#It's like practice makes you better or something

[vampmira]

open up what you got in your mind to me. [pt.2 – saja boys.]

they've never met someone like you — a mortal who almost knew them .. better than they knew themselves. for the boys, it's annoyingly intriguing. for the girls, it's comforting.

paring(s): huntrix & saja boys x demon expert!gn!reader

warning(s:) EVERYTHING IN HERE IS A PART TWO TO THIS !! some movie changes, probably effected lore that makes no sense for the sake of the narrative, a little angst at the beginning

request | tags: @blueberrysquire @akariis4snowball @j0ykill

a/n: this is part 2 !! i had sooo many ideas for huntrix that i had to make another part for the saja boys so that it wasn't so long . this part isn't as good but i liked it so ☆☆☆

that night huntrix defeated gwima was a blur. all you remember was the zombie mob of fans, half of the fight, and the use of your aura vision to raise the saja boys above the honmoon before it glimmered in gold. jinu, who gave his newly found soul for rumi, was practically reincarnated through her sword – standing in front of her post-concert, arms open for her to fall into with tears from the both of them. everyone else? well, they felt lost.

the saja boys weren't sure what to do anymore. jinu was overjoyed, of course, but the boys knew nothing more beyond gwima and their mission. they didn't care much about music, nor their fans – which huntrix still couldn't wrap their minds around – and it's not like they had secret human hobbies. they never had time for that. until now.

post-gwima, they stayed in an apartment near the huntrix penthouse, trying to figure out their new lives. for the most part, they spent most of their time under your watch – to make sure they didn't go cause chaos – but also .. under your study.

you were weird to them

they weren't used to someone other than them.. knowing them

their capabilities, their knowledge, their origins.

actually jinu found your extensive understanding of what he is to be kind of comforting

he noticed how you never really drooled over them

you'd stare, sure, but in the same way an art critic would stare at a painted blue canvas with a smeared red dot in the middle

he felt like that red dot – unexplained but you somehow understood

when he told you about his past, it was a lot for him – talking about his cruel choice

but you.. didn't judge him.

in fact, you wrote it down in your notebook immediately, the one you never let the boys get too close to

he accepted you into his life when he entertained your interest in his history

unlike him, however, the other boys were uninterested

at first anyway

thank jinu for getting them to talk to you btw

it took a little bit of convincing – telling them that you wanted to give them something more than just gwima

even though they didn't want it ...

REGARDLESS they hang out around the penthouse

because they're no longer saja boys (uninterested and unsupported by any demon staff anymore)

they really had nothing to do but mildly annoy your personal space

including being the center of your attention when the girls are out

mira gave you one rule, "living room and bathroom. only." and you've succeeded so far. abby and romance were talking by the large scale windows, mystery was playing some game with baby (and obviously winning), and jinu sat in the middle of the couch, watching whatever movie rumi put on for him. you sat beside him, sketching in your one and only personal researcher book. your pencil drew out what you felt like was the final line in mystery's hair ... before you huffed, erasing it, and trying again.

that was... until the littlest demon startled you.

"mystery, they're drawing you." bored of his game, baby peered over your shoulder, only passively curious and really wanting to mess with you. heads turned at your exposure to the room, especially jinu, who looked over your other shoulder at the sketch you did of him earlier.

"you're.. sketching us?" the direct ask made you a bit nervous, especially being under so many eyes. (kind of. mystery was more just.. generally facing your direction.) "'weakness.. chest?' are you taking notes on us?" you stood up, nearly defensive, turning around to face the couch trio.

"if it weren't for your old friends, i wouldn't have to write it all down again." the boys went quiet, remembering the origin of your knowledge and powers. "i'm just.. tired of keeping it all inside. i need to get it out somewhere."

romance, true to his name, leaned over your shoulder, putting you both in a proximity much closer than you've ever had to experience before.

"then why don't we do something.. a little more fun .. to help you get it all out?"

normally sentences like that from him sound way more suggestive than he means them to be

but this time he came up with an actual solution to release your closed up, ready-to-pop-out-of-your-skin knowledge

they gave you a one way trip to infodump station ! an interview !

they wanted to learn more about you anyways

their fellow demons down below were the ones to wipe out your ancestors

not them

and they make sure you know it too

but they can't help but feel .. a little, tiny bit bad that you're now just a living library

a time capsule, holding onto so much information that you're about to burst 24/7

they had never met a researcher honestly

you intrigued them as much as they did for you

how much did you really know ?? did you know anything or is all this antsy behavior a ploy to make it look like you knew everything when you really knew nothing ??

their disguises were perfectly created to make every little fan fall for their attractiveness the second they looked at the boys

but you never drooled at them or had your eyes pop out of your head

you just always... stared. processing. tracing mindfully.

they didn't know what you were really abut. but they were about to find out. and really test your persona.

romance sat relaced in a chair as you circled him, pencil taking note of everything you noticed. how his markings were sharp, not rounded like rivers, how his skin was cooled, not burning hot. all things you already knew, but you found small comfort in knowing not much changed. you took a deep breath around his hair, nose scrunching up. he smiled, taking your cheek in his hand.

"new cologne." his voice was smooth, gentle. traditionally alluring. "just for you. do you like it?" he turned up his flirtatiousness, pulling you in closely, testing the waters of your focus.. before you turned away to start writing, completely uneffected.

"so many generations and you guys still smell like flames.." you mumbled to yourself.

"would you rather we smell like bubblegum?" baby tried to sass you, but you were too focused on the sharpness of his teeth to care. you stepped towards him, eyes widened.

"can demons still tear apart brick with the force of their canines?" you asked, rather close to his face. for a moment, he almost felt like the flustered one.

"yes..? no? i-i don't know." he crossed his arms, childishly. "i don't go around biting bricks." you jot it down still as you move towards abby. he's deeply relaxed, leaning back on the couch, comfortable shirt riding up to expose his famously toned abs. your eyes trail off of your notebook and they think.. they've got you.

"like what you see?" he teases. "you can touch them, you know." a bold move that brings you closer, nails tracing his skin. they're almost disappointed that abby is the one who stole your attention.. before they realize you're attention isn't stolen at all. you're drawing his markings with careful detail.

"where did yours come from? rumi's started forming on her arm when she was a kid, but they haven't reached her stomach yet. they grow with time, right? how old would that make you then..?" you dissolve into mutters they can barely decipher. "oh!! mystery!" he almost jumps behind the couch when you race over to him, making jinu laugh from the sidelines of their attempts to flirt with you. "i've never seen a demon sparkle! that's new.. is that just you? or is there a whole subspecies of sparkling demons? or is it your human disguise..?" your questions nearly overwhelm him, enough to make him forget how he's supposed to flirt with you, but romance pulls you away, whispering in your ear.

"it's not just him." he smiles, hand on your shoulder. "you're sparkling, too, sweetheart." if anyone could fluster anyone, it'd be him, even if it takes two rounds. his thumb runs against your chin. "you look so cute in this lighting, like a rose."

"speaking of which, what's the flora like down there? are there any? do they eat demons or are they like.. regular flowers? we knew more of demons than of gwima's realm. did they smell? i bet they might have.. would it be nostalgic or torturing?"

the boys share a look, and sigh. you went off into high speed muttering again.

you really were everything you said

uninterested in their flirts and more in knowledge

that almost made them like you more..

in the following times after the interview, they greeted you a bit more casually – sometimes cheerfully, asking if you had any new drawings or trivia you wanted to get off your chest

how did you . tame them !? does the whole hard to get thing actually work !?

it confused the girls wildly

but to see them adjusting to being here through someone who actually understood them instead of lying around, empty and lost, was a pick-me-up in the mornings

one morning, after being delivered a coffee, handsigned by the boys, you felt something click in your head, a sensation you had never felt before, and reached to put it in your notebook immediately

"demons, when properly befriended, like to be understood. they brought me coffee. do demons like coffee??"

[rawme-price]

So...healer!reader pt 5, shes already healed the guys individually, where will they go from here?🤭

It becomes a bit of a routine. The guys try not to ask for ur healing too often, they value u as a genuine member of the team and would hate for u to think ur just here for that. But, you do notice they all perform much better after you heal them. Plus, it kind of gets on ur nerves when they try to 'tough out' some of the minor pain, bc u can feel it radiating from them and now that you have healed them before there's really no reason for u to be shy about it again.

So, you make sure to heal them all at least once a week, sometimes more if they actually are hurt. Ghost goes all soft and pliant, simply enjoying the fact his chronic pain is gone for a bit. Price tends to take the time to smoke, hes learned that ur healing with smoke in his lungs feels devine. Soap doesnt have much constant pain besides mild tinnitus, so he and gaz tend to work out like hell beforehand bc it feels alot better when the magic has something to focus on.

But you never seem to ask anything in return. Its frustrating. Especially considering soap has explicitly offered you to bed and all you've done is turn him down with a small smile. Needless to say, the guys are concerned. Gaz calls a team meeting between the four of them, a furrow in his brow.

"Do you think we're taking advantage?"

Its a long and serious discussion. Price thinks they are, they all have some sort of power dynamic over you (some more than others). Ghost doesnt think so, hes seen you punch a guy's lights out for looking at you the wrong way, if you didnt want to do something then you wouldnt. Soap seems mixed, he trusts your decisions, but he doesnt want to have accidentally coerced you into anything. The discussion gets them nowhere, so finally gaz calls you in.

U give them a confused look, but seem overall relaxed. "Uh- everything okay?"

Price doesnt mince words, "if you dont want to heal us. You dont have to. If you dont feel comfortable working in this team, give me the paperwork and ill approve it, no questions asked."

"What?" Youre honestly baffled, looking between them like they're crazy. "What on earth makes you think i dont want to heal you?? If I didnt then I wouldnt??"

So they explain they're reasoning, finally leading to the last point of u never seeking out ur own satisfaction. They don't want to make u heal them if u dont get some sort of satisfaction in return, it feels predatory or whatever.

You cant help it, you laugh. A bit from nerves but also from relief bc you thought you were being kicked out. "Oh my god- thats it?" You try to cover ur grin with a hand.

"the hell do you mean thats it?!" Soap retorts, a bit put off by ur sudden mirth "this is serious!"

"God! No- its- you dont understand-" you take a few deep breaths before calming down. Looking them in the eyes you shrug "im asexual. I uh- dont feel sexual desire. Like. At all."

Before they can freak out, you strike down whatever fears u know they're thinking "whatever sexual moments did occur were totally my choice. I may not get satisfaction like you guys do, but I like to see you guys happy, I like to help. Besides, all this healing has given me alot of practice with my magic, I really dont want to stop."

You and them have another, quite long discussion, and decide to keep up the arrangement. You get to practice magic, and they get to have the best damn orgasms of their lives. In fact, this probably means you can heal them more often now that you have permission to really experiment with ur methods.

(HA YALL THOUGHT IT WOULD BE A FIVESOME HUH??? WRONG!! anyways happy pride to all my fellow asexuals!! Also dw guys this is NOT the end of the series lol)

[cloudedangels]

Dr’s Orders 18+

⋆⁺₊❅。

You (f reader) are ovulating, but you can't bring yourself to request what you really need… Dr. Zayne has a treatment plan for that... luckily! ● ≈4,025 words ughggh ● probably needs proofreading ● adult!!! ● mdni!!!

Tags and cw: ovulation!: the plot device, zayne, dr zayne cures you of your horny disease kinda, piv, oral (f receiving), mostly sex no plot, in the hospital of all places!, creampie, multiple rounds, fingering, established relationship implied, self indulgent smut— you know the drill

a/n: this SUCKED to write omg omg im freee you can probably tell my sauce was running out... this mostly SUCKED to write bc I am on my period a week and a half early (???) & I have 1 endometriosis (,: this is also my first time writing zayne which i hope gets better bc he's my pretty lil baby, I need him [redacted].

Go bunnie.

▪︎ next up:

☆caleb's very late birthday fic

☆extended leave pt six

☆hubby!zayne drabble

vibrator series pt 3 and pt 4

⋆⁺₊❅。

⋆⁺₊❅。⋆⁺₊❅。⋆⁺₊❅。⋆⁺₊❅。

Zayne isn’t blind.

He sees the way your legs cross tighter than usual, the way your hand lingers too long on the hem of your sleeve, picking at threads like you're trying not to crawl out of your skin.

You’d stared at the closed door to his office ten times today. Every time you almost knocked, your throat had closed up. Your fingers fiddle with the edge of your sleeve again, tugging it just a little too hard until it bunches in your palm. The scent of antiseptic clings to the air, mixing with your own faint perfume, and it makes your stomach twist like a knot you can’t undo.

You'll just sit in his office and wait for him to get off as always.

And... when you see him, you're all off.

Zayne however… he knows exactly what day it is. Five days post-period. Right on schedule. He does the math in his head because, well, of course he does. He’s a surgeon. He keeps track of things.

He doesn’t mention it, not aloud. He just watches you try to wrestle yourself into stillness like you're trying to outwit your own body. He can feel it in the air—how needy you are, how tightly wound. You think you're subtle, but Zayne knows tension better than most. He lives in it and operates through it. And you're practically vibrating with it. The sterile, slightly cold office smells faintly of antiseptic and leather. Outside, the dull hum of hospital noises lingers beyond the closed door.

You won’t ask him. Not directly. Maybe you think you’re being polite. Maybe you're afraid he’ll be embarrassed. But he’s not the one squirming in a rolling chair in his office, trying to fight biology and failing.

Still, you don’t ask. You want to ask, but your voice feels small, unsure. You’ve always tried not to be a bother, this relationship is only recently sexual... but now, not asking feels like self-denial. But you can't.

So he shifts his strategy. If you won't ask him, shouldn't he ask you for a favor? That'd work wouldn't it?

He’s quiet for too long. Not in the usual way. In the way that makes your stomach twist. He’s calculating something, staring at your lips like they hold some equation he hasn’t quite solved. You feel it before he speaks—something shifting in him. Something about to snap loose? He flushes as he turns to you, words falling out like dominos.

“I need to finger you.”

His words hang in the air, clinical but sudden... like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you. His jaw's tightening briefly, a twitch of the muscle betraying the calm he’s trying to maintain. His eyes flicker down to your lips like he’s memorizing their shape… a calculation paused mid-equation.

You blink. “What?”

Your heart hammers a little faster. You want to protest, but your throat feels dry and thick, and your body answers before your brain can catch up. There's heat pooling low and insistent.

Zayne clears his throat lightly, deadpan as ever. “Desperately. I'm, ah—struggling. It’s been difficult to focus. All I can think about is the sound you make when you come. So.” He tilts his head slightly. “This is for medical reasons. Mine. Urgent.”

You're trying to make sense of this, he's usually so much more put together than this… you're so horny you don't want to deny him but… You’ve never heard him stumble like this—not even when talking you through surgical risks or listing medications. Zayne is precision incarnate. So when his voice falters, it knocks the air out of you.

“I mean… if you want, I could give you—”

“No.” He cuts you off, eyes narrowing slightly. The room seems to shrink around you. The hum of the fluorescent light overhead blurs into a steady drone as your pulse hammers in your ears. His steady gaze pins you in place, and your breath catches.

“I’m not joking. The only thing that's going to help me is your thighs on my shoulders and my fingers inside you. Repeatedly. I need to make you come, and I need to taste you while I do it. That’s the only thing that’s going to help.”

You stare at him, throat dry. “You... need... that.”

“Yes,” he says, perfectly serious. “Badly. Like, clinically.”

A beat passes. Then another.

“You’re—” you try to say something clever, but it falls flat against the heat surging in your gut.

“I’m what?” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Depraved? Professional? Pathetic?”

You whisper, “Perfect.”

Zayne exhales once through his nose, the closest he gets to smiling when he’s trying not to lose composure. There’s a twitch in the corner of his mouth, and his hand comes up—Hesitant and precise, it brushes your cheek.

“So it’s alright, then?” he says, voice softer now. “If I... lose control. Just a little… With you...”

You nod before he even finishes the sentence.

And just like that, your quiet, unbearable need—masked in silence and polite restraint—crashes into his own. His eyes flicker with something unreadable—pain, longing, something deeper. For a moment, neither of you move. Then, slow and deliberate, his fingers curl around your wrist, pulling you closer. The sharp tang of antiseptic mingles with the warm, powdery scent of his cologne, a strange but intoxicating combination that makes your breath hitch.

His lips press into yours soft and patient, and with the easy state you're in, you're already letting out a soft whimper when he kisses you with such gentleness... touches you with such wanting. You're caving into him as he pulls back, begging silently for more of his lips and the powdery scent of his cologne.

He sinks to his knees, not because you asked, but because he did. Thank God.

You’re still blinking down at him, standing with your breath shallowed, as if waiting for him to laugh and walk out. But he doesn’t. He just reaches—fingers confident, deliberate—and taps once against your knee.

“Up,” he says softly. “Come on. Be good for me. Legs over the exam table.”

You obey because you always do. But also because the way he looks at you—precise, studied, patient—makes disobedience feel impossible. Punishable, even. You scoot back on the padded surface, letting your legs fall apart, and you swear his pupils dilate just slightly.

The paper beneath your thighs crinkles loudly—embarrassingly—like it dislikes what you’re doing. The scent of antiseptic cuts through the heat in your blood. Even your shirt feels too tight, too rough. The overhead lights hum, too bright, too sterile. You feel exposed and examined. Everything feels like too much… except him.

He hums. It’s not amusement, not quite. It’s approval.

“Perfect positioning. Should’ve let me do this days ago. You’re—” He clicks his tongue once. “Edging into clinical negligence, keeping me from a treatment this vital.”

His hands are warm. Sterile. Methodical. He touches you like he’s mapping nerve endings. His thumbs press into the crease of your thighs, spreading you further. He studies you like you’re a case study, a problem he already knows how to solve but enjoys solving again anyway.

You're shaking. “And this… is... for you?” You mutter, a whisper of disbelief mixed with pleasure.

“Yes. Yes, and I want you to know,” he murmurs as he leans in, “that I’m not improvising. I’ve been thinking about this for a while. Thoroughly.”

Then he licks. Just once—slow, flat-tongued, exploratory. You jerk. He doesn’t flinch. Just shifts closer.

“Mhm,” he murmurs clinically, like he’s tasting for acidity in a dish. “As suspected.”

Another swipe. This time more pressure, more purpose. His hands keep you open, one sliding up to rest gently over your abdomen, steadying you. He moans low in his throat—not theatrical, not showy. A slip of sound, as if he forgot he could be heard.

“You’re already so sensitive,” he mutters, kissing you now, more deliberately. “This’ll take a while. Let me work. I will get everything I need from you soon enough.”

