wrist. “Let me.”

He lets go.

You throw the toast away.

Jack leans back against the counter. Dog tags swinging once, then stilling against his sternum. His body is loose in a way it hasn’t been all week. Still tall. Still lean. But not braced.

You look at him. Really look.

He looks back.

Then—quietly, like it’s nothing—he reaches out.

Fingers brush your hip.

A light touch. Groundless. Unscripted. But his.

You blink.

He says, “Just wanted to see if you were real.”

You step closer.

“I am.”

He nods. Swallows.

“Okay.”

You don’t kiss.

You don’t touch again.

But you stand across from each other in the middle of the too-bright kitchen with the broken toaster and the lemon cleaner still clinging to the tile.

And for once?

He doesn't try to leave the room.

4:23 pm. It happens mid-afternoon.

Not in a moment you expect.

You’re on the floor in the living room, head resting against the couch cushion, legs stretched out, ankles crossed. The TV is on but muted. One of those daytime true crime shows where the reenactments are always too dramatic. You’re not watching it.

Jack’s on the couch behind you, feet up, one arm slung across his chest. He’s not asleep. He’s just still, in that strange, too-conscious way you’ve come to recognize. The kind of stillness that says: I’m here. But not for long.

The room smells like furniture polish and warm laundry. There’s a breeze through the cracked window that lifts the edge of the curtain but doesn’t move it enough to matter.

Your voice breaks the silence.

“You remember when the power went out for two days last winter?”

Jack grunts. “You cried over the last Pop-Tart.”

“I did not.”

“You rationed it like you were in a bunker.”

“You refused to use the candles.”

“I hate vanilla.”

“They were unscented.”

Jack shrugs.

You smile to yourself. “We kept the fridge cold with a bag of snow in a Tupperware container.”

Jack glances down at you. “You slept on the floor, too.”

You turn your face toward him, cheek pressing into the cushion.

“There was more heat near the vent,” you say. “And I didn’t want to move too far from the outlet in case the power came back.”

“You were curled up like a cat,” he murmurs. “I was on the couch.”

“I know,” you say. “I didn’t want to be left.”

Jack doesn’t respond.

But you feel it—the shift. The widening quiet. Not uncomfortable. Just heavy. Full.

You sit up slowly, turn toward him, and fold your legs beneath you, facing him.

He looks at you. And for a second—just one—his hand twitches like he might reach for your face.

But he doesn’t.

You say, “I keep thinking about what happens after this.”

Jack’s eyes stay on yours. His body stills again.

“What happens when the sixth day ends,” you continue. “What it means when the last thing you leave behind is a used towel and a folded shirt on the end of the bed.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. His throat works.

You shake your head, softly. “I know it’s not fair.”

“No,” he says quietly. “It is.”

You wait.

Then he says it:

“I’ve been thinking about it too.”

The air in the room thickens.

You don’t move.

He sits forward.

Hands on his knees. Shoulders hunched. Dog tags swinging once, then still.

“You want to ask me not to go,” he says.

You nod.

“But you won’t,” he finishes.

You shake your head. “No.”

He lets out a breath. It’s shaky.

“You’d be the first.”

You blink. “What?”

“You’d be the first person to ever ask.”

You whisper, “Would you stay if I did?”

Jack doesn’t answer.

Instead, he leans forward—closer. Eyes fixed on yours.

And for a breathless moment, it feels like something might break open.

But then?

He blinks.

And leans back

Your eyes sting.

Because you both know what he’s doing.

Because you let him do it.

Because he’s still leaving.

8:43 pm. You were just putting away socks.

That’s all.

You were folding laundry from the basket you forgot in the dryer, and you were doing it without thinking—half-watching the muted news loop on Channel 11, half-counting how many days until you’d have to start buying groceries again.

Jack’s in the bathroom. Said he was going to shave.

You didn’t ask why now—why suddenly, after days of letting the stubble grow in, he’d decided tonight was the time.

You didn’t mention the faint scent of aftershave on him this morning, either. The same one he always uses. Clean. Sharp. Familiar. Even though you hadn’t seen him so much as look at a razor in four days.

You’re just putting away socks.

You open his nightstand drawer to make space—maybe for the shirt he left folded on the bed, maybe for something else. You haven’t organized it since before he left. You’ve let him keep it messy.

