#Sign Signature Line in Word Document

[lay-z]

Things you shouldn’t say around Task Force 141, unless you know how to deal with the consequences.

It’s a rare lazy day at the 141 HQ on base in Hereford.

Lazy for you, at the very least, due to an upcoming long holiday weekend and the blessing of being one if not the most efficient secretary around. 

Days like this mean it’s time for some groundwork, cleaning up messes from the past weeks, and doing all the filing you’ve been procrastinating for longer than you’d like to admit. 

But they also mean that either your boss or one of his men will approach you to ask for your lunch order at some point—more than happy to indulge in some much-needed downtime between training and paperwork. 

While Captain Price sits behind his desk with you standing next to him, signing some documents for you, the other three men all lounge around the room like they don’t quite know what to do with themselves if no orders are given. 

Kyle and Johnny manspreading on the leather couch in the corner, Simon is standing by the open window with his mask rucked up and a ciggy dangling between his gloved fingers. 

“What about shawarma? Haven’t had tha’ in a while,” Kyle suggests, scrolling on his phone as he continues to look for restaurants and chip shops nearby. 

Johnny groans next to him. “Aye, ’s good, but gives me the farts–” A loud smack. “Ow!” Your eyes flit up with furrowed brows, holding out another document to the captain. 

“Bruh.” Kyle kisses his teeth snidely, shaking his head as he drops his hand again while Johnny rubs the rapidly flushing nape of his neck. “There’s a lady present, Soap.” 

Simon snorts, flicking ash out of the window before taking another drag. 

“Muppets,” Price mutters under his breath as he takes the next document from your hold. 

“What do you want then, sweet’art?” Simon asks you directly, his voice even more gravelly before he exhale a plume of smoke.  

Smiling, you give a little shrug. “What do I want?” You chuckle, feeling bold enough to crack a joke for once. “How about a fat baby and a husband who’s utterly obsessed with me.” 

And suddenly, the office goes eerily quiet; tension skyrocketing as your face begins to heat up furiously within seconds. Now too embarrassed to even look up, you miss the severe look all four share with each other, as if you’d just spoken some forbidden words—or given the permission to cross a line they’d drawn themselves. 

“Uhm,” you clear your throat awkwardly, tapping a neat stack of papers on the captain’s desk, “I mean uh... just some chips and–and a sandwich maybe?” 

But it’s too late, they all heard you loud and clear—noticed the underlying truth and longing in your words, even if you tried to mask it with humour.  

Both Johnny and Simon stare at you like they’ve finally locked eyes on their target, and while Kyle can nudge Johnny hard, the young Sergeant can only debate to throw a boot at the Lieutenant to snap him back to reality, but then Price clears his throat and takes the lead. 

“Right,” he says gruffly, “sandwiches sound good, darlin’.”  

The leather of his office chair creaks as he leans back leisurely, regarding you with a strangely soft look and a friendly pat on the back of your hand, like he’s soothing a bristling kitten.  

“Would you be a dear and call the sandwich shop to have ‘em prepare our order? I’m positive Soap or Gaz will pick it up for us later.”  

“Yes, sir,” you answer tentatively, and you catch how both Sergeants nod all too obediently, flashing toothy smiles at you with a rather suspicious glint in their eyes while Simon lights another cigarette with his broad back now turned towards you, now holding an awkward tension in his shoulders. 

“Brilliant.” Price clears his throat again and you suddenly feel lout of place, like they’re having a fully non-verbal conversation about a secret you’re not briefed on. It’s feels entirely different than the times they talk about anything classified—like this is personal. 

“Now, darlin’, if you have all the signatures you need, I’ll have some intel to share with the team.” 

It’s his polite and roundabout way to tell you to leave, so you give a quick nod as you gather the files you’d brought, and you hate how your hands are trembling with adrenaline, feeling like you’re watched by four apex predators. 

And when the door to the captain’s office closes behind you with a final click, it echoes inside the empty hallway along with the shaky exhale of a deep sigh as you curse yourself for cracking that joke and making the men uncomfortable. 

Meanwhile, just behind a heavy door and thick walls, the core of TF-141 is already planning their upcoming mission, now determined more than ever since knowing you to fulfil your greatest wish— 

Giving you a fat baby, each, and four men utterly obsessed with you along with them. 

[reylwq]

𝓕rom 𝓢eou𝓵 to 𝓣ok𝔂𝓸: 𝓐 𝓑oss’s 𝓓𝓮𝓼𝓲𝓻𝓮

SUMMARY: You’ve been Heeseung’s perfect secretary for three years—calm, composed, professional. But when a business trip to Tokyo forces you to share one hotel room, the line between “strictly professional” and “dangerously personal” snaps.

PAIRINGS: heeseung x fem!reader , hee!boss x reader!secretary , dom!hee x sub!reader

TROPES: CEO x Secretary , only one bed , forced proximity (business trip) , smut with feelings

WORD COUNT: 4,7k

SMUT TAGS: oral sex , begging kink , light dom!heeseung , praise kink / mild degradation , slow , sensual , after care

WARNING TAG: explicit sexual content , 18+ , nsfw workplace dynamic , mild language , unprotected sex

A/N: idk what to say other than that it’s going a bit fast but I hope you like it anyway + I have some written stories in my drafts :)

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“And Shin y/n,” Heeseung said, his voice low and precise as he glanced at me over his shoulder. “Don’t be late to the airport.”

It was almost an afterthought, barely louder than a murmur. But coming from him? It landed like a command.

I nodded quickly, trying not to show how flustered I felt under his gaze. “Of course, sir.”

Without another word, he turned and strode out of the office, his newly polished black dress shoes clicking against the hallway floor with that signature confidence only Lee Heeseung had mastered. Every step sounded final, intentional—like he owned every corner of this company.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

The clock on my monitor blinked back at me: 7:43 PM.

“Goddess…” I muttered, dragging a hand through my hair.

I shut down the computer, grabbed my things, and slipped out of the office into the quiet chill of evening.

— NEXT MORNING !!

By the time I was at the airport, my body was barely functioning. It was 3:21 AM, and I hadn’t even managed more than a 45-minute nap.

I sat slouched in a chair near the gate, scrolling through emails, though none of them really registered. My fingers were just moving out of habit. Heeseung sat across from me, legs crossed, suit pristine despite the hour. Even now, he looked infuriatingly put-together.

I snuck a glance at him.

God, why did he have to look like that?

“Anything interesting you see, Miss?” His voice cut through the silence like a blade.

I froze. “Sorry?”

He finally looked at me, dark eyes meeting mine—and there it was again. That barely-there smirk, like he knew exactly what I’d been thinking.

“I asked you a question,” he said, voice cool and calm.

“…Uhhh, no. I was just looking around, sir.”

He huffed a quiet sound, not quite a laugh. “Sure.”

We boarded shortly after, the plane humming with the quiet chatter of businessmen and the occasional shuffle of tired feet. Heeseung didn’t speak to me once the entire flight—not that I expected him to. Still, I found myself sneaking glances whenever I could. The way he adjusted his cuffs. The way his jaw flexed when reading through documents. His legs, long and casually crossed, like he owned the damn sky.

— AT THE HOTEL !!

The day was a blur of meetings.

From the moment we landed in Tokyo, it was nonstop movement—three different companies, rushed lunches, overlapping pitches, and a few too many coffees. By the time we reached the hotel, it was past 8 PM, and my head was spinning.

I barely noticed the issue until the front desk receptionist said, with a polite bow, “So sorry. Only one suite left.”

I blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

But Heeseung didn’t miss a beat. “That’s fine.”

I turned to him, startled. “Sir, you mean—?”

“You signed the 24/7 clause in your employment contract three years ago, didn’t you?” he said smoothly. “You’re my assistant. You follow where I go.”

His tone left no room for argument.

I swallowed hard, nodding stiffly.

— INSIDE THE HOTEL ROOM !!

In the hotel room, I busied myself with ordering food while Heeseung disappeared into the bathroom. The sound of the shower running was oddly distracting. I tried not to imagine what he looked like under that water. I really tried.

The food arrived just as he stepped out.

And when I turned around to call for him, I froze.

There he was.

Towel. Just a towel. Water dripping down his abs. His hair damp and slightly messy, clinging to his forehead. He looked like he’d been carved out of a fever dream.

“Oh, the food’s here?” he asked casually, as if he wasn’t half-naked and lethal.

“Y-Yeah,” I stammered, whipping around and pretending to rearrange the plates like a maniac. Anything to not look at that towel.

I felt him come up behind me.

“Why’re you looking away, sweetheart?” he murmured.

My brain short-circuited.

“Wh-what…?”

He stepped closer, the heat of his bare chest just inches from my back. “Why are you looking away?” he repeated, voice lower now. “You’re not fooling anyone, y/n.”

My name sounded dangerous in his mouth.

He reached out, brushing my hair back over my shoulder. I shivered.

“I overheard you,” he whispered. “At the office. You didn’t mute your call. You told your friend you wanted to fuck me.”

My heart stopped.

He stepped in close—way too close—his eyes locked on mine.

I was trembling.

And that’s when it happened. I broke.

“Fuck me, Heeseung,” I whispered.

The words just slipped out, unfiltered, raw.

His eyes darkened.

And then… he moved.

The hotel room was still warm from the shower’s steam, the air thick with something unspoken.

Heeseung hadn’t said another word after teasing me. He just stood there in his towel, like some beautifully carved menace, his chest rising and falling evenly, as if he wasn’t the one who just said something utterly filthy. As if he hadn’t just told me he overheard me say I wanted to fuck him.

And I had said it. I had said it—fuck me, Heeseung—like it was a confession I’d been bottling up for years. Because maybe… it was.

Heeseung took a slow step toward me. I backed up, instinctively, until my thighs hit the edge of the bed behind me.

“You’re really not denying it,” he said quietly, almost amused.

I swallowed hard. “Would it matter if I did?”

He clicked his tongue, eyes sweeping over me like I was a meal he’d been denying himself. “No,” he said. “It wouldn’t.”

He took another step, and I was still frozen. Like some part of me couldn’t tell if this was real. If the years of pretending I didn’t look at him like this, didn’t need him like this, were finally crashing down in one perfect, devastating moment.

“You’ve been so good for so long,” Heeseung murmured, brushing a damp lock of hair from his forehead. “Always so obedient. So professional.”

His words scratched at something deep inside me.

“Doesn’t mean I didn’t notice how you look at me when you think I’m not watching.” His hand lifted slowly, deliberate, and his knuckles grazed the side of my jaw. “Always biting that pretty lip of yours.”

My breath hitched as his thumb dragged across my lower lip, slow and possessive.

“You wanna be good for me tonight too, sweetheart?” he whispered.

I shivered. Not from fear. From the sharp rush of adrenaline flooding my veins.

“I want…” I tried to speak, but my voice broke. His eyes stayed locked on mine, waiting. Demanding.

“I want you to touch me,” I said, breathless. “Please.”

Heeseung’s eyes darkened, a storm brewing behind them. His hand slid from my jaw to the back of my neck, pulling me close until his forehead touched mine.

“You have no fucking idea how long I’ve wanted to hear you beg.”

His voice was a low growl now, velvet over steel. Before I could answer, his lips were on mine—not soft, not slow, but hungry. Possessive. The kind of kiss that made your knees weak and your stomach flip. His tongue slid against mine, coaxing, then commanding. I gasped, and he swallowed the sound like he owned it.

He pushed me gently but firmly until the backs of my knees hit the bed again. This time, I didn’t step back. I let myself fall into the mattress, breathing heavy, lips swollen from his kiss. His eyes devoured the sight of me.

“You look good like that,” Heeseung muttered, running a thumb across my chin. “All laid out for me.”

He knelt down in front of me, parting my legs with his broad hands. The towel still hung low on his hips, teasing me with every movement. I could see the outline of him now—thick, heavy, and hard. It made my mouth dry.

He reached for my blouse, fingers slipping the buttons open one by one. “You wore this skirt on purpose, didn’t you?” he asked, voice dipped in mischief.

“N-No,” I stammered.

“Liar.”

He slid the blouse off my shoulders, revealing my bra underneath—black lace, thin straps. His eyes flicked up.

“You knew exactly what you were doing,” he said, voice darker now. “What kind of secretary dresses like this under her suit?”

“You pay me too well to dress boring,” I whispered.

He chuckled—low, sinful. “Keep talking like that and I’ll fuck you with your heels still on.”

My breath caught.

Heeseung leaned in, kissing the top of my knee. Then the inside of my thigh. So slow. The heat of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth—it made my legs tremble. His hands slid up my thighs, pushing the skirt higher.

“You’re already wet, aren’t you?”

I let out a shaky breath as he dragged a single finger over the damp fabric of my panties, pressing just enough to make my hips jerk.

“You soaked through these,” he muttered, eyes locked onto mine. “And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

“Heeseung…” I whimpered.

He leaned in closer, his nose brushing the inside of my thigh as he kissed higher, closer to where I needed him. His voice dropped into a whisper.

“Tell me what you want.”

“I want your mouth,” I blurted out before I could think. “Please, just… don’t tease me.”

His lips curved. “I’ll do more than that, sweetheart. But when I start, I’m not stopping until you’ve come on my tongue at least twice. Understood?”

My thighs clenched involuntarily.

“Yes,” I breathed.

“Yes, what?” he said, eyes gleaming.

“Yes, sir.”

That one word changed everything.

Heeseung groaned like he’d just been given a drug. “Fuck, you don’t know what that does to me.”

He pulled my panties down slowly, dragging them down my legs like a ribbon unwrapping a gift. He spread my thighs apart and lowered himself between them, arms wrapped around my hips to keep me exactly where he wanted.

Then his mouth was on me.

Hot. Wet. Unrelenting.

He licked a slow, deliberate stripe up my slit, tongue pressing into me like he was trying to memorize the taste. I cried out, hips bucking, but he held me still. His mouth moved with sinful precision—flicks of his tongue, firm pressure, teasing then plunging, sucking on my clit until my vision blurred.

“Oh my God, Heeseung—”

“You taste like sin,” he groaned against me, lips brushing sensitive skin.

My hand flew into his hair, fingers tangling in the soft, damp strands. I didn’t know if I was trying to push him away or pull him closer.

Heeseung slipped a finger inside me while his tongue circled my clit again. Then another finger joined, moving slow, curling just right, as his mouth kept working me open.

“Let go for me,” he whispered, licking into me again. “Be a good girl and come.”

I fell apart.

The orgasm slammed into me, hot and dizzying. My back arched, a cry leaving my lips as I pulsed around his fingers and tongue. He didn’t stop. He didn’t slow down. He kept going through it, milking every second, until I was twitching and gasping beneath him.

Only then did he finally pull away—slowly, smugly—wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes locked on mine like I was the only thing in the world.

“You can still take more,” he said, voice rough. “Can’t you?”

I nodded, barely able to speak. “Yes, sir.”

He stood, letting the towel drop to the floor.

The towel hit the floor with a quiet thud, but it might as well have been a bomb.

My eyes dropped instinctively, and what I saw made my breath catch. Thick. Hard. Veins prominent. And way too big to take without needing a moment to mentally prepare.

Heeseung watched my reaction with a slow, knowing smirk.

“You’re quiet now,” he said, stepping closer. “What happened to that brat who told me to fuck her a few minutes ago?”

My thighs instinctively squeezed together at his words.

He reached down and spread them again with his knee, climbing onto the bed. The sheets shifted under his weight as he hovered over me, arms bracketing either side of my head.

“You look so fucking good like this,” he muttered, dragging the tip of his cock across my still-sensitive folds. “You gonna let me ruin you?”

He pressed the head against me, not inside yet, just teasing. Slow, smooth circles. I gasped.

“Yes,” I whispered, breath hot and heavy.

“Yeah?” He leaned down, his lips brushing my ear. “Then beg.”

I blinked. “What?”

He nipped at my earlobe. “You heard me. Tell me how bad you want it.”

I felt my cheeks burn, but I didn’t look away. I couldn’t.

“I want it,” I said, voice barely holding together. “I want you. I want you to fuck me, sir. Please.”

His groan was low and primal. “Good girl.”

Then, in one slow, powerful motion—he pushed inside.

My mouth dropped open, but no sound came out. He was big. Too big. The stretch was slow, burning, perfect. His eyes didn’t leave mine for a second.

“You okay?” he asked, tone dark but gentle.

I nodded quickly, nails digging into his biceps. “Don’t stop.”

He bottomed out with a final, deep thrust that made my whole body tremble. His hips pressed flush to mine, his cock buried to the hilt.

“Fuck,” he gritted out. “You feel so good—so fucking tight. Like you were made for me.”

He didn’t move at first. He just stayed there, deep inside me, letting me feel everything—every thick inch, every pulsing heartbeat between us.

Then, he started moving.

Slow. Deep. Controlled.

Each thrust hit something inside me that made my toes curl. My hands flew up around his shoulders, clinging to him like I’d drown if I let go.

Heeseung groaned into my neck as he started fucking deeper, hips rolling in perfect rhythm, every stroke sending heat straight to my core.

“You like that?” he whispered, lips brushing my jaw. “You like how I’m fucking you?”

I nodded helplessly. “Yes—God, yes.”

He grabbed my wrists and pinned them above my head, pressing them into the mattress with one hand.

“Then take it.”

His thrusts got rougher, faster, but never sloppy. Every movement was calculated, intense, filthy. The sound of skin on skin, the wetness between us, the sharp little moans slipping from my mouth—it all filled the room like a fever.

“Keep your hands there,” he growled. “Be a good girl for me.”

“Yes, sir,” I whispered.

His free hand slipped between us, thumb brushing against my clit. The sudden jolt of pleasure made me buck against him.

“Sensitive?” he teased.

“You’re gonna make me—”

“Good. I want you to come. Again. While I’m inside you this time.”

He kept circling, steady and cruel, and I was losing it. The second orgasm hit harder than the first—my body tensed, legs shaking as I squeezed around him, crying out into his neck.

“That’s it, baby,” he groaned. “That’s it, fuck—”

He slammed into me once, twice more before his rhythm stuttered. He groaned deep into my ear, hips jerking as he spilled into me, heat flooding as he came hard and heavy inside.

We stayed like that for a long moment—pressed together, breathless, sweat-slicked and shaking—his forehead resting against mine, his body still twitching with the aftershocks.

The room was quiet now, except for the faint hum of the Tokyo city lights outside and the uneven rhythm of our breaths.

Heeseung hadn’t pulled out yet.

His arms were still around me, tight like he couldn’t quite let go just yet, his hand resting on my hip with a kind of possessiveness that felt more intimate than the sex itself.

I blinked up at the ceiling, dazed, my body humming with the aftershocks.

I’d just fucked my boss. My emotionally unavailable, perfection-obsessed, always-in-control boss.

And he’d made me come twice and called me sweetheart and ruined me in the best way possible.

“Shit,” I muttered, finally finding my voice.

Heeseung chuckled softly, brushing a thumb over my cheekbone. “You’re only saying that now?”

I turned my head to look at him. He was already watching me, hair a mess, chest still rising and falling like he wasn’t totally calm either.

He didn’t look smug anymore. He looked… thoughtful.

Which was more terrifying.

“Do you regret it?” he asked, voice low.

I froze. “What?”

He pulled out slowly, gently, like he didn’t want to hurt me, and rolled onto his side. His hand never left my body.

“I’m not gonna pretend this is normal,” he said. “For either of us.”

I stared at him. “I don’t regret it. I meant what I said.”

His jaw tensed slightly. “That you want me?”

“Yeah,” I said, more confidently than I expected. “That I want you.”

Something unreadable passed through his eyes. He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to my collarbone—nowhere near as rough as before. Just… soft. Thoughtful.

“I’m your boss, y/n,” he said, like it was a warning.

“And I’m your secretary,” I replied. “But I’ve been around you every day for three years. You don’t scare me anymore.”

He pulled back slightly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I used to scare you?”

“You still do,” I muttered. “But not the way you think.”

Heeseung’s eyes searched mine, like he was trying to figure out how much of me he could believe. Whether I was just high on lust or if something real was stirring beneath it all.

“Don’t fall for me,” he said suddenly. “I’m not gentle. I’m not fair.”

“You’re not heartless either,” I shot back.

He blinked.

“You’re arrogant, emotionally constipated, and you work yourself into a hole,” I added, propping myself up on one elbow. “But I’ve seen the way you care about your people. And the way you remember stupid things I say. And how you panic when you think I might quit.”

Heeseung swallowed hard. “That was one time.”

“It was enough,” I whispered

There was silence between us again—but not the awkward kind. The kind where everything had shifted, and neither of us could un-feel it.

He finally sat up, walking toward the bathroom.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

He glanced over his shoulder. “To run you a bath.”

I blinked. “A bath?”

“You look wrecked,” he said flatly. “Can’t send you into day two of meetings looking like I fucked the life out of you.”

“You’re not wrong,” I muttered.

He paused. “And after that, we’ll talk. About what this means. If you want.”

My heart did something weird in my chest.

“Okay,” I whispered.

Because maybe this wasn’t just about lust anymore.

Maybe I wasn’t the only one who wanted more.

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[clanwarrior-tumbly]

HOWDY HEYYY

Can you please make a story where Ena tries to take reader out for dinner (date or not WHATEVER U WANT) but the stinky penguin aka Dracula (or whatever character u want) ruins it because why not

MAKE SURE TO TAKE CARE OF URSELF

Thank you! Hope you're taking care of yourself, too! <3

.........

As it turns out, Ena's definition of a "high stakes meeting" ended up being something totally different by the time you arrived to the destination.

Of course..you should have expected this out of your girlfriend. She wanted to take you out on a date, but she could never simply say "let's go out". No sir..

She had to give you coordinates on paper to this exact location, attaching files that looked like they were printed off a PowerPoint with step-by-step instructions on how to reach it. She claimed she heard about this place "from a friend of a friend of a friend", although she didn't elaborate anymore than that. You didn't want nor need her to.

When you finally made it, you were surprised to be standing in front of a simple steak restaurant with a bar inside. Nothing fancy or inexpensive. Just plain and simple, with exterior western aesthetics to boot.

'Ah, high "steaks" meeting..I get it now.' An amused smile graced your lips as you pushed the door open, seeing no line and nobody except Ena talking to the host.

But upon closer examination, you realize she's not talking...

She's yelling.

"I cannot serve you yet, ma'am! Didn't you read the sign?"

"NO, BUT I SEE SEVERAL HEALTH CODE VIOLATIONS ALREADY! YOU WANNA GET SHUTDOWN?! REBRANDED?? I SUGGEST YOU GIVE ME AND MY ASSOCIATE A TABLE STAT!!" Her Meanie side snarls, geometric claws gripping the podium, almost like she's ready to rip it off its hinges. "OR I'LL DEVALUE THIS PROPERTY WITH MY OWN TWO HANDS!!"

'Typical Ena..' You sigh.

It was never easy dating her. Nothing about her says it'd be easy at all. But you were willing to stick through the difficult times--the times when a seemingly "normal" day ends up being the opposite.

Apparently, tonight wasn't going to be an exception.

"Like I said, I cannot seat a party of two if both entities aren't present-"

"I'm the other party member! Excuse my partner. She's had a...rough day at work."

Ena blinked, spinning around to see you have finally arrived, and her Salesperson side grinned with relief. "Oh you made it! I knew you would." She took your hands, before looking back at the host. Her expression was smug. "Now...about our table for two, good sir?"

"....of course. Right this way, Kena."

..........