His tongue moves in slow, studied patterns. Up. Down. Spiral. Pause. A flick. A suck. He’s collecting data—what makes you twitch, what makes you sigh, what makes you gasp and grab at the table’s edges. Every time you make a sound, he shifts technique slightly. Filing it away. Adjusting. Repeating.

He doesn’t speak much. When he does, it’s all under his breath—clinical, praising, a little condescending, always devoted.

“There you go. That’s it.”

“More of that, Yes?”

“Don’t hold your breath so much. Let it happen.”

When you finally whimper out a guttural, cracked open sound, he looks up. His lips and chin glisten as he simply says, “Good. That’s one.”

As if you’re just getting started. (Because you are.) He doesn’t let up. Not even close.

He pushes in slow, deliberate. Controlled. Like he’s watching a monitor for vitals, measuring every reaction, every tremor in your body.

You gasp, nails curling against the padded table. He groans softly—a man adjusting to pressure, to heat, to you.

“God,” you whisper, already clenching. “I needed this. I—fuck, Zayne, I needed this so bad—”

“I can tell,” he murmurs, calm as ever, even as his hips settle flush against yours. “Should’ve said something sooner.”

You moan, full of frustration and want and something dangerously close to tears.

“I couldn’t. I didn’t wanna be—” You break off, panting. “Didn’t wanna bother you.”

He stills inside you. Eyes sharp. Lips parted. And then he exhales—long and quiet, like he’s biting back some deeper emotion. Maybe regret. Maybe guilt.

“You’re not a bother,” he says, low. “You never are.”

His hips roll just slightly, testing, coaxing, sending heat racing up your spine.

“If anything...” His hand slides up your side, over your ribs, soothing, grounding. “I should’ve made time for this earlier. This…” he thrusts a little deeper, “...this seems like an urgent need.”

You whimper under him. “Zayne, I—fuck, I want—”

“What do you want?”

Your face burns. Your voice shakes. But you can’t keep it in anymore.

“I want you… you to breed me... please.”

The silence after is thick.

He’s still.

Something unravels in his expression then. It’s not just arousal—it’s longing. A wish he hadn’t let himself form until you gave it voice, like he almost wants your regret. But he nods, like that need—raw, hormonal, messy—isn’t foreign to him. Like it’s the same one clawing up his own spine.

Then, slowly—gently—he fucks into you harder. Once. Twice.

“Oh,” he says quietly. “That’s what this is about...”

You’re babbling now, eyes glassy, breath hitching.

“I—I want it. I want to feel full, I want you to come inside, I want to know it’s yours—even if it’s stupid, even if it’s just my body wanting—I don’t care, I need it, please—”

Zayne brushes a hand over your cheek, thumb catching your tears before they can fall.

“It’s not stupid.”

His voice is calm. Assured. Loving in a way that makes your chest ache.

“You’re ovulating. Your hormones are spiking. Your body’s wired for this. And you’re safe with me.”

He leans over you, mouth brushing your ear.

“Anything you ever need,” he murmurs, voice rough now, strained with emotion and restraint, “you can ask me for it. Anything.”

He pulls almost all the way out, then pushes in deep—slow, worshipping.

“Especially this.”

You cry out for him again, voice cracking, and he just keeps moving, steady and full, fucking you like it’s a promise. His body warm, his voice steady, his heart loud in your ear.

“You feel so good… you wanna be bred, my love?” he whispers. “I’ll give you everything. Fill you up so deep your body won’t know anything else but mine. I like being the only one… who can fix this… problem for you.”

That's spins you undone, and when you come again—hard, sobbing his name, clenching around him like your body’s trying to keep him inside—he follows: gasping once, then going silent as he spills into you, deep and long, trembling.

Helping.

Fixing the problem.

He stays inside you for a while. Long enough that the tremble in your thighs evens out, that the ache in your belly softens from frantic to full. His hand is on your hip, steady, his breath slowing against your neck. You feel him soften inside you, but he doesn’t move to pull out, he just wraps his hand around your thigh, thumb tracing light circles. It’s as if he is still measuring your pulse through your skin.

You’re dazed. Fucked open and flushed and barely remembering where you are. He presses a kiss just below your ear. Quiet and close.

“Still with me?” he murmurs, one hand stroking your thigh like he’s grounding both of you. “Let me know if you’re dizzy. I got you.”

You nod, finally feeling like you can think with more than that warm beat between your thighs.

“…Fixed it,” he murmurs after a moment.

You let out a small, breathless laugh. “That was your treatment plan?”

“Highly effective,” he says, deadpan. “Minimal side effects. Patient satisfaction… presumed high.”

You hum and blink up at him, lips still parted. He’s looking at you, really looking, and not in the way doctors are trained to. There’s nothing detached about it now.

Then, with that surgeon’s steadiness, he pulls out slowly—so careful it makes you ache all over again—and reaches for the drawer on the wall behind you. Pulls out a warm towel like this is just another cleanup post-op.

You twitch when he touches you. Sensitive. Spent. He murmurs a soft apology, even as his hands stay precise, wiping you clean with unhurried tenderness.

“You didn’t have to do all that,” you whisper.

He glances at you. “You didn’t ask. So I had to improvise.”

You smile faintly. “You’re not mad I didn’t say anything?”

He tosses the towel aside. “I’m not mad.”

Then, more softly:

“However…I just wish you trusted me to help you. Even with this. Especially with this.”

His hand brushes your thigh again, this time more to comfort than assess. “You never have to handle it alone.”

You swallow hard, your throat suddenly thick.

“I didn’t know how,” you say.

“I’ll teach you,” Zayne murmurs. “Next time, say what you need. I’ll take care of it. I’ll take care of you. Maybe not of everything but… what I can.”

You nod, quiet.

Then he leans in again, pressing a final kiss to your collarbone. A prescription written into the touch of your skin.

And beneath it all, his voice—calm, knowing, clinical as ever:

“This appointment is incomplete, but before I continue, let's plan? Follow-up appointment… same time next cycle?”

He’s hardening again, the heat of him pressing against you, but his lips stay impossibly soft where they meet your skin. His fingers glide over you with such careful tenderness it almost aches, like he’s afraid to break something fragile inside you. His breath stutters in his throat, and when he finally looks up at you, his eyes are full of something quiet, something desperate.

“What do you want?” he asks, voice low and steady, his fingers curling around yours as if to anchor your body to him.

You swallow, heart pounding in your chest, the moment making your voice shaky. “Please… don’t stop. Not yet. Let me have this—let me have you—while you’re here, before you go back to work... before the surgeries take you away again.”

He nods slowly, swallowing hard, as if hearing that pulls something out of him. You’re full of his cum, in his office, and yet still... you want more.

“I want to care for you,” he says softly, almost like a prayer. “Let me take care of you—let me make you feel okay…”

Your breath catches, your eyes stinging. There's something in his voice—something soft, like you're worshipped. It undoes you. You nod, too overcome to speak, and he leans in to kiss you again, slower this time. A worshipful kind of kiss, one that tells you that he means it. All of it.

His hand slides between your legs, gentle, deliberate. He murmurs something you don’t catch against your cheek, and then his fingers are inside you—slow, coaxing, curling just right—and the stretch pulls a gasp from your throat.

“You’re still so wet,” he whispers, half in awe. “Still so full of my seed… and you want more?”

You whimper, your head tipping back against the couch. The way he touches you now feels different—like it’s not just about pleasure anymore, but about memory. Preservation.

“I don’t wanna forget how you feel,” he says, thumb brushing over your clit in slow, hypnotic circles. Your hips twitch under his hand, overwhelmed by the desire he builds in you. It's all too much—his voice, his touch, the heat of his body wrapped around yours—but you don’t want him to stop. God, you never want him to stop.

“I won’t let you,” you breathe. “I’ll remember for both of us.”

His mouth is on you again, but not your lips this time—his head drops lower, kissing a trail down your sternum, your stomach, until he’s kneeling between your legs.

“I want to taste you,” he says, voice rough with need. “Let me show you how good you are. How much I want you…You're doing me a favor really…”

He slips his fingers deeper, slow, deliberate, curling gently as he watches your breath hitch. You’re trembling under his touch, the way you’re spread out like a secret made just for him. His mouth moves close, breath hot against your skin.

“You’re the softest, sweetest flower,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with something between awe and need. “And I’m the luckiest man, right here, right now.”

His fingers flex inside you, teasing the spots that make you catch your breath and squeeze your thighs tight. Even after he’s already filled you once, the way he strokes and presses—there’s no doubt his desire is just as alive as yours, hungry and aching. He’s hard beneath you, the heat pressing close as he lets you feel it, a teasing promise of everything he wants.

“I told you it was for me,” he breathes, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “But really... this? It’s for both of us.” His hips shift, grinding slowly against you, the movement sending a new wave of fire through your body.

He leans down, mouth tracing a slow, burning path from your collarbone to your shoulder, lips parting just to whisper, “You make me need you. God, you make me need you so bad.”

His hands tighten around your hips as he pulls you just a little closer, filling the space between you with a quiet, fierce hunger. His fingers don’t stop, circling, curling, coaxing your body to respond again and again.

“Keep still for me,” he commands softly, voice rough like he’s holding back something fierce. “You’re mine right now. Every sigh, every shiver... it’s mine to take… I will be… your medicine…”

You’re gasping by the time he lowers his head again, mouth capturing yours in a deep, consuming kiss, and the taste of him—wanting, claiming—makes you lose the last grip you had on control.

His body is all fire and weight pressing down on you, filling the spaces inside you you didn’t even know were empty until now.

“More,” he whispers between kisses. “Always more.”

And you’re his, completely. The ache inside you answered at last.

His rhythm builds, fingers still buried deep while his other hand cradles your face—thumb brushing slow circles across your cheek, grounding you in the chaos he’s coaxing from your body. Every stroke inside you is purposeful, practiced, but full of reverence, like he’s trying to memorize you from the inside out.

“Look at me,” he says, not quite a whisper, not quite a command. Just enough to send heat licking down your spine. “I want to see you when you come undone.”

And you do—eyes wide and glassy, lashes fluttering as your breath stutters. The sight of you like this makes him groan, low and hoarse, hips jerking just slightly, betraying how close he is to the edge too, even though he hasn’t taken you fully again yet.

His fingers still, just enough to make you whimper. He presses a kiss to your jaw, then your mouth, as if that could quiet the ache.

“I could live here,” he murmurs into your lips. “Right here, inside you, around you... forever.”

Then he shifts, slow and careful, pulling his fingers free with a wet sound that makes your whole body tighten. He holds your gaze as he brings those same fingers to his mouth, tongue curling around them with a filthy sort of tenderness, eyes half-lidded, like tasting you is sacred.

“You, my dear, officially drive me undeniably insane,” he says, voice wrecked with want. “And I don’t wanna be sane again. Not so soon...”

When he finally sinks into you, it’s with a desperate groan that breaks right through you—thick and deep, every inch stretching you open like a promise. The burn is beautiful, the pressure perfect, and your body arches to meet him like it was made to.

He doesn’t rush. He moves—slow, rolling thrusts that keep you trembling, pinned under him and worshiped at once. His forehead presses to yours, sweat-slick and trembling, and for a moment he just stays there—buried inside you, eyes fluttering shut as your pulse thrums between you.

“You feel like heaven,” he breathes, and then again, “Mine.” Like he needs you to hear it more than once.

And when he starts to move in earnest, it’s with the kind of slow devastation that leaves nothing untouched. Every stroke drags a sound from your throat, every grind of his hips makes your legs shake. He’s whispering again, praise and filth mixing on his tongue:

“So tight for me. So fucking good, after this you'll learn to ask, okay? I could stay like this all night. Just you. Just us. I'll spend every break just like this, or with a mind filled with it.”

And maybe that’s exactly what you want too—him, again and again, until the world fades and all that’s left is the rhythm of his body in yours and the fire he keeps stoking, endless and aching.

He moves again, deeper this time, more sure. Not fast—not yet. But he rocks into you with the patience of a man obsessed with detail, addicted to the small shifts of your body around him, attuned to every gasp and flutter.

Your eyes roll back as you clench down, and he groans—sharp and breathless, the only crack in his otherwise impenetrable restraint.

“Fuck—tight,” he mutters, head bowing slightly. “That’s it, sweetheart. Let me feel it. That’s what I need.”

There’s nothing clinical in his voice now. It’s reverent. Hungry.

His hands are everywhere—on your hip, your thigh, pressed over your chest like he wants to memorize the stutter of your heart. You’ve never seen him like this—undone and focused, devoted. Not just having sex with you, but learning you, like you’re anatomy he wants to master, muscle and nerve and heat.

Your orgasm builds again—second? third? You’ve lost count—rising fast like a tidal wave you can’t hold back.

Zayne notices. Of course he does.

“You’re close.” It’s not a question. “Let it happen. You’re safe. You’re good. You’re mine to take care of.”

That breaks you.

You cry out, raw and sharp, body arching under him as you fall apart with a helpless sob. He takes all of it—every pulse and tremor—and doesn’t stop moving, like your pleasure is the only thing keeping him alive.

He presses his forehead to yours as you shake, still holding you, still inside.

You barely have breath to whisper it: “You really needed this?”

He laughs softly—warm, breathless, wrecked. “No... yes but,” he kisses your knuckles as he admits. “But you did.”

He kisses you—slow, deep, filled with a sweetness that makes your chest ache.

Then he adds, quiet and unshakable: “But I wanted to be the one who gave it to you.”

You blink up at him, throat tight.

“Was that... alright with you?” he asks softly. “Dr’s orders... and all.”

You smile, dazed. “Might need a follow-up appointment.”

His smirk—barely there, tired, pleased—makes your heart flutter.

“I’ll clear my schedule.” ⋆⁺₊❅。

MASTERLIST WITH ALL MY FICS

🐇my bunnies: ((comment or reblog with a 🐇 emoji to get added to the taglist for everything I write)): @starryeyed-apple @asiatic-apple

☃️snowflakes: ((just comment or reblog with a ☃️ emoji of you only want the Zayne fics only taglist)):

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Surveillance pricing lets corporations decide what your dollar is worth

I'm in the home stretch of my 24-city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me in LONDON (July 1) with TRASHFUTURE'S RILEY QUINN and then a big finish in MANCHESTER on July 2.

Economists praise "price discrimination" as "efficient." That's when a company charges different customers different amounts based on inferences about their willingness to pay. But when a company sells you something for $2 that someone else can buy for $1, they're revaluing the dollars in your pocket at half the rate of the other guy's.

That's not how economists see it, of course. When a hotel sells you a room for $50 that someone else might get charged $500 for, that's efficient, provided that the hotelier is sure no $500 customers are likely to show up after you check in. The empty room makes them nothing, and $50 is more than nothing. There's a kind of metaphysics at work here, in which the room that is for sale at $500 is "a hotel room you book two weeks in advance and are sure will be waiting for you when you check in" while the $50 room is "a hotel room you can only get at the last minute, and if it's not available, you're sleeping in a chair at the Greyhound station."

But what if you show up at the hotel at 9pm and the hotelier can ask a credit bureau how much you can afford to pay for the room? What if they can find out that you're in chemotherapy, so you don't have the stamina to shop around for a cheaper room? What if they can tell that you have a 5AM flight and need to get to bed right now? What if they charge you more because they can see that your kids are exhausted and cranky and the hotel infers that you'll pay more to get the kids tucked into bed? What if they charge you more because there's a wildfire and there are plenty of other people who want the room?

The metaphysics of "room you booked two weeks ago" as a different product from "room you're trying to book right now" break down pretty quickly once you factor in the ability of sellers to figure out how desperate you are – or merely how distracted you are – and charge accordingly. "Surveillance pricing" is the practice of spying on you to figure out how much you're willing to spend – because you're wealthy, because you're desperate, because you're distracted, because it's payday – and charging you more:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/05/your-price-named/#privacy-first-again

For example, a McDonald's ventures portfolio company called Plexure offers drive-through restaurants the ability to raise the price of your regular order based on whether you've recently received your paycheck. They're just one of many "personalized pricing" companies that have attracted investor capital to figure out how to charge you more for the things you need, or merely for the small pleasures of life.

Personalized pricing (that is, "surveillance pricing") is part of the "pricing revolution" that is underway in the US and the world today. Another major element of this revolution are the "price clearinghouses" that charge firms within a sector to submit their prices to them, then "offer advice" on the optimum pricing. This advice – given to all the suppliers of a good or service – inevitably boils down to "everyone should raise their prices in unison." So long as everyone follows that advice, we poor suckers have nowhere else to go to get a better deal.

This is a pretty thin pretext. Price-fixing is illegal, after all. These companies pretend that when all the meat-packers in America send their pricing data to a "neutral" body like Agri-Stats, which then tells them all to jack up the price of meat, that this isn't a price-fixing conspiracy, since the actual conspiracy takes the form of strongly worded suggestions from an entity that isn't formally part of the industry:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/04/dont-let-your-meat-loaf/#meaty-beaty-big-and-bouncy

Same goes for when all the landlords in town send their rental data to a company like Realpage, which then offers "advice" about the optimum price, along with stern warnings not to rent below that price: apparently that's not price-fixing either:

https://popular.info/p/feds-raid-corporate-landlord-escalating

It's not just sellers who engage in this kind of price-fixing – it's also buyers. Specifically buyers of labor, AKA "bosses." Take contract nursing, where a cartel of three staffing apps have displaced the many small regional staffing agencies that historically served the sector. These companies buy nurses' credit history from the unregulated, Wild West data-brokerage sector. They're checking to see whether a nurse who's looking for a shift has a lot of credit-card debt, especially delinquent debt, because these nurses are facing economic hardship and will accept a lower wage than their better-off compatriots:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/12/18/loose-flapping-ends/#luigi-has-a-point

This is surveillance pricing for buyers, and as with the sell-side pricing revolution, buyers also make use of a third party as an accountability sink (a term coined by Dan Davies): the apps that they use to buy nursing labor are a convenient way for hospitals to pretend that they're not engaged in price-fixing for labor.

Veena Dubal calls this "algorithmic wage discrimination." Algorithmic wage discrimination doesn't need to use third-party surveillance data: Uber, who invented the tactic, use their own in-house data as a way to make inferences about drivers' desperation and thus their willingness to accept a lower wage. Drivers who are less picky about which rides they accept are treated as more desperate, and offered lower wages than their pickier colleagues:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/12/algorithmic-wage-discrimination/#fishers-of-men

But this gets much creepier and more powerful when combined with aggregated surveillance data. This is one of the real labor consequences of AI: not the hypothetical millions of people who will become technologically unemployed, numbers that AI bosses pull out of their asses and hand to dutiful stenographers in the tech press who help them extol the power of their products; but rather the millions of people whose wages are suppressed by algorithms that continuously recalculate how desperate a worker is apt to be and lower their wages accordingly.