Inside: gum, receipts, a scratch-off ticket with no winner, a pen with no cap, and something folded.

It’s yellow legal pad paper. Soft at the edges.

Folded twice.

Not shoved in.

Not careless.

Tucked.

You hesitate.

You unfold it.

You read the first line.

And the second.

And suddenly it’s not the laundry that’s hot anymore.

It’s your face. Your throat. Your chest. Like the words are burning straight through you.

You sit down on the bed without realizing you’ve moved.

You read the whole thing.

I’m not leaving a note. That’s not what this is. This is just… something I need to write down so it stops choking me when I try to look at her. So I can leave without taking all of it in my throat. I was never supposed to stay this long. I knew the six days would stretch me, but I didn’t expect her to make them feel like the only real time I’ve had since I left the first time. She folds towels like the world isn’t ending. She hums when she’s trying not to cry. She asked if I’d stay, and the worst part is—I wanted to say yes. But I knew I wouldn’t. Staying means breaking every part of me that still runs toward sirens. Staying means taking off the uniform and not knowing what’s underneath. Staying means telling her that I don’t know how to live in a house where the lights aren’t always on. I’m going to leave while she’s sleeping. Like I never really got back. Like I was just passing through. She’ll be okay. She’s always been better at being alone than I have. I won’t leave this for her to find. She doesn’t need more wreckage. I’m just writing it down so I remember I meant it.

You fold it back with shaking hands.

Your chest feels hollow. Your mouth tastes like copper. The room is loud, suddenly—the fan, the TV, the fridge kicking on, pipes groaning somewhere in the walls—everything pressing in at once.

He wasn’t going to tell you.

Not even a goodbye.

He was going to wait for you to fall asleep tomorrow morning, when the sixth day was up, and he was going to walk out the door without a word.

Without this.

Without anything.

And now?

You know.

And he doesn’t know that you know.

DAY SIX — THE PORCH

Where he thinks he’s being brave. And you let him. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 6:38 a.m.

You were awake all night.

Not pacing. Not crying.

Just awake.

The letter still folded the way he left it, tucked back into the drawer you never should’ve opened. You didn’t put it on the pillow. You didn’t confront him. You were careful to tuck the corners the way he does. Military-style. Precise.

Because if he was going to ghost you, you’d meet him with the same clean symmetry he used to disappear from war zones.

You brewed the coffee at six. Toast in the toaster, just enough to make the kitchen smell like routine. You wiped down the counters. You opened the front door.

The porch is cold. Dew-soaked. Quiet.

You sit on the top step with your mug and wait for him.

Not because you’re hoping he’ll change his mind.

But because he thinks you don’t know. And you need to see how well he lies.

He comes down at 6:44 am.

Hair damp. Bag already packed. Boots laced.

He smells like bar soap and fabric softener. And the distance between you is already miles wide.

He steps onto the porch like a man who thinks he’s making a clean exit.

You don’t look up right away.

He sits beside you, carefully. Like he’s trying not to wake a sleeping animal.

You sip your coffee.

“Sleep okay?” you ask.

He shrugs. “Didn’t sleep much.”

You nod like you didn’t already know that.

“Flight’s at eight?”

“Yeah.”

You glance over. “You packed light.”

He doesn’t catch the shift in your voice. He never was good at reading the tension when it was quiet.

He says, “Didn’t want to leave too much here.”

And there it is.

Not want to leave too much.

Like this was a staging ground, not a home.

You nod.

The silence stretches.

He’s waiting for a clean break. You’re waiting for him to break. Neither of you get what you want.

At 6:56, he stands.

You follow.

The front door is open behind you.

The duffel sits by the couch.

He looks at you for a long moment.

And then—he reaches out, cups your jaw the same way he did that first night he came home. Thumb at your temple. Fingers light at your neck. He tilts your face up.

And kisses you.

Soft. Warm. Final.

You let him.

You kiss him back.

Because he doesn’t know you know. Because you want this one last thing. Because you love him and you hate him and you’ll never forget this.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t meet your eyes.

He says, “I’ll call when I land.”

You nod.

You say, “Safe flight.”

He leaves.

Just like he wrote.

No look back.

No guilt.