"This was..very sweet of you to plan out, Ena. The food was great. But don't you think you were being a little harsh with the host? I mean...he's not the owner. He's just following the rules."

"I wouldn't care if he was the owner in disguise..I went through hell to get this reservation.." Meanie grumbled, her fork stabbing at the holographic png of a steak on her plate. "They didn't even wanna put my name on the list. How crazy is that?!!"

"Well...that's-" You started, only for her to put the utensil down and clap her hands.

"No, no..it's alright. I'm over it. It's all said and done. There's a more important matter at hand..." Her Salesperson's charm returned, her smile gentle. "I'd like to take this opportunity to renew our contract. You may find additional details that you oughta review."

Out of thin air, she presented you with a document on a clipboard, which you took. "I'm open to questions, comments, and concerns..but no criticism, please."

The moment you read it, you realized it was the confession letter she had given you several months ago. When words failed her back then, she just had you review this "contract" and wanted your signature of approval--and yes, that included your actual signature with a pen.

You remember how much of a flustered mess she was, mumbling to herself and fighting with her Meanie side over whether you'd see her "potential" and commit to her business wholly.

It took her a solid minute before she realized you signed and dated the paper, accepting her confession.

Now, you noticed that she stapled on a few more pages. They all contained ideas for future dates, written in typical business jargon that anyone else wouldn't understand--but for you, it was easy to decode.

"High stakes meetings" translated to going to a restaurant, such as where you both were tonight.

"Taking inventory on cosmic horrors and astronomical anomalies across the infinite horizon" was basically her way of asking you to go stargazing with her over the lake of viscous blood.

At the start, you've been worried that she wasn't taking this relationship as seriously as you did. You didn't know if she'd just treat you more like a business partner than a romantic one, but....this immediately cleared those doubts from your mind.

She was in this for the long run.

She wanted to deliver on her promises of "100% happiness for life" and make you feel like the most important person in her world.

"Well, you have my signature of approval." You chuckled softly, signing the bottom of the first page and sliding it back to her side. "Now then, did you want dessert or-?"

"I AM DRATULA!!!"

From a dark cloud of smoke and lightning, a certain half-penguin, half-vampire entity appeared. He was buzzed out of his mind as he swung a full wine glass around, laughing obnoxiously, before he accidentally bumped into the table.

Large droplets of red liquid splattered onto the paper, soaking it entirely to where the text was illegable.

"No!! NOOOO! Wha...What have you done?!!" Ena could only watch in utter despair and horror as it dissolved into nothingness. "Our contract!! It's....It's all ruined!! And it's--ALL YOUR FAULT!!!"

Fueled by Meanie's anger, she slammed both fists on the table and got up, glaring at the confused Dratula.

"Uhh..was I interrupting something?"

"YEAH!! OUR DATE, YOU ASSHOLE!!" Grabbing the lapels of his suit, she began shaking him back and forth violently, yelling nonsense as he tried to frantically defend himself.

Somehow, he thought uttering his name over and over would help matters.

It didn't.

Meanwhile, the other restaurant patrons have gone silent and were staring at the two. Some of them even look at you, and the secondhand embarrassment had grown tenfold.

You sighed, cleaning off your hands before getting up, knowing you had to disperse this before all three of you got kicked out.

"Come on, Ena. That's enough." By some miracle, you managed to separate them, keeping them at arms length.

Dratula looked frightened, while Ena looked a feral cat who didn't wanna give up a fight, snarling and hissing threats to him. "LET ME AT HIM, BABE!! I'LL TEACH THIS OLD BAT A LESSON-!!"

"I said that's enough!! You're causing a big scene!!"

Hearing your angered tone, she abruptly ceased all motions, her head slowly turning to you. For a brief moment, your expression showed nothing but pure frustration, but even though it disappeared quickly, it lingered long enough to make her feel absolutely horrible.

Her Meanie side gulped, for once looking intimidated rather than being the intimidating one. 'They...They got mad at me...' Her hands trembled, and she backed away from you.

Then you looked at Dratula, who was now staring into his wine glass, disappointed that most of it was gone. "How rude...I only wanted to ask how your date was going! I wasn't looking for trouble!"

"It was going good..until you spilled your drink everywhere." You huffed. "But it's fine. I know it was an accident. Ena and I were just...." But when you looked over your shoulder, you didn't find her by your side anymore. "Crap. Where'd she go?"

"Huh...beats me. Say, are you going to finish that?" He pointed to the untouched drink on your side of the table. You shook your head and sighed, digging up some chocolates and a fatty catty from your pocket, setting it down on top of the check that somehow appeared during the chaos.

However much the bill was, you didn't care. You were more worried about where your girlfriend ran off to.

Fortunately, the patrons who were watching the show were now minding their own business. As soon as the waiter came by to collect the check, you thanked him for the service and bid Dratula farewell, going off to search for Ena.

You eventually found her up at the bar all alone, with her hat on the floor, and several empty shot glasses to her right. 'Damn..how did she drink that much in such a short time?'

But as you got closer, you could hear her wallowing to the poor bartender about the events that transpired merely minutes ago.

"A-And...and then they yelled at me! Sayin' I caused a big scene!" Her Meanie side hiccupped, slinging back another shot before slamming it down.

"Well um...you kinda did.."

"I'm the worst, aren't I?" Her forehead collided with the table, her sclera turning black. "Why does every good thing I try to do for 'em go to shit?! I must be cursed...a victim of capitalism who can't afford one moment of respite. Damn it all!!" She banged her clawed fist down, sniffling. "Maybe I'm not cut out for this business.."

"You forgot something."

Feeling the familiar hat being placed on her, she turned her head to see you on the barstool beside hers. You set a hand on her back, giving the bartender an apologetic smile. "You can close her tab. She's had enough."

"There's that buzzword again....."enough". I bet all my life savings that you've had enough of me, right?"

Looking down at her once more, you sighed. "Ena, that's not what-"

"This night...'wuz supposed to be perfect for you. 100% satisfaction with guaranteed happiness. But all I've gotten was....negative feedback from my most valued client. Forgive me, m-my..my most treasured colleague.." She sounded like she was about to cry, her eyes turning glossy. "My heart's going through a recession, and my liver has no resale value. Would you like a refund on your experience?"

Her Salesperson side never sounded so....upset, and you frowned, hating to see her look so guilty; so ashamed for letting herself get out of hand again--and above all else, so afraid that you were mad at her because of that.

"Sweetheart, it's alright. I'm sorry I got angry earlier. I had a good time tonight. I really did." You comforted, rubbing her back. "But how about...I choose the place next time?"

"..but...but our contraaaaact..." She whined, her meanie and salesperson voices blending into one for a moment. "'s gone down the drain..like our stock.."

"It's not null and void just because the paper got ruined. We can draft a new one together, and....maybe have it laminated so that doesn't happen again."

Those words seemed to bring the spark back to her eyes, as she sat up and gave you the sweetest yet most lopsided grin. She grasped your hands, the stool's legs wobbling--yet somehow she was able to hold herself steady.

"Your strategic mind never fails to impress me, [y/n]. I promise..I'll pick up the tab at our next endeavor." She winked, before her Meanie side glared at the bartender. "HEY! Bring my partner here the best of the best!!"

"...I, erm..already closed your tab at their request, miss."

"Why I oughta-!!"

Before things could escalate for the third time tonight, you gave her paler side a kiss on the cheek, and she turned back to you, looking absolutely flustered. "A-Ah...you...I...." But she couldn't find the words.

"Why don't we go home?" You calmly suggested. "The sooner we work on that contract, the better."

"....f-fine."

For once, Meanie was complacent in what you wanted to do. So after paying the tab (by offering the bartender a fatty catty), you had to escort your drunken girlfriend home--which was an experience in itself as she nearly threw hands with Dratula again on her way out.

But she gave up quickly and opted to cling to you and brag about how awesome you were for "putting up" with an "economical disaster" like her.

Would you go out to dinner with her again? Definitely.

Will you have countermeasures in-place to minimize the amount of chaos that may inevitably occur? Also yes.

[ilariyalavorowrites]

White Flag (Part One)

Imagine: You'd never thought that you'd end up divorced, but here you were. This was your first day shift in quite some time, only to bump into your ex-husband.

Warnings: Angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, Post Divorce healing

Pairings: Michael Robinavitch x Reader

Word count:  2,598 words

Universe: The Pitt

Reader gender: Female

Part 1 of 3

Next

i was inspired to write this after reading @youvebeenlivingfictional Mrs R Part One and Two and @bi-bard Thanks For Holding on So Long; Sorry Love Sucks

A stack of documents was all that existed between your past and your future, but you couldn’t bring yourself to sign on the dotted line. It would mean that you conceded, admitting that you had failed. That your marriage had broken down most fundamentally when communication had gone quiet.

So here you were, stiffly sitting in your lawyer’s office, staring down at the dreaded blank signature line, where you could sign away everything with one quick signature. Yet your mind swirled with indecision and doubt, and you didn’t want this. This hadn’t been your choice. It had been his. He had been the one to file, to serve you these very documents. 

You should have seen this coming after he had become a virtual stranger in your life, passing by like ships in the night as he took on another long shift after he had already worked three in a row. He would claim that they needed him, that they were short-staffed, and that COVID had left them stretched thin.

The trauma, the pain he had hidden behind a mask of professionalism that he had started to use in your presence. Hold you at a distance that had never been there before, you had tried to reach out but there had been pushback. You had mistakenly believed it had been the first signs of burnout but he had fought back.

You tried to take a step closer, to try to be there but that only caused a chill to settle between the two of you, an iciness that you had never experienced before as he took another step inching further out of the door.

Without speaking, you picked up the pen and swiftly signed your name. Your heart was pounding loudly in your ears, and tears would come as soon as you were standing in the middle of your newly leased apartment across town. Only then would you openly grieve for what had been. For all that you lost in slow motion as the grains of sand had slipped through your grasp.

You had seemingly fallen off your hamster wheel, as you stared up stunned as you watched on as the world moved on without you. Numbed by your own experience, as the love of your life had silently chosen to end the life you had built together. You were left with the building blocks you brought into the townhouse that he undoubtedly still lived in.

The fight in you still lingered, wanting nothing more than to shout and scream until your voice became hoarse but what good would that do now? You had given in, raising your white flag as surrendered to his demands. 

This was your new future, one without him. He had chosen to walk this path, never explaining why he had pushed you aside. Had there been someone else? Had he simply fallen out of love with you? Your questions would go unanswered as you pushed the papers across the desk towards the unsmiling face of your two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar-an-hour attorney.

Before she could offer her condolences, you spoke for the first time since sitting down at her desk. “Filling this as soon as you are able, I just want to try and move forward” You gritted your teeth, forcing out the bitter-tasting words.

“I’m not planning on changing my name so don’t worry about getting the necessary forms” This was the one decision you were holding steadfast to, it was the only piece of him that you couldn’t be forced to let go of. For now, it was still yours until you were truly ready to move on.

You would tell your friends, family, co-workers and anyone who would dare to ask the same practised line. “Oh it’s such a hassle, too many forms to fill out and it's just a name after all” 

A name, oh it was so much more than that. It was a scar that wore on your battered heart, a band-aid barely holding you together.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------Eighteen Months Later

When the ink had dried, this had been your sign to jump headfirst into work, to try and forget the ever-lingering pain that thoughts of your now ex-husband wrought. You loved your job, your boss had been more than understanding that you had needed time to find your feet once again.

Your shoebox of an apartment, which once had been one box short of a fort, now was furnished and decorated. All it had taken had been one too many glasses of wine and doom scrolling through Netflix’s entire back catalogue for the third time that you finally decided to unpack your life.

Only one box remained left in the far back corner of your wardrobe. The photographs of happier times, of your wedding day. It was heartbreaking to even glance in their direction so they had become buried under fallen clothes. You knew they were hidden below but it hurt just a little less. One day you would have to find the courage to face those joyful moments frozen in time but that day wasn’t today.

This was only the first step back out into the world, pulling your thick jacket with your surname Robinavitch emblazoned on the front, ready to head out. Your fingers lingered over the stitching for a second longer.

This was going to be a long shift, your first early in quite some time, the Boss had been giving you the night shift to avoid any awkward interactions but you couldn’t avoid him forever. You had opted for this shift when your colleague had used their vacation days. You had made your choice. 

There was almost a chance that you would run into him when you were handing over your patient. You were the very start of the journey as a paramedic and he was the next stop along the way as an Emergency Medicine A&E Doctor.

Dr Michael Robinavitch had been your safe harbour after long stressful shifts, a friend long before becoming your lover, partner and eventually husband. Now ex-husband, you had to internally correct yourself with that small fact, those two little letters at the front made such a difference, forever reminding you of your new reality. You still struggled to move past that fact, it hung on like a thread refusing to snap when pulled too tightly. It held on by the smallest of fibers taking on all the weight.

“I can do this” You muttered softly again and again, your mantra to see you know the next twelve hours, as you raced against the clock to get back to the apartment didn’t feel quite like a home just yet.

The first five hours of your shift had raced on by, as job after job came over the radio. Sending you from one end of the city, right back to the other.  There was always another patient needing care, it kept your mind occupied as you focused on delivering the highest quality of care.

It didn’t matter the degree of injury or ailment, each patient was treated with the same degree of kindness as you listened, assessed and delivered the appropriate treatment before transporting them to the nearest hospital if they required further investigation and a level of care that you couldn’t provide out in the field. This is what had led to this particular moment in time, standing in the middle of a familiar accident and emergency department.

You stood frozen at the nurse base whilst your co-worker reeled off the details and nature of your patient’s injury and important medical history that would be relevant when it came time for treatment to a familiar face. Charge Nurse Dana Evans as you tried your hardest not to let your eyes wander around. You would not, no could not act as anything other than professional.

The slight yet warm smile that had tugged at her lips when you first approached her domain was enough. It was a welcome back and you have been missed all wrapped up in the smallest of facial expressions. She was the ringleader of the department, that every doctor, nurse and intern respected. If she asked you to do something, you did it then and there.

When you hadn’t spoken then your co-worker Frankie had quickly taken charge taking the spotlight off you. It was difficult enough to cross over the threshold of the ambulance bay doors after you had realised which hospital your Rig had pulled up to as the likeness of bumping into your ex rose with each passing second. 

The longer you stood in the Department, the odds were less likely in your favour. You were acting akin to some of the student medics who had ridden along, like deers in headlights when they first saw a gushing head wound or a broken limb. As you took a few deep breaths and calmed yourself, your radio sparked into life as the voice of dispatch filtered over the airwaves. Another job was on the horizon, it was time to depart.

Yet over the countless sounds, the beeping of machines and sounds of pain, agony and life, you still turned your head out of instinct in the direction of his voice. Old habits died hard as all other sounds were drowned out, becoming white noise as all focus on was the sound of him as it dragged you back under.

As you watched as his head turned away from his patient only to catch your gaze. You were caught in a stand-off waiting to see which one of you would move first. His lips moved, speaking words that you just couldn’t hear.

It was the feeling of a gentle touch on your shoulder that dragged you back to reality, shifting your eyes away from his. Releasing the pressure that held you still as you turned to face your fellow paramedic.

“I lost you there for a second, are you alright?” Frankie asked, the concern playing upon her features as she started to move in the direction of the ambulance bay doors. “Yeah,” You started as you moved, matching her stride to be able to walk and talk. 

“I’m good, I didn’t..” For a moment you were lost for what to say, to explain your actions as you made your escape from this hospital, from the memories that it was trying to invoke and from Michael.

“You don’t need to explain it but it will get easier. Just take one day at a time” She said, smiling through her words as you crossed over the threshold back out in the early afternoon. “I’ll handle the checks before we hit the road” She continued. “You don’t need to do that” You replied, not wanting to leave her to handle it alone as you knew that it would take half the time if you did it as a team. You watched as Frankie motioned with a nod to turn around.

Only to find yourself face to face with your ex-husband, with Micheal. Now you understood her intentions. “Micheal” Your voice was softer, quieter than you had thought possible as his name slipped from between your lips.

Your gaze darted downwards, looking anywhere but at him. This was far from what you had wanted, you wanted nothing more than for the ground to open up and swallow you to avoid any awkward small talk, yet here you were. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------His ex-wife hadn’t been on his bingo card, of what he had expected to encounter during his shift. He knew that there was always a chance, given the nature of her profession which worked in tandem with his own. It had been how they had met nearly a decade before.

Ten years ago they had been friends, two years after that he had been proposing and now they were nearly two years past their divorce, regardless of how amicable it had been. This was always going to be awkward regardless of how his heart still seemed to skip a beat whenever his eyes found hers.

He had been the one to break under the weight, as he chose to shut the pain out, to close himself off from anyone and everyone. His former wife had been one to bear the brunt of it as he abruptly threw up a glass wall between the two of them. Trying to take on the emotional, mental and physical strain by himself, instead of sharing the load with her. She had been out in the thick of it as much as he had been.

She had seen as much of the horrors of COVID as he had, but in the moment Michael hadn’t taken that on board each time he returned after shift after shift utterly drained. He had simply gone through the motions, barely engaging as she spoke of her day. In the beginning, he had tried, to give her the attention and affection she deserved but as the months dragged on, that had petered off. How long had it been since he had last held her in his arms?

How long had it been since his lips had lightly brushed against hers, Michael couldn’t say but the ache pulled him out here. As he had spoken her name, it felt heavy in his mouth but he continued to speak. “How are you keeping?” He had truly been curious, if they were ever going to be comfortable working alongside one another again then he had to be the one to reach out. To begin the dialogue.

He couldn’t help but offer up a soft smile, trying to see if he could heal some of the damage that he had brought into her world. Michael might not be ready to face the source of his trauma but he could try with her. He still loved her, he always would.

“You know, I’ve had good days and bad days but working keeps me busy” She replied, after what felt like a lifetime of silence but then again, he understood. This wasn’t easy for her, this was just like starting over. They were almost like strangers but there was a history between them that could have been handled better.

Before he could get another word out, her colleague hollered out from the back of the Ambulance. “We’ve got to another job Robinavitch” That was something that he had expected. She still had his name, she hadn’t filled out the paperwork to go back to her maiden name. It knocked him for six as he tried to process this new piece of information.

“I’ve got to go but I’d like to talk” She spoke clearly for the first time, looking over her shoulder at the rig before returning to meet his gaze. “I still have the same number, if you still have it” All Michael could do was nod, as he finally saw her. 

“I still have your number, we do need to talk” There had been moments when her birthday had come and gone when he had been working through the holidays that he had considered reaching out. He never had but he had wanted to. “Be safe out there” It was the least he could say, smiling through his words as a small piece of himself snapped back into place. “Be safe too” She replied, giving him a small wave as she rushed off.

Michael stood there for a moment, watching as the ambulance left the hospital, merging into traffic and disappearing from sight. Feeling slightly lighter than he had when he awoke this morning, he turned on his heel and re-entered the department ready to save lives.

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

The file dropped into Ghost’s hands by accident.

Wrong data stream. A legacy terminal still syncing classified logs from a burned CIA server in Munich. He wasn’t even looking for it. But the name stopped him cold.

“Lockjaw – Subject 09” “Adler, R. – Directorial Override” “Post-maternal death trauma event: Execute Tier-Zero Memory Cleanse.”

He didn’t believe it. Not at first. But the DNA tag confirmed it.

Father: Russell Adler Daughter: [REDACTED]

He sat with it for three hours before saying a word.

You were cleaning your sidearm when he approached—calm, surgical, still humming something low and tuneless under her breath.

Ghost dropped the file onto the table in front of you. Didn’t speak.

You looked at it. Then at him. “What is this?”

“Your past.”

You froze. Slowly peeled open the file. Skimmed. Then stopped. Then stared.

“No.”

Ghost didn’t move.

“I would remember something like this.”

“No,” he said quietly. “You wouldn’t.”

Silence.

Your hand curled into a fist at the bottom of the page. “This is a lie. Someone forged this.”

He didn’t answer.

Your eyes moved again, line by line. Then you reached the end of the document.

A scanned image of a transfer order—a single-page CIA internal memo authorizing a complete neural wipe. One signature at the bottom.

You blinked. Your throat closed. “Who signed it?”

Ghost didn’t answer.

You read the name out loud, voice tight, barely audible.

“Russell Adler.”

It felt like glass cracking in your skull.

Something moved behind your eyes—something old. A flicker of warm light. A woman’s laugh. A hand brushing through your hair. A man’s voice: “You don’t need to remember. You just need to obey.”

The breath left your lungs. You stood up so fast that the chair slammed backward. “This is a setup.”

Ghost stood, too—calm. Controlled.

“Lockjaw—”

“Don’t call me that.” Your voice snapped like wire under tension.

You backed up, running into the wall, dragging your nails down your jaw like you could claw the memory out.

You grabbed the file. Threw it. Pages scattered. “I don’t have parents. I never had parents.”

Ghost didn’t say anything. Didn’t try to touch you. Just stood there.

You dropped to a crouch. Hands gripping your hair. Breathing like you couldn’t get enough air into your chest.

You whispered, “Why would he do that to me?”

And Ghost, quiet, heavy: “Because he knew you’d be the best if you didn’t have anything left to lose.”

[thealdersgateoffice]

I’m trying to document all the signs in Slough House (inspired by this from @your-mighty-words-astound-me)

If anyone with better eyes than me can read some of the ones below that I can’t decipher, that would be wonderful! Here we go:

The classic ‘NO WET SPOONS IN THE SUGAR!’. This was definitely scribbled onto this post-it angrily by Catherine after she had once again found a wet spoon in the sugar.

‘NEVER REMOVE THIS PLUG ⬇️’ with plug underlined twice. That plug is probably keeping the whole building from exploding or something.

‘OUT OF ORDER’ on the lift, which has probably been there for about ten years.

‘If the water bottle is empty PLEASE REPLACE IT’. And a no smoking sign above it.

‘NOTICE TO ALL. WHEN USING SPONGES OR CLOTHS PLEASE SQUEEZE OUT WATER FIRST BEFORE LEAVING IT ON WORKTOP.’ Poor Catherine having to deal with these messy children.

‘LADIES AND GENTLEMAN, PLEASE HAVE SOME RESPECT WHEN USING THE KITCHEN AREA. DO NOT LEAVE UNWASHED DISHES IN THE SINK AND PUT YOUR DISHES AWAY.’ Thank you @abubblingcandle! The last bit is too obscured to read it clearly.

Think this one may be ‘Keep This Door Clear. Nothing to be leant ^up on this area.‘ It’s in Catherine’s office.

I just enjoy that there’s one of these on Catherine’s and Jackson’s office doors. She definitely put them there.

There’s also a written No Smoking sign on the landing - you can see it here behind Aimee in one of Gisele’s photos, and I’m pretty sure it’s visible in one of the episodes too, I just forget which one!

Thank you for reminding me of this one @too-many-rooks. ‘Your designated smoking area is NOT HERE’. Once again, this was definitely written by Catherine.

Thank you @daincrediblegg for reminding me of this one, and @timrousbeastie and @thebeigelunatics for their explanations. I wasn’t aware that this meme existed, but it’s highly enjoyable that the Slow Horses have stuck this up in the kitchen. According to @your-mighty-words-astound-me, the number scribbled on to indicate how many days it’s been since the last incident is 25,915,655,XXX (twenty five billion, nine hundred and fifteen million, six hundred and fifty five thousand, and an indecipherable three digit number that's been crossed out and another number written above).