This is as good a candidate for AI regulation as any, but it's also a very good reason to regulate data brokers, who operate with total impunity. Thankfully, Biden's Consumer Finance Protection Bureau passed a rule that made data brokers effectively illegal:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/10/getting-things-done/#deliverism

But then Trump got elected and his despicable minions killed that rule, giving data brokers carte blanche to spy on you and sell your data, effectively without restriction:

https://www.wired.com/story/cfpb-quietly-kills-rule-to-shield-americans-from-data-brokers/

(womp-womp)

Also, Biden's FTC was in the middle of an antitrust investigation into surveillance pricing on the eve of the election, a prelude to banning the practice in America:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/24/gouging-the-all-seeing-eye/#i-spy

But then Trump got elected and his despicable minions killed that investigation and instead created a snitch line where FTC employees could complain about colleagues who were "woke":

https://www.ftc.gov/system/files/ftc_gov/pdf/bedoya-statement-emergency-motion.pdf

(Womp.)

(Womp.)

Naomi Klein's Doppelganger proposes a "mirror world" that the fever-swamp right lives in – a world where concern for children takes the form of Pizzagate conspiracies, while ignoring the starving babies in Gaza and the kids whose parents are being kidnapped by ICE:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/05/not-that-naomi/#if-the-naomi-be-klein-youre-doing-just-fine

The pricing revolution is a kind of mirror-world Marxism, grounded in "From each according to their ability to pay; to each according to their economic desperation":

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/11/socialism-for-the-wealthy/#rugged-individualism-for-the-poor

A recent episode of the excellent Organized Money podcast featured an interview with Lee Hepner, an antitrust lawyer who is on the front lines of the pricing revolution (on the side of workers and buyers) (not bosses):

https://www.organizedmoney.fm/p/the-wild-world-of-surveillance-pricing

Hepner is the one who proposed the formulation that personalized pricing is a way for corporations to decide that your dollars are worth less than your neighbors' dollars – a form of economic discrimination that treats the poorest, most desperate, and most precarious among us as the people who should pay the most, because we are the people whose dollars are worth the least.

Now, this isn't always true. Earlier this month, Delta, United and American were caught charging more for single travelers than they charged pairs of groups:

https://thriftytraveler.com/news/airlines/airlines-charging-solo-travelers-higher-fares/

That's a way to charge business travelers extra – for valuing their dollars less than the dollars of families, not because business travelers are desperate, but because they are, on average, richer than holidaymakers (because their bosses are presumed to be buying their tickets). Sometimes, price discrimination really does charge richer people more to subsidize everyone else.

But here's the difference: when the news about the business-traveler's premium broke, its victims – powerful people with social capital and also regular capital – rose up in outrage, and the airlines reversed the policy:

https://thriftytraveler.com/news/airlines/delta-rethinks-higher-fares-solo-travelers/

If the airlines are still pursuing this kind of price discrimination, they'll do something sneakier, like buying our credit histories before showing us a price. This is something British Airways is already teeing up, by offering essentially zero reward miles to frequent travelers for partner airline tickets unless they're purchased from BA's own website:

https://onemileatatime.com/news/the-british-airways-club/

But BA operates in the UK, where most of the pre-Brexit, EU-based privacy regime is still intact, despite the best efforts of Keir Starmer to destroy it, something that neither Boris Johnson, nor Theresa May,nor Rishi Sunak, nor Liz Truss could manage:

https://www.openrightsgroup.org/press-releases/uk-privacy-erosion-sparks-eu-civil-society-call-to-review-adequacy-data-deal/

So for now, BA travelers might be safe from surveillance pricing, at least in the UK and EU. And that's the thing, America is pretty much cooked. It might be generations – centuries – before the USA emerges from its Trumpian decline and becomes a civilized democracy again. Americans have little hope of a future in which their government protects them from corporate predators, rather than serving them up on a toothpick, along with a little cocktail napkin.

The future of the fight against corporate power and oligarchy is something for the rest of the world to carry on, as the American hermit kingdom sinks into ever-deeper collapse:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/06/21/billionaires-eh/#galen-weston-is-a-rat

And as it happens, Canada's Competition Bureau, newly equipped with muscular enforcement powers thanks to a 2024 law, is seeking public comment on surveillance pricing and whether Canada should do something about it:

https://www.canada.ca/en/competition-bureau/news/2025/06/competition-bureau-seeks-feedback-on-algorithmic-pricing-and-competition.html

I'm writing comments for this one. If you're in Canada, or a Canadian abroad (like me), perhaps you could, too. If you're looking for an excellent Canadian perspective to crib from, check out this episode of The Globe and Mail's Lately podcast on the subject:

https://www.theglobeandmail.com/podcasts/lately/article-the-end-of-the-fixed-price/

Just because America jumped off the Empire State Building, that's no reason for Canada to jump off the CN Tower, after all.

(Eh?)

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/06/24/price-discrimination/#algorithmic-pricing

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

[no0dlru]

Actually, it's really solid of you to point this out; I had thought about this, like I get there's practical business considerations here. I'm sorry I put it like that. My personal "better" is honestly that I'd make smth similar myself from scratch, or buy something second hand and modify it, (partially because I cannot afford a ~£36 skirt and materials would be less) but I also recognise that that's a privilege I have.

To be entirely honest about my own stance on this, the first one is better than worse; I know it's unaffordable to pretty much everyone, but I really dislike synthetics. I get what you're saying about your printing process requiring them, and that then requiring them to be printed in china, but personally, if I were to do a clothing line, that's not a trade-off I'd be comfortable making; I'd compromise on the print method, and therefore final effect, in order to work on natural fibres. My point with mentioning china isn't that I find manufacturing in china inherently bad (for the record), just that there's considerations around how eco friendly supply chains are, and that, unfortunately, the price point of labour can mean, if someone's prioritising affordability over other things (by choice or not), your work can be undercut by fast fashion etc. Tbqh the entire situation of the fashion industry sucks so hard that it's difficult to navigate any of this without trade offs, and I get that. The value of clothing and the materials and labour that represents is entirely out of whack, and that's nothing to do with you ofc.

For the second example, I'd try to find independent leathersmiths with which to partner to produce my own designs. I know some indie leathersmiths personally, and I'd really hope there's some in the US as well who are similarly creative, talented, and willing to collaborate with you to realise your designs. I really do respect that we just have different stances on this, and I do wish you all the best. I very seriously considered creating a clothing line myself a few years ago, so I really do respect this is not an omelette you can make without breaking eggs, I just get very sensitive about stuff like this in an entirely personal way that can seem irrational tbh haha

"Omg, I love these! They go up to size 6X AND they have pockets?! Wow!! But do you have anything longer?" Sure do, no problem!!

"YES these are great!!! But what about.. longer?" I gotcha!! Comin' right up!

"Now that's what I'm talkin' about! But... how about if I'm feeling like it's the kinda day where I need my clothing to be bifurcated???" Never fear, joggers are here!

*wild cheering* /scene

🖤witchvamp.com🖤 ⁽ᴾˢ: ᴵᶠ ʸᵒᵘ'ʳᵉ ˢᵉᵉᶦⁿᵍ ᵗʰᶦˢ ᵖʳᵉᵒʳᵈᵉʳˢ ᵃʳᵉ ᵒᵖ���ⁿ ⁿᵒʷ⁾

[hhhwnr]

ꨄThe Girl Dad Chronicles — S.R

masterlist + navigation

pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader (established relationship)

genre: fluff/ domestic comfort word count: 1,1k warnings: none!

summary: You asked for something low-maintenance. Spencer brought home something better—with a shell and sleepy eyes.

author’s note: wrote this because I miss my turtles I had back in 2016… I’m new to writing on Tumblr and in English (which isn’t my first language), so please be kind. I’m open to suggestions / feedback, as long as it’s respectful :)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨𓆉୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

You and Spencer had talked, vaguely and often, about getting a pet. Something to take care of. Something that would be waiting at home when the world felt sharp and chaotic. But with your work schedules— 3 AM flights, last-minute debriefs, crime scenes—it never seemed practical. Dogs were too energetic, cats too proudly indifferent. You both needed something… simpler. Something softer and still.

So you shelved the idea, telling yourselves maybe one day, and apparently, for Spencer, that day was today.

You didn’t know anything had changed until you walked through the front door after an exhausting case and were greeted—not by Spencer, but by a quiet bubbling sound coming from the coffee table.

“What the—“

A glass tank sat beneath the window, lined with smooth river stones and a single, sleepy-looking turtle blinking slowly under a tiny basking light.

You blinked back at it.

“She’s still adjusting,” Spencer called from the kitchen. “Don’t look her directly in the eyes, she’s shy.”

You turned, stunned. “You—bought a turtle?”

“She found me,” he corrected, appearing in the doorway with two mugs of tea. “I was getting groceries. She was sitting in this sad little tank by the register, and—well, she looked like no one had ever told her she was brilliant.”

You stared at him.

He added quickly, “Her name is Mary Shelly. With one ‘e’ and two L’s. I thought it was fitting.”

Your lips twitched. “Because she has a shell.”

“And because you love Frankenstein,” he said, with that soft-eyed certainty that always made your chest ache. “Thought it might make you happy.”

You crouched in front of the tank, watching Mary Shelly stretch one tiny foot and blink as if in slow, careful approval. “She’s kind of perfect.”

Spencer settled beside you on the floor, knees bumping yours. “She listens better than most people. I told her about the whole cognitive interview process while setting up her tank.”

You glanced sideways. “And what did she think?”

“She blinked.”

You grinned. “A scholar.”

“She’s a Reid,” he said solemnly.

Later, you found yourself chopping vegetables in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hair hastily pinned back. The familiar rhythm of dinner helped ground you again after a long day — knife against cutting board, pan warming slowly, the low hum of music playing a playlist you and Spencer shared.

Spencer drifted in behind you. “Are you using all of those?” he asked, nodding toward the neat pile of carrot tops and leafy ends you’d set aside.

“Planning to eat the stems now?” you teased without looking up.

“For Mary,” he said simply.

You paused for a beat, then smiled, pushing the little pile toward him with a flick of your wrist. “Knock yourself out, Dr. Doolittle.”

He took them gratefully and padded over to the tank like it was some sacred altar. “You’re going to love these,” he said to the turtle, crouching down so he was eye level with her.

You didn’t look, but you could hear it in his voice—the warmth, the affection, the care he didn’t always show people but had no trouble giving to a reptile with stubby legs and sleepy eyes. You peeked over your shoulder as he delicately placed the carrot tops inside, and Mary blinked once. Then twice.

“She blinked once. Then twice,” Spencer narrated reverently, still crouched by the tank. “That’s practically a standing ovation.”

You snorted gently, wiping your hands on a dish towel. “Careful. She might start clapping next.”

Spencer turned, face lit with that quiet kind of joy that only ever peeked out in the safety of soft moments. “I think she likes me.”

You raised a brow. “I think she likes the food.”

“She’s a woman of refined taste,” he countered, rising to his feet and gently, gently reaching into the tank. “And I think she deserves a change of scenery.”

“Spence—”

“She needs enrichment.”

You didn’t argue—mostly because he was already setting her down carefully on the kitchen counter, just to the side where you’d finished prepping. Mary blinked slowly in her new surroundings, extending one tiny leg forward with dramatic determination before… slowly retracting it again and staying perfectly still.

Spencer gasped like she’d just performed a ballet solo. “Did you see that? She explored. That was exploration.”

You leaned against the counter, biting back a grin. “She took one step.”

“One meaningful step.”

Mary, as if to prove a point, took another slow-motion inch toward the pile of discarded cilantro stems, nosed them gently… and sneezed. Or, at least, made a noise that could’ve passed for a sneeze in turtle language.

Spencer lit up. “She rejected it. She has preferences.”

“She just dissed my cilantro.”

He turned to you, eyes shining. “She’s got taste.”

You laughed softly, folding your arms as you watched the two of them. Spencer’s gaze hadn’t left the turtle. He crouched again, chin practically resting on the edge of the counter as he murmured, “Don’t worry. Next time I’ll bring you dandelion greens. Or zucchini. Something bold.”

You pressed your shoulder gently to his. “You know you’re not actually her dad, right?”

“She lives under my roof,” he said, with a mock-stern expression. “She eats my food. I think that counts.”

You tilted your head at him, teasing. “So what I’m hearing is… you’re a girl dad now.”

Spencer blinked, then looked down at Mary like the concept had just been officially handed to him on government letterhead. Slowly, a smile curled at the corners of his mouth—wry and deeply fond. “I take my responsibilities very seriously.”

You chuckled, nudging him gently with your elbow. “Next thing I know, you’ll be making her a tiny science fair project and showing up to parent-teacher conferences.”

“If she ever enrolls, she’s going to have the most thorough book reports the class has ever seen,” he said solemnly. “She’ll be banned for making the other turtles look bad.”

As if on cue, the turtle lifted her head and extended her neck toward Spencer’s voice, blinking in slow, sage approval before nosing a small piece of carrot closer to him like an offering.

Spencer gasped quietly, placing a hand over his heart. “She gave me something. That was a gift.”

“She’s bonding with you.”

“We’re imprinting,” he whispered, still awed.

You giggled. “Spence, she isn’t a duck.”

“She doesn’t know that,” he whispered back.

And then, without even thinking, he reached out and wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you into his side as if that was the most natural thing in the world. You didn’t resist—just leaned your head against his shoulder and watched the turtle blink once more like she approved of this too.

“She’s gonna be spoiled, isn’t she?” you murmured.

“Well… how is that a bad thing?” Spencer laughed softly, kissing your cheek.

Thank you for reading! ♥︎𓆉

[blossomcola]

content warnings. alcohol, scissoring, overstimulation.

pairing. curious straight!daniela avanzini x best friend! fem reader.

been thinking for a while about best friend!daniela, who claims to be heterosexual and makes it clear at every opportunity that she doesn’t like girls and would never be with one, but there’s something off about her that makes you doubt it.

she is somewhat double–minded about it because she says she would never be with any woman because that isn’t her preference but every time she has the opportunity she is fruity with you; things like dancing next to you in the middle of a party and end up moving her body against yours, using the excuse of “enjoy the party as you feel the vibe of the song” but she literally has her hands on your body and grinds her hips against yours in a fake hip swing matching your movements… daniela would always do this with a song with a sensual rhythm or suggestive lyrics, waiting for the perfect beat moment to appear in front of you and start with her act, giving you a look that has a playful glint in it as her lips move in time with the lyrics and she slowly moves her hands to your hips, pulling your body towards hers and certainly her hip movements start to turn you on at some point…

i also see her as the type who wouldn’t miss the opportunity to participate in stupid but typical party games, from drinking pong to that moment where the girls who swear they’re straight start passing ice from mouth to mouth but end up kissing… more than likely daniela is one of those who suggests it, or at least, one of the first to start cheering when she hears someone mention it. the rest of the group of friends would joke about it, like lara and megan laughing in the middle of the act but doing it anyway, but daniela? she gets into the role and seems to be doing it for fun rather than because it’s a challenge some drunk from there gave her, and you realize it the moment that instead of just passing you the ice, she prefers to close her lips on yours and practically put her tongue down your throat, making you whimper pathetically into her mouth by the way she takes your jaw with both hands and holds you in place.

and this definitely ends with you two fucking, yeyyy! it was more than expected by the way daniela was looking at you all night, in short, as if she wanted to devour you without even caring that you two were in the middle of a nightclub. you two always end up spending the night together after a party since it’s a safer thing because it’s better than letting either of you take an uber while drunk — but today, unfortunately, you don’t have much time to think about the hangover you’ll have in the morning because daniela doesn’t waste any time and practically throws herself at you the moment you enter to her bedroom! she shuts down your attempts to ask her what she’s doing because she’s kissing you in the messiest and dirtiest way possible, swallowing your whimpers as she uses her body to push you back and make you fall immediately onto the mattress of her bed, being quick to climb on top of you and roughly grind her hips against yours in a thrust that makes you moan.

scissoring with daniela in her bed <3 she’s already been driving you crazy all night with her hip movements, so doing this is the best way to make it up to you there is. she would smirk, enjoying more than she should how you are a babbling mess beneath her, finding it adorable how you move your hips up to match her movements and have more because that’s what you crave but it’s too much overstimulation for you and you end up giving in :( daniela knows about this and is so considerate that she bends down to kiss you again while this time she fucks you against the mattress in a way that makes the bed creak and fill the quiet room along with the moans of both of you

it really doesn’t matter if you don’t have much energy to be on top because daniela, being a dancer, knows what it’s like to have stamina, so you just have to lie down and keep your legs open so she can do all the work.

[leechqnsgirl]

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡🪐༘⋆ cause you're my iron man, and I love you 3000

notes: based off of this ask, this is kinda different from the actual ask I'm sorry 😭

-- you and niki have an argument.

or

-- the one where you both miss each other but don't know how to say it

niki x fem!reader | wc: 2.9k | angst, comfort, idol au | masterlist | warnings: language, crying, kissing, reader's a college student

****

the past two weeks have just been weird.

conversations between the two of you used to come natural.

it was almost like drinking water between the two of you. and its crazy to think of where you two are now.

it's hard to even fit your sleeping schedules today.

he's out all day and you're out for half of it.

the other half you don't get to breathe.

you're putting up with it because you knew this was the cost to be able to graduate with the degree that you want.

he hasn't even been staying many nights at your place anymore. you'd gotten the same text from him every night around seven pm for a week.

-sorry I can't come over tonight, don't wait up for me!

but the second week came and he stopped texting in all.

it stung a bit. because even though that message would bring your mood down. it was still from him. it was something from him.

sometimes you'd text him a good morning, he'd reply hours later with a good night.

it just felt like you were chasing after the shadow of him, you could see him there but he would inevitably be unreachable, and you were beginning to sense your legs giving out.

niki wasn't doing any better than you.

his face was drained of his natural color, he had bags under his eyes from the nights he lied awake in bed, fighting his thoughts.

it was never easy for him to speak on his feelings, never easy to be the first to do something.

his thoughts were eating him alive. no matter how much he tried, he just couldn't reach out first.

he hated how he felt. he hated himself. he hated that he stopped texting you, stopped calling, stopped coming by.

your apartment was a thirty minute drive from his dorm. he doesn't know what's holding him back.

the boys had noticed this change in him, but nobody asked him about it. they knew he'd just brush it off. he'd tell them it's nothing.

so they didn't push. they stayed quiet. despite the soundless whispers they'd share between each other at night about him.

niki knew.

how could he not? he noticed everything.

it wasn't until the end of the two week mark that jake walked up to him.

they finished practice and the plan was to shower then head over to the recording room.

everyone left, and jake was about to follow after but his hand slipped from the handle.

the door shut abruptly, the noise catching niki’s attention, making him turn his head towards the door.