No pause.

You close the door behind him with shaking hands.

You don’t cry.

Not yet.

You just stand in the kitchen with your coffee and the toast that burned a little.

And when the sound of his engine fades down the block—that’s when it hits.

Not because he left.

But because he meant to leave like you never mattered. And you let him kiss you anyway.

[oristian]

I sometimes come across posts where people claim that Azriel would have no plot outside of a romance arc and I genuinely have to wonder if people are able to grasp character nuance. I see people claim that there is nothing within the narrative that he can claim as his own plot, or that there is no story to tell; hence why so many people do not want to see Azriel receive his own book.

From the ACOTAR series alone—House of Flame and Shadow I will speak on near the end—the reader was given a plethora of potential arcs surrounding Azriel. Not only that, but he is shrouded in a veil of mystery that drives readers to want to learn so much more about him.

Where do his shadows come from and why is it such an extant/rare ability? What is the language of his shadows and does it match possible languages from other worlds, and/or the early settlement of Prythian? How did his parents meet and are there circumstances that keeps his mother seemingly placed in Illyria, rather than Velaris? His father is a Duke and that, through Azriel’s bloodline, gives him some form of image/title in Illyria—had he claimed it. Speaking on his father and brothers, how much influence do they have in Illyria and how do they react to Azriel being such a powerful being? The psychological effects of being trapped in his father’s cellar for so long, and the pain and suffering he experienced from the neglect of his father and brothers and stepmother. Who are his brothers and will he meet them again? Azriel sings, but where did this talent first come about and do others know, or just Gwyn? His mother and his relationship with her being explored. Azriel was Rhysand’s father’s personal Shadowsinger until Rhysand was High Lord, so an exploration on that/connecting the reader to a part of history that we have not yet explored.

Can Azriel use the full power of Truth Teller? Speaking of Truth Teller, how did Azriel come to possess such a weapon? Connecting him back to Mor, when/why did his feelings develop for her and what drove him to be so enamored for centuries—or, are the theories true that there is something else involved within this dynamic? Dealing with the psychological effects of the burns on his hands and linking that with his self image. His role of being a Spymaster and, again, the psychological effects of torture and the further job description on his mental health and self image. How did Azriel become the Spymaster and how long did it take him to become so in tuned with his shadows? Again, speaking on his shadows, what are the extent of their abilities/magic? What is Rosehall and why is his mother living there specifically (seemingly)? From his bonus chapter alone, the reader was able to discern that Azriel is dealing with self worth and image issues, similarly to Nesta. Also similarly to Nesta, he has grown many, many readers who do not like him; perfect for a setup for a growth and healing arc.

From HOFAS, the reader now links Azriel more to an Illyrian plot arc; the ACOTAR series linked him through text that informs the reader that he does not consider Illyria his home/does not accept his heritage/race. Now, the reader has background information on the creation of Illyrians and linking them to characters that are Made and what that entails to the plot/narrative. We have more information on Enalius, the original owner of Truth Teller, and now Gwydion has come into play. What will those two blades do once connected once more in Prythian? Azriel is able to see and hear things that others cannot, and his shadows are able to extend past him to deliver information/observe others—this would be an interesting subplot to explore.

There are abundantly more ties to Azriel that would make him a formidable candidate for having his own book. He is not just a love interest and has never been set up to be reduced to such. Azriel struggles heavily with self-confidence due to his abusive and traumatic past, but also what he does for work. He is cautious with trusting others and keeps his emotions locked tight, usually sporting a cool mask of indifference and blends easily into the background. Despite it all, he is still good and incredibly loyal. Azriel yearns for a mate of his own, of happiness, but it is obvious to the reader that he struggles with romantic relationships and the concept of relationships in general.

All in all, Azriel is an incredibly interesting character and has multiple lines of connection within the sphere of overarching plots remaining in the narrative. Reading the bonus chapter was supposed to make readers feel uncomfortable, to turn the tide, and that chapter was only meant to distinguish to the reader who his endgame would most likely be (Gwyn). The fact that Azriel received his own bonus chapter without a second POV, unlike the Nessian chapter in ACOMAF, is a clear indication that he is far more important to the narrative than readers initially thought. It was ACOSF and HOFAS that firmly laid the foundation for the next book in the series being his.