This one made me laugh. ‘HELPFUL REFRIGERATOR CHART’ is so Catherine after her lunch has been eaten (by Lamb, probably) or one of the Slow Horses complain to her about their lunch being eaten. I can’t read it exactly, but the first line is ‘Did I bring this in?’ followed by arrows to Yes and No, which presumably point to ‘Eat or drink your lunch’ and ‘don’t’ Lol.

‘FIRST AIDERS C. Standish (3rd floor)’ ⛑️🩹

I’m guessing Moira scribbled her name out? I could also see Lamb doing it angrily and drunk when he realised she might not be coming back, or when he received the third letter from HR that required his signature to finally dismiss her, but at the same time, if he was holding out for her return, I can’t see him scribbling her name out. Also, I wonder if Catherine has ever given first aid to anyone in Slough House.

Another one from the kitchen, nicely spotted by @your-mighty-words-astound-me. ‘KEEP THIS AREA CLEAN. (YOUR) MOTHER ISN’T HERE (SO) CLEAN UP (AFTER) YOURSELVES.’ Another one definitely put up by Catherine.

‘Our aim is to keep this bathroom clean… Gentlemen… Your aim will help. Stand closer - it’s shorter than you think. You can do it!’ Of course, this is hung above Jackson’s toilet in his bathroom. I do wonder how many years ago Catherine put this one up, because I can’t see her having entered that bathroom for a while.

[kumkaniudaku]

Midterm

Summary: When Asia's in need of a few lessons regarding matters of the bedroom, her colleague and friend, Kelvin, offers his expertise.

Pairing: Kelvin Harrison Jr. x Black!OC

Warnings: Mature Content (18+)

Word Count: 6k

MASTERLIST

Reading a congratulatory email with kind words and instructions to sign a lucrative offer was easy. Simply slip out of your third boring morning meeting, disappear into the surprisingly vacant courtyard, and spend no less than 30 minutes oscillating between excitement and sheer panic while clicking through pages of contracts to add your digital signature to an encrypted document. Kelvin followed the plan to the letter and then some. 

The hard part was stifling the urge to scream at the birds and trees during peak business hours. 

Voice low and eyes shifting in search of potential eavesdroppers, he sat in pensive silence to contemplate the gravity of his decision. In a little over a month, he'd be a Chicago resident. He'd wake up in his Chicago apartment, walk the Chicago streets, pass by Chicagoans on the way to his Chicago office, and then grab dinner ingredients at a Chicago grocery store. His license would change. Mail would need a new forwarding address. Updated voter registration, new doctors, a change in insurance, learning a transit system; change after change both excited and unnerved Kelvin all at once.

Part of him wanted to barge into his Head of Creative's office and slam his resignation on the table before clicking his heels together on the way out the door. Fuck this job. New and greener pastures were on the horizon! The other part, the terrified part of him that'd been worried sick since Saturday morning, couldn't even say the words out loud for fear that the wooden benches would absorb and tell his secret before he'd had time to craft poetic, well-thought-out lines. 

In his mind, Kelvin thought he'd managed to maintain an impenetrable poker face. To a stranger or work acquaintance unschooled in Kelvin-ology, he could come across as convincing enough to overlook. For Asia, watching him from the communal kitchen, worry causing his knee to bounce in triple time told a different story. 

"You know you can just go out there and talk to him, right?" Savannah's sarcastic introduction to an otherwise quiet moment cut through Asia's brain fog enough to garner attention as she shifted her weight from one side to the other. "I'm joking," Savannah laughed, trying to ease the tension between them. Asia's quick glance at the back of Kelvin's head provided the final number of a winning lottery sequence. "Wow, you really like him. Like, you two are a couple! I knew it." 

Asia tried to remain casual as she crossed her arms and shrugged. "What are you talking about? Kel is my work friend." 

"Must be a hell of a work friend for you to spend the night from his place. I noticed the cabinets, but I couldn't confirm until later that day when Kelvin took a meeting from the same place." 

Savannah's cheeky grin sparked fear in Asia's heart. Widening her eyes, she craned her neck to see who may have heard her business in the area.

She leaned closer, keeping her voice low as she spoke. "You can't say that out loud," she cautioned. "We're being discreet!" 

"Love you so much, Asia, but literally everyone knows."

"Everyone like who?" 

"Asia," Savannah reiterated. "Every. One. The main crew has a group chat and everything. You just won me $20 bee-tee-dubbs. I'll share, promise."

Panic should've set in for Asia. Maybe dread and a tinge of fear. They'd broken another rule and crossed another carefully considered boundary in the pursuit of each other. Asia should've been nervous about how their not-so-secret pining had run through the office rumor mill and what it might mean for perceptions of her professionalism as one of the few Black women in the building. But relief was the only emotion worth exploring in the immediate aftermath of Savannah's revelation. 

No more hiding. No more planning entrances five minutes apart or driving separate vehicles in busy morning traffic when one would suffice. They could share dinner leftovers during lunch and stop sneaking quiet giggles at jokes shared via text. No more hiding. 

Relief helped Asia slowly release the extra air tightening her lungs and expanding her chest. She nodded at nothing in particular. "I expect my cut in all ones. It's for our strip club fund." 

"Oooh, spicy," Savannah sang, stepping closer to speak in a hushed whisper. "So… how's it going with you two? How different is personal time Kelvin from work Kelvin?" 

"Uh, I mean, you know. He's…you know." 

Any sense of calm that offered a reprieve from an onslaught of complicated feelings was quickly replaced by the need to run out of the room and vomit. Knowing was one thing. Asking questions and wanting the scoop on something Asia deemed sacred and untouchable in conversation beyond what she chose to share was different. 

Words sputtered from her lips as she tried to offer an explanation vague enough to get Savannah off her ass. The quiet roar of glass panes sliding on a metal track clipped Asia's start-and-stop sentence, turning all attention to Kelvin as he stepped in, looking like he'd just had his heart ripped in two and was trying but failing to keep his emotions intact. Savannah didn't seem to notice when she flagged him over. Asia couldn't take her eyes off his frown and sullen expression. Kelvin knew his face had betrayed him as soon as he was close enough for a thorough look at the questions knitting Asia's brows together. 

Trying to play it cool, he swiftly pulled his hand out of his pocket and offered a wave to both ladies. "What's up?" A greeting he'd used a million times suddenly sounded bizarre. First mistake. 

"Hiii!" Savannah's severe lack of subtly pulled a reluctant laugh from Kelvin before he shifted his gaze to focus on Asia. 

"Asia. You good?" 

She smiled and nodded. "Yeah, I'm good. What about you? You good?" 

"I'm good now, yeah." 

Anxieties feasting on his mind momentarily paused in reverence for Asia's presence. A true breath of fresh air. One he'd fight tooth and nail to keep in his life, distance be damned. 

Savannah stood between the pair and their smitten grins, looking back and forth to see who'd make the first move. "This is just the cutest shit ever. I can't take it." Googly eyes slowly turned into blank stares aimed in her direction. Hint taken. "No, you're so right. I should get out of here. Asia, remember to put the thing on the slide at some point. In the one deck."

"Bye, Savannah!" Kelvin and Asia watched Savannah awkwardly scurry off to do only God knows what until they were safely alone. 

Without a buffer to fill in the gaps, all the nausea-inducing worry from the morning's events came flooding back for Kelvin in another crushing wave. Had he been thinking straight, he would've opted to save such delicate news for the privacy of his living room when all the thoughts sitting jumbled like Soul Train board letters were sorted into the proper place. Unfortunately, life-changing information sure to shake the still-wet foundation on which they'd built their relationship ran off with his rationale long ago. 

Kelvin opened his mouth to speak, then closed it when words didn't come out. He tried again. Then, one more time before finally forcing, "I have…something to tell you," into the atmosphere. 

Asia tilted her head in curiosity. "So do I. Is yours good news or bad news?" 

"Doesn't matter," he answered, trying to smile through the rapid thudding in his ears. "You go first." 

Don't press, Asia. Resist! An inner monologue determined to usher Asia away from the sins of her past forced back 101 questions to make way for her surprise. "You know how the Moët client is looking for new artists for that summer series activation?" Kelvin nodded, vaguely remembering project details he'd contributed to in a past life. Asia reached into her back pocket to showcase two laminated passes on lanyards. "I convinced Chris and Sid to give me their passes so we could pull up. Now, we don't have to go all the way to Australia to see RINI. Fun, right?" 

Kelvin recognized the big reveal as something he should be excited about. And, had present circumstances not reared its ugly head, he'd have no trouble sharing Asia's toothy grin and silly dance. He tried to fight the heavy haze clouding his day by raising his hand for a high five and flashing a vacant smile. "That's great, baby. I'm excited. Really." 

So much for honesty.

Asia couldn't hide her skepticism, pushing her eyebrows high, and Kelvin couldn't hide his discomfort, which made him fidget with the contents of his front pockets.  

"Yeah," Asia answered, disappointment in his half-assed reaction instantly stealing the light in her eyes and turning her bright smile into a shell of itself. "Um, what was your news? Anything good?" 

Tact was never Kelvin's strong point. Breakups over text and ghosting were more his speed, no matter how much he hated that fact about himself. What everyone else saw as sleazeball behavior reserved for fuckboys deserving of eternal banishment to hell, he saw as protecting feelings. 

Promises were promises, and Asia was worth more than slipping back into bad habits. Kelvin had to rip the band-aid and deal with the residual blood later. "Remember the Chicago job?" he asked, wringing his hands.

Oh no. Intuition and a random tarot reader told Asia to be on the lookout for roadblocks, but, dammit, she thought that meant traffic on the interstate or an annoying client ask, not the nagging tug of the Midwest. 

"Yeah," she answered cautiously. 

Kelvin adjusted the hydrant-red beanie on his head and sighed. Rip. The. Band-Aid. "They…called me back with all my negotiation demands met. And…”

"You took the job." 

Patience was never Asia's virtue. Why beat around the bush when they could lay all the bad shit on the table and try to salvage a few pieces good enough to keep for fond memories later? 

"Yeah." The finished sentence turned an abstract concept into reality, weighing so heavily on him that he found looking Asia in the eye and lifting his head too difficult. He repeated after her in a low, measured voice, "I took the job." 

Suddenly, Asia couldn't help but hyper-fixate on her surroundings. The low hum of two French door refrigerators holding employee lunches was annoying. It always had been, but today, it sounded like an army of flies buzzing around the mess Kelvin's news had created. Distant laughter made her nostrils flare. How dare someone find joy in a time like this? The kitchen was too big and too open to contain the grief rising within her. Then, the stupid ping of notifications on Kelvin's phone threatened to blow her gasket. The stimuli converged simultaneously, bringing fresh tears to prickle at her waterline. 

Asia forced them all back while Kelvin waited for her to say something to prove she didn't hate him. She extended a closed fist in his direction to match a closed-mouth smile. "Congratulations, Kel. I'm so proud of you. If we were somewhere else, I'd hug you." 

"Hug me to sneak in for a choke or a real hug?" 

"A real one," Asia chuckled, the sound of it returning to her stilted and lacking the mirth she intended. "I know you're bored here. You gotta do what you gotta do, right?" 

Past all the hurt feelings and rage bubbling in her chest, Asia couldn't allow herself to stomp out Kelvin's fire with negativity. She'd save that for a tearful phone call with Sabrina or a good cry in the shower. Kelvin needed reassurance that he'd made the right decision, not the moaning and wailing she had planned for a moment alone. 

"Yeah…" Kelvin paused to scan Asia's face for any sign of an impending adverse reaction but found none before he answered. Nothing. Not a shred of any identifiable emotion presented itself to Kelvin. Anxiety gripped him again. "Asia, don't shut me out. I know you have questions and fuckin' feelings. C'mon. Don't leave me out here by myself." 

"Not here." An almost undetectable waver in her voice was enough to shatter Kelvin's heart into a million pieces. He watched her blink back tears to speak again. "Can we just be happy, please? For a little longer?" 

He sighed, accepting defeat. "Okay." A mental reminder to add 'needs a moment before tough conversations' to his running list of things to know about Asia ran through his brain like neon letters on a marquee. 

His index and middle fingers brushed across his puckered lips, collecting affection he quickly passed on to Asia. She kissed the spot his lips once occupied as a silent promise to revisit the subject when heightened emotions had time to return to baseline. 

"You hungry? My treat." 

An olive branch. Collective ease passed between them once Kelvin flashed a toothy grin at Asia and gestured ahead of him toward the courtyard doors. "After you."

What Kelvin couldn't have in her raw, unfiltered thoughts, he was more than happy to gain in a spare moment of mindless chatter over sushi a block away. 

Something was better than nothing. 

If left up to Asia, Chicago and all its complications would disappear because of her commitment to ignoring them.

City sounds and radio chatter on Saturday evening had spent more time filling silent gaps of conversation than Kelvin and Asia had for two straight days. The elephant in the room quickly became the elephant at the dinner table late Thursday night when Asia side-stepped the topic to discuss Married at First Sight instead, the elephant in the bedroom when the thought of Chicago kept her mind wandering too much to enjoy Kelvin feasting between her legs, and the elephant in the backseat while she pretended not to notice her boyfriend stealing glances at the red light.

Given the chance, Asia could avoid broaching the topic for weeks. Kelvin, on the other hand, couldn't ignore issues festering into resentment day by day. Before long, he'd carefully label boxes and precious belongings to ship to their new home. Being on the brink of drastic change without a resolution wasn't an option.

Standstill traffic and a small car accident separating them from their destination provided the perfect opportunity to catch Asia in close quarters and force the issue. Kelvin took a deep breath and slowly turned the volume down on one of Tyler the Creators' piano-heavy tracks, earning a confused side-eye for his behavior. 

"Everything okay," Asia asked, shifting her body towards Kelvin so he could feel the full weight of her annoyance. 

He shrugged. "You tell me, Asia. I'm not the one tiptoeing around some really important shit right now. Is everything okay?" 

"Kelvin, not right now. We can talk about it when we get back tonight." 

Arms crossed at her chest, and a deep frown sent Asia retreating into herself, frustrating Kelvin to the point of no return. When he imagined the first roadblock in their relationship, hogging the covers or choosing the thermostat's temperature came to mind. He expected little hurdles to make room for the big stuff. The relationship-altering, make-or-break whammies either strengthened a couple or sent them careening toward total implosion. This behemoth was a tsunami of complications he didn't expect but wouldn't allow to throw him off course. 

"You said that last night and the night before. I'm tired of 'tonights!' It's happening, Asia! We can't get around the shit. So, talk to me right now!" Kelvin's body vibrated in time with his hands gripping and releasing the steering wheel until he practiced in and out deep, soothing breaths brought him back off the ledge. Asia watched his shoulders slowly slump away from his ears before he reached over to rest a warm palm on her inner thigh to stroke his thumb against smooth denim, his eyes apologetic as he looked over at her. "I didn't ask you to be with me for no reason. Can we talk about what all this means for us?" 

Asia rested her hand atop his to twist the ring on his finger while she tried to gather words and explanations she'd practiced for days on end. "I don't know." 

In all her soul-searching and reckoning with the inevitable, she realized that she had no idea what the next steps were. 

She always had the answers, the plan, and the foresight to know how to proceed in any situation. This one, though – this flurry of warm feelings filled with complicated explanations and head-spinning romance – she couldn't figure out. Not even when she turned to practical skills and timeline plotting to make it all make sense. 

I don't know. Kelvin wasn't sure what he expected when he decided to corner Asia for an answer, but that wasn't it. Not knowing was worse than not caring. He could deal with the finality of no longer giving a fuck. However, the uncertainty in what he thought was a reasonably black-or-white scenario was unnerving. Kelvin let the gut punch settle until Asia spoke again to soothe the pain she'd inflicted.

"How…how would it work," She questioned in a small voice, her eyes low to avoid cracking the nerve she'd built. "Tell me you have a plan. Because, if you don't, I –" 

Kelvin rushed to reassure her. "I have a plan. Trust me." For once in his life, Kelvin was moving intentionally. No stone left unturned; no possibility left up to chance. "I leave in six weeks. Give me two to get my shit together, and you're on the first flight into O'Hare." 

"And after that?" 

"We'll talk every morning and every night. Then I'm on my way to you every other week, baby. And every other month, I'll make sure you get to me. Nonstop flight. The price doesn't matter. All you need is a packed suitcase. Or not. You can be naked the whole time. That's fine by me." 

Two nonstop flights a month, airport pickups and drop-offs every other week, Fridays in, Monday mornings out, constant connection over the phone when the physical was out of the question—simple enough. There was no fluff, only a concerted effort to make a less-than-ideal situation work. The happiness didn't have to die if they didn't let it. 

Still, Asia wrestled with separating idyllic assumptions from reality. What happened when schedules presented challenges? Or when the weather interrupted? Did distance make the heart grow fonder or help intertwined lives push away the realities of life together hundreds of miles apart. 

Kelvin could see the wheel turning for Asia while she mulled over his proposal from every angle. "Give me a little more time, okay?" Deflating. The air in Kelvin's sails came through his nose in a disappointed huff just as traffic began to pick up enough for steady motion. She held his hand in place, hoping he could feel the intention behind her hesitancy. "I'm not closing the door on us. I need to make sure we're prepared. That's all." 

The absence of an enthusiastic yes wasn't a no – another tidbit to add to Kelvin's growing Asia file. He'd have to find comfort in the details to keep her in his life. And damn, did he want to keep her in his life. His plan had more legs, including a permanent address change for Asia. 

"That's okay. Take your time," he answered as he laced their fingers together and brought the back of her hand to his lips. "Just don't leave me hanging like that again." 

"I won't. I'm sorry."

Relationships came with a learning curve Asia had to experience to understand. No one in her life had prepared her for conflict resolution. Being an only child taught her how to play by herself and keep her secrets close to her chest. There was nothing in the manual about coexisting with another human she cared for more and more each day. She didn't know how to share items or feelings. But Kelvin made her want to try. That had to count for something. 

Once tense quiet returned to the comfortable, wordless quality time Kelvin and Asia had come to enjoy, it followed them for miles to the venue until the need to mix and mingle took center stage. 

In a room full of strangers intermixed with a few familiar faces, they moved around like a couple for the first time. Introductions as a tandem flowed naturally. Seeing them move from group to group hand in hand amused but didn't surprise team members who'd long had their suspicions confirmed by Savannah. 'Alvin' as one member of the group named them. Not their preferred choice, but good enough for the moment. 

As alcohol flowed and inhibitions were disarmed, smooth crooning and soul-stirring baselines from the artist of the hour pushed tomorrow's problems further down the road. 

Kelvin kept a hand on Asia's hip while she allowed her body to sway along with RINI's soulful cover of Leon Bridges' "That's What I Love." Hearing his voice beyond the warbling of his JBL speaker from Asia blasting music far too loudly reminded Kelvin of the first time she shared her new favorite artist with him. She made him listen to Ultraviolet twice all the way through, forcing him to commit more lyrics to memory than he ever did for any other artist. Truthfully, the music didn't hit the same when she wasn't in the room. He tried listening on his own, but it was missing something or someone to add the depth he needed to make the album spin worth his time. 

Applause filled the room just after the final strum of RINI's guitar reverberated. Asia beamed from a spot toward the back. Asia claimed she was fine where she was, but Kelvin knew she was too scared to get close and act like a crazed fan. His lips found her temple for a quick kiss as RINI prepared to end his showcase. 

"I gotta find a way to get out to the States more. This is great," he laughed, causing the audience to join him. "My time is ending, but I can't go without singing the song that put me on your radar. Big thanks to Moët for letting me spend some time with you tonight. I'm excited to get to work this summer. Until then, this is Meet Me in Amsterdam. I hope you enjoy."

Asia couldn't contain her squeal, earning a low laugh from Kelvin once the open notes of her favorite song began. 

I would sail across the world

Row this boat from dusk till dawn

Kelvin and Asia had heard the song plenty of times together, so much so that Kelvin was tired of its slow drone and accompanying music video. Both RINI and Meet Me in Amsterdam were on his list of things he could live without and still die a happy man. 

Until the lyrics started to circle too close to home. A plea for the songwriter's love to make the leap and meet him in a foreign land felt like a page ripped directly from Kelvin's journal. Had he possessed the talent, he would've sung into Asia's ear while she leaned against him, caught in the rapture of beautiful lyrics. 

She didn't need Kelvin's additional vocal performance to know her partner had fallen victim to the magic. She was right there with him, letting the music speak where neither her heart nor mind could reach. 

Won't you come closer; let it take over

I don't need anything; I just want you

"I just want you." The words came out before Asia could stop them. She was never one to fall into the melodrama of romance, but maybe she'd never had an adequate opportunity. Maybe all she needed was a few glasses of white wine and a man looking back at her like universes formed in her eyes to give in to what she'd always considered unrealistic and a little corny. 

Kelvin wrapped an arm around her waist before dipping his head to meet her parted lips as she craned her neck to get a better look at his face. "You got me." 

Turning in his arms, she faced him head-on. "I want to try. For you. Let's make it work." 

"Every other week. I swear."

"I know. I believe you." 

Rolling waves filled with blinding passion set their bodies aflame, connecting them for a kiss too searing to start and end in a room full of people. Some things were best experienced behind doors clumsily kicked closed after Kelvin and Asia burst through the door of his apartment connected at the mouth. 

Small items clattered on the ground as they bumped into the wall, sending anything not bolted to Kelvin's entryway table scattering in the darkness. The moonlight streaming through his balcony door was the only light to illuminate their path. They couldn't care less. Kissing and fondling were their only priorities on the way to shedding extraneous clothing. 

The bedroom was too far, and the couch didn't provide enough leverage for what Kelvin wanted to do for Asia. The counter was too high off the ground, unfortunately. The table, though, was perfect. 

Kelvin thanked God for weightlifting as he hoisted Asia up into his arms, tongues still dancing as he walked them across the room. Asia used her forearm to swipe decorative mats and rattan charger plates to the floor so her backside could fill the empty space. 

Soft panting and the light smack of lips coming together and separating rhythmically filled charged cold air. Asia flinched when Kelvin slipped his hand beneath her t-shirt to reach her bra's front clasp. 

"Take this off. Hurry up," Kelvin demanded as he stepped back to pull his crewneck over his head.  He didn't have time for frilly language and sweet kisses. Maybe later, when they'd calmed down from their high. This first fuck was for all the sessions they'd missed between quiet nights in and words left unsaid. A little something to take the edge off. 

Zippers sliding down, garments rustling, and leather sliding out of thin loops made Kelvin's apartment sound like a department store dressing room until they were reconnected in mind and body.

Half-dressed with goosebumps pebbling an expanse of rich brown skin, lovers let their hands roam freely while they grinded against each other. 

Asia moaned at the feel of teeth gently tugging her bottom lip before pulling away to breathe. "C'mon, Kel. Right now," she rushed on in one breath. "I need it." 

"What about the condom? It'll only take a second." Kelvin asked, half-hoping but not expecting Asia to abandon her primary stipulation. 

"Fuck a condom. C'mon." 

The go-ahead to proceed with caution thrown to the wind put them on a path to the sort of carnal and fleshly satisfaction Kelvin's father warned him about before he left home at 18. 

Sorry, dad. This shit feels way too good to miss out on, Kelvin thought to himself as he slid into Asia's warmth inch by inch. He was weightless for a moment, floating in otherworldly bliss while he fit himself inside her body. "Fuck," he whispered. 