"hyung?" niki called out, jake dropped the bag that was hanging off his shoulder.

he walked over to where niki was sitting against the mirrored walls.

he copied his position, sitting criss-crossed in front of him.

"just," he sighed, "just say it, niki." jake's eyebrows furrowed, "what's going on?"

niki bit his tongue. jake didn't even ask what's wrong. he asked what was going on. and that was enough of a difference to make his eyes sting.

"I'm an asshole." niki whispered. "I-I don't even know what to do to fix what I did." niki felt a hand on his knee. it was warm against his cold skin, even though he was still sweaty from practice.

"I can help, or i'll try to. just tell me."

niki's head finally raised, his red eyes that were heavy from fatigue finally meeting jakes.

"I don't even know how it started. we were fine like three weeks ago. I was holding her before bed, and she'd wake me up. we'd get ready for the day together," he sniffled, "a-and then I just started getting really busy with our comeback and I was canceling a lot on her. and the days I was finally free she'd cancel on me because of finals seasons. it was just back and forth from there." niki rubbed his left eye with his index finger. jake saw that it was wet when he lowered his hand from his face.

"I stopped texting her everyday because I felt embarrassed. I mean, I'm her boyfriend. the whole point of me is to be there for her. she shouldn't even have to call out my name for me to be next to her."

jake let out a quiet breath. niki breathed in a heavy one.

"I really fucked up. and I can't even bring myself to talk to her. every chance that I get to, I just pull back. I don't know whats fucking wrong with me." he let out a sob now, his hands coming up to rest on his head.

jake pulled his hands away from his head, grabbing his shoulders.

"nothing is wrong with you. okay?" niki tilted his head. "you're just going through a bump in the road. a very large bump. but one nonetheless. and you know the thing about bumps?" niki shook his head. "they end. they're there, and they're a pain in the ass but they end."

jake saw the tears in his eyes fall down, his nose red.

"go over to her apartment right now. I'll tell everyone you weren't feeling well. I want you to go over to her empty handed and talk. even if the thought of it is nauseating." niki gulps, but he nods his head.

jake pulled him into his arms, just holding him there. he could feel niki trembling. the poor boy went nearly a month with no touch, no contact.

niki pulled away, looking at jake's face for a few seconds.

"thank you."

--

the drive to your apartment was daunting.

the whole thirty-two minutes he was on the verge of either sobbing or throwing up.

so when he finally parked his car in front of the building, he rubbed a hand over his face and pulled his hoodie over his head.

he made his way up to your room number. a heavy breath made its way out of his body.

he knocked three times then stopped.

looking at his phone, it was 6:13.

he doesn't know if you're home right now. he doesn't even know if you're home.

soon enough, the door swung open.

"riki?"

his heart broke at your voice.

you couldn't believe that he was standing in front of you.

your thoughts were nonstop but your mind was empty.

you thought seeing him would make you sad, upset.

but really, it just made you angry.

you brought him inside. not wanting your nosy neighbors to get an ear of whatever was going to happen.

"what are you doing here." you asked flatly.

you could see his lips turn downwards.

"y/n-" he stopped himself when he saw your face.

you looked so....disappointed, angry, upset, annoyed, and everything in between. the look was enough to make all his emotions resurface.

no words were coming out of his mouth and that somehow worsened it all for him.

"I know you didn't drive all the way here after three weeks to guilt trip me, riki." you scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest.

"no.." he mumbled, gazing at the ground.

"god, I'm so sorry. I don't even know how to start." he licked his lips, "I was so-, god, so wrong and selfish and I shouldn't have ghosted you. I'm supposed to be there with you and I failed. I left y-you alone because I was afraid. and you know what? I still am." his voice broke towards the end.

your face softened a bit. just a bit.

"that doesn't make up for any of this, riki." your voice was firm, your hands moved to gesture between you two.

"I know." he sounded so broken, "and it's my fault, I should've talked with you, I shouldn't have kept everything inside." "but you did."

he felt powerless. like no matter what he would say, or do, wouldn't be enough.

"y/n, please. it was so hard, baby. I swear it." he felt a lump form in his throat. "I couldn't sleep well, I didn't wanna eat. I missed you. so much. and it fucking killed me knowing I could have fixed everything earlier. it was just so hard. it felt like the past three weeks, everything bad in my life was piling up. it's been so hard."

he took a step closer to you.

"I love you. I love you. I love you and everything about you. I missed all of you too." his hands balled into fists on his sides, he felt like he had to physically stop himself from touching you. he didn't know if he had your permission just yet.

"I missed how you'd hold me, how you'd wake me up, how it was you I'd come home to." he knew he probably looked and sounded pathetic. but at this point? he didn't care.

when you saw niki cry, that was it for you. you couldn't help but get watery eyes too.

he never cried, not in front of you at least.

its been two years of you two dating and he's never actually cried in front of you.

"riki-" he shook his head. "please don't call me that." his eyes looked at you, they were red, a bit puffy and held such a weight to them.

he always told you how much he hated hearing his full name from you.

"I-I know i shouldn't have done all of this. and i know i keep saying how i shouldnt have or what i should've done but, please. can i get another chance?"

you sighed, the whole facade you were hoping of keeping up came crumbling down.

you couldn't stay mad at him, maybe upset, but not mad. and you didn't want to yell at him.

"okay.." you walked up to right in front of him, not making any contact yet. "but we're still gonna talk later."

he nodded his head, biting on his lower lip.

"it isn't just your fault, its mine a bit too." he shook his head at your words. "n-no, baby. its all me. really."

you brought a hand up to his cheek. you felt your heart break when he closed his eyes, leaning into your touch.

how did you go nearly a month without this man? and how did he nearly go a month without you?

he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his body. his warmth. the way his shoulders shook slightly against yours and the crook of your neck got wet from his face was enough to really break you.

having him in your arms like this, you couldn't deny the fact that you didn't miss him anymore.

niki kept his voice quiet, still muttering a string of "I'm sorry"s into your body.

you brought a hand up to rest on the back of his head, your fingers tangling into his hair as you pulled closer to your body.

"I missed you too, baby. I missed you so much. i'm sorry."

the feeling of your hand in his hair and the emotion he felt from your words calmed him down. shaky breaths leaving him now.

ten minutes, ten solid minutes of the two of you sitting in each other arms passed when you said the first word.

"niki, baby?" you called out softly, you heard him reply with a hum. "let's eat, yeah? I know you're probably hungry." he pulled away from you, but kept a hand on your sleeve. he nodded his head, following you as you walked into your kitchen.

you had some leftover food from yesterday, and so you began heating those up.

the whole time you could feel him watching him. like he wanted to say something but he couldn't bring himself to say it. and whenever your eyes would look at him, his would stray away. gazing at the ground as he played with the drawstrings of his hoodie.

niki doesn't think he's ever felt so welcomely unwelcome.

he knew you were okay with him being there, in your own space, but something was still eating at him, telling him he shouldn't even be allowed to have the luxury of sitting down and eating with you.

he was quiet, standing by the entrance of the kitchen and watching you.

the same kitchen you two would make your morning coffees together and bake silly recipes you found online.

it's crazy how fast things can change.

"riki?" you called out. "yeah?" he looked at you with glossy eyes. "come on, let's go sit."

the first thing he noticed when you two sat at your dinner table was the food.

you'd purposefully given him a much larger portion than your own plate.

he reached over the table for your hands, placing a kiss to both of them.

"thank you." he whispered, holding onto your hands tightly.

the whole dinner was silent, you both finished and brought your dishes to the kitchen. he washed and you dried.

that feeling settled into niki again.

"can I stay over....?" he asked when you two finished cleaning.

did he really think you were going to say no?

"of course you can, you wanna freshen up? I'll just be out here." you placed a hand on his shoulder, rubbing up and down. he nodded his head, walking away.

niki went into your room, you had a cabinet full of his clothes because of how often he'd stay over.

he picked out some for himself and went into the bathroom.

you still had his toothbrush, his face wash, his shampoo. everything was still there.

maybe he was in his head too much.

twenty minutes passed from then until he came out, he seemed calmer. his face looked like it too.

niki saw you working on the couch, laptop in your lap as you typed away to whatever assignment you were doing.

he took a seat next to you, his leg bouncing as he decided what he should say. or do.

before he even knew it, you were closing your laptop and facing him.

you laid your head on his chest, snuggling into him. niki felt his heartbeat speed up, he was pretty sure you could hear it.

"I'll always love you. no matter what." you reassured, pressing a kiss to his collarbone.

his breath hitched, and his cheeks tinted with a light pink. niki was always a bit sensitive there. the lack of physical contact and sensitivity made him catch your kiss off guard.

he cleared his throat, wrapping an arm around your waist.

your face was resting softly, there didn't seem to be any trace of your previous emotions.

your eyes were heavy with sleep, cheeks bare from any makeup, and your lips,

god your lips.

he missed them. he missed how they felt, how warm they were. he missed the feeling of them on his own.

he didn't even realize he had a hand tracing over your face. he pulled his hand back quickly.

he couldn't be the first one to touch you. not after everything. you have to set the boundaries and he'll follow.

"why'd you move your hand?" his eyes widened. "u-um, I didn't know if you'd want me to...um, touch you again." his voice was so small, not even in volume but just in its emotion.

"you really think that I don't want you to? now?" he shrugged his shoulders weakly.

you got up, moving to straddle his lap, placing both your hands on his face.

"baby," you looked into his eyes, gaze never wavering. "i'm your girlfriend, niki. I want you to hold me and touch me." your thumb rubbing circles into his face.

he nodded his head, placing his shaky hands on your waist. he breathed out from his nose, his eyes closing and his head falling onto your shoulder.

"right," he mumbled.

he relaxed himself again, focusing on the way your body felt against his.

he doesnt think he could even express in words how much pain he was in for the past weeks.

hed gotten so used to everything from you.

when he'd get a hug from his members, it didn't feel the same as yours. it didn't hold the same satisfying heaviness as yours did.

he'd never tell you, but over at his dorm you left a hoodie behind.

every night he fall asleep with it, and every morning he'd wake up early enough to hide it before one of the boys saw.

but he didn't know that he did a bad job at that. he didn't know that jungwon was always the one to wake up the earliest and peek into everyone's rooms.

and he didn't know that jungwon had texted you countless times, asking when's the next time you'd come over. just to be completely dodged by your replies.

and you'd never tell him, but he had a cologne of his that he left over at your place once. and you'd spray it on one of your pillows, holding it when you'd fall asleep.

"I'm tired, ki..." you mumbled against him, adjusting your head against his chest.

he bit back a smile, one caused purely because of the cuteness he saw from you.

"let's sleep, then." he said quietly, holding onto you as he laid down on the couch. your body on top of his.

he closed his eyes when he heard your voice again.

"ki?"

"yeah?"

"you'll be here...when I wake up. right?"

he interlocked his hand with yours. squeezing gently.

"yeah. I will." he promised, bringing your hand up as he placed a kiss on it. 

[mightyoctopus]

Not OP, but the first step to doing better is to not tell your kid that their hair is unkempt and gross for being curly and that their curls need to be flattened every day. Like, (OP please correct me if I’m putting words in your mouth) this post is not primarily a hair care or cosmetics post. This post is about how kids with curly hair are being mistreated and taught to hate themselves. The best thing you can do is to not teach your children that straight hair is superior and that their hair needs to be fixed.

Having kids and taking care of them can be frustrating and a lot of work, but it’s important that kids don’t internalize, “I’m a bad kid and my hair is bad hair. Life would be so much easier for mommy and daddy if it was straight.” All the issues you listed exist for kids with straight hair too. It’s important to treat yourself and your child with patience, and don’t make your child feel bad about their immutable characteristics

That said, if you want some practical tips (everything of course depending on her age and hair texture)

- Regularly washing more than once a week is not necessary even for children with straight hair. Kids don’t grease yet (of course, having juice and mud in the hair is an exception)

- Curly hair needs to be washed less often, depending on hair type. For adults 1 or 2 times a week, or 1 time a month, etc. all depends on the hair

- Give her a washcloth she can put in front of her eyes either for the entirety of the hair washing or tell her she can stop you at any time to take the washcloth and dry off before continuing

- if water keeps getting in her eyes, try different angles and methods. As a small child, my mother would empty cups of water over my head to wash my hair. When I was older, she started using the shower head. (And then of course when I was old enough, I started doing it myself.)

- use sensitive eye baby shampoo

- look up other techniques specifically for toddlers

- Don’t use a fine comb or brush!!! Most important tip, tbh. Depending on curl type, use a wide-pronged comb, afro pick, 🪮, comb with fingers, or for short hair maybe even don’t comb at all

- if you do comb, don’t comb in one large pull from top to bottom. Instead, start somewhere lower down (for example, 1/3rd of the length), and brush down to the tips. Then take the same strand and brush down from 1/2 of the length down to the tips. And so on. This way, you’re not pushing all the tangles on top of each other and only working on a fraction of the tangles at a time

- If you pull your kids hair and it hurts, it completely makes sense that she doesn’t want you doing that anymore. Children are people and they feel pain. Apologize to her and tell her that you’ll try to do better. If a certain procedure or style hurts every time, try a different one

My mother was always gentle and loving, and yet making my hair hurt every time. I had tears in my eyes daily from the way she pulled. I never complained because I was a stoic child, but it’s completely understandable that a less stoic child would speak up and even refuse! (In fact, it’s good if children refuse things that hurt. That’s a good skill for the future)

- try different hair ties and clips to find some that don’t hurt/ pull

- If it’s too much, prioritize what’s important and focus on that even when it’s frustrating not being able to do it all (e.g. removing mud vs stylish look)

As I said, having kids and taking care of them can be frustrating and a lot of work, but it’s important that kids don’t internalize that there is something wrong with them or their hair

somewhere out there right now is a kid with curly hair being raised by people who have wavy hair at best and those people are giving them 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner and telling them to dry brush it. and that kid is gonna spend all of middle school and high school hating their hair and moping over the flat iron. they're being told right now that if they don't dry-brush their curl pattern into oblivion every morning it means they're unkempt and gross even though they naturally have the kind of ringlets that a thousand bridezillas would commit horrible murders for every june. it's happening right now it's an absolute epidemic and a tragedy every time

[p1astr81]

pretty please could you write about Ollie and virgin reader, but he doesn't know she's a virgin and gets confused and frustrated when even months in they haven't had sex. Maybe he goes to some of the other drivers (like Lando or something) for advice cuz he doesn't know what to do or why she won't sleep with him. I absolutely love your writing, keep up the incredible work 👏🏻🫶🏻♥️

Things were getting heated in his flat. He’d pulled you into his lap mid makeout as he was trying to devour your lips with his. His hands were all over you. In your hair, on your hips, under your shirt and roaming over your back.

But he wanted more than another heated make-out session. He rolled his hips into yours, creating friction.

You gasped, which he thought was a good thing.

Until you jumped off his lap and practically bolted to the kitchen. “I’m kind of hungry. Should we order or cook?” You covered quickly, opening the fridge like you were actually searching for a meal.

Ollie sighed at how you’d ran from him again. In truth, he was getting skeptical of your constant avoidance to move past kissing.

You’d never allowed him to kiss you below your collarbones, always pushed him away when he tried. Whenever his hand snuck up your thigh, you’d shift or move it. And that one time he’d squeezed your ass as a joke, and you blushed like crazy, got really quiet and avoidant.

He asked you if you were okay on multiple occasions. You always had some excuse. He was only willing to let it slide for so long.

The following week, as he was sat with Charles at lunch, he asked him about it.

“Does Alex ever… like… reject you?” He knew it was a highly personal question, but being constantly rejected was eating away at him. He had to know what was up.

Charles raised a brow, smirking a bit. A dimple carved into his cheek. “How do you mean?” He knew exactly how he meant it. He just wanted to hear him say it.

Ollie scoffed. “Like…” he scoffed again, frustrated. “Whenever I try to initiate anything, y/n just- she runs away.” He confessed, a quiet voice.

It was getting harder for Charles to not laugh. “Runs away?”

“Not actually but,” he sighed. “yeah.”

“Well, did you ask her about it?”

Ollie paused. “Not directly.”

This time, Charles did laugh. Not loudly or making a scene out of it. Just a quiet chuckle. “So you don’t know if she’s waiting for marriage?”

Another pause from the younger. Then quietly, slightly embarrassed, “I didn’t even consider that.”

Charles only laughed and shook his head at the younger driver.

It wasn’t until two weeks later that he worked up the courage to actually ask you.

Sat on the couch, watching a movie. Your head rested on his shoulder, arms hugging one of his. His hand placed on your mid-thigh.

You were dozing off, so relaxed curled into his side. He thought there was no better time.

“Hey baby?” He called and squeezed your thigh. You hummed, a very sleepy sound. Still, your tired eyes looked up at him through your lashes. “Are you waiting til marriage?” He found it difficult to look into your eyes as he spoke.

Brows tilted, you tip your head back to see him easier. “You mean like… to have sex?”

Ollie swallowed. “Yeah.” He breathed. “And- and I know it’s kind of invasive I guess but I just want to know because, well, because I keep trying to- uh- you know. And-“

“I figured you’d ask about it eventually.” You sat up, letting go of his arm. He missed your touch instantly. “I’m not exactly… saving. I mean, yes I’m still a virgin but that’s not why.” You reached for the remote and paused the movie in the middle of an action scene. You kept the remote in your hands, thumbing the buttons. “It’s stupid.” You muttered.

Ollie bumped your knee with his. “It’s not stupid. If it’s about you, I want to know.”

Too conflicted to answer, you left him with a pause. Your thumbs paused on the remote buttons. “I guess I’m just scared.”

The smile came before the laugh. You looked to him, face twisted in hurt. “Sorry, I’m not laughing at you.” He clarified and your expression softened. “I just- I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.” He laughed again, a small chuckle.

“So, you’re not upset?”

“Upset? No, why would I be? That’s normal, and we can get there whenever you’re comfortable. I just didn’t know.”

A weight was lifted off the both of your shoulders. Lighter now, you leaned into him again. Curled into his side.