(It is like Tower of Dawn—no one believed that Chaol would get his own book, and many hated him due to Aelin, but look at him now)

[gummilutt]

250 followers Custom Memory Bonanza

It's finally time! To thank all you lovely people for your support, I have been working hard to get this ready for upload and here we are. Today I am sharing my custom memory object, and my library of a whopping 201 custom memories. Based on the wonderful Tattered Diary by DiLight over on MTS, and the tutorial she shared of how to make your own custom memories.

I've always cared a lot about memories, to me they tell the story of the Sims life. Some of you from MTS may recall when I did the whole several year rebuild of my hood, replicating every last detail of the original. I'm memory crazy, okay? And when DiLight gave me the power to make my own, I may have gone a tad overboard. Or just the right amount, you get to decide :P DiLight taught me most of what I know about making custom memories, and the base BHAVs are from her, but as I've learned more I've added some bells and whistles that I hope you will enjoy. It's a new clone and separate GUID from the original tutorial object set up by DiLight, so if you have your own you can have mine too without issues :) Found in misc/misc, costs 1 simoleon.

Download on simfileshare

Features - Brand new form, created by me. Resized BV photo album with new mapping and new texture (seen above, in game pictures at the end of this post). I wanted something that was uniquely mine, and that you don't necessarily have to hide away in the attic or under the foundation. If you don't like it, you also have some additional model forms you can switch between through the pie menu. - Adaptable dynamic menu. Thanks to a really neat trick from @picknmixsims the menu reflects the memories you put in your downloads. If no file with the correct guid is found, the option for it won't show. Which means that although I am crazy enough to have 201, you can go ahead and only pick your favorite ones and the object will automatically detect and adapt the menu to that selection. - Memories all have a custom icon, that's made from game icons from TS2 or TS3. Some I am quite proud of, some are admittedly not great. Not everything is easy to convey through game icons, but I've tried my best, I hope the effort shows. 5 memories have icons that are not from the game, but I tried to match them to the aesthetic as best I could. - Memory subject menu shows only relevant age groups. For example, if the memory is about having a baby, only baby/toddler Sims will show as options. Goal being to keep menu as concise as possible. If you wish to assign memories retroactively, please see jonasn's excellent Memory Commander object, which has support to add my custom memories without age limitations. As well as a whole lot of other useful memory-related stuff. - Extensive documentation detailing everything you may need to know about the memories (text, icon, background, who can get it, who they can get it about, repeatability, where to find it on the object) to help you select the ones you want for your game, and familiarize yourself with them. - English and Swedish translations of memories, and object menu. If someone wants to add their language, that would be great but it's a lot of work so I don't expect it. You are welcome to share your translated versions directly if you wish, or you can send them to me for me to update files shared here :) If you want to learn how to translate the files directly, Episims has a great tutorial found here.

Examples of types of custom memories included - Extended family members memories (got cousin, got aunt/uncle, got sibling, got twin sibling, got great grandchild, got stepparent, got stepchild) - Birth related memories (pregnancy, becoming parent, late in life parent, had multiples birth, premature baby) - Marriage related memories (divorce, parental divorce, custody things, alimony) - Relationship related memories (fighting, breakups, additional love memories) - Woohoo related (memories for specific woohoo locations, repeatable generic woohoo/public woohoo) - University degree related (declared major memories, got a minor degree memories, got a major degree memories, for remembering having studied multiple things and being able to see what major your Sim chose without looking at their diploma) - Loan related, for remembering taking and paying off loans of different types - Moving memories (first apartment, child moves out, various memories for sims moving in with others) - Kids related (child's first day in school, got their own pet, nursery rhyme, giving up for adoption, living at orphanage)

Mods automating delivery of my CC memories (more to come) Learned nursery rhyme from - Found here, by me Wrote restaurant guide - Found here, part of jonasn "Novel Writing Improvements" mod

Credits: DiLight, @picknmixsims, @morepopcorn, @latmosims, @joplayingthesims, maxon, @keoni-chan. For detailed info on how they all impacted the creation of this, see readme :) Policy: Give credit to DiLight, beyond that, totally open. Enjoy!

[eightfish]

My thoughts this comic cover page design!