"Oh…yes. Yesyesyes." Asia's toes curled, gripping at nothing in a desperate attempt to remain tethered to the atmosphere. "Wait a second. Don't move." Crossing her ankles at the small of his back, Asia pulled Kelvin in a little deeper, smiling at the small groan he muffled against her skin. She just needed to feel him. In six weeks, they'd have to plan moments of intimacy and simulate sex through a screen, waiting for the day they could be together in the flesh. Tonight, with his body filling every dip and ridge like the final piece to a puzzle, they could kick the can down the road for a few more days. "Okay. I'm ready." 

Agonizingly slow thrusts helped them get acquainted with one another in a new way. Kelvin lifted his head from the crook of Asia's neck, yearning to look her in the eyes for an added layer of closeness. He pecked her nose, lips, chin, cheeks, and lips again, trying to keep those three words at bay. 

"Faster, baby." A firm request teetering on begging broke through Kelvin's haze while Asia tried to pull him into her body by his shoulders. 

He smirked. "Oh, you can talk now?" His taunting made Asia squirm against him for extra friction before he stopped and held her in place. "You up for another lesson?" 

"Mhmm," she forced out, hoping her compliance would get her closer to the real fun. 

"You been quiet all week. Imma need to hear you tonight if you wanna cum."

A horny, exasperated sigh preceded a short whimper. "What? I don't know how t –"

"Yeah, you do," Kelvin encouraged. Tell me what you want, and then I'll give you what you need." 

Near painful throbbing has Asia ready to agree to anything if it meant she could finally come off some of the pressure from a stressful week. Quick agreeance earned her a return to Kelvin's slow back and forth, a shiver hitting both their spines as he took a shallow dive inside.

Asia took a deep breath and tested her voice. "You - you feel so good?" She closed her eyes, hoping Kelvin would take pity on her feeble attempt only to be rewarded with nothing. She tried again. "Right there, baby." 

"We'll be here all night. Relax. Be confident." 

Relax. Be confident. The gentle reminder and suckling at her neck helped Asia partially release the valve on her nervousness. Kelvin rocked into her expert precision and care, waiting to hear more. 

A choppy moan caught in her throat before she could speak again. "You fuck me so good. You really thought I was gonna let you get that far away from me?" 

Kelvin groaned and sped up enough for Asia to notice. She smiled, palming the back of his head to keep him close. 

"There it is," he whispered. "Keep goin', beautiful. Tell me some more." 

Bingo. Electricity sparking between them opened up a whole new world of vocal possibility. "I want all you got tonight, baby. Can you do that for me? Fuck me until I can't take anymore?" 

"Uh-huh. I got you." 

Asia rubbed circles at the nape of his neck, feeling a jolt in her body from another change in pace. "Mmm. Deeper, baby. You can do better than that, right? For me?" Her provocation ignited a burning desire for Kelvin to perform. He needed the glory. Asia dropped her talking display long enough to moan through her man putting his entire being into testing the limits of his little circular wooden table. 

If sweet talk couldn't get him to knock the rings out of her, goading him with a challenge undoubtedly did the trick. Scratching against his back, demanding more depth, more speed, and more kissing spurred Kelvin into fast, furious fucking. 

In no time, they were close. Deliciously, dangerously close. No protection meant no staying for the final hoorah. He had to time his exit perfectly for the right mix of precision and mutual satisfaction. Though Kelvin seemed to care, Asia was just hitting her stride. 

"I think about you all day, waiting for you to fuck me just like this. I want you so bad sometimes." Asia confessed while Kelvin fucked her on his toes. "Even at work, when we’re not supposed to. That’s when I need you the most.” Grabbing the sides of his face with both hands, Asia forced him to look her in the eye. "Be good for me, baby. Make me cum."

Instructions? A command? A simple slip of the tongue? Kelvin couldn't bring himself to waste brain power distinguishing. He needed to focus. Focus on Asia's nipples rubbing against his chest and how her breaths and his started to become one. Then, the light sheen of sweat helping their bodies slide against one another. He focused on the sticky coating of arousal inviting him to rub his thumbpad against her clit.

Asia squealed, then licked Kelvin's open mouth. He rasped out a command of his own. "Come on! Come on!" Resolve began to wane. Any longer, and they'd be in the nearest drug store taking the walk of shame toward the Plan B pills.

If the walls ever decided to talk, they'd blush when recounting the vision of Asia forcing Kelvin's mouth against one of her breasts, trying to balance the sting from his hand colliding with her thigh with his warm tongue tracing braille on her areola. 

Her body seized, making it almost impossible for him to pull out. Every other week on a stuffy flying bus sounded like hell, but if he had this to look forward to after the wheels touched the tarmac, he could drum up some enthusiasm in no time. 

At the last moment, Kelvin forced himself out of his favorite place on earth just in time for the fruits of a mind-bending orgasm to spill from his head onto Asia's inner thigh. Together, they watched fresh semen coat supple skin, their chests heaving and ears ringing. Kelvin couldn't speak. He could only watch as Asia gathered a small amount on her fingertip and swiped it against her tongue. 

Kelvin moaned when Asia moaned to relish the sensory experience of his taste. "Did I pass?" Her question fell on deaf ears, with Kelvin more focused on gathering more semen on his fingers to pop into her mouth. She treated him to a show, sucking the digits clean. She spoke again. "Answer me, baby. Did I pass?" 

"With flying colors," Kelvin finally answered. Asia smiled into a searing kiss, reveling in her accomplishment. A new skill had been unlocked, and one more accolade had been added to her mental trophy case. 

Another lesson to take her mind off of the inevitable. At least until the morning rolled around to wash the fresh coat of paint she'd forced over a very real, immovable problem. 

RINI blasting from phone speakers dampened behind the bathroom door reminded Asia of the night before and how she'd allowed the heat of the moment to lock her into a contract she'd neglected to read the fine print on. 

Facing the bedroom window, Asia snuggled deeper into warm sheets and scanned the pros and cons list on her phone. Pro #1: She could eat deep-dish pizza every other month. Con #1: Her man wouldn't be nearby multiple days a week. Which was more important. She couldn't decide. Food or the comforts of stable, local partnership? 

She had started typing a new con when Kelvin emerged from the bathroom naked and moisturized from head to toe. "You awake now?" 

Fuck. Asia thought she had more time to plaster on her happy face. She used a pretend yawn as her buffer. "Yeah," she answered, faking the funk. "Good morning, baby." 

"Morning." Unbrushed teeth could never stop Kelvin from getting his first kiss of the day. He nuzzled his nose against hers before speaking. "Sleep okay?" 

"Mhm. You?" 

He nodded and slipped into bed beside her. "For the most part. I gotta show you something, though." Kelvin reached back to retrieve his phone from the nightstand's charging station. A few taps against the screen presented a short list of apartment options for Asia's inspection. "I started looking at some spots in the middle of the night. This one has a crazy second room for an office. Look at that view." 

A wall of windows overlooking the downtown cityscape made Asia's stomach churn. Reality smacked her in the face. He was leaving and waiting on her approval on an apartment she couldn't stand in a city she wished didn't exist. 

"That's so nice, baby. You can get a nice couch in there as a gaming room, too." 

Kelvin considered her suggestion and nodded. "Damn, that's a good idea. I need to take you with me when I look next week. You down?" 

"Uh…yeah. Yeah, I'll come." Asia shook off her rapidly increasing heartbeat and scooched closer to rest her head on Kelvin's shoulder. "Can you show me another one?"

Enthusiasm fading into meaningless sounds turned Kelvin into Charlie Brown's teacher as he gushed over layouts and natural light. She nodded along to nothing in particular. Smile. Rub his arm. Act supportive. Be the perfect girl. Just be happy for a little longer. 

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[muzansfangs]

help my ass is thirsty for Shinji...

And a lot more but I'll leave it at that for now

@imaginingbleach

Cock-warming your Captain.

Starring: Shinji Hirako x f!reader; Aizen Sosuke;

Format: drabble;

Warnings: nsfw, language, jealousy, undefined relationship between Shinji and the reader, slight power imbalance, vaginal sex, cock-warming, turn back the pendolum arc;

Plot: if you wanted to make your Captain work, you had to cock-warm him. How ironic is it that he won’t even touch a paper, because he just yearned for your attention? Jealousy flinged around the Fifth Division’s barracks.

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

The ominous, dull thud of a pile of documents being uncerimoniously slumped onto Captain Hirako’s desk made him grimace and loll his head back with resignation. It was not like you and the kind-hearted Lieutenant Aizen had not warned him about the amount of the unsigned reports storing up in the angle of his dorm. In the years you had spent working under his command as a fourth seat, you had acknowledged that your Captain was the first in line when it came down to a fight, or a mission in the World of the Livings, but he would have not hesitated to sell his soul to the haunts of Hell not to glue his ass onto his chair and sign up reports.

“Captain Hirako, I have talked to Lieutenant Aizen and we agreed that we cannot keep on counterfeiting your signature. — you explained, the palms of your hands curling around the edge of the desk as you watched your Captain palming his forehead in dispair — We are not willing to risk our necks anymore. This is your responsibility” the words rolled out of your tongue effortlessly, despite the sweat beading your forehead.

You had never been this direct and harsh to your superior. However, it felt almost liberating and you were proud of yourself.

The man in front of you hummed and leisurely sat back in a straight position, hooded eyes flicking up to meet yours in consternation. Locked in this staring contest, you awaited for him to speak up, or just busying himself in randomly scribbling his names at the bottoms of the papers. Still, your insufferable Captain took his sweet time in letting your words sink in and simply shot you a shit-eating grin you knew way too well.

“Geez, is that so? Alright, I’ll get this shit done. — he agreed, before patting his thigh with his right hand and grinning up at you almost expectantly — But can you do that thin’ I love oh so much? Yar Captain needs it” the blond man said and you could just mentally curse yourself for having indulged him in such scandalous depravities only for the sake of the Fifth Division’s reputation. Either you squeezed his cock within your slippery inner walls, or he was not going to get the job done. And obviously you could not refuse.

You sighed, nodding your head and circling the desk, watching him looking at you up and down in glee “This is the last time, Captain” you warned him, his hands working on his shikakusho as you proceeded in doing the same with yours.

What a lie. Both him and you knew it would have happened again. And again. And again.

As you turned around, kicking your pants off of your feet, Shinji’s hands glided down your hips and helped you to straddle him. As you felt the bulbuous head of his cock poke at your entrance, you inhaled sharply and gradually, slowly lowered yourself onto his shaft. A strained, pained moan escaped your lips, nails scraping the desk in front of you for support as Shinji groaned in bliss. You felt his lips leave a few kisses below your ear, arms holding against him as you tentatively rolled up your hips.

“I missed this pussy” he cooed, as you fought back the urge to bounce up and down his dick. You hated to admit it, but he filled you up so good.

“G-Get to work” you hissed, rolling your eyes and trying your best to relax and not think about how good he stretched you out.

Shinji snickered and nuzzled his face onto your neck “Nah, I have all night long to take care of that. I just want ya to warm me up, nice and good now, won’t ya? — he drawled, causing a shaky breath to leave your lips — After all, I can’t stand the sight of you trailing behind that freak with glasses anymore” he complained and you let out a dry chuckle at that.

Aizen Sosuke, huh? Was that jealousy? Oh, you should have seen it coming. It was true that you had been spending a lot of time with your Lieutenant as of late, but it was all your Captain’s fault. You were both swamped with work and you were forced to team up to get everything done.

“You are an ass” you mumbled, propping your chin onto the back of your head as you fluttered your eyes closed in defeat. You had fallen in his trap so easily, how could you be that stupid?

“With a great ass squashed onto my lap”.

AUTHOR NOTE.

Hello there! Sorry this thirst took a little longer but summer is even more chaotic than winter. I can’t wait for this season to end :( I hope you enjoyed this one, Shinji is such a dork, but I love him.

Until next,

x o x o

TAGS: @imaginingbleach

[the-winter-spider]

The Alchemy | Part Six

NFL! Bucky x reader AU

Word Count: 5k

Warnings: Toxic relationship, mentions of abuse.

A/N: More angsty snd big things happening soooooon 👀 not edited or proof read atm, im laazzyyyyyyy

Masterpost

-----

The envelope sat on the kitchen table, the thick stack of paperwork neatly placed beside John’s untouched cup of coffee. You hadn’t thought anything of it at first, just another bill, another document that John liked to handle. He always told you he was better with that kind of thing, that you had enough on your plate with work.

But when you picked it up, your name was there, your lease agreement except something was different.

Your breath caught in your throat as you read over the bolded lines. Primary Leaseholder: John Walker.

Your stomach twisted.

“John?” you called hesitantly, the paper trembling in your hands. “What is this?”

He looked up from his phone, brow raised. “What’s what?”

You turned the lease toward him, your finger pressing against the printed words. “This, it says you’re the main leaseholder. You weren’t even on the lease before, I didn’t authorize this.”

John sighed, setting his phone down with a slow, deliberate motion. “Baby, what are you talking about?”

“I didn’t sign anything,” you said, your voice shaky but firm. “I would never sign something like this without knowing.”

His eyes darkened just slightly, but his expression remained frustratingly calm. “Yes, you did,” he said smoothly. “See?”

He slid another sheet of paper toward you, his finger tapping at the bottom of the page. Your signature, your signature, was there, clear as day.

Except it wasn’t. It was your name and it was almost completely identical to your signature but you knew it wasn’t yours.

Your throat tightened. “John, I, I don’t remember signing this.”

His chuckle was soft, almost condescending. “Come on, sweetheart. You were probably just distracted. You sign stuff all the time, contracts, media forms, waivers. You probably just forgot.”

You shook your head, an uneasy feeling creeping up your spine. “No. I would’ve remembered this.”

He reached across the table, his fingers brushing against yours as he squeezed your hand gently. “You did sign it. We talked about it, remember? We agreed it was better this way, less stress on you, more stability for us. I handle all this stuff anyway, don’t I?”

Your lips parted, but no words came out.

Did we talk about this?

No. No, you knew you wouldn’t have agreed to this. You’d been careful about keeping the lease in your name, about having that bit of independence, one thing that was yours. This place was yours before John and you even got together. It was yours.

But John looked so sure. So patient, like he was explaining something obvious to you, something you should already understand.

Your pulse pounded in your ears. “I just… I don’t remember.”

He squeezed your hand tighter. “Because you didn’t think twice about it,” he said gently. “You trust me, don’t you?”

You swallowed hard. “I..of course I do.”

His lips curved into that easy, knowing smile. “Then trust me when I say this is for the best. I handle everything else, don’t I? Bills, travel, groceries… You don’t need to stress about this kind of thing.”

You nodded slowly, the edges of your doubt blurring under the weight of his reassurance. He was right, you were always busy, always juggling a million things at once. Maybe you had signed it without thinking. Maybe it had just slipped your mind.

Maybe you were just overreacting. He always said you were.

John lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to your fingers. “I’ve got us, baby,” he murmured, his voice smooth as silk. “You don’t have to worry about anything.”

But as he gathered the papers and tucked them away, your stomach twisted with something cold and heavy.

Something that told you, no matter how much he insisted, you should be worried.

---

The cab ride back to the hotel felt like an out-of-body experience. You sat stiffly in the backseat, your fingers twisting in your lap, your gaze locked onto the city lights blurring past the window. The driver made occasional small talk, asking if you’d had a good night, if the bar was fun, but you barely heard him. You gave quiet, noncommittal responses, nodding at the right moments, but the words barely registered.

Your mind was still back at the bar, still at him.

Still at the way John had tightened his grip on your wrist, squeezing just hard enough to make a silent point before smiling and joking like he hadn’t just bruised you in front of his teammates. Still at the way he’d forced that kiss on you, too rough, too possessive, just to prove something to Bucky.

Bucky.

You squeezed your eyes shut for a second, exhaling shakily.

God, Bucky had seen it, actually seen it, the way he was.

He’d seen the way you flinched, the way John’s hand lingered, the way you had let him do it, because what else could you do? John had made sure of that, that feeling of helplessness, of having nowhere else to go, nowhere else to be if you weren’t by his side.

If you left him…the thought alone made your stomach drop. Your dream job, your apartment. Your entire life all of it was tangled up in him. Because of course he’d added his name to the lease and of course he had pulled strings for this job, ensuring that if you ever even thought about leaving, he’d have the power to rip everything out from under you. Of course you were in a position you told yourself you’d never be in.

The cab slowed as the hotel came into view, and suddenly, the reality of the situation settled over you like a crushing weight, you were in fight or flight mode, just wanting to be in your hotel room and work on some stuff you still had to power through since Johns abruptly showed up.

Bucky was waiting, your stomach twisted sharply when you spotted him outside your hotel room door, leaning against the wall, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie. He was still in his clothes from the bar, but his sleeves were pushed up now, tension running through his forearms. His gaze lifted the second you stepped into the hallway, something unreadable flashing across his face.

You swallowed hard, your throat tight. “What are you doing here?”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, shifting his weight before meeting your eyes. “Can we talk?”

The words hit you harder than you expected. Because Bucky didn’t ask for things like this. Not usually, not when he had something to say. He just said it. But there was something careful about the way he was looking at you now, something hesitant, like he was giving you an out if you wanted to take it and maybe you should take it.

Because talking to Bucky meant admitting things, things you had spent years avoiding, years stuffing deep down where they couldn’t touch you. If you let Bucky back in, even just a little, you weren’t sure if you’d be able to stop.

You hesitated. “John’s gonna be back soon,” you murmured, barely recognizing your own voice.

Bucky nodded like he already knew, like he had already thought of everything before he even stepped foot in this hallway. “Sam’s still there,” he said quietly. “I told him to text me when he leaves.” His blue eyes held yours, unrelenting but careful. “Just give me a few minutes. Please.”

Your chest ached. You should have told him no. Should have told him that whatever needed to be said didn’t need to be said, not tonight. But when you opened your mouth, the words didn’t come. Instead, you nodded, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Can we do it in your room?”

Bucky’s brows pulled together for a second, but then he nodded. “Yeah, of course.”

The walk down the hall was agonizingly slow, even though it only took a minute. You kept your eyes forward, but your heart was hammering against your ribs, each step another reminder that you weren’t ready for whatever was about to happen.

Because Bucky had always been your weak spot. Bucky had seen you, truly seen you in a way no one else ever had.

And when you finally stopped in front of his door, when he turned to face you, jaw tight, eyes soft, like he was waiting you realized you weren’t sure if you were strong enough to keep hiding.

The silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating. Bucky stood near the window, hands braced on his hips, breathing hard like he was trying to keep himself from exploding. You stood on the other side of the room, your arms wrapped around yourself, staring at the floor, feeling like you were crumbling from the inside out.

Neither of you had said anything since he closed the door behind you. Neither of you knew how to start.

But Bucky had never been one for patience. “Why are you with him?” His voice was sharp, cutting straight through the thick air between you.

You flinched. “Bucky..”

“No,” he snapped, taking a step closer. “No bullshit, no deflecting, no ‘it’s complicated.’ Why are you with him?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, shaking your head. “It’s not that easy.”

“Why not?” He was almost pleading now, his voice raw, desperate. “You don’t love him. Not the way you should, I know you don’t and what he does, that’s not love.”

You exhaled shakily, the weight of his words pressing down on you. “I could lose this job, Bucky,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “If I lose this job, I don’t have the money, then I can't afford my apartment that might not even be mine anymore and I don’t even know if I got this job on my own, or if John actually made it happen for me. Sometimes he just says things, I don’t..” Your throat closed, the panic rising in your chest. “I don’t know what happens to me if I leave.”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, his frustration spilling over. “You think I would let them take this job from you?” His voice was sharp, his blue eyes burning. “You think I’d just stand by and let that happen?”

“I don’t expect you to fix this for me, Bucky!” you shot back, your voice rising now. “I can’t explain it to you, I can’t make you understand!”

He took a step closer. “Then tell me this,” he said, his voice lower now, more controlled, but no less intense. “Does he hurt you?”

The question made your stomach drop. “He hasn’t hit me,” you said, too quickly, too defensively. “If that’s what you’re asking.” You forced a hollow laugh. “Not like my dad did to my mom.”

Bucky inhaled sharply, his jaw clenching. Then, his eyes flickered downward, toward your arm.

You followed his gaze, toward the faint outline of bruising near your wrist.

Bucky’s whole body went rigid. “What’s that then?”

You swallowed hard, heart pounding. Quickly, you covered it with your other hand. “He just has a strong hold, that’s all.”

Bucky exhaled harshly, dragging a hand over his face like he was trying to physically push down the rage building inside him. “Why are you making excuses for this?” His voice was hoarse, disbelief and heartbreak tangled together. “You’re putting yourself through the same shit your mom went through, and you don’t have to.”

Your breath hitched. “It’s not the same.”

“The hell it’s not,” he snapped, stepping forward again. “The only difference is your dad had alcohol in his system. Somehow, that makes it worse, Y/N. John doesn’t even have that excuse.”

You shook your head, your whole body trembling. “You don’t get it, Bucky. I don’t have anyone.” Your voice cracked. “My dad’s dead. My mom’s dead. I have nothing. The only person I have is…”

“What about me?”

The words were nearly shouted, bursting out of him like he couldn’t hold them in anymore.

You froze.

Bucky’s chest was rising and falling quickly, his blue eyes blazing. “What about me?” he said again, quieter this time. “You have me.”

Your throat tightened. “Do I?”

His expression faltered, just slightly but you saw it.

“Because you made it pretty damn clear all those years ago that I didn’t have you!” you said, your voice shaking with the weight of everything. “You left me, Bucky. We were leaving my dad, we were leaving that life, this life and you left me too!”

Bucky was staring at you, his chest rising and falling heavily, his lips parted like he wanted to say something, needed to say something. But you had just ripped the air from his lungs, just shattered the ground beneath him, and for a long moment, all he could do was stand there, stunned.

You had never said it out loud before. Not like this, not with that much hurt behind it.

You left me too.

His hands curled into fists at his sides, like he was trying to physically stop himself from reaching for you. His entire body was taut, like a bowstring pulled too tight, ready to snap at any second.

“I never wanted to lose you,” Bucky said, his voice rough, raw. “You think I wanted that? I didn't mean for it to get these far, all these years without seeing you, without knowing you, you think I chose that?”

You let out a sharp, bitter laugh, shaking your head as tears burned your eyes. “That’s exactly what you did, Bucky.”

“I was a kid,” he shot back. “A stupid, scared kid who didn’t know how to handle losing the only person who ever mattered to him.” His voice cracked, and your breath caught in your throat. “I fucked up, Y/N. I fucked up so bad.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks, but you barely noticed. “Yeah,” you whispered. “You did.”

Bucky took a shaky breath, like he was trying to hold himself together, but the cracks were too deep now, too jagged. “I spent years trying to make up for it,” he admitted, his voice desperate. “That’s why I worked so fucking hard. That’s why I pushed myself until I couldn’t breathe, until I had nothing left because I wanted to be something, Y/N. I wanted to be worthy of you, to make up for just abandoning you.”

Your brows furrowed, your lips parting slightly. “Bucky…”

“I love you.”

The words came out in a rush, like he couldn’t stop them even if he wanted to. Your heart slammed against your ribs, and you just stared at him, unable to process what he had just said.

“I love you,” he said again, his voice breaking. “I’ve always loved you. From the moment we were kids, from the moment I realized that nobody, nobody made me feel the way you did.” His hands were shaking now, and his breathing was uneven, and God, God, he looked wrecked. “You were the only thing I ever wanted, and I let you slip through my fingers. I wasn’t fast enough, If I was faster I woulda caught up to you!”

Tears spilled freely down your cheeks now, but you couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn't think.