“I love you.” You whispered, a hand on his chest, over his heart.

Ollie smiled, feeling all soft inside. “I love you, too.” He kissed the top of your head. “Even if you’re lacking a little in the communication department.” He joked.

You shoved his chest, earning a laugh. “Not like you tried to either.”

“I just did!”

“Yeah, after how many weeks?”

You had him there. He raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, I guess we are both guilty.”

[ay0nha]

When the Music’s Over | Dr. Jack Abbot

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

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

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

WORD COUNT: 7.6K

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

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

COMMENTS ENCOURAGED! THEY FUEL ME!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This place used to be a law office.

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

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

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

Exam Room One. 

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

You picked up the prepared clipboard. 

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

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

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

“Good place to start.”

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

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

Different than most.

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

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

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

That got a small exhale of amusement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Again.”

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

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

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

“No.” He breathed out. “Just tired.”

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

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

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

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

“Heart sounds good.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m fine.” Jack huffed, low. 

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

He hesitated. “Sometimes.”

Which meant rarely. You marked that silently.

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

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

“Right.”

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

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

“Ears, then eyes.” You spoke gently. 

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

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

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

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

“Just an observation.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is?”

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

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

He raised a brow. “Do you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jack glanced sideways at you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nodded, then he left.

—

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

You were halfway through introductions when the door opened.

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

Jack Abbot.

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

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

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

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

“Hey.” You were warm.  “Come on in.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, the quiet held. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lisa spoke next.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now that’s one hell of a sight.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You gestured to the space beside you on the steps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No clipboard. No script.”

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

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

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

“Not someone who needs to stay behind.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He huffed a laugh. “Fair.”

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

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

“Gimme your wrist.” He cleared his throat.

You blinked, confused. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re stalling.” You teased.

“I’m being thorough—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was just Jack, still trying to be useful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallowed again—and he felt that, too.

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

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

You let out a breath. “Occupational hazard.”

Jack pulled back slightly, eyes finally meeting yours.

“Could say the same.” He said. 

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

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

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

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

“My health that riveting?” 

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

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

“That’s your fault.”

He shrugged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just you.

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

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

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

“You’re giving me an out.”

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

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

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

You tilted your head. “Neither do you.”

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

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

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

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

You didn’t break the moment either.

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

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

You stood still until he opened his door.

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

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

There wasn’t anything to say. Not tonight.

But the air had shifted.

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

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

[chrissssssmut]

hi do you take request? ive been feeling something with winter’s latest teaser photos of her with one dude and black dude so im thinking maybe u can come up with something, will appreciate it if this goes considered. <33

MAKE ME YOURS

Winter x 2 Male OCs

AN: Had to do this one first since I'm a sucker for this Winter (Winter in general XD)

The lighting in the apartment was warm and low — not romantic, but lazy. It was nearing midnight, but none of you looked tired. Winter was sprawled across the loveseat in the middle of your living room, hair wild and curled, glowing in that burnt orange lamp-light like something out of a fever dream. Her tight cropped top clung to her like a second skin, showing off smooth curves, a peek of toned stomach, and chains dangling from her hips.

She was chewing on a lollipop.

And staring.

At both of you.

Jae leaned back on the couch beside Minho, whispering, “She’s been doing that all night, right? The looks, the... licking?”

Minho didn’t even look away. “Bro, she’s practically eye-fucking us. At this point, I think the lollipop’s just for show.”

Winter smirked like she’d heard them.

She stood, real slow, walking over to the couch like a cat on the prowl. Her platform boots clicked on the floor. One hand on her hip, the other popped the lollipop from her mouth — lips wet, tongue sliding over the candy before she tossed it into the trash behind her without looking.

“I’m bored,” she said. “And horny.”

Jae blinked. “You don’t really ease into that, do you?”

Winter turned to him, eyes dark, lips curling. “You want me to pretend I don’t notice the way you both keep looking at me like you want to ruin me?”

Minho chuckled low. “And what if we do?”

“Then stop being cowards,” Winter breathed, climbing into Jae’s lap in one fluid motion, knees on either side of him. “And take what you want.”

Her fingers ran down his chest, dragging over the front of his jeans. Jae’s breath hitched.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” she whispered against his ear. “You. Him. At the same time. Stuffing me full. One cock in my mouth while the other’s buried so deep I can’t even think.”

Jae’s mouth parted, heat crawling up his spine.

Minho leaned forward, voice husky. “You talk like you’re the one in control.”

Winter looked over her shoulder and smirked. “Am I not?”

In one sudden movement, Minho grabbed her by the waist and pulled her back onto his lap instead.

Winter gasped, a flash of excitement in her eyes. “Oh? You’re gonna do something now?”

Minho’s hands roamed under her top. “You keep teasing like that and we’re not stopping till you can’t walk tomorrow.”

“I’m counting on it,” she purred.

Jae stood and pulled off his shirt, breathing hard. “Bedroom?”

“No,” Winter said, licking her lips as she slid off Minho’s lap and knelt between them. “Right here. I want the couch. Want you both where I can feel you.”

She undid Jae’s pants first, tongue darting out when his cock sprang free — thick and already hard. She gave it a few slow strokes before turning to Minho and doing the same, giggling when she saw he was even harder.

“You both taste so different,” she whispered, flicking her tongue up Minho’s shaft while stroking Jae. “Bet you feel even better inside.”

Minho growled. “Quit teasing.”

Winter took Jae’s cock into her mouth first — slowly, tongue swirling, eyes locked onto him. He hissed, head falling back as her mouth worked up and down with wet, hungry slurps. Just when he started to twitch, she popped off him and turned to Minho.

Her mouth stretched around him too, deeper this time, both hands stroking the other cock while she sucked. It was obscene. Saliva dripped from her chin, moans muffled around thick cock.

“Fuck, she’s good,” Jae groaned, his hand in her curls.

Winter finally pulled off, breathless and flushed. “I need more. Now.”

They didn’t hesitate.

Minho stood and bent her over the couch, tugging her pants down to reveal a soaked black thong. He groaned at the sight.

“Look at you,” he muttered. “Dripping already?”

“Been dripping since I walked in,” Winter gasped.

Jae came up in front of her, cock in hand. “You sure about this?”

Winter met his gaze with a wild smile. “Fucking wreck me.”

Minho pulled her thong aside and sank into her pussy from behind — slow at first, then all the way, hips slapping against her ass.

Winter cried out, hands clinging to the back of the couch.

“Holy fuck—Minho—yes—”

Jae fed his cock into her mouth again, and she sucked greedily, muffled moans vibrating through him as Minho pounded into her from behind.

“God, you feel good,” Minho grunted. “So tight, baby.”

Winter was dripping everywhere, stuffed between the two of them — saliva running down Jae’s shaft, slick coating Minho’s thighs.

She whimpered when they paused.

“Switch,” Jae said. “I want her.”

Winter didn’t even complain — just turned around, climbing onto Jae’s lap, guiding his cock into her soaked pussy and grinding down hard.

“Fuck yes—” she gasped. “Fill me—don’t stop—”

She bounced on him like she was desperate, hands on his shoulders, curls sticking to her face. Jae grabbed her hips and thrust up into her, deep and slow, while Minho stood behind her.

“Think she’s ready?” Minho said, slicking his fingers.

Winter looked over her shoulder, lips parted, voice shaking.

“Put it in,” she moaned. “Both of you—please—just fuck me together—”

Jae held her steady while Minho pressed against her ass, easing in slow.

Winter screamed — a sound of pure bliss and pressure — as both cocks filled her.

“Jesus,” Jae breathed. “She’s so fucking tight—”

Minho was panting too. “Can’t move... feels too good…”

They began to move — slow at first, working in sync, hips slamming into her from both ends. Winter was a moaning mess between them, body shaking, eyes rolling back.

“More—faster—don’t stop—”

They fucked her through it — bouncing her between them, switching rhythm, pushing her into every position.

They bent her over the armrest and double-penetrated her again, watching her entire body tremble.

They laid her on her back and had her legs in the air, fucking her one after the other, lips all over her skin.

They made her ride one while sucking off the other, her mouth full, tears in her eyes from how much she loved it.

Winter came two times — crying, choking, gasping their names — and begged for more each time.

Winter’s whole body trembled between them — lips wet, curls plastered to her forehead, thighs shaking. She’d already came hard, twice, stuffed full and stretched wide, but her eyes still burned with hunger. Her hips kept grinding on Jae’s cock, even while Minho’s fingers teased her slick entrance again.

Jae brushed a hand over her cheek. “Still with us?”

Winter laughed breathlessly, voice low and soaked in heat. “With you? Baby, I’m just getting started.”

Minho raised a brow. “That was already three rounds.”

She licked her lips and turned between them, crawling over the cushions like a predator. “And none of you came yet.” She smirked, brushing her thumb over Jae’s cock. “Still this hard? That’s a shame. Should I fix that?”

Jae’s voice cracked as she stroked him slow. “Fuck… yeah. Fix it.”

Winter looked up at him with half-lidded eyes, voice dripping with filth. “Wanna see me choking on it again? Want me to cry while you use my throat like a toy?”

Minho stepped behind her, spreading her ass again. “Don’t tempt me.”

Winter wiggled her hips back at him. “Why not? You didn’t even finish in my ass yet. I want it. I want to feel it dripping out of me when you’re done.”

Jae hissed through his teeth. “You’re such a fucking slut.”

Winter smiled like it was a compliment. “Your slut.”

She turned to Jae first, licking his cock from base to tip, then wrapping her lips around it with practiced heat. Her throat worked, sucking him deeper, tongue swirling. Jae groaned, hand tangling in her hair as her head bobbed.

Behind her, Minho guided his cock to her asshole again — already stretched, but still tight.

“You ready, princess?” he teased.

Winter moaned around Jae’s cock, eyes rolling up as she nodded.

Minho didn’t wait. He pressed in slow and deep until his hips met her ass again. Winter choked and gurgled around Jae, drool spilling down her chin as both men filled her from either end.

"Jesus, you look good like this," Minho growled, rolling his hips.

“Such a fucking mess,” Jae panted. “You love this, huh?”

Winter pulled off Jae with a gasp, spit stringing between her lips and his cock. “I love being used,” she moaned. “Fucking ruin me. I want your cum in every hole. I want to smell like you both for days.”

Minho slapped her ass, hard. “That can be arranged.”

He grabbed her by the waist and fucked into her ass with hard, deep strokes, while Winter wrapped her lips around Jae again. Her moans were filthy, every sound soaked in need. Jae's hips bucked helplessly into her mouth, groaning louder.

“Wait,” Jae gasped suddenly, pulling back. “Lay her down. I want to see her face.”

They repositioned her onto the floor rug, spreading her out, back arched and legs wide. Jae knelt between her thighs and slid back into her dripping pussy.

Winter whimpered loud. “God, yes—fuck me—keep going, I wanna cum again.”

Minho straddled her chest and fed his cock back into her mouth. “You better swallow it this time.”

Winter’s reply was a throaty moan, mouth full, eyes glassy as she bounced between both thrusts. Jae pounded into her, watching her tits jiggle with every slam, while Minho grunted and shoved deeper into her throat.

“Fucking tight little cunt,” Jae hissed. “You’re soaking me.”

Winter cried out around Minho’s cock, spit flying as her whole body jolted. She came again, gushing around Jae’s cock, legs twitching, but she didn’t stop.

“I’m not done,” she choked out when Minho pulled back.

They flipped her onto her side. Jae spooned her from behind, cock sliding back into her pussy while Minho knelt in front of her.

She opened her mouth again like she was begging for it.

“Fill my mouth,” she whimpered. “Fill my pussy. Then switch. I want you both deeper. Want it to hurt.”

They used her like that — pushing her into the rug, fucking her through every messy orgasm, switching positions.

Minho fucked her on her back while Jae sat on her face, his cock sliding past her lips until she gagged. Winter gripped his thighs, moaning like a girl possessed.

“God, I’m gonna cum—” Jae groaned.

Winter tapped his hip twice, and he pulled out just enough to let her breathe.

“Not yet,” she panted. “Together. I want it together.”

They pulled out and sat her on all fours again. Winter looked over her shoulder, breathless, makeup ruined.

“Please,” she begged. “Both of you. Inside. Fill me up. I wanna be dripping for hours.”

They positioned her again, Jae sliding into her pussy from behind, Minho pushing into her ass above him.

Winter screamed.

The pressure was intense, both holes stretched to the max, her body stuffed and trembling.

“Oh my god—oh fuck—fuck—I’m gonna cum again—”

Jae grabbed her hips and slammed into her. “I’m close—shit—”

Minho was gritting his teeth, cock twitching in her. “She’s milking me—fuck—”

Winter came again, crying out, and that finally did it.

Jae grunted hard, shoving deep and spilling inside her pussy. His whole body jerked as he came hard, hips twitching.

Minho wasn’t far behind — he slammed in and groaned as thick ropes of cum filled her ass, both of them shooting deep inside her at the same time.

Winter collapsed between them, body shaking, holes leaking, face glowing.

They slowly pulled out — watching as thick white cum oozed from her pussy and her ass.

Winter’s voice was hoarse but smug.

“Now that’s how you ruin me.

But neither Jae nor Minho were done.

Jae looked down at her flushed, ruined body. His cock — still rock hard, slick with her cum — twitched. Minho met his eyes, then looked down at his own length, smeared with the mess from her ass, and groaned.

Winter looked up at them lazily, licking her lips. “Still hard?” she said, voice hoarse and teasing. “Didn’t get enough yet?”

Jae knelt down beside her, brushing a finger along her jaw. “You’re the one who said you wanted to be ruined.”

“And you will be,” Minho added, grabbing her hair and gently pulling her to her knees. “Open your mouth, baby.”

Winter did — slow, tongue out, eyes wide with that same dirty glint — and both guys stepped in closer, cocks right in front of her face. She didn’t flinch. She looked thrilled.

“You want both?” Jae asked, already stroking his cock near her lips.

Winter nodded, dragging her tongue across the tip, then let it slide across her cheek and lower lip. “I want to taste you both at the same time. Stuff my mouth full. Use my face like a toy.”

Minho grinned. “God, you’re filthy.”

She opened wider and tilted her head back.

They both leaned in, Jae guiding his cock to the left side of her tongue, Minho to the right. Winter’s eyes fluttered as both tips rubbed against each other inside her mouth.

“Mmm—fuck,” she moaned, the sound vibrating through them.

Her tongue worked between them, licking up the underside of both shafts as they slowly slid in together. Her mouth stretched wide to fit them — drool pouring from the corners, spit coating everything in wet, shiny sheen.

Jae groaned. “She’s really doing it.”

Minho slapped his cock lightly on her tongue. “You like this, don’t you?”

Winter answered by looking up and moaning again, tongue flicking out, then tapping both their cocks with it playfully. She licked across them slowly, dragging the fat length of her tongue under one then the other, making a mess.

“You’re so fucking nasty,” Jae panted. “Look at you.”

Minho grabbed her head and thrust in shallowly. “Let us fuck your throat, baby. No hands.”

Winter let them.

They started slow — easing in, sliding past her lips in sync, until both cocks hit the back of her throat. She gagged slightly, eyes watering, but she didn’t stop. Her hands clutched her own thighs for stability as they face-fucked her together, switching tempo, slapping against her cheeks, the stretch brutal and perfect.

“She’s drooling all over,” Minho hissed, watching spit drip from her chin to her tits.

Jae pulled out just enough to let her breathe. “Show us how bad you want it.”

Winter gasped for air, coughed once, then opened wide again with her tongue out.

“Put it back in,” she begged. “Use my mouth. Cum down my throat. I don’t care — just keep fucking me.”

They took turns sliding into her throat while the other smeared his cock across her cheeks, tapping her tongue, watching her eyes flutter every time they hit deep.

Winter moaned through it all, grinding her thighs together like she couldn’t help it. She started to finger herself between gasps, whimpering around them.

Minho pulled out and smacked her cheek lightly with his cock. “Get on the couch.”

Winter obeyed instantly — crawling onto the cushions with shaky limbs, laying back and spreading her legs wide.

Jae knelt between them, dragging his cock through her slick folds before slamming in. Winter cried out, back arching as he bottomed out.

Minho stood over her face again, feeding her his cock while Jae started pounding into her pussy.

She was moaning around Minho now, hips jerking with every thrust Jae gave her, tears streaming from how good it all felt.

“You’re so fucking full again,” Jae groaned. “Your pussy’s swallowing me.”

Winter popped off Minho’s cock just long enough to moan, “Then put it in my ass again. Both of you. Please—again—I want to be stuffed.”

They flipped her onto her side, Jae behind her sliding back into her pussy, Minho lifting her leg and slowly easing back into her ass.

“Fucking hell,” Jae groaned. “Every time, she’s tighter.”

Winter was gasping now, mouth open, eyes glazed. “F-fill me—god—*harder—*fuck me harder—”

They doubled their pace.

Her body jolted with every thrust, her holes stretched tight, messy and leaking. She came again — hard — screaming into the cushions, her legs trembling uncontrollably.

“You’re gonna take our cum again now,” Minho hissed. “One in every hole.”

“Please,” Winter sobbed. “Do it. In my ass. In my pussy. In my mouth. Claim every part of me—please—I want to feel you dripping out of me—”

Jae slammed into her harder, holding her hips still. “Fuck—fuck—I’m gonna cum—”

Minho groaned behind her. “Me too—shit—”

They both drove into her deep — and then spilled.

Jae’s cock pulsed inside her soaked pussy, filling her full and hot, while Minho groaned and slammed deep into her ass, shooting thick ropes that made her clench even harder.

Winter shook violently — her body collapsing, twitching, dripping from every hole.

Minho pulled out first, watching cum leak from her gaping ass.

Jae followed, and both of them watched together as their loads mixed, slowly dripping down the backs of her thighs and pooling on the couch cushion.

Winter lay there, flushed, panting, trembling.

But her voice still came, soft and sinful:

“…who said I was done?”

[lermisv4]

There is a lot, and I mean a LOT going on with that scene. Others have probably said it already, but let's break this down, shall we?

Kris' background. Their parents love them but they felt like an outcast their whole lives, and their parents clearly favour Asriel. Even Susie points out there's some serious issues in the family dynamic just by seeing Kris' bedroom. The only person in that family who seems to prioritize Kris is Asriel, which of course would make Kris miss him even more.