The idea for this cover was to show off the two main characters' dynamic with a dance-like, fight-like pose. I also wanted a wrap around cover so that there could be leeway in book thickness.

I did a few sketches with the concept:

I felt the final pose I came up with had the best balance with the text and a necessary "edgier" rather than "floatier" energy. The diagonal shape the characters make has movement while also fitting in the triangular title in the top left quite nicely. I'm also a fan how I managed to put in a bit of uncomfortable bloodiness and how Kou's hand is on the book's spine.

In the background I used the clouds that make an ambiguous night and day to create negative space for the title and back blurb. The buildings are there to show off the story's attention to setting, and also to provide some high-detail elements to balance out the lower-detail empty space the text sits in.

Anyway, this book is available to order now! It's a human-eating ghoul x ghoul hunter story. It's gorey and it's gay. Chomp chomp!

4 days left

Kickstarter link: http://kck.st/41EgELu

[alotofpockets]

Lost & found | Katie McCabe x Reader

Part of the Mini Mate Universe

Summary: Where Jake loses his favourite stuffed animal, and Katie helps you through a panic attack.

Woso masterlist | Words: 1.6k

-----

Over the past few months you had gone over to Beth and Viv’s place for dinner at least once a week. Jake loved his new aunties, and you enjoyed spending time with the couple and the many guests they seemed to have over at all times. Beth and Viv in turn were also enjoying having you and Jake around, you fitted right in with all Katie’s teammates, and well they just all loved Jake.

Today you would have brunch at their house, along with a few other girls from the team. Katie texted you she needed to finish up some things and head your way in 30 minutes, just enough time for Jake to finish his Bluey episode, you thought while you finished packing up his bag.

When Katie arrived, she greeted you with a kiss, “Hi baby, are you ready to go?” Jake’s show was still playing in the background, but it was long forgotten by the boy when he heard Katie’s voice. The sound of his tiny footsteps running your way made the both of you smile and look into the hallway. “Kawie!” You didn’t think you would ever grow tired of his excitement for your girlfriend, or the way he pronounced her name. “Hi mini mate, I’ve missed you!” She picks him up and twirls him around. “Let me just turn everything off, and I will meet you at the car?” 

Each time you were heading somewhere with Katie, she insisted on driving to your house, and head to wherever you were going together. You had told her many times that you could just meet her at Beth and Viv’s, but Katie kept insisting to go together. Usually you took your car since Jake’s seat was in there, but now you walk outside and see Katie putting Jake into her car. “Wait, why are you putting him in your car? He needs his car seat.” Katie stepped to the side to show you the brand new car seat installed in the back of her car, and you couldn’t believe your eyes. Katie ruffled your son’s hair before closing the door softly. “What do you think?” You were still a bit shocked. “I think it looks great, but you really didn’t have to do that.” Katie takes your hand and leads you to her car. “I know I didn’t have to, but I’m in this for the long run, and I want to be able to go somewhere with the three of us and not make you drive every time.” You place a soft kiss on her lips, “You are the best, I love you.”

When you arrived it didn’t take long for Jake to run off to Laura who was playing with Myle. You loved knowing that any one of Katie’s teammates would look out for your boy when you were in a group setting, and that even though as a mom you would still keep checking in, you could also let it go a bit, knowing that he was cared for.  

You spend about an hour talking with the group of girls before Beth said that she was going to take the dogs for a walk. Since the weather was so nice, everyone decided to tag along. You headed to the little beach nearby, where the dogs could run around freely. Beth and Viv walked up front, with two dogs running ahead of them, you and Katie followed with Jake on Katie’s neck, and the group of you was followed by a giggling Laura and Vic pushing each other around. It was interesting to see the different dynamics between the girls surrounding you, but you loved all of their company. 