Bucky took a step closer, his blue eyes searching yours frantically, like he was still trying to memorize every part of you, just in case this was the last time. “That’s why I went to New York,” he confessed. “I went because I thought you’d be there, that was your dream. I thought I’d find you and when I didn’t…” He exhaled shakily, raking a hand through his hair. “It was like you fell off the fucking face of the Earth. I had no way to reach you. I tried, I tried.”

Your lip trembled. “Bucky…”

“I took this contract because yeah, I love football, but you, you were always the goal.” His voice softened just slightly, but the weight of his words pressed down on you like an avalanche. “I thought maybe if I was here, if I was in a position where you could find me… maybe you would.”

You sucked in a sharp breath, the lump in your throat growing bigger.

Bucky let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “And then you sorta did, you showed up and I thought, this is it. This is my second chance.” His eyes burned into yours. “But you’re with him and he doesn't deserve you, he doesn’t love you the way I do, I love you, I love you.”

Before you could even think of what to say, Bucky’s phone rang. The sharp sound cut through the tension like a knife, making you jolt slightly. Bucky clenched his jaw and pulled it from his pocket, glancing at the screen.

Sam.

Your stomach dropped. You didn’t need to hear what he was going to say. You already knew.

Bucky exhaled sharply and answered. “Yeah?”

On the other end, Sam sighed. “He just left.”

Bucky closed his eyes briefly, his hand tightening around the phone. “Thanks.”

And then he hung up, when his gaze met yours again, you were already shaking your head.

“I can’t do this, Bucky.” Your voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. “I have to go.”

“No.” His voice was firm, almost desperate. He stepped forward, reaching for you, but hesitated at the last second, his hands hovering near your arms but never touching. “Don’t go back to him.”

You closed your eyes, willing yourself not to cry harder. “It’s not that easy, Bucky.”

“Yes, it is,” he pleaded. “I’m here. I’ll help you. You don’t have to love me back, I swear to God, you don’t. But you were my best friend, and you always will be. Please, Y/N.”

A sob built in your throat, but you swallowed it down. You reached up, wiping the tears from your cheeks.

“I have to go,” you whispered.

Bucky shook his head, his expression shattered. “Don’t, please..”

But you were already moving toward the door, you didn’t look back. You couldn’t.

The second you made it to your room, you slammed the door behind you, bracing yourself against it as your breath came in ragged, uneven gasps. Your hands were shaking, your chest aching, and no matter how many times you wiped your face, the tears wouldn’t stop.

You slid down against the door, curling into yourself as you tried to breathe.

---

Your childhood bedroom was nearly empty, stripped of everything that had once made it yours. The posters had been peeled from the walls, the bookshelves bare, the bed nothing but a frame and a stripped mattress. The pictures of Bucky and you that were once littered across your wall, were gone. The last remnants of your life here had been packed into boxes, stacked neatly by the door, ready to be loaded into the car.

But you weren’t ready.

You stood at your window, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, your heart pounding with a desperate, pleading rhythm. He’s coming. He has to be coming.

“Sweetie, we need to go before your father gets home,” your mom called from the hallway, her voice low, urgent.

“One more minute,” you whispered, more to yourself than to her. “Please, just one more.”

You didn’t move. Your hands trembled as you gripped the window frame, your stomach twisting with hope and dread. Bucky wouldn’t just let you leave. He wouldn’t.

You had spent the entire week waiting for him to say something. You had walked past his locker slower than usual, lingered by his house on your way home, given him every possible opportunity. But he had been silent.

And now, time was up. This was it, and he wasn’t here to say goodbye.

Your mom appeared in the doorway, her eyes soft but filled with urgency. “Baby, we have to go.”

You turned to face her, your breath hitching. “He’s supposed to be here,” you whispered.

Her face fell. “Oh, sweetheart…”

Your chest constricted painfully, and your nails dug into your palms. “Just… one more minute.”

Your mom hesitated, looking toward the front door like she could feel the danger creeping closer. But then she sighed and gave you a small nod. “One more.”

You turned back to the window, the same window Bucky used to climb through when the world felt too heavy, the same one you’d sneak out of when adventure called in the middle of the night. Your gaze drifted to the street below, the one where you’d run barefoot together, where he spun you around under flickering streetlights like the whole world belonged to just the two of you.

Your heart pounded against your ribs, lodged so tightly in your throat it hurt to breathe. The same heart that had always, always belonged to him and now, it was the heart he was breaking.

Nothing.

No sign of him.

No sign of the boy who had promised to be your best friend forever.

Your mom touched your arm gently. “It’s time.”

Your vision blurred as you took a shaky breath. The finality of it all settled in like a weight on your chest.

Bucky wasn’t coming, he actually wasn't coming.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and forced yourself to move, your legs feeling like they belonged to someone else as you walked out of the room, out of the house, and into the car.

And as you drove away, you kept your eyes glued to the side mirror, hoping, praying, to see him come running after you. But he never did.

Bucky had been pacing his room for the past hour, his hands in his hair, his stomach in knots. Go to her. Just go to her.

But he couldn’t.

Every time he reached for his door, he hesitated. Every time he thought about what he would say, his throat closed up. I’m sorry. I was an idiot. I am an idiot, I was being selfish. He should've told you that a little distance for a year never hurt anyone, especially the two of you. He should've told you he would drive down, that he would call and video chat everyday. He should've told you he was happy that your Mom was finally leaving that drunken asshole, he should have told you he was glad you were finally going to be safe. He should've told you he was in love with you.

But what if you didn’t want to hear it? What if it was already too late? The thought paralyzed him, until it hit him.

What the fuck am I doing?

His heart slammed against his ribs as he bolted out of his room, nearly tripping over himself as he ran down the stairs and out the front door. The world around him blurred as he sprinted down the street, his pulse roaring in his ears.

Please still be there. Please, God, let her still be there.

But as he rounded the corner onto your street, his feet stopped.

The driveway was empty, the car was gone. He staggered forward, chest heaving, his breath catching in his throat.

“No, no, no”

His hands found the chain-link fence that bordered your yard, gripping it so tight his knuckles turned white. His eyes darted across the front porch, the darkened windows, the abandoned boxes left on the curb.

You were gone.

A sharp, broken sound tore from his throat as he slid down the fence, his legs giving out beneath him. His fingers curled into the dirt, his head dropping forward as a sob ripped through him.

---

The door slammed against the wall as John stumbled into the hotel room, the sharp scent of whiskey and unfamiliar perfume hitting you before his voice did.

“Baby,” he called, his tone thick with alcohol, slurring just enough to make your stomach churn. “You awake?”

You didn’t move, didn’t answer. Maybe if you stayed still long enough, he’d think you were asleep. Maybe he’d leave you alone for once.

But the floor creaked under his weight as he crossed the room, and then suddenly, he was kneeling at your side of the bed. His breath, warm and sour, fanned across your cheek as he whispered, “Honey, wake up.”

You forced yourself to stir, blinking slowly like you’d just come out of a deep sleep. Your body was stiff, tense, but you softened your expression as you turned to him.

John smiled, his eyes glassy, unfocused, but still locked onto you like you were his entire world and that scared you. His fingers slid through your hair, slow and tender, before trailing down to your cheek, you braced yourself but he cradled your face like you were something fragile. Like he hadn’t spent the night reminding you just how small you really were, it made you want to puke.

“Baby, I’m so sorry,” he murmured, his voice breaking. His forehead pressed against yours, and you could feel the way he was swaying slightly, his balance off. “I didn’t mean to act like that. I don’t know what came over me. I just… I get these strong feelings, you know? You just make me so…” He stopped, exhaling shakily.

You swallowed, nodding slightly, pretending you knew exactly what he meant. Of course it was your fault.

He kissed your hand, pressing his lips to your knuckles like a man making a promise he had no intention of keeping. “I love you,” he whispered desperately, squeezing your fingers. “Please forgive me.”

You hesitated, only for a second. “…Okay,” you whispered, barely audible, but he latched onto it like it was a lifeline.

“Oh, thank God,” he breathed, his shoulders sagging in relief. He stumbled onto the bed beside you, kicking off his shoes clumsily before pulling the blankets over himself. Within minutes, his breathing evened out, deep and heavy in sleep.

You lay there, staring at the ceiling, unmoving and then, when you were sure he was out, when you knew he wouldn’t hear you turned onto your side, curled in on yourself, and let the silent sobs take over.

---

The knock at the door was sharp, cutting through the quiet of Bucky’s hotel room. He hadn’t been able to sleep, his mind was too full, too loud but he hadn’t expected company either.

Dragging a tired hand down his face, he pushed himself off the bed and walked over, unlocking the door before pulling it open.

“Sam?” Bucky frowned. “It’s late, what are you doing here?”

Sam raised an eyebrow, arms crossed over his chest. “Yeah, well, why are you answering?”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, leaning against the doorframe. “I was hoping it would be Y/N.”

Sam gave him a knowing look before tilting his head toward the room. “Can I come in for a second?”

Bucky stepped aside, letting him in. Sam walked in slowly, glancing around before settling against the desk. He hesitated, his usual easygoing demeanor laced with something heavier.

“She’s in deep, Buck,” Sam said finally, his voice quieter than usual. “That relationship… it’s not healthy.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. He knew that already had felt it, had seen it. Had heard the way John spoke to you, watched the way you tensed under his touch, the way your light dimmed every time he pulled you close.

“I’ve seen that before,” Sam continued, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “My sister’s best friend, she was in something like that. She always said it wasn’t that bad, that he didn’t hit her, that she could handle it.” He paused, his throat bobbing. “She didn’t make it out.”

Bucky winced. “I can’t let that happen to her,” Bucky said, his voice low, like the words were a confession.

Sam watched him carefully, waiting.

Bucky exhaled, his fingers flexing at his sides. “Her dad,” he started, then stopped. “When we were kids… he used to come home drunk, and things would break. I’d hear it from my house, yelling, glass shattering, her mom making excuses the next day.” He swallowed hard, the memories tightening around his throat. “She’d say she was clumsy. That she tripped because Y/N left things on the stairs. But she didn’t, she never did.”

Sam’s expression darkened.

Bucky shook his head. “Sometimes he’d lose it on her too,” he admitted. “She wouldn’t tell me, but I knew. I’d see the look in her eyes, hear it. He threw a god damn bottle at her head, she was 16” His hands curled into fists. “And I didn’t do enough to stop it.”

Sam stepped closer. “That’s not on you, Buck.”

Bucky let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Isn’t it? I was supposed to protect her. Instead, I let her walk right into this.” His voice wavered, something breaking inside him. He looked up at Sam, his eyes shining with something raw. “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost her.”

Sam sighed, running a hand over his face. “She’s a smart girl, man. She knows this isn’t healthy. I saw the look on her face at the bar.” He exhaled heavily. “But you can’t force her to walk away. All you can do is be there for her. Make sure she knows she has someone to turn to when she’s ready.”

Bucky shook his head. “I can’t just stand by,” he said, his voice thick. “Not when the only girl I’ve ever loved is hurting.”

Sam stilled, his eyes narrowing slightly before he let out a soft chuckle. “I knew it,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I knew it.”

Bucky smiled lightly, looking away.

Sam smirked. “Does she know?”

Bucky nodded, his jaw tightening. “I just told her, ike an hour ago.”

Sam’s expression softened. “Then you did what you could do,” he said simply. “Now, you just have to be there when she needs you.” He pushed off the desk, stretching. “Get some rest, man. Travel day tomorrow.”

Bucky didn’t answer, just exhaled sharply through his nose as Sam headed toward the door.

Before leaving, Sam glanced back. “Goodnight, Buck.”

Bucky’s shoulders sagged slightly as the door clicked shut. But sleep still wouldn’t come.

[sarahsghosts]

the death and resurrection of jonathan price

john price x female, wife!reader

angst with an eventual happy ending

word count: 2,734

cw: language.

disclaimer: not proofread.

chapter 6

songs: when it rains - paramore, apt. - rose & bruno mars

it was less than twelve hours before you saw john again.

the rain had continued to pour, picking up enough that you could hear it beating relentlessly against your window panes.

as soon as you came home from work, you’d taken a hot shower, put on an old, large tshirt, a pair of joggers and curled up on the couch.

you’d pulled a throw blanket up over your lap and had a mug of tea (without honey) sitting on the end table next to you while you read your romance novel.

the romance genre was never something you indulged in before. you’d never been one to rain on anyone's parade, but it just wasn’t for you.

“i don’t need to read all that because i have the real thing,” you used to tell john. that always made him smile.

but after you thought he had died, you started indulging a little bit: a rom com here, romance novel there.

there was something in between the lines that reminded you of your and john’s relationship. the witty banter. the lingering touches. the love that never died.

until yours did.

but for 90 minutes or 300 pages, you could pretend that it hadn’t.

you were lost in your book, almost completely dead to the world, pulled out only when the knocking on your door grew more insistent.

you had no clue how long it’d been going on, so you dropped your book onto the couch and dove for the door.

“coming!” you called, as you undid the deadbolt. you pulled the door open and saw john standing on your doorstep.

he wore a dark gray tshirt and a worn pair of jeans. his lips were pursed and his carried a manila file folder in his hand.

you blinked at him. “hi.”

he tilted his head slightly. his eyes looking you up and down, but revealed nothing of what he was thinking. “can i come in?” his voice sounded rough, almost hesitant.

you were still frustrated with him for making a scene at your work earlier, but you couldn’t help the hope that bloomed in your chest at seeing him here on your doorstep.

“oh! yeah, of course,” you said, stepping back to make room for him to enter.

as he walked by you, you could see his gaze shifting around the room, taking in all the changes you’d made since he left.

you had removed all the wedding pictures that used to hang on the walls. the cards from christmases past were no longer stuck to the refrigerator.

the bedroom door was cracked open, and you were suddenly self conscious of the unobstrucked view he had of the messy, unmade bed.

he took a few more paces into the living area, eyes darting around.

he stilled as he saw the memorial shadowbox you’d left on the wall.

he service photo. the program from his funeral printed beside it. the folded flag.

he stared at it for a long moment before he turned to you and said, “need you to sign this.”

he held out the folder.

you tentatively took it from his hands and opened it up. your eyes scanned the documents and your head began to swim.

co-petitioners.

broken down irretrievably.

your eyes flitted to the bottom of the page and you saw two signature lines. your throat tightened.

john had already signed one.

you snapped the folder shut, a hollow feeling growing in your chest. “you want a divorce?”

you shook your head and tried to hand the folder back to him.

he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans, and leaned up against the wall. he sighed deeply as if he expected this. “come on, love. it’s for the best.”

his tone was condescending, but you heard the exhaustion layered underneath it.

“go find some nice bloke,” he said. “have yourself a proper family.”

you bit down on the inside of your cheek. god, you were tired. “i don’t want a proper family, john, i want you.”

he chuckled, bitterly. “you keep saying that, but the thing is, you don’t.” you opened your mouth to protest, but he continued. “i’m not the man you knew. he’s gone.”

“bullshit,” you interrupted. “i understand something like that changes someone, but that doesn’t mean—”

his eyes flared and he straightened up. “you have no fucking idea what i—”

“because you won’t talk to me!” you shouted, throwing up your hands. “for better or for worse, remember? whatever it is, john, we can work through it. together.”

he stares down at you, his gaze so intense you felt as though it may burn a hole right through you. finally, he shook his head and let out a small laugh. “funny, isn’t it?”

your brows furrowed. “what?”

he took a step towards you, leaving minimal distance between the two of you. a cruel smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“you’ll still get you down on your knees for me, but i can’t get you to sign a bloody piece of paper.”

you slapped him. hard.

his eyes closed momentarily, but otherwise he gave no reaction to the blow.

your face burned hot from rage and humiliation. “get the fuck out of my house,” you hissed.

for a moment, he didn’t move, then he pushed past you and walked out the door, slamming it behind him.

your hands were trembling as you gripped the folder tightly.

you moved back to the couch and dropped down onto it, staring at the divorce papers.

it occurred to you suddenly, that john baited you into the slap. and you had fallen for it.

he did it so i’d sign the fucking papers, you realized. you let out a scoff and shook your head. “sonuvabitch…”

you picked up your book and the folder, heading towards your bedroom. on your way by the kitchen, you chucked both items into the bin.

john stared down at the cup of coffee in his hand. it wasn’t right.

he poured it down the drain and started again.

the cheap little coffee machine spit and sputtered as it dribbled out a fresh pot.

his apartment smelled strongly of coffee which mercifully covered up the ever present scent of mildew.

he grabbed the pot and poured himself a cup.

again.

this was the third one he had made. he took a long sip, not bothered by the way it scalded his tongue.

he let out a low, frustrated growl.

it was beans and water. how hard could it be?

his arms slipped around your torso, cradling you against his chest, where you fit so nicely.

“smells good, love,” he purred in your ear.

you poured yourself a cup of coffee and picked up a peppermint from the bowl you kept on the counter. you opened the wrapper and dropped the candy into your mug, stirring it to help it melt.

“how do you want it?” you asked him.

he kissed the side of your neck. “coffee’s coffee,” he murmured against your skin.

you rolled your eyes even as a small smile tugged at your lips.

he always teased you with the claim that all coffee tasted the same.

diner coffee? fancy espresso from the local shop? the sludge that they made on base?

all the same.

you had feigned offense at this on several different occasions, claiming that you made much better coffee than the garbage he drank on base.

the truth was, you were right. you made a much better cup of coffee than any of those knuckleheads he worked with. but he enjoyed pushing your buttons too much to admit it.

you reached for an empty cup from the mug tree you kept on the counter.

you poured a fresh cup and spun around in his arms, handing it to him. “that’s the good stuff,” you told him.

he took a sip, smacked his lips thoughtfully and said, “yeah. that’s coffee alright.”

you wrinkled your nose, rolled your eyes once more and scoffed. “you’re impossible.”

he could hear your little scoff as clearly as if you were in the room with him.

he scowled down at the coffee in his hands before it, too, was poured down the sink.

you shot back the tequila like you hadn’t done since you were in college.

your current company probably had something to do with it, but so did your last run in with john, which was playing on a loop in your head.

you could still see to smirk on his face as he baited you into slapping him.

he still new exactly how to push your buttons. how to get you riled up.

so when your barely-drinking-age coworkers said they were going to the bar, you gladly accepted the invitation.

“damn mama,” mandy laughed, already tipsy from the two cocktails she had prior to the white claw she was sipping.

“had a long week,” you grunted as the tequila burned your throat. i’m too old for this, you thought, as you sat in the crowded, loud hipster bar.

there weren��t many lights in the place, but the ones that flashed from the corners of the room were bright and neon colored.

andre, a twenty year old college student, chortled and clapped your shoulder. “yeah, we can tell.”

“don’t look now,” your coworker, christy, said with a twinkle in her eye, “but that guy is checking you out.”

you, being curious and buzzed, immediately snapped your head over.

a man who leaned against the end of the bar had his dark eyes locked onto you. his hair flashed pink, then blue, then green under the bar’s lighting. he had a dark beard that complimented him well, and he wore a small stud piercing above his left eyebrow.

upon making eye contact, he immediately flashed you a lazy, but charming grin. he appeared a little embarrassed and apologetic for staring. he gave you a small wave, but then looked away.

you felt a blush rise to your cheeks.

your coworkers laughed as they watched the whole exchange. andre whistled loudly and you rolled your eyes.

“alright, kids,” you said affectionately, feeling a little bemused and flustered. “that’s enough of that.” the air around you started to feel thick and humid. suddenly, you were aware of just how much you were sweating.

you took a sip of the beer you’d been nursing between shots. “i’m going to get some air,” you told them, as you pushed off the bar and headed for the stairs.

they jokingly booed you and you threw up your middle finger over your shoulder.

you made your way through the crowd to the staircase that led to the rooftop patio. when you made it up and out, the cool night air hit your skin, sending a spray of goosebumps down your arms.

the tank top you wore did nothing to shield you from the breeze, but you didn’t mind; it felt incredible.

the rooftop was just as crowded, but you maneuvered your way to the end and leaned up against the railing.

“awfully rowdy in there, huh?”

you looked up to see eyebrow piercing wearing the same lazy grin he had on before.

you noticed now that his hair was a sandy blonde. he wore a leather jacket and combat style boots, but they were very shiny and paired with ripped skinny jeans.

he held two bottles of beer in his hand and offered you one. “i’m cal,” he said.

you smiled at him, and took the beer. “nice to meet you, cal,” you say, intentionally withholding your own name.

“so what’s up with the field trip group you have with you?”

you laughed and shrugged one shoulder. “my coworkers,” you explained. “i don’t usually go out like this…”

cal leaned against the railing next to you. “but?”

“but…” you’re not about to complain about your work, or your possibly ex husband to this stranger. “i just needed it, tonight,” you finished.

he nodded, understandingly. “hmm, i get that.” he looked you up and down, before bluntly asking, “looking to blow off a little steam?”

for a moment you were in a different bar, in a different town, next to a different man.

“let me take you somewhere for a quiet drink, on me, and then you can go home. alone.”

you looked down at the bottle of beer in your hands. the cap had already been twisted off when cal handed it to you.

“you know…” you placed the drink down on top of the metal railing, angling yourself towards the direction of the stairwell. “i don’t think so. but it was nice chatting with you—”

a hand wrapped around your upper arm and tugged you back.

startled, you looked up at cal. his expression was still casual, but his eyes were narrowed. “c’mon, was it something i said?”

“no,” you said cautiously, but firmly. “i’m just not looking for anything at the moment.”

“it doesn’t have to be something,” he insisted, his tone sounded flirty, but he still held your arm. “just have a drink with me.” his eyes flickered to the beer you had abandoned.

you weren’t born yesterday, and you certainly trusted your instincts, which were screaming that this guy was no good. “i’m not some college girl you can bat your lashes at and get in her pants,” you said steadily, despite your pounding heart. “let go before i tell the bartender you're out here spiking people’s drinks. or better yet, i'll just call the cops?”

your threat lingered in the air and cal narrowed his eyes.

he flexed his fingers tighter around your bicep before releasing it. your skin prickled where he had held you.

without another look at him, you pushed your way through the crowd and down to the bar. you gave a quick goodbye to your coworkers before you left.

when you stepped out onto the street, you dug into your pocket for a pack of smokes. it was a bad habit you'd picked up since you found out john was alive.

you lit a cigarette and took a long drag before you let out a shaky breath.

the hairs on the back your neck stood up suddenly and you couldn't shake the feeling of being watched.

turning around, you saw cal, still standing where you'd left him on the rooftop. another man stood with him, now. he was frowning and talking to cal, who was scowling down at you, his mouth twisted bitterly.

you gave him the finger before taking another drag from your cigarette and walking down the street in the direction of your flat.

the music from the bar began to fade as your frustration grew.

you felt like you couldn't catch a break lately. you stumbled a little as you rounded the corner, still a considerable distance from your place.

until that moment, you hadn't realized how drunk you were.

you groaned, running a hand through your hair. it'd been years since you were hungover, but you knew for certain, that's what awaited you in the morning.

a small scuffling sound behind you caught your attention and you glanced over your shoulder.

ice traveled quickly through your veins when you saw cal and his buddy walking further up the street behind you.

they weren't even trying to be subtle, as they joked and laughed, following you from the bar.

panic streaked through you, the cigarette tumbled from your hand.

you began digging in your purse for...what?

you remembered the little revolver that john got you years ago, but you quit carrying it with you after his funeral.

you cursed and pawed through your bag.

either you were speaking louder than you intended to, in your drunken state, or your voice carried down the empty street because cal called out from behind you.