Then there's the divorce. If we go with the theories, then there's a good chance Kris knows all the details behind the divorce, true. But what's important here isn't the reason behind the divorce, it's the way Asgore and Toriel act - especially Toriel. Toriel keeps badmouthing Asgore in front of Kris, even though the most questionable thing Asgore has done in front of Kris is asking them to deliver flowers to her. Asgore clearly adores Kris and wants to do the best by them even with his limited means, but Toriel paints him as the scum of the earth in front of her child - her incredibly lonenly, always out of place child - out of scorn. She's actively alienating them from Asgore. As for Asgore, while he is better than Toriel in this regard, as I said he keeps asking for Kris to send her flowers.

No matter how you read the above situation, it puts Kris in a messed up position. If they want their parents to get back together, then Toriel shutting down all attempts at communication has to hurt. If they don't want their parents to get back together, they're stuck going along with both Asgore and Toriel's mutually contradictory demands to keep them as happy as possible because they still want a family damnit.

Factor 3 is Sans. Aside from Toriel, nobody likes Sans. Kris doesn't, Susie doesn't, Rudy doesn't; people important to Kris who they value as family do not like Sans. And it's not hard to see why; all Sans did prior to the ending of the chapter is to troll Kris and pull some somewhat mean pranks on them while bragging about how close he got to Toriel. We should mention here he has only known Toriel for a few days. Some of his remarks towards Kris are downright uncomfortable; who the hell says "your mom told me you're a glutton for chocolate"? Imagine being a teenager and a stranger just straight up walks up and tells you this unprompted. Most of his on-screen time is him - an adult - being lowkey a dick towards a couple of teenagers.

All this brings us to chapter 4. Let's disregard the whole thing where Kris and Susie thought Toriel was in danger and let's focus on Toriel's actions.

She cancelled choir practice because of the rain, went to the grocery store, met Sans, and then, in an unknown order, they start partying, SHE gets drunk (not him, only she), and she brings him to her house. While in the house she even says how she met up with Sans and well he was so funny and who gives a fuck about choir practice.

Let's unpack all that.

First of all, she did not bother to call Kris. She did not even think about calling Kris. It's already implied several times in the game that Toriel is not all that attentive as a parent; she treats Kris disappearing for hours on end at random points as just "something Kris does" which contradicts her other behaviours like telling Susie to stay over during the tire slash incident. She comes off as either overly protective or neglectful, and this changes at the drop of a hat.

Now excuse me for thinking this is common sense and basic courtesy, but when something gets cancelled, like classes or a meeting or whatever, don't you usually just... text the person? Put up an announcement? Something? Couldn't she have spared 30 seconds to call or text Kris that class is cancelled? Write a note and stick it to the door of the church where someone coming in could see it? All it would have taken is 30 seconds, and there she would have fulfilled her barebones duty as a parent. And what about the other kids, Kris can't be the only member of the choir. Did she inform the others? Or did she neglect to tell everyone? I'm not sure which scenario is worse: neglecting your duties as an educator, or forgetting your kid in particular.

After that, she goes to the grocery store and meets up with Sans. We don't know the exact timeline of the following events, but we have the outcome; she brings him to her house, while she's drunk.

Red flag #1: what did she go to the store for? "To get groceries" you may say, but are we sure? Or did she go there only to meet up with Sans? What if she really went to get groceries but forgot about her chores because she and Sans were having too much fun? What if she bought them and brought Sans home with her?

Red flag #2: She brought him to her house. Toriel has only known Sans for a few days by this point. Now, I don't know how the dating scene works beyond r/RelationshipAdvice but bringing to your house someone you've only known for a couple of days is just irresponsible and a good way in real life to get robbed. And she doesn't live alone, she has a kid. If anything happens in the house, the kid will also have to deal with the consequences of it.

Red flag #3: She's drunk. What time did she start drinking? Where was she when she started drinking? Why is she so comfortable drinking around strangers? She could have been going for hours by the time Kris finds her. Rudy says in chapter 2 that Toriel was a party animal, but given what American party culture is like, this could be a thinly disguised statement she has a drinking problem. Not to mention, Kris and Susie see her drunk. Did she think Kris would not be home that night? Is she okay with Kris seeing her drunk like that? Did it completely slip her mind? This doesn't exactly teach Kris how to have a healthy relationship with alcohol, you know. And Susie is supremely uncomfortable around this scene, which has some nasty implications considering all the hints she has a bad home life. We already know she's really good at reading the room, and she does NOT like what she sees here.

Red flag #4: ONLY SHE is drunk. Sans looks prefectly sober, there's no indication he's been drinking. A guy who literally just met the girl being alone with her in her house while she's drunk...? This screams "girl run". Except that Toriel was sober when she met up with Sans, what the hell was she thinking? Maybe "a drink or two" and it escalated to this?

Now let's look at Sans' behaviour.

First of all, everything about red flag number 4. To get that out of the way.

Second, he's strongly implied to have abandoned work to hang out with Toriel, which doesn't exactly paint him as responsible.

Third, he treats this place like his own house already. He ate the food Toriel left for Kris without Toriel knowing, which would be a nope even if he was part of the family; then he leaves his personal belongings in the fridge like he lives here. He's know her for a few days at this point.

Now let's get to how Sans and Toriel react to Kris and Susie when they return.

Once again, Toriel shows minimal care for Kris. She left food for them, sure, but she doesn't point out how it's past midnight when Kris and Susie arrive home. If I was out of the house by the time it was 11 my mom would be calling me to get home as soon as I can. And she doesn't even express any curiosity over what they were doing. She doesn't know Kris was risking their life, but couldn't she ask if "you kids had fun in your hangout?" Or "I hope you didn't get caught up in the rain?"

Then, she invites Susie to stay over... while Sans is there. He's a stranger! And that's one of the students in your school! Who as far as Toriel is concerned, has parents who worry about her?

Then there's Sans. He completely brushes off Toriel's worry about Susie's behaviour, and acts like Kris isn't even there. That's Toriel's kid. He's acting like the first stage of those people who get into a relationship with someone who has kids and hope to get rid of the kids in some way to have the partner all to themselves. He shows absolutely no respect or consideration for the fact there's another person in the house trying to sleep. It's like his mere presence is pushing Kris out of their house.

So to summarise, Toriel tries to push Kris away from a father who loves them, while bringing to the house a stranger who's completely inconsiderate, while throwing a bunch of responsibilities to the wind.

Even without the whole "Kris just fought a Titan while looking for her", this is very uncomfortable and a long series of red flags.

Holy fuck, that ending... it really hammers home just how alone Kris truly is.

They went to save their mother from the church, thinking she was in danger... and after everything, after facing down an honest to goodness TITAN and winning... she was drunk off her ass with a strange new man, partying away while her child withers before her very eyes.

I... really felt for Kris, seeing that. Not to say that I've never felt for them before, but... fuck. I've been there. And it's... not a pleasant experience. Even when you aren't being manipulated from the shadows.

Sometimes, it's the smallest cuts that hurt the most.

[melodyofmbaku]

What You Spit, I Swallowed (Smoke Moore x Annie x Stack Moore)

Preview: “I’ll beat the breaks off a nigga for touchin’ you,” Smoke said. “You lucky I didn’t.”

Warning ⚠️: They're a Trio. Ya'll gon' feel some things.

Word Count: 4.3k

A/N - I realized I could only edit this for so long and I actually had to post it 🤪 I really appreciate your comments/reblogs, it's what keeps me writing. Can't wait to hear what ya'll think! 😘

My Masterlist ___

Smoke watched from the living room as Annie bustled around the house making sure everything was just right. The kitchen. The powder room. The cellar which nobody would see. Everything needed to be just right. 

The roast was in the oven. Table set. Wine poured. Annie stood at the counter, smoothing her hands down the front of her apron, then across the napkins again, though they didn’t need fixing.

“Can y’all just be civil? Please?” she said without turning. “For me. I just want to have  a nice dinner tonight. As a family.”

She used that word a lot. Family. Said it like a prayer, a promise. Like saying it out loud might turn it true.

The boys knew better.

Stack was leaning against the archway, a little too relaxed, wine already heavy in his hand.

“I’m always civil,” he grinned. “I’m a delight.”

Smoke didn’t say anything at first. Just sat back at the table, stiff as iron, nursing a glass of whisky like medicine. He’d need it tonight. They both would.

“I ain’t lying to nobody,” he muttered, low.

Annie sighed. Not because she disagreed — but because she understood.

They weren’t happy about this. Never had been. Melody had a way of turning Annie into someone else — smaller, unsure. And the boys hated that. Hated watching the bold, beautiful woman they loved contort herself to keep the peace. To keep her peace.

So when Annie told them that Melody was gonna be in town and wanted to visit, the news wasn’t met with enthusiasm.  When they protested she had shut them down, said that special word — family — and the boys knew they didn’t have a chance at dissuading her. 

She laid down the final plate and crossed the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel that didn’t need cleaning. Her shoulders were tight. Her smile too practiced.

Melody was Annie’s half-sister. Same father, different everything else. Product of an affair that tore Annie’s whole world sideways and maybe even took her mother to the grave.

She was pretty, and soft-spoken when it served her. But she had a way of reaching back into Annie’s life like she had a claim to it. Like their shared blood gave her a right to rewrite things. Rewrite her.

Melody said things like they’d grown up hand-in-hand. Like Annie hadn’t spent her real childhood alone, and Melody hadn’t moved in only after her world fell apart. 

She touched too casually. Said too much. Knew too little.

And yet… Annie kept trying. Trying to stitch something together out of all the scraps they’d been handed. Trying to make a family out of splinters.

There was a knock at the door.

The roast was carved. Greens passed. Biscuits buttered and cooling fast.

On the surface, everything looked like a proper supper. But Smoke hadn’t touched much of his food, and Stack had started drinking like the only way through the night was to float on top of it.

Melody leaned back in her chair, swirling her glass like she had something wise to say. Her gaze landed on the cornbread.

“Reminds me of when Mama used to burn the bottoms,” she said with a giggle. “She’d scrape off the black parts with a knife and pretend it was on purpose. Said it ‘kept you humble.’”

Annie’s fork paused mid-air.

Stack didn’t look up, but his mouth twitched.

“You remember that, don’t you?” Melody added, too quick. “That little yellow-handled knife she used for everything?”

Annie swallowed. Set her fork down quiet.

“She wasn’t my mama.”

Melody blinked, like she hadn’t expected that to sting.

“Well—no, obviously,” she said, waving a hand like it was silly to be so exact. “I just meant… your most recent mama. I mean, she was in the house.”

“She was in the house,” Annie said evenly. 

Melody laughed, high and a little breathless, like she could laugh her way out of what just happened.

“Well,” she said, putting her glass down, “family’s funny like that, huh?” She added before placing a hand on Annie’s forearm.

Smoke’s eyes followed the movement with precision.

“So,” Melody said brightly, trying to start a conversation “y’all ever thought about kids?”

The question hung there, syrupy sweet with expectation.

Annie blinked. “We— We’ll know when we’re ready.”

Melody’s husband Frank leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying the show.

The man chuckled, low and grating. “Ain’t it about time though? Clock don’t wait forever. ‘Specially for women.”

Smoke’s knuckles tightened around his fork.

“I gotta admit,” he said, folding his arms over his chest, “I didn’t know what to expect, comin’ out here. Lotta stories floatin’ ‘round town.”

Stack’s eyes flicked up from his plate. Smoke didn’t move.

“Oh yeah?” Annie said, keeping her voice polite. “And what kinda stories are those?”

The man shrugged, like he was being reasonable.

“Just… folks wondering how something like this works. Three people under one roof. Two men sharin’ a woman —brothers at that. Sounds more like trouble than a marriage.”

Smoke still didn’t look up. But Annie could feel the shift. Like pressure building under floorboards.

“I mean, hell. Where I’m from, we call that a love triangle, not a household.”

Annie opened her mouth, but Stack beat her to it — voice easy, even playful.

“Well lucky for us, you ain’t from here.”

Melody gave her husband a look — the kind that meant you’re doin’ too much — but he didn’t seem to notice.

“I just think kids need structure,” he said, “Two fathers under one roof? That’s confusion, not discipline.”

Now Smoke looked up. Real slow.

“You do a lot of childrearing yourself?” he asked.

The man blinked. “Beg your pardon?”

“You talkin’ like you got a full house somewhere. How many you got?” the man had a menacing smile plastered on his face.

“…None yet.”

“Then hush.”

The man frowned. Then Frank reached across the table — not for the biscuits, not for the salt. For the gravy boat.

But instead of asking, he leaned in close, placing a steadying hand on Annie’s shoulder as he reached.

His thumb brushed against the strap of her dress.

Too familiar. Too firm.

“’Scuse me, darlin’,” he said, casual like he did it all the time.

It wasn’t the touch — it was the way he didn’t rush to remove it.

Smoke saw it. So did Stack.

And Annie flinched — just slightly — but enough to be noticed.

That should’ve been enough. But Melody’s hand went out — again — brushing Annie’s arm like they were girls sharing secrets instead of strangers dressed in matching last names.

"Mama used to say, ‘Ain’t no shame in wantin’ a real man.’ Guess you took that to heart, huh, sis? You went and got yourself two!"

Annie winced once more. It was soft, but Smoke saw it. And that was the last straw.

Smoke set his glass down. Quiet. Too quiet.

“You need to stop touchin’ her so casually.” he said pointing at the woman.

Melody’s hand stilled against Annie’s arm. Her smile wavered.

“Excuse me?”

“Smoke,” Annie said quickly, trying to smile, trying to control the room. “It’s fine.”

He didn’t blink. “It ain’t.”

Stack leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowed but not joking anymore. “He’s right. You don’t know her like that. You ain’t earned the right.”

Melody’s brows arched, scandalized.

Annie stepped in faster this time, voice low but firm.

“Enough.”

She turned toward Smoke, hand light on his shoulder. His muscles were rigid beneath her palm.

“She’s family,” she said softly. “Let’s not do this right now.”

Stack leaned back, sucked his teeth, clearly biting something back. Smoke didn’t move at all.

“She ain’t family to me,” Smoke muttered.

“She is to me,” Annie snapped. “And that should be enough.”

That silenced the table — just long enough for Melody’s husband to break it again.

“Well,” he said, with a smirk, “nice to see someone wearing the pants in this house.”

Stack’s jaw tightened.

“Stack,” Annie warned, before he could speak.

He didn’t. But the damage was done.

Melody giggled, smoothing her napkin on her lap like nothing had happened.

Annie went to gather the plates.

“Dinner’s done,” she said. “Why don’t we move to the sitting room? I’ll bring coffee.”

She didn’t look at Smoke. Didn’t look at Stack either. She just carried the dishes to the kitchen, heart pounding, wishing it all felt less like a lie.

_

The front door clicked shut.

Silence.

Not the quiet kind, but the loaded kind. The kind that rattled inside your chest and made your ears ring.

Annie stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed tight, like she was bracing for impact.

Smoke’s jaw flexed. Stack didn’t move.

For a beat, nobody breathed.

Annie exhaled, hard. “Don’t start.”

“I ain’t startin’. I’m finishin’. The hell was that?” Smoke’s voice cut through the kitchen.

She turned, dish towel clenched tight in her hands. “What was what, Smoke?”

“You told me to stand down. You just about told Stack to shut up. While they sat at our table, runnin’ they mouths and touchin’ you like they know you.”

“They’re family.”

“No,” he snapped. “They’re not. That man disrespected you. And her? She touched you like she’s the one that tucks you in at night.”

“Stop it.”

Stack stepped in carefully, voice low. “She made you flinch, baby. We saw it. You don’t flinch with us.”

Annie bit her lip. Hard.

“I just wanted one peaceful night. I didn’t want a scene.”

“You wanted peace—so you offered us up like sacrificial lambs,” Smoke said, voice growing sharp.

“That ain’t fair.”

“No? You let her talk like y’all shared a childhood. Let that man spit on our marriage with a smile. Then told me to hush?”

“You think I don’t know who she is?” Annie’s voice cracked “I lived with her. She slept in my mama’s bed two weeks after she was buried. She was Daddy’s second chance and my reminder that I’d already lost.”

Her eyes glistened, but she didn’t cry.

“I was just trying to keep the damn evening from fallin’ apart. You think I liked it? You think I didn’t hear every little dig, every look, every word?”

“Then why the hell ain’t you say somethin’?” Stack asked. 

“Because I’m tired!” she shouted. “Tired of everything bein’ a fight. Tired of defendin’ my choices, my house, my men. I just wanted a quiet dinner!”

Smoke’s voice dropped cold. “Then don’t invite people who only show up to remind you that you alone.”

Annie’s shoulders pulled back like he’d struck her. 

“Alone?”

“You got us. But when they’re here, you act like you don’t.”

The room felt smaller. Angrier. Like the walls were listening.

“I ain’t the one you should be mad at, Annie,” Smoke said.

“No. You’re just the one who wants to be mad for me.” Annie didn’t look at him.

He leaned back. Only slightly. But Stack caught it. Smoke prided himself on taking care of his family. He’d be the bad guy if it meant that they were ok. So for Annie to throw that in his face? It was low. 

Annie turned on him. “What? Go on then. Call me out my name. You been waitin’ all night.”

“I been waitin’ for you to stop pretendin’ you owe that woman somethin’. Stop shrinkin’ yourself so she can feel taller.”

“And I been waitin’ for you to realize the world don’t revolve around your damn temper!”

“Y’all—” Stack tried.

“Elias, stay out of it.” She pointed at him.

That did it. Stack’s hands dropped. He stepped back, mouth flat.

Smoke’s voice turned dangerously soft. “You tellin’ him to stay out, but you let them strangers walk right in and put hands on what’s mine?”

Annie’s nostrils flared. She stepped in close.

“Don’t talk to me about ownership. I’m not some bitch you can pull by the leash when I embarrass you.”

Stacks head whipped around. Shock coloured his face. 

“Annie. Don’t,” Stack warned softly — they didn’t talk like this to each other. 

Smoke’s voice dropped low and clipped. “You gon’ wanna be real careful with me right now, woman.”

“Or what?” Annie challenged. “You gon’ bark louder? Show me why everybody outside scared of you?”

He stepped forward. Stack moved fast, blocking him.

“Enough.” Stack said. “We don’t do this shit. This ain’t us.”

“No,” Annie said. “This is exactly who we are. Pretendin’ this ain’t built on shaky ground.”

Looked like Frank’s words had planted a seed. 

Stack moved like she’d slapped him.

“You think it’s shaky?” Smoke’s voice shook. “You think we ain’t holdin’ you up every day? Lovin’ you, buildin’ you back from the goddamn inside?”

His voice cracked — just slightly.

“I would burn this house down to protect you,” he said, softer now. “And you out here handin’ matches to people who never cared whether you froze.”