When you got back to Beth and Viv’s you all had lunch together, before you made the short drive back to your house. Katie knew you were in need of some one on one time with her, so she had asked Linda if she would watch Jake during his nap and the rest of the afternoon. It wasn’t until you had tucked Jake into his bed with Katie and Linda talking downstairs, that you realised that Jake had lost his stuffed bunny. You found out because Jake started loudly crying. “Mommy, me want Benny!” He screamed at the top of his lungs. “Shh, it’s okay kiddo, Mommy is going to go look for Benny.” You held the boy in your arms as the tears rolled over his cheeks. The women downstairs had heard Jake’s screams, and Katie came running with a different stuffed animal that she found amongst Jake’s toys. “Hi buddy.” She says sitting down next to you and while letting her hands go through your son’s hair. “I have a Mister Bear here, who really needs some cuddles. Do you think you can give him some cuddles?” Jake took the bear with a little hesitation. “Good job kiddo, you’re making Mister Bear very happy.” You say, wiping his tears away. “Come on, nap time. Linda will be right downstairs if you need anything.” With a kiss to his forehead, you leave his room.

Once you close his bedroom door, you start pacing the hallway. Katie takes your hand, “Let’s get downstairs, baby.” You continue your pacing when you get to the living room. “Why can’t I remember where I last saw his bunny?” It was frustrating that you could not picture the last time you saw Jake holding Benny. “It’s okay, baby, I will text Viv and ask her to look at their place, and we will go to the beach and check there. We’re going to find Benny, okay?” 

You made your way over to the beach, the route passed Viv and Beth’s so if they would find the bunny you could go there instead. Viv texted before you passed their exit that they couldn’t find the bunny anywhere in the living room, hallway or backyard, where Jake had been today. So, the beach was your last hope. 

After walking every inch of the luckily rather small beach back and forth for the third time, you plopped down on the sand. The frustrations and emotions were getting the better of you as you started crying. “What am I going to do? Benny is his favourite stuffed animal.” Your thoughts started spiralling. How were you going to be able to explain this to your toddler? You could already see the pout and the sadness behind his eyes. Your breathing sped up until it was getting hard for you to breathe. Katie noticed what was happening right away, and sat down in front of you. “Hey baby, look at me.” Your vision was blurry, but you turned your head in the direction of her voice. “It’s okay, everything is going to be okay. Can you take a deep breath in for me?” You tried to take a big breath, but after inhaling for a second you were struggling again. “That was good, let’s try another one.” She took one of your hands and put it over her heart. “Can you feel my heartbeat, baby?” You nodded weakly. “Okay good, focus on my heart beating, and try to take another deep breath in.” 

Focussing on Katie’s heartbeat helped you to stay grounded, and breath by breath, your breathing started to get more regular. “What happened?” You ask while wiping away your tears. “I think you just had a panic attack.” You stand up and start ridding yourself of sand. “Take it easy baby, let’s take a moment.” Katie tries to make you take a break. “No need, we need to find this bunny. I already ruined our afternoon, I don’t want to ruin it further by not coming home with Jake’s bunny.” Katie is quick to her feet and places her hands on your shoulder. “You did not ruin our afternoon. I will gladly search over this beach ten more times, if that means I got to spend time with you, and make Jake happy.”

Before you could respond to Katie’s kind words, you were interrupted by her phone ringing. “Hey Viv, you’re on speaker, y/n is with me.” Katie said as she picked up the call. “Ah that’s great. I have good news, we found Benny.” You couldn’t believe it and fell into Katie’s arms. “Thank you so much Viv. That is so good to hear.” Katie wrapped her arm around you, and placed a kiss onto your forehead. “Yeah thanks Viv. We’re at the beach now, so we’ll come pick it up on the way, if that’s okay with you.” Viv agrees, “Yeah, just one thing. The reason we couldn’t find it before was because Myle is the one that found him, and he might have a severed limb now. We are so sorry, y/n.” You shake your head, just happy that the beloved stuffed animal was found. “Don’t worry about it Viv, I’m just glad I don’t have to tell Jake that the whole bunny is gone.” 

Once you got back home with the bunny and his loose arm, Linda was quick to say that she could fix him. Linda got to work right away, and got done just in time, as you heard Jake waking up upstairs. She handed you the bunny, and you made your way upstairs. “Hi Jakey.” Your son looked up at you with big hopeful eyes. “You won’t believe the adventure Benny has been on today.” You say as you reveal the stuffed animal. “Mommy found Benny!” You had never seen the boy wake up so quickly. “Actually auntie Viv did, because little Benny went on an adventure with Myle today.” You made up a story about Benny and Myle in hopes the boy would forget about the sadness of losing his stuffy, and by the smile on his face, you think you were doing a pretty good job.

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