“what's the matter, baby?” he called. “we're just looking for a little company.”

his friend said something, his voice too low for you to hear, and the two of them laughed again.

your heart was beating in your ears, and you grabbed your wallet.

your subconscious must’ve known what you were looking for, because, without thinking you had pulled out the crumpled old paper that gaz had given to you over a year ago.

with trembling hands, you pulled out your phone and began to dial.

holding the phone to your ear, you heard it ring once, twice, three times before... “hello?”

“kyle,” you choked out, trying to keep your voice low. “i need help.”

part 7

masterlist

—-

TAGLIST:

@fruitymoonbeams-blog @evergreenfields @galactict3a @who-needs-to-sleep @misscherry-26

[breakmeoff]

Optimus Fine │The Boy Next Door (drabble)

pairing: bang chan x fem!reader

warnings: none! fluff n crack.

word count: 500ish

synopsis: the insanity of the daily gifts keep coming, and you are coming to realize that there are many more where they came from. chris will get bored with you at some point - right?

drabble sequence: falls between The Boy Next Door chapters 5 & 6

note: there are so many other silly puns/pick-up lines that channie and stay have exchanged that i have a hidden treasure trove of these i could keep writing lol. thx for reading :)

Masterlist

Whenever Chris put his mind to something, he didn’t ever waver until he got what he wanted.  And right now - he wanted you.  At this point it had been about a week and a half since the random gifts had started being delivered to your office.  

It was becoming more difficult for you to hide the fact that you had a ‘secret admirer’, because by this point your new buddy, Henry, from DHL was becoming a regular in the hospital hallways - always making his daily stop at your office.  

With your eyes focused on your computer monitor, scanning over the documents you’d just been sent on your newest research assignment, you heard the faint knock on your open office door.  Without even looking up, you smirked lightly.  “Afternoon Henry…”

“Y/N,” he began, walking in with the small package tucked under his arm and his tablet out for signature.  Turning to look up at the deliveryman, you caught his lopsided smile.  “If you’re not careful, I bet your coworkers are going to start thinking these are all from me,” he said with a chuckle.

Laughing softly, you reached for his tablet, making eye contact briefly before signing your name.  “Y’know at this point it might be easier that way.”  

Taking the tablet back from you, he nodded his head and tipped his cap at you teasingly.  “This time tomorrow?”

“I hope not for your sake,” you grinned, giving a half wave as he walked out your office door the same time two of your coworkers walked by, glancing in to see yet another package on your desk.

Not even bothering to care who saw this time, you reached for the pair of your scissors resting in your pen cup and sliced open the tape on the cardboard box.  Sitting neatly on top was a familiar looking card.

If you were a Transformer, you’d be Optimus Fine.  - BC

You’d never typically been one for stupid humor before, but now, reading each new pick up line was becoming your favorite part of the day.

Dropping your scissors back where they belonged, you then placed the new card on top of the growing stack of the others that had come with each previous gift, and turned back to the box.

Reaching inside and digging past the packing peanuts was precisely what you expected, an Optimus Prime figurine.  With a heavy smile and soft laugh, you shook your head and placed the new toy next to the snow globe you had received earlier in the week - in a place of honor right by your monitors.  

Reaching for your phone, you quickly snapped a picture of Optimus and sent it to Chris.

You:  You aren't ever gonna quit, are you? Chris:  not until my last dying breath You:  I think I'll run out of desk space before that happens. Chris: guess I gotta send a desk next You:  Do and you die. Chris: I have a better way you could get me to stop? You:  I'm afraid to ask... Chris: let me see you soon You: Chris... Chris: i'm finding this way too much fun and am happy to keep sending you embarrassing toys if you'd prefer Chris: your choice really Chris: but I'm warning you right now... Chris: I won't give up until I get what I want, sweetheart.

tag list: @angel-writes-skz-here @idkimobsessed @queenofdumbfuckery @mfcherry @downingmorphine @pixie-felix @d3kstar @lveegsoi @ebnabi @nebugalaxy @babystay724 @mmarusa @imagine-all-the-imagines @erisuna @beabidoobee @hanniesbubuwife @bbykaixx @riri53 @jinniesgirl @alx-wyjsr @skzswife @hwangjoanna @stephanieeeyang @minnysproutgriffinteddy

[lostintrost]

crawlin’ back to you

masterlist

ao3 | wattpad

characters: ex-husband erwin smith x female!reader

summary: Seven years. That’s how long you and Erwin spent together before it all ended. Years of laughter, fights, and love all ended in a boardroom with a piece of paper. Now, as you try to pick up the pieces, he shows up to pick up your two boys for his weekend - only to have forgotten an different arrangement was already made. You invite him in, and the rest - well, it might just fix past mistakes.

cw: angst, more angst, smut - obviously, you might actually fall in love with erwin smith? (maybe just a little), post-divorce, divorce mentioned in first half, oral receiving (f)

wc: 9.7k

Heartbreak had visited you more times than you could count. It came in small, fleeting moments — like when you lost homecoming queen, blinking back tears as you smiled through the disappointment. Or when your family had to put down the old dog who’d slept at the foot of your bed for most of your childhood, the house feeling unbearably quiet afterward.

But real heartbreak — the kind that lodged itself in your chest and refused to leave — was sitting in a stuffy boardroom across from the man you once thought you’d spend forever with, Erwin Smith.

The man you fell in love with freshman year of college, who made you laugh until your stomach ached even on some of your most stressful days. The man you married in a small elopement ceremony, hands trembling as you slipped rings onto each other’s fingers with only two witnesses there to cheer for you. The man you had built a life with, through restless nights soothing two crying babies and early mornings spent packing lunches and driving your boys to sports practices.

Now, that same man sat across the table, his icy blue eyes fixed on a spot just past your shoulder like he couldn’t quite bring himself to look at you. A single sheet of paper lay between you, the words Divorce Agreement printed in bold, black lettering at the top.

The sharp scent of coffee and disinfectant lingered in the air, each tick of the clock dragging you closer to the end. You wanted to speak, to say anything, but the words stuck in your throat. How could you sum up years of love and heartbreak in a few sentences? How could you grieve the life you built together while he sat there, silent, like you were just strangers dividing what was left?

Turns out, the cruelest kind of heartbreak wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was quiet. Paper-thin. Just ink on a page and a signature line waiting to be filled.

The attorney spoke quietly, his words fading into the background like distant static. You kept your eyes on the papers in front of you, the ink blurring as tears welled up.

You didn’t need to read the words — you already knew every painful detail by heart. Your lawyer had drafted the documents, carefully outlining the end of your marriage like a routine transaction. You helped decide the terms, knew exactly where custody and assets were divided. But even though you tried to be fair, seeing it in writing still felt like a punch to the gut.

“If you both agree to these terms,” the lawyer said softly, “I’ll just need your signatures on the last page.”

You stayed frozen, and so did Erwin. The lawyer’s voice was gentle, but his words landed like a blow, echoing through the heavy silence. Two signatures — that’s all it would take to end everything. Seven years total of love, fights, laughter, and shared dreams, reduced to a quiet ending.

Across the table, Erwin finally shifted. His gaze dropped to the papers, jaw tight, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. For a second, you thought he might say something. That he might break the silence, tell you he still loved you, or that this was a mistake. Give you a reason to tear up the papers and walk away together.

But he didn’t.

He just reached for the pen.

The scratch of it against paper felt deafening, like the final nail in a coffin. He signed his name with the same hand that used to hold yours so tightly — the hand that lifted your children into the air and wiped your tears on your wedding night. When he slid the papers toward you, his fingers barely grazed the edge, like even the smallest touch might hurt too much.

It was your turn.

The lawyer folded his hands on the desk, waiting. Erwin leaned back in his chair, staring out the window like he couldn’t stand to look at you. His jaw clenched, shoulders stiff, but you knew him well enough to notice the way his thumb rubbed against his palm. A nervous habit.

He was struggling, too.

Maybe that should have made it easier. Maybe it should have reminded you why you were here — why love hadn’t been enough in the end. But all it did was make the ache worse. Because if he felt this broken, if this was tearing him apart too…

Then why wasn’t he saying anything?

Your vision blurred as you blinked back tears, throat tight with words you couldn’t bring yourself to say. The lawyer shifted in his chair, glancing at the clock, but the world outside felt distant and irrelevant. Your hand hovered over the pen, trembling, your heart pounding so loudly you swore he must have heard it.

Your fingers curled around the pen, and your pulse thudded in your ears as you lowered the tip to the paper. The ink flowed easily, your signature unfurling like a death sentence across the bottom of the page.

When you finally set the pen down, it felt like laying a flower on a grave.

Erwin let out a breath — shaky and quiet. You thought he might say something then, but he didn’t. He just nodded, pushing the papers toward the lawyer without a word.

It was done.

You pressed your hands into your lap to stop them from shaking and tried to swallow the lump in your throat. But the ache didn’t fade. It only grew, spreading through you like an echo of everything you’d just lost.

You stood, legs unsteady, and turned toward the door, the lawyer’s voice a distant hum behind you as he wrapped up the meeting.

Erwin didn’t stop you. He didn’t even look up.

And as you walked out of the boardroom, wiping at the tears that finally spilled over, you realized the cruelest part of heartbreak wasn’t the leaving.

It was knowing no one was going to follow you.

— —

2 Years Later

Your apartment smells like vanilla and jasmine, the scent drifting from a candle on the kitchen counter. You only light it when the boys aren’t home — they always say it makes the place smell “too girly.”

Soft music plays in the background as you sift through your jewelry box, searching for the right earrings. You stop when you find the gold hoops — the ones you used to wear whenever you wanted to feel a little more put together. The ones Erwin once said made you look elegant.

You hesitate, holding them in your palm for a moment. Then, you put them on anyway.

You catch your reflection in the mirror — hair curled, makeup carefully done, wearing the dress your friends convinced you to buy last summer. They’d dragged you through store after store, insisting you needed something that made you feel like you again. The fabric hugs your body in all the right places, the emerald green making your skin glow under the dim lighting.

You look good.

More than that, you look like you’re trying to be happy.

Tonight is your first real date in almost a year. You met him at a friend’s party — he had an easy smile, the kind that made you relax without trying. After weeks of texting, you finally agreed to dinner. You want to feel excited, to feel that hopeful flutter in your chest again.

And maybe you almost do.

Until there’s a knock at the door — sharp and familiar enough to make your stomach drop.

You freeze, your heart lurching into your throat. For a split second, you convince yourself you imagined it. But then it comes again — steady, unhurried. A knock you know as well as your own name.

You step toward the door, pulse hammering, hands trembling at your sides. The date, the dress, the last hour you spent trying to convince yourself you were ready to move on — it all fades into the background.

Because there’s only one person who knocks like that.

You grip the doorknob, hesitating, your fingers cold against the metal. Every part of you screams to walk away, to pretend you’re not home. But your body betrays you, and before you can stop yourself, you’re pulling the door open.

It’s Erwin.

He stands in the dim hallway, hands in his jean pockets, blonde hair damp from the rain. His sweatshirt looks worn, like he grabbed the first thing he could find. His blue eyes, the same ones you used to fall asleep next to, sweep over your face and then drop to your dress.

His brows furrow. “Are you going somewhere?”

You grip the edge of the door, your fingers digging into the wood. “Erwin?” Your voice barely comes out. “What are you doing here?”

He shifts on his feet, glancing back toward the elevator.

“It’s my weekend,” he says slowly, like he’s testing the words. “I was supposed to pick up the kids at seven.”

Your stomach sinks. “No,” you say, shaking your head. “My parents wanted to take them for the weekend. I texted you about it on Tuesday. You said that was fine.”

He blinks, the crease in his brow deepening. He drags a hand down his face and exhales. “Right,” he mutters. “I forgot.”

Silence lingers, heavy and uncomfortable. Two years of scheduled drop-offs, polite texts, and standing on opposite sides of sports fields — and now he’s here, seeing you dressed up for someone else.

Erwin clears his throat and steps back. “I should go,” he says, already turning toward the elevator. “Sorry for bothering you.”

You should close the door.

You should let him leave and get back to your night — to your date, to moving on.

But you don’t.

You watch him retreat, the familiar slump of his shoulders, the way he rubs the back of his neck like he always does when he’s upset. And just as he reaches the end of the hall, the words spill out of you before you can stop them.

“Do you want to come in?”

He stops.

His hand hovers over the elevator button, fingers twitching like he isn’t sure what to do. Slowly, he turns back, his eyes searching yours.

And you don’t know why you said it.

But when he nods and starts walking back, your chest tightens, and you step aside to let him in.

He steps inside, careful and hesitant, like he’s not sure he belongs here. You close the door and turn to face him, the soft glow of the candle casting shadows across the room.

He stands in the middle of your living room, arms folded over his chest, eyes drifting over your space. The toys are neatly put away, and photos from your last beach trip with the kids cover the fridge.

You clear your throat, suddenly aware of how quiet it is. “Do you want some water? Or… coffee?”

He shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “No, I’m good.” He glances at you, then quickly looks away, his gaze flicking to the floor. “I, uh… I really didn’t mean to mess up your night.”

You cross your arms over your chest, hugging yourself like that might steady your heartbeat. “It’s fine,” you say, even though it doesn’t feel fine at all.

He exhales, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “I should’ve double-checked the schedule,” he mutters. “I just… I guess I had it in my head that it was my weekend.”

“It’s okay,” you say again, softer this time.

He glances toward the kitchen, his lips pressing into a thin line. “I haven’t seen you dressed up in a while,” he says, his voice low. “Are you…meeting someone?”

Your throat tightens. You don’t owe him an answer, but the question lingers between you like a ghost.

“Yeah,” you finally say, barely above a whisper. “It’s just dinner.”

He nods, but something flickers across his face — too fast for you to catch. He looks down, scuffing his shoe against the floor. “That’s good,” he says, even though it sounds like a lie. “You deserve that.”

The ache in your chest swells, unexpected and sharp. Because this is what you wanted, isn’t it? Distance. Space.

A chance to rebuild.

So why does it hurt to see him standing here, pretending like this doesn’t affect him?

The clock on the wall ticks steadily, the only sound filling the room as you try to remember how to breathe. Your phone buzzes on the counter. You flinch at the sound, grateful for the distraction, and rush to grab it.

It’s a text from your date.

Hey, I’m really sorry, but something came up. Can we reschedule?

You stare at the screen, your jaw tightening as the words blur. You should be upset, maybe even hurt, but all you feel is irritation.

With a sharp breath, you set the phone down carefully, resisting the urge to toss it across the room.

Erwin watches you, brow furrowing. “Everything okay?”

You swallow, pressing your lips together before answering.

“Yeah,” you say, the word sharper than you intend. “My date just canceled.”

His jaw tightens, something flickering in his eyes. “Oh,” he says, voice low. “I’m… sorry.”

But he doesn’t sound sorry. Not really. And before you can stop yourself, the words are already out:

“Do you want to stay for a while?”

His eyes snap up to meet yours, surprise flickering across his face. He doesn’t answer right away, and for a second, you wonder if he’s going to turn you down.

But then he exhales, his shoulders dropping just slightly.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I can stay.”

You nod, though your pulse is racing, and gesture toward the couch. He hesitates for just a second, then grabs the hem of his sweatshirt. His hands work quickly at removing it as his body sinks into the cushions.

You slip off your heels and sit at the opposite end of the couch, tucking your legs beneath you. The distance feels necessary, like a safety net, but it doesn’t stop the air from feeling heavy between you.

For a while, neither of you speaks. The soft hum of music still floats through the room, but the song has changed — something slow and aching, the kind of song you’d skip if you were alone.

Erwin rubs his palms over his jeans, staring at the coffee table like it holds the answers to whatever question he’s not asking.

“You didn’t have to invite me in,” he says eventually, voice low and careful. “I know this is… weird.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “Yeah,” you admit. “It is.”

He glances at you, the corner of his mouth twitching like he almost smiled. “I can go if you want.”

But you shake your head, staring down at your hands in your lap. “No. It’s… it’s fine. It’s been a while since we talked, that’s all.”

He leans back, resting his head against the couch. “Yeah,” he echoes, staring at the ceiling. “Feels longer.”

The words settle in your chest, heavier than you expect.

You study him out of the corner of your eye — the way his shoulders curve in like he’s trying to make himself smaller, the faint streaks of silver threading through his hair. He looks tired. Older. But he’s still him. The same man who used to dance with you in the kitchen, who carried all three grocery bags in one trip just to make you laugh. The same man who signed his name on a divorce agreement two years ago without looking back.

Or maybe he did look back. Maybe you both did — just never at the same time.

You press your thumb into your palm, grounding yourself, and force the words out. “How have you been?”

He turns his head to look at you, eyes searching yours like he doesn’t know how honest he should be.

“I’ve been…” He trails off, biting the inside of his cheek. Then he exhales, shaking his head. “I don’t know. Some days are easier than others, I guess.”

You nod because you understand that too well.

“And you?” he asks, voice quieter. “Are you happy?”

His question knocks the wind out of you. You should say yes. You should tell him you’ve rebuilt your life, that you’re doing well, that you’re fine. But the truth lodges in your throat, too messy to untangle.

“I’m trying to be,” you say instead, your voice barely above a whisper.

Erwin’s expression softens, his brows drawing together like the answer hurts him somehow.

The silence stretches again, but it’s different this time — less awkward, more familiar. Like you’ve both slipped into an old rhythm, even if the melody is fractured.

After a while, he scrubs a hand down his face and shifts in his seat. “I should probably let you get some rest,” he murmurs, already moving to stand.

But your chest tightens at the thought of him leaving, at the door closing and swallowing him up again.

“Or,” you say, voice shaky, “we could order takeout.”

He freezes, eyes locking on yours.

“For old times’ sake,” you add, your throat tight.

He studies you for a long moment, like he’s searching for permission to stay. And then he smiles — small and tired, but real.

“Okay,” he says, settling back into the cushions. “What are we in the mood for?”

And just like that, the space between you shifts. It’s not forgiveness. It’s not closure.

But it’s something.

You grab your phone, fingers hovering over the screen as you scroll through the familiar list of restaurants. The usual suspects — the pizza place you spent many birthdays at, the Italian restaurant Erwin took you to for your first date, the occasional hole in the wall Asian restaurant, and his favorite Greek restaurant.

“What do you feel like?” you ask, glancing over at him, already having a sneaking feeling as to what he’ll choose.

Erwin leans back against the couch, stretching his arm along the backrest like he’s trying to get comfortable. But his gaze keeps flicking around the apartment — your new apartment. It doesn’t look anything like the home you used to share, but he’s still studying it like he’s searching for pieces of the life you built together.

“I don’t know,” he finally says, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Is that Greek place still around?”

Your chest tightens with the memories — late nights with plates of hummus and pita bread, laughing until your stomach hurt, Erwin stealing your fries even though he swore he didn’t want any. The seven birthdays of his that you spent chatting the night away there, just because it was his favorite.

“Yeah,” you say, your voice softer now. “It’s still there.”

He nods, rubbing his jaw. “Let’s do that, then.”

You place the order, and by the time you set your phone down, the tension in the room has eased just a little. But there’s still something fragile about it — like the new version of your life is trying to coexist with the ghost of your old one.

He rests his elbows on his knees, glancing toward the hallway where the boys’ rooms are. Their doors are covered in stickers and crayon drawings, things they picked out to make the space feel like theirs.

“They like it here?” he asks, voice careful.

“They love it,” you say, and a small, proud smile tugs at your lips. “Xavier picked out his own paint color — bright green. It’s a little… intense, but he thinks it’s the coolest thing ever. And Jasper loves the park down the street. We go almost every evening.”

Erwin smiles, and it’s the kind of smile that makes your heart ache. “I’m glad,” he says, leaning back against the cushions. “This place suits you.”

You blink, caught off guard by the comment. “What do you mean?”

He gestures vaguely around the room. “I don’t know. It just feels like you.” He huffs a quiet laugh. “The candles, the books everywhere, the throw blanket that’s way too soft to be practical.” His gaze softens as he looks at you. “You built something good here.”

You swallow the lump rising in your throat, fingers curling into the hem of your dress. “I had to,” you say quietly. “For the boys.”

“And for yourself,” he adds, his voice gentle but certain.

His words settle between you, heavy and tender all at once.

The food arrives a little while later, and you spread the containers out on the coffee table like you used to. You eat in easy, quiet bites, talking about the kids, work, and the little things that make up your separate lives. And when you’re both too full to move, he sinks further into the couch, eyes drifting closed.

“I haven’t eaten that much in forever,” he mutters, rubbing his stomach.

You laugh, pulling the too-soft blanket over your lap. “You always say that. And then you always do.”

His eyes flick open, finding yours, and something shifts in the air again — that fragile thread pulling tight. You should look away, but you don’t.

“It’s nice,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Talking like this.”

You nod, your pulse thudding painfully loud in your chest. “Yeah,” you admit. “It is.”

He swallows, gaze dipping to your mouth for half a second before he looks away, rubbing his palms on his jeans like he needs something to ground him.

“I should go,” he says, but he doesn’t move.

You stare at him, heart racing, words pressing against the back of your throat like they might tear you apart if you keep swallowing them down.

“You don’t have to leave, you know,” you say quietly.

Erwin freezes, his body tense like he’s not sure he heard you right. His hand, halfway to the armrest, curls into a loose fist, and he slowly turns to face you.

His eyes search yours, cautious and careful. “Are you sure?” he asks, voice rough like he doesn’t quite trust it.

You nod, your pulse pounding in your ears. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I’m sure.”

He sinks back into the couch, exhaling like he’s been holding his breath this whole time. He rests his head against the back cushion, rubbing his hands over his face before letting them fall into his lap.

For a few moments, neither of you speaks. The music hums softly, a low, aching melody that barely feels real. It fills the silence like it’s trying to soften the sharp edges of everything you’re not saying.

Erwin leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, rubbing his hands together like he’s trying to steady himself. His shoulders are tense, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.

“I miss them,” he says, voice so quiet it almost disappears into the room. “On the nights they’re not with me. The quiet just… gets to me sometimes.”

You nod, fingers twisting in your lap. “Yeah,” you say softly. “Me too.”

Because you know exactly what he means — how the absence of your kids turns the apartment into an echo chamber. How you still find yourself listening for their footsteps or the sound of them giggling in the next room, even when you know they aren’t there.

“They keep me busy, though,” he continues, a faint, tired smile tugging at his mouth. “Jasper’s been making me practice baseball with him in the backyard. I think he wants to go pro.”

You laugh, the sound lightening the weight in your chest. “He’s been telling everyone he’s the next big thing. He even tried to negotiate a later bedtime because ‘athletes need more recovery time.’”

Erwin chuckles, shaking his head. “That sounds like him.”

The ease of it — talking about the boys, sharing the small moments you’ve each had with them — chips away at the tension, piece by piece.

“How’s Xavier?” he asks, turning to look at you. “He seemed a little quiet last week.”

You tuck your legs beneath you, rubbing your thumb against the seam of your dress. “He’s okay,” you say. “He’s just been having trouble sleeping lately. Says he has bad dreams sometimes.”

Erwin’s face falls. “He didn’t tell me that,” he murmurs, guilt flickering through his eyes.

You shake your head quickly. “It’s not a big deal. He usually just crawls into bed with me, and then he’s fine.” You hesitate before adding, “He brings his stuffed elephant — the one you won for him at the carnival.”

Erwin’s throat bobs as he swallows, and he leans back against the couch, running a hand through his hair. “I wish he’d told me,” he says, voice quieter.