“She disrespected you, Annie,” Stack said, voice stiff. “Right to your face. And you smiled through it. Made us smile through it too.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Annie laughed bitterly. “Was I supposed to let y’all growl and swing your dicks like dogs markin’ a tree?”

“Watch your mouth,” Smoke said slowly.

“No—you watch yours. I let you bark, posture. The minute I asked you to sit like a man, you sulked like a whipped boy.”

There it was. The heat. The disrespect.

“Annie…” Stack said, quiet, alarmed. 

“I’ll beat the breaks off a nigga for touchin’ you,” Smoke said. “You lucky I didn’t.”

“Elijah—they’re family.” she tried to plead.

“So you gotta put up with disrespect?”

Annie threw her hands up, all syrup and sass. “The Moores got morals tonight!”

Stack cursed under his breath. Smoke went still as death.

“Fix them lips to say somethin’ crazy again, Annie,” Smoke warned. “See if I don’t remind you why you call me daddy.”

She tilted her head. “You sassin’?”

“C’mon now y’all…” Stack said half-terrified.

Smoke stepped closer, his voice dropping into something dark and dangerous. “It’s gon’ be real hard to take you serious if you got my seed drippin’ from your hole. Test me.”

Annie’s throat bobbed. She was gonna take that bait.

“Do not,” Stack said, sharp and urgent.

Too late.

“Annie’s sorry — ain’t ya, baby?” he tried, reaching for a lifeline.

“The hell I am,” she snapped.

“Don’t be a hero,” Stack warned, tension threading through his voice. “He gon’ turn you out, and I’ma join him.”

Annie looked at him, eyes glittering. Daring them both.

Smoke started up once more, “We’ll paint your insides white just how you like it. Remind you you the property of the Moores — no one else’s.”

“Property? That’s what I am to you?” she shot back. “A place to plant your damn flag?”

He shrugged. “You said it, not me.”

“I ain’t land. You don’t own me.”

“You act like disrespectin’ us is rent you pay,” he shot back, voice cold. 

That line came from somewhere deep — deeper than Smoke usually let show.

“If I’m so damn disrespectful,” Annie stepped in close, venom curling her words, “why you still crawlin’ back to this disrespectful pussy every night?”

Stack looked away. Smoke didn’t blink.

“That’s right,” she pressed. “You talk all this mine mine mine shit, but you only feel like a man when I’m on my knees, beggin’ for it.”

“Fix them lips, woman,” he said, low and mean.

“What? You don’t like it when I talk back? Only like me with your dick down my throat?”

“It make a fine picture.” Stack muttered from the side. 

“I like it when you remember who’s keepin’ you safe. Lovin’ you every goddamn day while you spit in our faces.” Smoke reasoned.

“I’m done talking to you.” she spoke lowly. 

“C’mon now,” Smoke said, voice soft and twisted. “Say somethin’ real filthy. You good at that when your jaw’s slack and your legs spread.”

“Smoke,” Stack snapped. “You know what you doin’. Stop provokin’ her.”

“Nah,” Smoke said without even looking at him. “She a big girl. She can take whatever daddy dish out, right?”

Stack stepped in. “It ain’t fair, Smoke. You know it ain’t fair.”

Smoke paused. Just a second. There were two of them. One of her. It was unbalanced. Always would be.

He sighed, started to lift a hand — maybe to apologize.

But he didn’t get the chance.

Annie spat in his face.

It hit his cheek and stuck.

For one sharp breath, nobody moved.

Annie stood perfectly still, chest rising hard. Her jaw clenched, eyes shining—not with tears, but with fury. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away.

Then Smoke cracked.

Stack caught him hard at the chest, shoving him back.

“Don’t.”

Smoke went still.

The spit clung to his cheek, hot and humiliating. He didn’t wipe it. Just stared — right at her.

Annie’s hands curled into fists at her sides. Her spine was stiff, posture defiant. But there was something flickering in her eyes now. 

“I wanna fuck that disrespect right outta her,” he muttered, voice low and rough.

He stepped toward her — not to strike, but to claim, to punish her with the only kind of control he knew wouldn’t break her.

Annie’s breath caught. Just barely.

Stack stepped in fast — arm out, body angled between them.

“And we don’t do things that way,” he snapped, sharp and firm.

Their eyes locked. For a long, brittle second, it felt like something might break.

“You want her like that? Broken?” Stack asked his brother. 

The picture he painted with that statement stung. 

He didn’t want her like that. Giving in because she didn’t have a choice. Because he “bested” her. 

He wanted it offered to him, because she felt like he deserved it. He didn’t wanna take it. 

“You keep pushin’, you gon’ scare her,” Stack said, quieter now. “And she don’t deserve that from you.”

That stopped him.

Smoke’s jaw ticked hard, and he deflated. 

Behind Stack, Annie was still frozen in place—arms locked at her sides, as if afraid any movement might shatter the silence.

“Take a walk,” Stack added. “Right now. Before you say somethin’ you can’t unsay.”

Smoke didn’t move.

“I got her,” Stack said, gentler now. “You… go cool off.”

Finally, Smoke blinked. Swallowed. His eyes never left Annie.

“You make sure she’s okay,” he said, hoarse.

“I got her.”

Then he turned and walked out — quiet, controlled, like a storm bottled in a man.

Annie stood frozen.

Then sat — slow and stiff — like someone letting herself fall without a net.

Stack stayed standing, chest heaving like he’d just run a race.

“You alright?” he asked quietly.

She didn’t answer.

He dropped to a knee beside her.

“He lost his temper. He shouldn’t’ve. You know that.”

She nodded — barely.

“I made him,” she said.

“No,” Stack replied. “You matched him. That’s different.”

A beat passed. He reached for her hand.

“You still ours,” he said. “Ain’t nothin’ shifted in that.”

She squeezed once. 

“He didn’t even flinch,” she whispered. “But his eyes… they changed.”

Stack squeezed her hand. “He was mad. That don’t mean he stopped carin’.”

“He’s scared. Same as you,” Stack said. “That’s what it is—fear dressed up as fire.”

She exhaled hard, like she’d been holding her breath for hours.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“You meant it,” he cut in gently but firm. “Don’t lie to me.”

That shut her up. Her mouth pressed into a hard line.

“You meant it,” Stack said again, softer this time, “and that’s what’s eatin’ him up.”

Silence fell between them. Heavy. Thick with things they couldn’t take back.

She looked toward the door, then back at Stack.

“You mad at me too?”

He sighed. “Don’t matter what I’m feelin’. You’re my wife. My family. I stand with you—even when I don’t like how it went down.”

“I’m sorry, Stack,” she whispered.

He gave a small shrug. “Don’t be sorry. Be sure.”

Then he stood and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Her eyes fluttered closed at the touch.

“I'm gon’ fix my plate again,” he murmured. “If I don’t eat, I get mean.”

That earned him the smallest laugh. But it was what he needed to hear. Enough to know she was still with him.

“I set aside your favourite,” she murmured, voice rough but soft. “Kept it warm in the oven… in that little dish with the blue trim. Knew you’d want a snack later.”

He paused, and his eyes flicked to hers — just for a second. That did something to him.

“Always lookin’ out,” he said, almost to himself.

Then, quieter: “Love you, baby.”

One more kiss to her head. Then he turned for the kitchen, shoulders squared a little taller than before.

__

The door creaked open.

Smoke stood in the threshold like he wasn’t sure he had the right to come back in. Smoke looked different. Not unraveled — not quite. But quieted. Like whatever storm had rolled through him had lost its bite, leaving behind a man instead of a tempest.

Annie didn’t turn. She sat curled on the couch, knees tucked beneath her, her hand still in Stack’s. The fire had burned low, its glow casting soft shadows across the room. Silence pressed in like fog.

Smoke stepped inside, slow and cautious, like a man testing floorboards for landmines. His eyes found her first. She didn’t flinch. But she didn’t look up, either.

“I scared you,” he said, voice low.

No one answered.

He stood there a beat longer, hat in hand, shoulders heavy.

“I talked about ownin’ you. Fuckin’ the disrespect outta you,” he went on, his voice thick. “That ain’t love talk. That’s not somethin’ you say to the woman you love.”

Annie shifted slightly. Stack’s thumb moved gently over her knuckles.

“I ain’t proud of it,” Smoke murmured. “I’m sorry.”

Still, neither of them spoke.

Smoke let out a breath through his nose, rough around the edges.

“I was mad you shut us down,” he said. “Mad you didn’t let us defend you. But I didn’t come at you like a husband. I came at you like a man who forgot what kind of woman he had.”

That made her look up.

Her eyes were still red, but she met his gaze steady.

“You did scare me,” she said softly.

Stack’s jaw ticked, but Annie gave his hand a squeeze—like she was okay.

“And I hurt y’all too,” she added. “Shut you down in your own home. Made you feel unheard. That wasn’t right.”

She stood, slow and deliberate. Smoke didn’t move.

“You and Stack… you’re my peace,” she said. “My anchor. And tonight I treated you like a storm. All ‘cause I let my past talk louder than the two men who actually built something with me.”

She stepped toward Smoke now, close enough her chest brushed his.

“I’m sorry I spit,” she said, quieter still. “That was… uncalled for. And beneath me.”

Smoke’s brow furrowed, something soft and pained flickering in his eyes. His hand came up, cradling her jaw.

“You still ours?” he asked.

She nodded once.

“Yours. Always.”

Behind them, Stack smiled to himself. 

Then Annie turned to Stack.

The man looked caught off guard—his brows lifted, lips parting like he wasn’t expecting the spotlight.

“I’m sorry I made you feel secondary today, baby,” she said. “Like your opinion didn’t matter. Like you were less than.”

“Whoa, now—I ain’t say all that,” Stack replied, lifting a hand.

“You didn’t have to,” she murmured. “I see now what I was doing. And it was wrong. You’re every bit a part of this, and I treated you like a bystander. I’m sorry, Elias. Truly.”

Stack blinked. For a second, he didn’t know what to say.

Smoke chimed in, voice low. “And thank you.”

Stack looked over.

“I was losin’ my head in here,” Smoke said. “And you got me right. You always do.”

“Well,” Stack drawled, clearing his throat and smoothing down his collar. “Now that y’all mention it… you right. I am the star of today’s show. Glad that’s been properly acknowledged.”

That earned him a chuckle from both Annie and Smoke.

He folded his arms and leaned back, cocky as ever. He thrusted his chin at Annie “You can show me your gratitude in peach cobbler.”

Annie arched a brow. “Peach cobbler?”

“Yes ma’am. And don’t cheap out it either. I need hella peaches in there.” he said dead serious. 

“And you—” he looked at Smoke, “you can take stock at the juke for the next week.”

“Three days,” Smoke countered.

“Five.”

“Deal.”

They shook on it, solemn as preachers. 

Annie laughed—quiet, but real—and turned to glance over her shoulder.

“Well,” Stack said, breaking the lingering tension with a dry drawl, “now that everyone’s sorry… can we go back to actin’ like Melody’s husband don’t eat with his damn mouth open and ask questions like ‘what y’all do for money’ like he ain’t got food crumbs in his mustache?”

Annie barked a laugh. Smoke cracked a grin despite himself.

“Mm,” Annie said, eyes dancing, “maybe I’ll go spit on him next time.”

Smoke raised a brow. “You better not. I’m the only one gettin’ that kind of disrespect.”

She smirked. “So… the ‘fuckin’ the disrespect outta me’ thing… that still on the table, or?”

Stack groaned, loud and dramatic, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m leavin’ the room.”

“No, no,” Annie said quickly, reaching out to stop him. Her voice softened. “I want all my boys,” she murmured. “My family. With me tonight.”

Stack froze.

Smoke looked up at her—really looked.

Smoke’s lips brushed her temple. Stack kissed her shoulder.

The house, so loud just an hour ago, fell to hush.

Just heartbeats.

Just them.

And the slow, quiet burn of still belonging to one another.

__

A/N Thought I'd give ya'll a variation of some angst for the trio but I'd actually end it off so I don't leave you in perpetual pain like I did in Touch of a Woman 🤪 For those curious about what fic in this AU would come after this... you'd enjoy Signed in Crayon, Sealed in Cash 💰

Always eager to hear your thoughts and encouragement it keeps me writing. Can't wait to hear what ya'll think 🥰

____

My other works can be found in My Masterlist. Thanks for reading!

___

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[waitingandwishing]

Masterlist - Next Chapter

Word Count: 3.2k "𝖫𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌" ━━ Ever since you were a kid, all you wanted was to be cared for.

Crowds from all around Korea gathered to see Huntrix's Final World Tour Concert! The buzzing energy from the cheers and excitement practically filled the air with a golden glow. Something about tonight seemed different, like something would... Change (Though it might've been because Huntrix would soon take a long hiatus).

"Mira's my favorite. She's the visual and lead dancer of Huntrix. Nobody can move like Mira." A fan with glasses dressed in a pink Mira hoodie said with a smile. "Apparantly, she's the black sheep of her family."

"I don't know why because she's so cool." A fan with a sweater and beanie scoffed, "Who else could wear a sleeping bag to the Met Gala?"

"Yeah, she's our role model." A younger fan said with her other two friends behind her. The three all had straight faces on as they stared into the camera. "She's the best. Love her."

"We're here for Zoey!" A group dressed in green and carrying signs said excitedly. "She's the rapper and lyricist."

"She grew up in America. Somewhere called Burbank, USA." A boy with a bowl cut and freckles spoke.

"She's the cutest maknae!" The girl next to him smiled.

"But when she raps, she goes hard." The boy nodded.

"She gets really scary. Like, so scary, 'You better watch out'"" The girl said as if threatening the man holding the camera instead of giving an example.

"We love Rumi!" Two girls smiled. "She's pop-star royalty. Her mom, a Sunlight Sister, died when she was a baby. But Celine raised her and built Huntrix around her."

"Rumi's voice is just incredible, like..."

"It brings us to tears!" Three grown men holding and dressed in Huntrix's merch sobbed.

"Y/N's obviously the best!" A girl with her boyfriend squealed, "She's so sweet! Her and Rumi are rumored to have known each other when they were younger though!"

"It makes sense they grew up together." The girl's boyfriend nodded. "They both have really good voices."

"Even though Y/N and Rumi are usually grouped together, Y/N's her own person too! She's got more of a softer tone unlike the rest of the girls, which we love!" Three girls said in scary unison, "They're taking a break, and they need it, but we're gonna miss them so much!"

The three girls started to clap and cheer, the rest of the crowd along with them, as the concert was about to start. The stage lights casted strobing shadows across the city skyline, painting dancing figures on the rooftop ledge. Cheers for the kpop idols could be heard even when you were as far as you had been.

"Okay, this is our biggest show yet." Rumi said. The four of you were huddled together, serious looks on your faces as you tried to take in the anxiety clawing at your hearts.

"The most songs." Zoey grinned.

"The most moves." Mira said seriously.

"Which means the most carb loading." You chuckled.

The four of you broke the huddle, raising your arms to cheer. "For the fans!" The four of you shouted excitedly.

You were so happy you were here with your greatest friends. Something about always being with them made you feel so... Happy. Usually you'd never be this content and more jittery during something as nerve-wracking as this, but you couldn't help but feed off of the other girl's emotions.

"I need like 10,000 calories to get through the choreo." Zoey said, stuffing some kimbap into her mouth.

"A thousand percent. A gajillion percent." Mira nodded.

"Mira, that's not a real number." Rumi commented.

"It is for our fans." Mira said.

"Our fans deserve the best." You smiled, eating your food with much more decency than they were. Sure, you were hungry, starving even, but you really didn't want to risk staining your new costume for this performance.

You watched as Rumi shoved down a whole roll of kimbap before letting out a cough. You laughed before quickly patting her on the back. She coughed, wheezing for a moment before finally swallowing it with a sigh. "Thanks, Y/N," Rumi said.

"No problem." You smiled.

"Okay, time for our pre-game ramyeon!" Rumi announced, grabbing the four cups and handing them to the three of you. You held yours, the title "Amen to Umami" staring back at you. Zoey had come up with the funny wording.

"Happy fans, happy Honmoon!" The four of you beamed, cheering your styrofoam cups of ramyeon together.

"Wait, there's no water in these." Zoey realized, a sad expression now on all of your face. You sighed, standing up and going to the oddly tense flight attendant who was pouring... Coffee into a flower pot?

"Um, excuse me, miss?" You stood in front of her.

"Yes, Miss Hunter... Ix?" The attendant asked with a strained smile and oddly jerky movement.

"We asked for hot water-" You said before being cut off.

"Right away. You're welcome. Arrideverci. Goodbye." She said, quickly walking away. You furrowed your brows. You never liked being cut off. Something about it always made you feel like you were being ignored.

"Uh, oookay." You muttered, walking over and flopping down on the couch with a huff.

Rumi checked her phone, realizing it was their manager, "Hi, Bobby!" She said, sitting up next to you with her arm resting on your shoulder. You leaned into it, craning your head in the camera.

"Um, what are you doing?" Bobby asked, panic evident in his voice. You furrowed your brows, why was he so nervous? Was there a backstage malfunction?

"About to eat our pre-show ramyeon." Rumi said, turning the camera over to Zoey who was chomping on some fishy chips.

"Pre-show? What about the show-show?" Bobby asked, turning his camera over to the thousands of people waiting in the audience. You widened your eyes, about to say something before his phone was suddenly taken.

"Hi!" Four girls squealed, "We love you!"

"Oh, we love you too!" The four of you praised, trying to all fit into the camera. You loved your fans. They were so supportive and loving, you appreciated that so many positive people were drawn to Huntrix.

THe phone was passed on to the group of crying men, the four of you started to sob alongside them as well, "That's so sweet."

"Yo! I just got this!" A man said, snatching the phone and lifting his shirt up to show the tattoo plastered on his side. You, Rumi, and Zoey grimaced as Mira chuckled. That was going to stay on his body forever, what if he regretted it later on?

"Gimme that!" Bobby panted, finally being able to steal his phone back, "Why are you so late?!"

"Late?" You repeated, clearly just as confused as he was.

"Fifty thousand fans are waiting for you." Bobby said as the four of you gazed out the window to realize that the plan had flown past the concert where Huntrix was supposed to be performing. "They made cute signs and everything. How can you be late? I wish you were here."

You turned back to the flight attendants, a suspicious look on your face as well as the others. "Don't worry, Bobby. We'll be there in just a bit!" You said before Rumi hung up.

Rumi and Mira groaned while you pinched the bridge of your nose and Zoey continued to munch furiously on her snacks. "I didn't even get to finish my ramyeon!" Mira complained.

"Why do they always interrupt our snacking?" Rumi asked to no one in particular.

"They will face my wrath!" Zoey yelled.

You stood up to the woman, your arms crossed and an unimpressed look on your face, "You're a demon, right?" You asked, raising an eyebrow at her.

"What do you mean?" She frog-blinked.

"You're smiling all weird, watering plants with coffee, and those guys don't really look like they know what they're doing." You sighed.

"Oh, we were just-"

You cut her off like she did to you before, stomping on her foot to reveal her demon self. The demon working as the cart attendant then turned into a blue colored demon and two other ones appeared as well. "You and your friends are really mean for interrupting our snacking all the time." You said, stretching out your arms, "The rest of you can come out, we're in a hurry!"

A hulking red one appeared, large blue horns and carved out swirls on its skin noticeable. You wondered how the uniform could stretch large enough to fit his huge stature.

"Oh, you got the patterns." Mira said, feigning sympathy before saying, "Now you gotta die."

"The only ones dying tonight are your..." Mira burped, interrupting him. You held back a chuckle, letting it come out as a cough instead. "Uh, I said, the only ones dying tonight are your-"

Rumi's stomach gurgled and she quickly thumped on her chest. "I'm sorry, what?" Rumi asked. You stood there, still stretching out your body. This was also another reason why you didn't eat as fast as the other girls did.

"Your fans! We're gonna eat your fans!" The large one yelled angrily, his voice distorted and low.

"Whoa! No.

"No, thank you!"

"Oh... I don't know about that."

"No, no, no."

"Not our fans." Rumi said, a small smirk appearing on her lips as she placed her hands on her hips.

"When you mess with our fans..."

"We need to make it hurt."

Glowing lines of pulsing energy appeared, shimmering like a warning call to the demons.

"Ugh, you came at a bad time"

Rumi smirked, resting her arm on your shoulder. Your arms were now uncrossed, an unimpressed look on your face as you looked at the demons coldly. They shivered at the sight.

"But you just crossed the line"

Mira tugged on her fingerless leather gloves, her expression serious, while Zoey gave a sweet yet unsettling smile, stretching out her arms. This was going to be a good pre-show warmup.

"You wanna get wild?" Rumi's voice sharpened, "Okay, I'll show you wild."

As if on cue, Mira and Zoey broke formation, charging at the nearest demons with surprising strength and even more surprising movies. You confidently strutted beside Rumi, smiling to yourself as the two girls easily took down the demons.

"Better come right, better luck tryin', gettin' to our levels"

Rumi nudged your shoulder, signaling you to move to the kitchenette. You nodded, hands slightly shaky as you grabbed the kettle and filled it with water.

"Cause you might die, never the time, tryna start a battle"

A demon lunged. Rumi raised one finger in warning without missing a beat, watching the water slowly fill the kettle. Another demon came from the side and you turned mid-step, bashing the kettle into its face as Rumi caught another by the collar and threw it backward into the cockpit.

"Bleeding isn't in my blood, ppyeos-sogbuteo dallaseo—"

The kettle hissed, and you tossed it over to Mira, who caught the jug midair. She brought it down on a demon sitting in a passenger chair, metal clashing with flesh. You cringed internally at the smell of it's burnt demon skin.

"Beating you is what I do, do, do, yeah"

Mira tossed the jug across the aisle. Zoey caught it with one hand, smirking, already turning toward the next wave of demons. She poured the hot water into her ramyeon bowl, balancing it while elbowing one demon in the ribs and tripping another with the back of her heel.

"Body on body I'm naughty, not even sorry"

You regrouped together, the four of you standing in a slight circle as you filled your ramyeon with water. More demons charged, one from each direction. The four of you kicked simultaneously,sending them flying across the suddenly endless plane.

"And when you pull up, I'll pull up a little late to the party (Na-na-na-na)"

Mira raised her chopsticks and Zoey rolled her eyes playfully, both about to take a large slurp before Y/N stopped them. You pointed at the "Wait for 3 minutes" rule at the end of the directions, to which they sighed at before placing their cups back down on the coffee table.

"Locked and loaded, I was born for this. There ain't no point in avoiding it. Annoyed a bit? Bul-eul bichwo da bikyeo, ne apgil-eul ppaesgyeo!"

The cabin lights dimmed and an almost alive blue light rippled throughout the aircraft once again. You cherished its beauty and relished in its soft, almost singing, glow.

"Knocking you out like a lullaby"

Threads of light spun around you as weapons emerged from the glowing threads. Zoey's daggers gleamed as she trailed her hand against the threads to make them appear, Mira's spear shimmered as the tips of her fingers called out to the glow, Rumi's sword pulsed with energy as she pulled at the light, and your whip cracked against the floor of the plane.

"Hear that sound ringing in your mind. Better sit down for the show"

Demons began to scramble, clawing toward the emergency exits. Too late. Just like Icarus, they flew too close to the sun.

You raised your weapons, voices blending into a perfect chord. "Cause I'm gonna show you how it's done, done, done."

You slashed through the demons with fluid grace, their bodies a blur of motion.More demons appeared behind the curtains, from overhead storage. They struck with no etiquette, clearly just aiming to hurt and scare.

"HUNTRIX DON'T MISS!"

Mira impaled one mid-air as Zoey ricocheted a blade off a tray table. Your whip latched onto one of the scrambling ones, pulling it forward before plunging your dagger into its chest. You chuckled as it shimmered away in pink magic.

"How it's done, done, done! HEY! Huntrix don't quit! How it's done, done, done! Run, run, we run the town-"

You stumbled, falling back on the couch with wide eyes as the aircraft suddenly shook. Just as your styrofoam cup almost fell from the coffee table, Rumi caught it and handed it to you with a smile. You grinned, grabbing the cup and standing up from your position.

"Whole world playin' our sound."

You ran towards the windows and outside, the front half of the plane was suddenly... Gone?! Somehow, it had been torn clean off from two demons clinging to the wing and the flight attendant, which was also starting to rip away.

"Turnin' up, it's going down! Huntrix show this, how it's done, done, done"

The wing tore free. The girls walked towards the edge of the plane. Mira let out a sigh, shrugging as if this happened every day. Well, this actually did happen almost every day if you were being honest. "Yeah, this plane's trashed."

You exchanged a look before slurping their ramen in perfect sync. "Okay, let's do this," Rumi said walking towards the plane's door.

Wind kissed your exposed skin, causing you to let out a slight sigh at the cool breeze penetrating the hot sweaty air. "Yeah, something about when you come for the crown," You turned, leaning backwards with a smirk, "That's so humbling, huh?"

You waved to Rumi as you dived off the plane with the others behind her. You felt a rush of adrenaline fill your body, the nervousness evaporating from your skin as you saw the stage lights grow brighter.

"gabjagi wae geulae? meonjeo geondeulyeo, wae? ijeya pogihae, what? Nothing to us. Run up, you're done up, we come up from sunup to sundown, so come out to play"

Rumi dove like a bullet, her foot practically glowing from the speed of which she was falling. "Won either way, we're one in a million. We killin', we bring it, you want it? Okay—" She kicked a demon's chest, sending it flying even more than it already did. "Heels, nails, blade, mascara"

Rumi casually inspected her nails, tossing the mirror to you to which you quickly passed to Mira and took out your phone instead. "Fit check for my napalm era." You took a picture with Rumi in the background, a smile on your face despite the fact you were falling.

Mira brushed her hair and flicked a blow-dryer at a demon like a cannon. "Need to beat my face, make it cute and savage"

Zoey sat on the shoulders of a demon, concentrating as she used her makeup brush on it, applying blush to its confused face. "Mirror, mirror on my phone, who's the baddest? Us? Hello!"

She smirked before pushing off of the demon and penetrating it with her dagger. It poofed mid-scream. The concert came into view and you braced yourself to land, now diving down to the stage with your friends beside you.

"Knocking you out like a lullaby. Hear that sound ringing in your mind."

They landed, causing a fog to appear. The lights behind them created a silhouette standing above the three demons that were left.

"Better sit down for the show. 'Cause I'm gonna show you, I'm gonna show you! I'm gonna show you how it's done, done, done"

You parted the fog, jumping through and killing the last of the demons with your special weapons easily. The four of you walked with confidence, microphones now replacing the weapons in your hands.

"I don't talk, but I bite, full of venom, uh. Spittin' facts, you know that's how it's done, done, done—" Mira said confidently, eyes trained on the crowd.

Zoey stepped up beside you with a grin, rapping in tempo as she faced the camera pointed at her. "Okay, like, I know I ramble but when shootin' my words, I go Rambo. Took blood, sweat, and tears, to look natural, uh that's how it's done, done, done."

You and Rumi stepped forward into the center spotlight, hand in hand as you both stared at the pulsing threads surrounding the stage and eventually creeping outwards to the rest of the world. You needed to do this.

"Hear our voice unwavering. 'Til our song defeats the night"

You turned to the left while Rumi leaned over to the right side of the stage. You knelt, smiling at the crowd as you and Rumi's voice harmonized together.

"Makin' fear, afraid to breathe. Til the dark meets the light!"

The two of you hit the note, making the crowd cheer louder and louder. As Rumi continued on, you held out the microphone to the people near you with a smile before joining the rest of the girls in the center stage.

"How it's done, done, done. Run, run, we run the town! Done, done, done!"

You danced alongside them, circling and moving with grace and ease. You watched as the Honmoon glowed bright, shifting into another color that the four of you had been waiting for for a long time.

"Whole world playin' our sound! Done, done, done! Turnin' up, it's going down. Done, done, done!"

You exchanged glances with Zoey, gesturing to the golden shift, to which she excitedly grinned at as the others did as well.

"We hunt you down, down, down (Down) We got you now, now, now (Got you now)"

You stepped in front of the three of them, the last final notes of the song coming soon.

"We show you how, how, how (Show you how). Huntrix, don't miss, how it's done, done, done"

Rumi, Mira, and Zoey posed behind you as you knelt in front of the three of them, a smile on your face as you held up two peace signs for the final pose.

[somewheres-woods]

A part two to Auhta's story.

Gender neutral reader.

I did not accidentally post this before it was ready...

Not proofread.

Part One.

The day you brought back a Quatza-Rij with Auhta, everything changed.

To bring a Quatza-Rij down and present it to the clan elders was a tradition, a rite of passage to adulthood in yautja culture. Typically, you had to prepare the Hunt in groups of three. Not two unprepared Youngbloods getting ambushed by the beast.

Which made your accomplishment all the more impressive.

A worthy pair of warriors the two of you had made.

You were certainly unprepared for the change in behaviour the yautja showed you after bringing home your kill. No longer did they stare at you like you were the weakest link, keeping their distance and eyeing you like a tragedy waiting to occur.

Even the looks given to your master had changed. She had always been considered odd, true, but you absolutely noticed how her chest would puff up in pride when her peers would glance her way. They had called her foolish for taking in a human to mentor. Looked at her as if she was mad.

Now, their eyes held respect.

She saw something they couldn't see in you.

The respect given to you was now becoming embedded within your master.

You weren't exactly treated like royalty, but you were now seen as an equal. Your fast thinking had secured you a spot within the clan. As an honourable Youngblood, just as worthy as the rest of your peers.

However, that didn't change your habits.

Growing up in this clan had felt borderline isolating. Growing up with other yautja whelps left you feeling like an outcast.

The whelps had always played rough and tumble, but any attempt to join in would leave you injured. Their claws and jaws not made to play with soft meat.

You still have some scars from your childhood.

You knew that they never meant it.

They would always give you such strange looks when you would instinctively yelp and cower away. It didn't get any better as you got older. Eventually, they would begin leaving you out. The influence from the adults bleeding into their pups.

You were different.

Smaller.

Weaker.

You were prey being raised amongst predators.

You eventually learned to occupy yourself. Reading books, learning to craft tapestries, helping your master manage medicinal herbs, and even hunt for small rodents to practice your pelt crafting.

And old habits die hard, apparently.

Even as you had proven yourself, you still kept to yourself.

Others would be more open to approaching you whenever you were in the camp, a fact that nearly had your heart beating into overdrive, but for the most part they didn't make an effort to become your friend.

Except for...

"Human."

You pricked yourself with your sewing needle as you flinched hard at the sudden voice directly next to your ear. You hiss as you place your index finger in your mouth, soothing the wound as you turn your head.

Not by much, though, or else you'd risk brushing your face directly against his.

Auhta chuckles heartily, his eyes crinkling as his upper tusks click together. He had been sitting directly behind you, angled so that he could look over your body to observe what you were doing.

You didn't even hear him enter your master's cave. Let alone sit down that close to you and watch you for an unprecedented amount of time.

You should've played closer attention to your surroundings instead of allowing yourself to be so absorbed in your task that you left yourself vulnerable.

Perhaps that was the feeling of safety you had associated with this cave. Feeling so safe in your master's company that you tuned the world out, trusting your master with your vulnerability.

Now that you think about it, she wasn't even here anymore. She must have left before Auhta arrived, or else she would've chased the Youngblood off before you even noticed him.

Auhta had something of a mischievous reputation.

His entire pack of friends did.

You often saw them manhandling each other around in the mud. A few sudden tackles always seemed to catch you off guard whenever you walked by. Auhta being the most physically involved out of them all.

"It's polite to announce your presence when you're in someone's home." You sighed, their eyelids drooping in exasperation. You watched as he tilted his head, his amber eyes holding a curiosity that not many his age would dare to indulge in.

Out of self-respect, of course.

Auhta seemed content by the amount of respect he had already garnered.

"I did. You were not listening." He chuffed in response, leaning his shoulders back as he adjusted to a more comfortable position. Before ultimately deciding that slouching forward was better. "What are you focusing on?"

You turned your head back down towards the fur draped over your lap. You placed your forearms under it, lifting it up for his appraisal. Once you heard his rumble of approval, you let the pelt flop back down on your lap.

"Do you need something?" You respond, looking over to see if he had any injuries that needed attention. None.

Though, he definitely seems to require attention of some sort.

You didn't know how to politely tell him to leave you alone.

It was just so foreign to have a yautja pay such rapt attention to you. To willingly choose to spend his time by your side.

"You are going to the contest, yes?" He tilted his head, dreadlocks swaying with his movements.

You were tempted to refuse on the spot.

Your clan enjoyed hosting small contests within the heart of the camp. Many use them as opportunities to display their raw strength to the rest of the spectators. The wrestling was separated by experience, not by weight class. A smaller opponent might outsmart a bigger one, but an Elite and a Youngblood would be unfair. Many Youngbloods did attempt to challenge an Elite or a Blooded, but oftentimes, they would be knocked on their asses faster than they could think. Leaving them with more than just a bruised pride.

Once upon a time, you once wanted to be part of these competitions... but you learned rather quickly that trying to beat a yautja in a battle of brute force would spell more than just a few bruises. You can't even count on one hand how many times a yautja had broken your bones.

Leaving you to almost loathe these contests out of envy.

"No—"

"Yes." Your master's voice echoed in the cave as she hauled a giant fish over her shoulder, dragging it deeper into the cave. She snapped her jaws at Auhta, who took his time in getting up. His hand enveloping your shoulder in a silent promise to see you later.

You get up once he leaves, the pelt falling to the floor before you approach her workbench, frowning at the smoke coloured Elder who snorted back at your defiant look.

"You have avoided these contests long enough. I did not teach you to avoid your problems." She utters bluntly as she grabs a cleaver, pulling the blade down the fish's belly to gut it. She didn't allow you to argue any further, only stabbing a small carving knife on your side of the workbench.

.

.

.

Despite your best efforts to slow down the process of gutting the fish to prolong the inevitable, your master still managed to drag you out of the cave towards the camp. The twin suns having long since disappeared over the horizon, shrouding the forest in a cool darkness that had you gripping your fur cloak tighter.

The heat was unbearable during the day, but nights were not that much better.

There was a large gathering of your clan, all circled around the heart of the camp to watch. Roars and rumbling laughter echoed everywhere, almost making your eardrums bleed with the intensity of it all. It had been a great many cycles since you last attended one of these competitions.

You had forgotten how loud it was.

You were practically shoved out of your thoughts as a group of young whelps pushed past you to see the contest. Despite them being young, they were still around your height.

But before you could get trampled any further, you felt a hand on the back of your tunic, lifting you up like a small cat to sit on top of a large rock. Your master pulling her hand away once you had adjusted yourself properly, not even looking at you.

You followed her stormy coloured gaze, witnessing the final fight of the competition.

Between a Blooded and... was that Auhta?!

You snorted in amusement at the thought of the cocky Youngblood getting his ass handed to him. Then again, he did have good reasons to be cocky. He was on the bigger side for a yautja, not just height wise, but his thicker mass and muscles were certainly something to be desired.

However, to your utter shock, Auhta appeared to be winning?

It was nothing short of impressive to see him take on a Blooded warrior and win. Everyone else seemed to think so as well. Though, the Blooded seemed less than thrilled to be humiliated in front of the entire clan.

Auhta roared as he beated his chest with his fist, the rest of the clan following suit to cheer on his victory. The Blooded yautja weakly limping away from the crowd in defeat.

Your master had been the only one not to bellow in celebration, her eyes trained on Auhta. Assessing him the same way she assessed you once.

"I have no doubt that he shall be an Elite one day." She commented in a prediction, leaving you reeling at the compliment. This was the highest form of praise coming from her.

Heavy footsteps snapped you out of your stupor as you saw Auhta approach, his chest puffed out to display the long, deep claw marks along his torso and arms. Proud to display each and every cut like badges of honour. He looked up at you, his mandibles clicking together softly as he reached his hand to you.

...

Did he want something? You didn't have anything right now... other than a few small bones you kept on your person for decoration. Did he want one of those?

You remember, as a child, that you would read books about monarch's offering their knights a handkerchief to display their favour.

This line of thinking seemed logical enough for you as you broke off a string around your neck, offering the tooth of a great serpent you had taken down with the help of your master. You reached down to place it in his hand...

Only for him to simply grab your hand instead. Ignoring the offered trophy.

He pulled your limb down, his touch gentle yet firm as he placed the back of your hand down between his brows. His eyes closed as a deep purr rumbled from his chest.

Your other hand held onto the edge of the rock, keeping yourself from tumbling down face first.

All these eyes watching your public display of affection, watching you and Auhta with intense scrutiny. Yet the Youngblood had no shame. Outwardly displaying his close bond to the human. You felt an unpleasant heat rise to your cheeks as you pointedly avoided looking at any other yautja.

A small breathless laugh escaping you.

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