You want to tell him it’s okay. That co-parenting is messy and complicated, and sometimes the boys talk to you about things they don’t tell him — just like they probably tell him things they don’t tell you. But the ache on his face makes it impossible to find the right words.

Instead, you just say, “They love being with you. They come back talking about all the fun stuff you do together. Jasper told me you let them build a fort in the living room and sleep in it.”

Erwin’s lips twitch into a small smile. “I didn’t let them. They just did it. I woke up with a pillow to the face.”

You laugh, the sound slipping out before you can stop it. And for a moment, it feels… easy.

After a while, he sinks further into the couch, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Do you remember when we used to do this?” he asks, his voice quieter now. “Just sit and talk until it was way too late?”

You nod, your chest tightening. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I remember.”

He looks over at you, something unreadable in his expression. “I missed this,” he admits, the words falling out like he’s been holding them in for too long. “Talking to you.”

Your heart stumbles over itself, and you have to force yourself to breathe. “Me too,” you say, so quietly you’re not sure he even hears it.

But he does.

Because he shifts closer — just slightly — like he’s drawn to the sound of your voice. And when he exhales, his whole body seems to relax, like some part of him needed to hear you say it.

You can see it in the way his shoulders relax, the tension in his jaw loosening like your words unraveled something inside him.

And maybe it should scare you — how easily you can still affect him. How easily he still affects you.

But it doesn’t.

Not tonight.

Without thinking, you shift closer, closing the space between you until your knees almost touch. He notices, his eyes flicking to where you’ve moved, but he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t move at all.

“I missed this too,” you admit, the words spilling out before you can second-guess them. “I miss… you.”

His breath catches, sharp and sudden. He turns to face you fully, his eyes searching yours, wide with something that looks a lot like hope — but fragile, like he’s afraid to let himself feel it.

“You do?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

You nod, your chest tightening. “Yeah,” you breathe. “I do.”

The air between you hums, charged and fragile all at once. You can feel the warmth of his body this close, the familiar scent of his cologne lingering on his clothes. It sends a shiver through you, not from discomfort, but from how right it feels — how terrifyingly easy it is to slip back into this space with him.

“I think about you,” he says, his voice low and rough. “When the boys aren’t with me, when the house is quiet… I wonder how you are. If you’re happy.” He swallows, his gaze dropping to your mouth for just a second before flicking back up. “I don’t know if I’m allowed to miss you, but I do. All the time.”

Your heart pounds so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.

“You don’t have to wonder,” you whisper, your fingers curling into the fabric of your dress to keep them from shaking. “I’m right here.”

Erwin exhales sharply, like your words knock the air out of him. He looks at you, really looks at you, and something shifts in his expression — something raw and aching, like a door opening to a room you both promised never to step into again.

“But you weren’t,” he says, his voice breaking on the words. “At the end… you weren’t.”

The sentence slices through the moment, sharp enough to make you flinch. But he doesn’t pull back. He stays, his hand resting on his thigh, fingers twitching like he’s holding himself back from reaching for you.

Your chest tightens. “Erwin…”

“I know I’m not innocent in this,” he says, shaking his head. “I know I made mistakes, but it felt like I was losing you a little more every day, and I didn’t know how to stop it.”

The room feels too small, too heavy. But you force yourself to stay in it — to face what you both ran from for so long.

“I didn’t know how to ask for help,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “I felt like I was drowning. Between the boys, the house, work… and I just kept holding it in because I thought that’s what I was supposed to do.” You blink rapidly, fighting the burn in your eyes. “And then I started feeling like a failure. Like I was ruining everything, and I didn’t want you to see me like that.”

Erwin turns to face you fully, his brows knit together. “You thought you were ruining things?” he asks, disbelief lacing his voice. “I thought I was the one ruining things.”

You laugh bitterly, wiping at your eyes. “We were a mess, weren’t we?”

“We were tired,” he corrects, his voice softening. “We were trying to keep everything together and forgot to take care of each other.”

The truth of it sits between you, heavy and undeniable.

“I resented you,” you confess, your voice shaking. “Not because of anything you did. Just because you didn’t seem to be falling apart like I was. And that felt… unfair.”

His eyes darken, guilt flooding his expression. “I was falling apart,” he says, his voice hoarse. “I just hid it because I thought if one of us stayed steady, it might keep us from collapsing completely.” He looks down, rubbing his hands over his jeans. “I didn’t want to add more to your plate, so I buried it. And eventually, it felt like I was living with a stranger.”

You suck in a shaky breath. “I felt like a stranger.”

Erwin’s hand twitches, and this time, he doesn’t stop himself. He reaches for you, his fingers curling over yours with careful, deliberate gentleness.

“I hated that we stopped talking,” he whispers. “We were best friends, and then one day, it was like… like we were just these two people passing each other in the same house.”

Your chest tightens so painfully it makes your eyes sting. “I hated it too,” you admit. “But by the time I realized how bad it was, I didn’t know how to fix it.”

He nods slowly, his thumb brushing against your knuckles. “Neither did I,” he says. “So we just… let it break.”

You swallow the lump in your throat, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I thought leaving would make it hurt less,” you whisper. “But it didn’t.”

His grip on your hand tightens like he’s trying to anchor himself to the words. “Me neither.”

You continue, your voice barely above a whisper. "I thought it would be easier to move on, but I couldn't. I kept wondering what you were doing, who you were with..."

He cuts you off, his own voice thick with emotion. "There was no one else. There hasn't been anyone else since you left."

You look up at him, your eyes meeting his, and the space between you hums with electricity. The weight of everything unsaid lingers in the air, thick and unrelenting. Erwin reaches out, his hand cradling your face with a gentleness that makes your chest ache. His thumb grazes your cheek, sending a shiver down your spine as your pulse races.

He shifts closer, his body pressing against yours on the couch, the warmth of him sinking into your skin. His gaze flickers to your mouth, and the desire in his eyes is unmistakable — raw and unguarded.

He leans in, his face just inches from yours, his breath warm against your lips. Your heart pounds, your thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind. But none of it matters the moment he finally closes the distance, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss so soft it steals the air from your lungs.

The kiss deepens slowly, like neither of you wants to rush it — like you’re afraid to break whatever fragile thread is holding you together. But the restraint doesn’t last long. His fingers slide into your hair, pulling you closer, and you respond without thinking, your body melting into his like you were made for this. For him.

He pulls you onto his lap, his hands exploring your body with a hunger that makes your breath hitch. His kiss is desperate, unrestrained, fueled by years of longing that neither of you dared to voice until now.

His lips leave yours to trail down your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses against your skin. He nips and sucks at the sensitive spots, drawing a soft moan from your lips as your fingers weave into his hair. You arch into him instinctively, chasing the warmth of his touch, the closeness you’ve craved for too long.

His mouth lingers on your neck, his teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you shiver. When he pulls back, his breathing is ragged, and his eyes — darker and heavy with desire — trace every inch of your face like he’s trying to memorize you.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing along your jaw. “I can’t believe I let you go.”

The words hit you harder than you expect, your chest tightening at the raw honesty in his voice. But before you can get lost in the ache of the past, his lips are on yours again, gentler this time, like he’s savoring the taste of you.

His hands slide down your sides, gripping your hips with enough pressure to make your pulse stutter. The way he holds you, like you’re something precious, makes your heart pound even harder.

You shift in his lap, your body burning with the need for any friction, but it’s not enough. A soft whine escapes your plump lips, your mind overrun with thoughts of what to do. You want to take your time, to draw this out, to feel every inch of him. But you also would not be upset if decided to throw you against the wall and have his way with you.

“Stop thinking,” he whispers in your ear, sensing that you were starting to get in your head. “Take what you need from me. I’ll give you anything you want. You already know that.”

His lips place soft kisses under your ear as his words echo in your head. All at once, the battle in your brain stops, and you finally give in to your desires. Erwin’s hands tighten on your hips as you shift on his lap, worried that you’re trying to get off and end whatever was about to happen.

You can’t help but smile when you hear the quiet gasp leave his mouth as your legs move to straddle one of his thighs. Your dress rides up higher as your clothed cunt makes contact with his jeans, the heat from it making his cock instantly hard.

Erwin stills, his fingers digging into your hips as a sharp breath escapes him. His eyes snap up to meet yours, his jaw clenched like he’s holding himself back.

“Are you trying to kill me?” he breathes, a shaky laugh breaking through the tension.

You smile, biting your bottom lip as you roll your hips just slightly, testing him. His grip tightens, and a low groan rumbles in his chest, his head falling back against the couch.

“Good girl,” he mutters, his voice rough and dripping with praise. He lifts his head again, watching you like you’re the only thing in the world. “Take it, baby. Take everything.”

His words send a spark of heat through you, and you move again, slower this time, savoring the friction. His thigh is solid beneath you, the muscles tensing with every shift of your body, and the way he watches you — eyes hooded, mouth parted, chest rising and falling like he can barely breathe — makes you feel dizzy.

He doesn’t rush you. He just holds you, steady and patient, his hands guiding your movements like he’s perfectly content to let you unravel in your own time. And with every roll of your hips, every quiet sound that escapes your lips, his praise comes like a steady pulse of warmth against your skin.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers, his fingers flexing against your waist. “Just like that.”

Your body hums with every slow, deliberate movement, the ache in your core growing unbearable, but you don’t want to rush. Not when he’s looking at you like that — like you hung the stars and he can’t believe he’s allowed to touch them.

Erwin’s hands guide your hips, his fingers digging into your skin just enough to keep you grounded. His jaw is tight, the muscles twitching as he watches you, completely wrecked and utterly devoted.

“You feel so good,” he murmurs, voice rough and low. “I could stay like this forever… watching you get yourself off on my thigh.”

The words sink into your skin, making your whole body flush. You grip his shoulders, your nails biting into his skin through his t-shirt as you move a little faster, chasing the friction that has you spiraling. One of your hands slips down his chest, stopping at the hardness hidden by his jeans. You lightly dance your fingertips on it, teasing him.

Erwin groans, his head tipping forward until his lips are brushing against your ear. “You’re incredible,” he breathes, his voice sending a shiver down your spine. “You don’t even know what you do to me, do you?”

You whimper, shaking your head, because words feel impossible when he’s touching you like this, holding you like you’re something sacred.

He kisses your neck, his lips trailing up to your jaw, and every touch feels like an apology, a promise, and a prayer all at once. “I’ve wanted this,” he confesses, his breath hot against your skin. “Wanted you. Even when I tried not to.”

The confession knocks the air from your lungs, and you turn your head, capturing his mouth in a kiss that’s all teeth and desperation. His grip tightens, pulling you even closer, swallowing every sound you make like he needs it to survive.

“W-Wanted you too,” you quietly moan into his mouth, your hips moving faster at his words. “Fuck, Erwin. So good.”

He shifts beneath you, flexing his thigh just right, and that’s all it takes for you come undone with a trembling moan, your body quaking against him. Your hand tightens on the outline of his length, making him groan loudly at your touch. His hands move to your back, pulling you close to his chest as you come down from your orgasm. He can feel your back move with each shaky breath, and your skin feels like fire under his fingertips.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just cradles you close, pressing soft kisses to your temple as his finger stroke the length of your spine softly.

You hear the shaky breath that leaves him as he rests his chin against the top of your head. “God, I missed this,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “I missed you.”

You lift your head, your chest still heaving, and meet his gaze. His face is flushed, his normally bright eyes dark and heavy-lidded, but there’s something else there too — something raw and vulnerable, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to want this as much as he does.

“I missed you too,” you whisper, brushing a damp strand of hair away from his face. “I didn’t think… I didn’t think we’d ever be here again.”

His fingers flex against your waist, and he swallows hard. “I didn’t either,” he admits, his voice breaking. “And now that we are… I don’t know how to stop wanting you.”

Your heart clenches painfully. Because it’s not just physical. It never was. The years apart haven’t erased the way he craves every part of you — not just your body, but the way you fit into his life, the way you always have.

You cup his face, your thumb tracing the curve of his jaw.

“You don’t have to stop,” you say softly.

His breath hitches, and something shifts in his expression — the last shred of restraint slipping away.

“Come here,” he whispers, his voice laced with both command and plea.

You kiss him, slow and deliberate, pouring every ounce of longing and regret into the space between you. And he gives it all back — his lips moving against yours with an aching kind of desperation, like he’s trying to make up for every missed chance, every lost moment.

But the couch feels too small for everything you feel for him.

Erwin pulls back, his breathing ragged, his forehead resting against yours. His fingers dig gently into your waist, like he can’t stand the thought of letting you go.

“Let me take you to bed,” he whispers, his voice rough and low. “I want to feel all of you.”

Your chest tightens, and all you can do is nod.

He doesn’t make you move. Instead, he shifts beneath you, his hands sliding under your thighs as he lifts you effortlessly into his arms. Your legs wrap around his waist like second nature, your body clinging to him as he stands, holding you against him like you weigh nothing at all.

He carries you through the apartment with slow, careful steps, his lips finding yours again and again — hungry, searching kisses that make you dizzy.

By the time he reaches your bedroom, you’re both breathless. He nudges the door open with his foot, stepping inside without breaking the kiss. The room is dimly lit, the glow of the streetlights outside spilling through the curtains and casting soft shadows across the bed.

He lowers you onto the mattress with heartbreaking gentleness, as if he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go too quickly. But he doesn’t leave you for long. He follows you down, settling between your legs, his body pressing into yours like he’s desperate to be as close as possible.

His fingers trail down your sides, slow and deliberate, like he’s relearning you through touch alone. He lifts himself just enough to hover over you, his gaze roaming your face, then lower — taking in the way your chest rises and falls, the way your body molds against his like you never stopped belonging to each other.

His hand drifts to the hem of your dress, fingers curling around the satin fabric. He hesitates, his chest heaving as he searches your face. “Can I?” he whispers, voice rough and strained.

You nod, your pulse thudding in your ears. “Please.”

He exhales, sitting back on his heels as he slowly pushes the dress up your thighs. His hands are steady, but there’s a respectful gentleness in the way he touches you, as if handling something sacred. The fabric slides over your skin, and each inch he uncovers feels like a rediscovery, as if he’s relearning you all over again.

When the dress pools around your waist, he leans down, pressing his lips to the curve of your hip, then just above your navel. “You’re still perfect,” he murmurs, his voice vibrating against your skin. “Every inch of you.”

Your fingers sink into his hair, your body arching into him like instinct, like muscle memory. “Erwin,” you breathe, your voice already unraveling.

He groans softly at the sound of his name, his hands skimming up your thighs to grip your waist. “I’ve missed this,” he says, almost like he’s confessing a sin. “Missed you.”

He lifts the dress higher, sliding it up and over your head in one fluid motion, tossing it aside like it’s the last thing on his mind. His gaze rakes over you, dark and desperate, but there’s something fragile underneath the hunger — a quiet awe, like he can’t believe the two of your are this close.

“Two years,” he whispers, his fingers trailing over your skin like he’s counting the days you’ve been apart. “I’ve wanted you every single day.”

Your chest tightens, tears pricking at your eyes, and you tug him back down to you, capturing his mouth in a kiss that tastes like longing and forgiveness all at once.

“Then take me,” you whisper, the words spilling out against his lips. “Like you never stopped.”

Erwin groans, the sound breaking in his throat, and when he kisses you again, it’s not careful anymore. It’s consuming.

He kisses you like he’s starving for it — like every day without you has been slowly killing him, and this is the only way to breathe again. His body presses into yours, his hands exploring every inch of skin he can reach, like he’s trying to memorize you all over again.

He moves slowly at first, almost hesitant, like he’s afraid he’ll break you. But when you arch into him, when you tug him closer and gasp his name, something inside him snaps.

Erwin moans into your mouth, his grip on your waist tightening as he presses you deeper into the mattress. But then, he suddenly pulls back, chest heaving, his eyes blazing as they rake over you.

You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s kissing his way down your body — slow, deliberate, like he’s unraveling you piece by piece. His lips trace a burning path along your collarbone, then lower, pressing quick kisses to every inch of skin he uncovers.

“I need to taste you,” he mutters against your stomach, his voice wrecked. “I’ve been dreaming about it.”

Your body jolts at his words, heat pooling low in your belly. You lift your hips instinctively, and he takes it as permission, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your underwear and sliding them down your legs with agonizing patience.

He spreads your thighs, settling between them like he belongs there. His hands stroke along your inner thighs, his fingers pressing into your skin just enough to make you squirm.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his voice thick with awe. “You’re perfect.”

You open your mouth to respond, but all that escapes is a broken gasp as he leans in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your most sensitive spot.

It’s almost too much, the way he devours you like he’s starving for it — like he’s been deprived of this for so long he can’t bear to take his time. With every gasp and moan that escapes your lips, Erwin feels the last bit of himself he was holding back unravel.

His tongue works magic on your clit, sending waves of pleasure through your body. He alternates between gentle licks and hard sucks, watching each reaction you give him. When you try to turn away, his hands grip your thighs, holding you in place as he devours you with a hunger that leaves you breathless.

“Don’t look away,” he murmurs, voice low and commanding. “I want to see you fall apart.”

His words and the weight of his gaze on you unravels you. Your fingers work into his hair, twisting at the strands as your back arches in pleasure. He doesn’t stop — doesn’t let up his tongue’s torment on your aching clit, doesn’t look away from your beautiful face for even a second until you shatter beneath him, crying out his name like a prayer.

His tongue slows down its movements, working you through your orgasm. Soft groans leave his throat as he tastes you, licking every inch of your cunt so he doesn’t leave a drop behind. Your legs try to close on his head, and he grins at the overstimulation he’s causing you.

He moves slightly, pressing gentle kisses to your trembling thighs as you recover, his touch grounding you. When he finally lifts himself back up, he kisses you without hesitation, letting you taste yourself on his lips as he settles over you again, his body flush against yours.

“I could do that forever,” he whispers, brushing your hair back from your damp forehead. “But I need to feel you.”

The way he says it, the desperate crack in his voice, makes you pull him even closer.

“Then take me,” you breathe, your legs wrapping around his waist. “I’m yours.”

Erwin freezes, his body trembling above you like your words physically stopped him. He lifts his head, eyes searching yours, his chest heaving with every shaky breath.

“Say that again,” he pleads, his voice barely a whisper, like he needs to hear it one more time just to believe it’s real.

You cup his face, your fingers tracing the lines of his jaw, your heart pounding so hard it hurts. “I’m yours,” you repeat, your voice steady despite the tears burning at the corners of your eyes. “I’ve always been yours.”

He exhales like the weight of the world just slid off his shoulders, and then he kisses you — desperate and consuming, like he’s trying to fuse himself to you.

“I’m yours,” you whisper again, the words slipping out between kisses, like you need him to believe it.

Erwin groans like the words break him, kissing you fiercely as he finally gives in. His body presses into yours, the heat of him seeping into your skin, but it’s still not close enough.

His hands explore you like he’s trying to commit you to memory all over again, but when you tug at the hem of his shirt, he gets the message. He sits back on his heels, chest rising and falling in ragged breaths, and yanks the shirt over his head, tossing it to the floor without a second thought.

Your breath catches as you take him in — the familiar stretch of muscle, the faint scars you used to trace with your fingers, the way he still looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, voice low and teasing, but there’s a vulnerability in his eyes, like he’s desperate to know you still want him like this.

You reach out, your fingers gliding down his chest, tracing the lines of him softly. “I didn’t think I’d get to do this again,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

His throat bobs as he swallows, and he leans down, capturing your mouth in a kiss so tender it makes your chest ache. “You can,” he whispers, like a promise. “I’m here. You can have all of me.”

Your fingers trail lower, to the waistband of his jeans, and he shudders as you start to undo them. But he doesn’t make you finish. He stands, stripping the rest of the way, his movements quick and unsteady, like he’s afraid if he takes too long, you’ll change your mind.

And when he finally lowers himself back over you — skin to skin, nothing left between you — he exhales like he can finally breathe again.

He presses his forehead to yours, his hand cradling your face. “I can’t go slow,” he whispers, voice rough and wrecked. “I’ve wanted this for too long.”

You wrap your legs around him, pulling him impossibly closer. “Then don’t,” you breathe. “I need you.”

Erwin doesn’t make you wait.

He kisses you like he’s starving, his body pressing you deeper into the mattress as he positions himself between your legs. His hands roam your skin, both rough and gentle, as if he’s trying to memorize every inch of you by touch.

He lines himself up, pausing just long enough to search your eyes, his chest heaving. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he whispers, his voice tight, like it’s taking every ounce of restraint he has not to lose himself in you completely.

You shake your head, your nails dragging down his back. “Don’t stop,” you plead, arching into him. “I want all of you.”

That’s all it takes.

He sinks into you slowly, his forehead dropping to yours as he lets out a broken groan. The stretch, the fullness — it’s almost overwhelming, but it feels right. Like he belongs there.

“God,” he chokes out, his fingers digging into your hips. “You feel… perfect.”

You gasp, clinging to him, your body adjusting around him as he stills, like he’s trying to give you time to catch your breath. But you don’t want time. You want him.

“Move,” you whisper, your voice shaking. “Please.”

Erwin curses under his breath and obeys, drawing back before pressing into you again, slow and deliberate. His movements are steady, like he’s savoring every second, every tiny reaction he pulls from you — the way your body arches, the way you gasp his name, the way your fingers claw at his skin like you’re trying to pull him even closer.

He kisses you through it, swallowing your whimpers, his breath hitching every time you roll your hips to meet his thrusts. “You’re everything,” he mutters against your mouth, voice rough and desperate. “I don’t deserve you, but I can’t stop.”

“You don’t have to stop,” you pant, your legs tightening around him to keep him exactly where you want him. “I don’t want you to.”

That shatters whatever fragile control he was holding onto.

His pace quickens, his thrusts turning frantic, like he’s trying to bury himself in you completely. The room fills with the sound of your ragged breaths, your bodies moving together like you never stopped fitting this perfectly.

“I love you,” he gasps, his face buried in your neck. “I love you so much I can’t —”

The words, the way he says them, completely undo you. Your orgasm crashes over you like a wave, your body clenching around him as you cry out his name, trembling in his arms.

Erwin follows a moment later, a guttural groan spilling from his throat as he comes undone, his body shaking against yours. He collapses on top of you, his weight grounding you, his face still pressed to your skin as he tries to catch his breath. You wrap your arms around him, holding him close as you both come down from your highs.

The room is quiet except for the soft hum of the air conditioning and the steady rhythm of Erwin’s breathing. The sheets are tangled around your legs, your skin still warm from where his body pressed against yours.

You lie on your side, facing him, your fingers tracing slow, aimless patterns against his chest. His arm rests around you, his fingers trailing gently up and down your spine, like he needs the constant reassurance that you’re still there.

For the first time in years, nothing feels broken.

You don’t speak at first — both of you content to exist in the quiet, letting the moment stretch out like it might last forever.

Erwin breaks the silence first, his voice low and rough. “I forgot what it felt like to hold you,” he admits.

You tilt your head up to look at him, your heart stuttering. “Yeah?”

He nods, eyes heavy with exhaustion and something softer — something that looks a lot like love. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I didn’t realize how much I missed it until now.”

Your throat tightens, and you press your palm flat against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath your hand. “I missed it too,” you say quietly, the words soft but true.

He swallows hard, shifting to prop himself up on one elbow so he can see you better. His fingers brush a strand of hair behind your ear, lingering like he’s afraid letting go will make this disappear.

“I don’t want this to be something we pretend didn’t happen,” he says, voice low and rough around the edges. “I don’t know what comes next, but… I want to try. If you’ll let me.”

Your chest tightens, the weight of his words pressing against something fragile inside you. Tears prick at your eyes, and you blink quickly, trying to steady your voice.

“I want that too,” you whisper, the words tumbling out like a confession. “But I’m scared. What if we just break all over again?”

His thumb sweeps across your cheek, catching a tear before it can fall. “Then we put ourselves back together,” he says, his voice shaking. “I don’t care how messy it is. I just don’t want to lose you again.”

A quiet sob slips out, and you grip his arm like you need something solid to hold onto. “I just signed a lease,” you say, your voice trembling. “The boys are finally settling in. I can’t… I can’t rip them out of that.”

“I know,” he whispers, his hand cradling your face like you’re something fragile and precious all at once. “I don’t need any of that to change. I just want to be here… as much as you’ll let me.”

You break completely at that. You curl into him, burying your face against his chest as the tears finally fall. And he just holds you — no pressure, no expectations — his fingers threading through your hair, his lips pressing soft, steady kisses to the top of your head.

Eventually, you pull back, your face flushed, your body exhausted, but your heart a little lighter. “So… we try?” you whisper, searching his face like you’re still waiting for him to change his mind.

He smiles, small and a little sad, but real. “We try,” he promises, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead.

And as you close your eyes, breathing him in, the quiet doesn’t feel so heavy anymore.

banner credit: @saradika

[savorypink]

king and queen seat

you, alex, and some papers.

contains smut. + tbhc!au.

"What do you think?"

It's breathtaking. You marvel at your home planet's brilliance as you gaze from the large office window. The vast darkness of outer space leaves you hollow, but tonight, it aids in the mesmerising showcase before you. The orb is luminous in the dead, black sky, adorned with deep ocean blues and swirling clouds of white.

Patches of earthy greens and browns emerge, though not in great detail. You can almost pinpoint each continent. Watching from your seat, you feel microscopic, too puny and weak to handle it all.

As Alex settles beside you, the couch cushion sinks under his weight. Only when his large, icy hand envelopes your clammy palm are you thinking: Who in the hell puts a casino up here? You scramble through the file cabinet of your brain to muster something—anything worthwhile to say — but when your mouth opens, nothing emits. Alex adores it.

"Any adjective will do." He says, his warm lips brushing your knuckles in a gentle kiss. Your heart goes into overdrive, unsure if it's from Alex's touch or from realising how silly you must look.

"Wow." Your voice is but a whisper, but awe blankets every letter.

"Not an adjective." He sets your limp hand on your lap before returning to his desk. "I'll accept it, though."

Your gaze fixates on him as he rolls the sleeves of his button-down, hauling you deeper into a lovesick trance. Under the warm ceiling lights, the gold band on his finger flashes in the light as he does so, causing you to fidget with your own. A certain feeling crawls up your spine, mirroring the same puny insignificance you felt observing the Earth. Your man belongs here; you don't.

In the past, he might have shown initial protest, and leaving you on Earth certainly didn't help ease his guilt. However, you never doubted his ability to run this place. No one else had the capacity for care and detail as Alex did. From the green nylon carpeting to the flashing neon lights of the casino below, he had everything and then some.

Was it too ambitious? It'd be dumb to say otherwise. However, you can only see one man behind the desk running it all. And he wants you in the passenger seat? You should be happy, yet you wish for the couch cushions to swallow you whole.

You startle when a stack of documents slams onto the desk and again when you hear the thud of the desk drawer closing. From the drawer, Alex retrieves a pen adorned with a cute rubber charm of an astronaut at the top. A pair of readers also emerges from the drawer, which he perches on the tip of his Romanesque nose. Yes, he's your husband, but you're here solely on business. What's with the teenage swooning?

In silence, you watch as he reviews the documents. He's already pre-signed them, and the dotted lines await your signature, but you know how thorough he likes to be. The pen looks like a plaything in his giant fist. The veins in his wrist pulse as he clicks the pen, obnoxiously echoing off the office walls. For a moment, you're convinced the clicking is in perfect synch with your frantic heart despite the inattention of the action.

When the clicking ceases, your heart does, too, only to start again once he brings the clicker between his teeth, his lips brushing the astronaut charm. You're realising how uncomfortable your pencil skirt and button-up are as you sweat like a sinner doused in holy water. Are you seriously jealous of a pen?

"Baby." The air loses its stillness when his velvety voice fills the silence, causing you to sit upright. "What are you thinking about?"

Where do you begin? This co-manager role is a lot of responsibility, and I'm terrified. Do I want to do this? Why do you look so sexy when reading stuff? We should kiss. Cute pen, by the way. None of these thoughts leave your mind. Instead, the sour tang of word vomit tumbles out.

"You look good in that chair." It comes out more gravelly than you wish, and Alex notices it. The smirk adorning his handsome features says more than enough.

"Our chair now." He leans further into the velour chair, playfully twisting until he gets up. "Unless you don't want it. I know my girl likes to decorate." He slides the papers in your direction, placing the pen beside them.

"She does. It's very...you."

The office could be mistaken as a set for Mad Men. The scent of the mahogany walls and a newly vacuumed carpet float through the air. Though you're worried your sweat may have soiled it, the orange couch under you is intact, comfortable and plush, with no signs of sinking. You also notice this in the two spare chairs, the same burnt orange colour as the couch. Men in suits should be scaling the walls to be here. Yet, the office feels uninhabited; the only lingering animal prowling is Alex.

It is muted and lonely. It feels just like space. It feels like Alex.

"Eh," he shrugs. "It could use some plants. Gonna need your name on these papers, little lady."

Temporarily, you don't rise from your seat. Your nervous system isn't sending the neurons to your legs. You're realising this isn't some fawn-in-headlights moment. You're aware of your surroundings and what you're here to do. Yet, the painful churning of your guts and the weight of this—what you're sacrificing your life on Earth for—is weighing twice as heavy. These aren't first-day jitters. This is a warning.

Ultimately, your legs take you to the desk, but you're shouting at your body to stop shaking. It's only you, Alex, and some papers. It's almost like your wedding day.

You can pick up the pen without spasm, and Alex smiles when you do. Before your eyes meet the papers, you spot your wedding photo in a brown frame on the desk. The picture shows signs of wear and tear, with some fraying around the edges. The imperfections stem from the photo being in his wallet for years, but the flaws increase its charm. From the sepia colouring to you and Alex's stiff posture, the picture looks antique and fragile, your poses complementing the retro feel. Regardless, you hold your bouquet of dried peonies and foliage, beaming ear to ear with Alex behind you. You recall his offer to decorate, and while there are some things you'd like to rearrange, that photo isn't one of them. Your poses? You would change in a heartbeat.

To kill time, you skim the papers as slowly as you can. Alex simplified all the legal jargon for you beforehand, but you feel like a child picking up their first book. The most straightforward words look like gibberish, and your head is reeling as it attempts to comprehend everything. Your skull feels as if two large hands are squeezing your temples, the pain throbbing even harder when you reach the dotted line awaiting your name.

With your mind muddled and the room doing 360s, you don't even register Alex has moved behind you, his lips ghosting over your ringing ear.

"Is everything alright?"

His hushed whisper is soothing, grounding even. You can feel the carpet under your heels again. The dotted line is no longer a blur, and your head is no longer doing pirouettes. The air stirs again, and the burning in your lungs drops a few temperatures. You can breathe once more.

"Yes," you say. You click the pen and scribble your name. Although it looks like chicken scratch, Alex is familiar enough with your penmanship to deem it acceptable. He knows how you write when in a hurry, not when you're trying to make him happy.

Alex's arms firmly close around you, squeezing air out of you with mere strength. Elated isn't a strong enough word to define his happiness. It overflows in the scattered kisses he plants all over your reddening face, and you can feel him even trying to pick you up for a moment. You bask in the affection as if you hadn't signed your life away moments ago. You even giggle as his beard tickles and scratches your face.

The tenderness spilling from him is the only thing that feels normal. It's almost possible to forget you're here, on a floating rock in the middle of celestial nowhere. But the gleaming Earth outside the office window will always remind you of your sealed fate.

You're stuck here.

His lips meeting your mouth don't evoke the same enthusiasm from you. Hesitantly, you kiss back, imitating the lip movements of a kid kissed on the playground. Your nerves go unnoticed by your husband, likely mistaking your hesitance for teasing. His hands are still frigid, unyielding in temperature despite caressing your burning face. As the kiss deepens, you allow your previous doubts to dissipate, though Alex's tongue has done it for you. His grasp on your skull is tight, headache-inducing, but your relief is in his restlessness.

You can't blame him for wanting to tear you apart, his tongue roaming your mouth as if you were a lifeline. You've been gone for too long. Saying that he missed you would only scratch the surface. When he pulls away, both of you are breathless, your lungs clinging to the surrounding air.

"We should celebrate."

A lopsided grin adorns his features, making you want to kiss him all over again. Before Alex heads over to the bar cart near his desk, he leans in to give you one more peck on the lips. The bar is complete with coffee, teas and cookies you sent to him from home. The only alcohol is a small champagne bottle, which he returns to the desk. After pulling a corkscrew from the drawer, Alex releases the cork with a loud pop. The sound makes your heart misstep, but you can't contain your giggles, as it all happens in a rather lacklustre fashion: no foam, no clapping, no cheering. It's a surprise party thrown for the wrong person.

Alex hands you a paper cup filled halfway with champagne. As you take the cup, your hesitation mirrors the one in your kiss. You gaze at the cup, watching the bubbles ascend and burst. When he's back in front of you, you keep your eyes on the cup. You don't waver, even as you feel his eyes boring into you.

"What are you thinking about?" He asks. "And be honest this time."

The revelation doesn't shock you. It's somewhat reassuring that he caught up on your lie. The part where you have to tell him is what tugs at your heartstrings. Your eyes remain on the cup as if your answer is in the bubbles. Telling him should be a cakewalk; say how you feel. It's not like you're trying to reverse a major decision or anything!

You let your eyes leave the cup, meeting Alex's concerned expression; you're looking at a kicked, beat puppy, and the sight is nauseating. Perching on the desk, you sigh, watching your trembling legs sway beneath you.

"I know you can do this. And you do it well," you state. "I'm just not sure if I can do it. At all."

The light against your feet goes dark as Alex's shadow eclipses your form. For a moment, you're freezing as his shadow looms over you. You're fighting with your body to stop shivering, the weight of his shadow heavy and biting; it's almost unnerving. Soon enough, you find warmth as Alex's hand cups your cheek. The tenderness washes over you like a tidal wave; it's what you've yearned for this whole time. This should feel like something other than a business meeting. This is you and your husband.

"I don't need you to be perfect," he begins. "I need you to be here."

You swallow a lump large enough to make you choke, fixing your unsteady eyes on his warm gaze. "Is that enough?"

"More than enough. We've always been a team. Now, we're a team on the moon."

You chuckle, leaning your head into his calloused palm. "In a casino. On the moon."

"Right. Treat like we're at home. You cook, I do the dishes. I wash, you fold. It's all 50/50." He leans in and lowers your head, planting a tender kiss on your scalp. "You'll never do it alone. I promise. You can say your husband loves you to the moon if it's any consolation. And it'll be true."

A boulder is gone from your shoulders. It's like you're breathing for the first time, feeling the knot in your chest finally come undone. Your doubts will continue to linger; that won't change. The bittersweet aftertaste lies in the comfort of Alex being there to remove those hurdles for you. And he'll continue to do it—always—just as he promised you.

Sighing, you rest your head against his chest, focusing on the steady beat of his heart. "One hell of a celebration, huh?" You snort, looking at your cup. "We didn't even make a toast."

Alex withdraws from you, lifting the paper cup halfway. "What shall we toast to?"

"I dunno." You shrug, mirroring his movements albeit meekly. "Teamwork?"

With a small smile, he taps his cup against yours. "To teamwork."

Before taking a sip, Alex raises the cup once more. "And to Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino's First Lady."

First Lady, it's difficult for the title not to make you smile. As you sip your champagne, a comforting chill travels down your spine at the fizziness. You glide your tongue along your lips to catch the hints of melon, an action that feels like a blissful eternity in Alex's mind. His sharp eyes wander from your champagne-coated lips down to the tan pencil skirt you wore to match his tan trousers.

With ease, the stretchy fabric lifts and sculpts the curve of your butt, accentuating your hips and supple thighs. The skirt's ability to cling to you is equally alluring and irritating, moulding your body into perfect form and embracing you better than he could. It's not fair; it should be him instead.

Alex downs the last of his champagne in a swift swig, pivoting his aching lower half away from you. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches you clam up again, your eyes vacant and your hands pleading to shake. Your stress is infectious in the worst way possible, suffocating the office with unbearable weight, making his heart fall into his stomach.

Alex clears his throat before speaking, likely masking the shakiness threatening to slip out. "Can I do anything to make you more...comfortable?" He asks. "As far as your new position's concerned, I mean."

"Kiss me again."

You say it without delay. It's the most confidence you've had today. Alex quickly grants your wish, almost tripping over his feet to kiss you again. This kiss holds more ferocity than the one before. It's painful when your lips meet, the alcohol burning, teeth colliding. Your tongues are lacking in grace, twisting and fumbling over each other, rough and greedy. When you moan, he calls back to you with ten times the intensity, his groans deep, almost primal.

Both of you are equally breathless, like the first kiss, panting as you two separate. With your foreheads against each other, you realise nothing needs to be said between you. Besides a question from Alex, you two are pure telepathy. But sometimes, Alex likes to hear it from your mouth.

"What do you want to do?"

Through your quivering lip, you utter the command. "Sit."

The desk beneath you rumbles as Alex drops to his knees. He wastes no time from there, his hands mirroring the same insatiable hunger as his tongue. To your dismay but with delight, his impatient hands form tears and holes in your stockings. Your gooseflesh expands as your bare skin becomes exposed, your body tingling when his hands graze you, sending delightful shockwaves to your core.

Alex's eyes lock with yours, holding a gaze that swirls your heart and head. The fabric of your skirt wrinkles as his hold on the hem tightens; he's beyond eager to please you. He's a chess piece awaiting your skilful hand—a jester desperate for the royal's approval.

You give a simple nod, and to Alex, you've moved the piece that will lead you to victory. He hikes your skirt up to your stomach, releasing a swarm of butterflies with his movements. Alex tears through the remaining material of your stockings to access your drenched panties, his breathing ragged and hot against your flush skin. He yanks the flimsy fabric to the side and glides his fingers along your leaking entrance. The touch may be minimal, but the impact is immense; you clutch the edge of the desk tightly, unable to hold back a moan as his fingers glide into you.

"Deeper," you command. Alex's fingers delve even further into your core. His knuckles flex as your walls shut around the digits, his teeth clenched in a tight hiss. Your thigh quakes when you feel it, the frigid metal of his wedding band sliding past your warm walls. It's as deep as he can get, but your ache refuses to subside. Using your hips, you buck to motion for Alex to take the wheel or do anything. Your walls morph into quicksand around his fingers, rendering them immobile as his fingertips strike the area of your rioting ache.

His eyes, devoid of focus, shift back and forth between your quivering, moaning form and the fingers plunged within you. Your arousal dribbles clear and hot on the mahogany desk, and it's pretty—fuck, it drives him mad, but solely for the time being. He's thankful you can't hear the annoyed 'tch' he lets out.

Below your stomach, the heat is scorching as his fingers work you further, poking and prodding your bits as your vision turns cloudy white. A tender kiss on your knee jerks your head downward, and your eyes meet your husband's once more. There's a glimmer in both of your gazes, ample in heart-stopping warmth; it's unshakable, too loud to ignore. The sight of you is ghastly, sweat clinging to your body like a second skin, and your makeup melting off your face. You're aware of it all, but it doesn't matter to Alex, and it never will. He'll look at you all the same; he'll hang you in the Louvre while holding the same gaze that put a ring on your finger. You'll always be perfect in his eyes.

The sounds bouncing against the office walls assault your ears, echoing your moans and those wet, squelching noises. Alex is inaudible through it all, but you can decipher his words by studying the curves of his lips.

"Close?" Alex asks.

Your body betrays you before you can answer, moaning instead of a simple "yes", yet you're able to nod your head. His fingers curl as they thump against your core once more, the bricks you've stacked steadily beginning to crumble. Alex is saying something else, and you are pretty familiar with it. You recognise the curving of his lips. He utters the words–your favourite words.

"I love you."

You don't say it back. Instead, you allow yourself to come undone on his fingers, your walls collapsing around the digits as you cry out to him. Your vision is a lovely cloudy white when you spasm. Through your haze, you forget entirely about the remaining liquid in your cup, accidentally pouring it on the documents that still lack your signature.

As the clouds roll out, you can hear Alex cooing you back to reality as he utters sweet nothings against your skin, rubbing away the never-ending gooseflesh. He slides his fingers out of you with fragility, as if you'll crack again at the slightest touch. 

You will.

Alex stands up with a sigh, observing the mess formed on the desk. The champagne seeps into the documents, causing the ink to bleed and smear your signatures. When you look like this, it's hard to let his anger rear its horrid head. He knows better than to ruin your bliss, to rip you out of your cosy headspace, but he's your boss now. His words are merely a slap on the wrist.

"First Lady, you've ruined my desk."

You gulp as you try to regain your breath, your chest burning hot as you pant. "Our desk."

[9w1ft]

Okay okay set the scene-

champagne problems. 1 for the money (the first wedding)

2 for the show (the second highly broadcasted wedding featuring scooter Braun)

I never was ready (to come out?) so I watched you go (deeper into a bearding contract so that we can hide in plain sight and commit vigilante shit). I do belive that we were on for a public reunion and coming out before the masters heist.

anyways champagne problems making sense today.

oh yes and on a base level when we all first listened through evermore and got to champagne problems i would venture to guess that this was the prevailing thought for sure, but sort of in a dry humor way 🥴

also this!

one thing that i agree with that i sense from your interpretation is that (and this i feel is true about so much of folklore and i back this up with things taylor herself has written) is that it’s a mixture of feelings that arose over multiple moments and events, not a one to one thing that means only one thing. in other words, to me, champagne problems is not “someone got proposed to and got denied and therefore there was no wedding”. to me it’s more like using it as a metaphor for conveying the feelings she had around certain things. also i agree that i do think taylor was gearing up for some sort of coming out at the end of june 2019. but ultimately she changed course. and while i think that champagne problems can depict a certain feeling that she had and deal with things that happened that are wedding themed, in the sense of taking the temperature on the status of that relationship i always return to a song that feels chronologically newer, the lakes, and the line “i’m setting off, but not without my muse, no not without you.” when thinking about the overall arc of taylor’s moves post-june 2019. in retrospect, i also find the line “she’ll patch up your tapestry that i shred” to be similar to the motif of the banner found in other songs, “tore our banners down” and “years of tearing down our banners” — to me, champagne problems is representative of another time that taylor tore the banners down on something. that could be 2019, it could be earlier, like post-election 2016 maybe, but moreover, it’s one of a series of moments over time, not an end.

i thought i’d mention that the second wedding thing was positioned more like an extended reception for their business circles (scooter was her manager at the time). some family and friends came too but it had a distinct work friends vibe. a big dinner and activities. the first one was positioned more like a ceremony and intimate event with a smaller circle of friends and family. which i might add isn’t that weird conceptually (to have a smaller ceremony and then a bigger party later) or at least that’s how i went about doing my wedding years ago so 😆 like it was definitely sus (and silly!) of them to do two events, silly in an absurdist, god can’t we catch a break sort of way, but also not unheard of conceptually imo.

also if you could allow me a long tangent regarding one other tiny point that came to mind when reading your ask (and i’m sorry for getting particular about semantics and i’m mostly writing this because i’ve gotten a lot of newer followers lately so it’s not directed at you in particular nor am i sure you meant it that way but it did make me think something so here i go) it’s just that i think that it can be beneficial to us as observers of kaylor to consider a contract to be something that is signed and negotiated by two or more parties, and therefore, usually, it is a document that is considered balanced for all parties which is evidenced by approval through their signatures. that is to say, i think oftentimes we talk about adding marriage to bearding as going deeper into the closet and maybe we see the words ‘bearding contract’ and we talk about it like its a somewhat nefarious thing but, in spirit, a bearding contract is a document to facilitate the terms of something complicated and nuanced and important that shouldn’t be done on the fly. sometimes i feel like people think as if karlie and/or taylor were strong armed into some raw deal and that they are being bound and held captive to their true feelings, but i think that is a tenuous path to walk down. because when people see bearding as some sort of trapping mechanism to get out of, and then set expectations for what they want the girls to do in terms of how to get out of it, and their expectations do not get fulfilled, they tend to blame this on things which have been arbitrarily marked as unfair. and i think it often leads to people running to the concepts of blackmail, criminality, etcetera, as a catch all to explain and justify their ideals about how taylor or karlie should act. when we simply do not know the truth of the matter. and in terms of maintaining a healthy fandom community ecosystem, in my opinion, we ought to be able to amend our view of things with more ease and make the observation of kaylor a net positive in our lives as opposed to setting ourselves up to become angry or feeling perpetually disenfranchised at every turn based on the way we choose to define things. i am not saying we should not empathize with the complexity and tribulations of their situation or not hope for a future where we can all live life freely. i very much do. and i think there are hard times and sadness for them because of the realities of society. it’s just that, as a group, i think it is more useful or helpful for people like taylor to not have to worry about appeasing our feelings. she should have to spend time on us. in my opinion, in terms of priorities, we are behind other groups of people in her life and that’s how it should be. and so, i tend to avoid thinking about their situation as something bleak that they are getting buried under and may never get out of, but rather a uniquely complex situation that merits us extending some grace toward, in terms of setting expectations. and i think that the way we think about bearding or bearding contracts can affect our general mood and morale.

alright, thank you for allowing my tangent!

one parting idea for me is that, for example even in champagne problems, taylor was not ready personally to go through with something and that through the song she is acknowledging this hesitancy that came from her and how that might have ruined an envisioned version of things in a way, but that at the end of the day these are ‘champagne problems’ ie, problems that exist within the greater context of a situation of abundance. in a way, to me, taylor is saying, i know we have so much and at the end of the day maybe this hurt ought not to be compared to people in the world less fortunate, but i feel compelled to share this emotion anyway. there’s this tension in the song, for me anyway, between telling herself that her feelings aren’t important, and embracing and letting her feelings out (mostly the bridge). at the end of the song, reflecting on having torn down a banner, taylor hopes that her lover could find someone who could do what she could not in the moment, someone who recognizes how the bones are good, and she calls all her aforementioned feelings champagne problems. not that she necessarily believes that they are, nor is there magically some new person in the equation, but that she recognizes the difference in viewpoints between her and her lover and is wondering how to bridge the gap. i think in some ways that connects to the song happiness in the sense that taylor refers to her future self “all you want from me now is the green light of forgiveness, you haven’t met the new me yet, and i think she’ll give you that”

[postmodernbeliever]

stalker - fox mulder x female reader

at the fbi, your job is to watch who you're asked to. but on your own time, you watch fox mulder... and little do you know, he's watching you, too.

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my ao3 | word count: 3,518

content tags: sneaking around, embarrassment, stalking, longing, fox mulder is watching you, you are watching fox mulder, fox is a freak like you, fox likes weirdos, obsessive behavior, suggestive themes, you and fox just kinda eyefuck and nothing happens but god should it, cross-posted on ao3

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they all call him spooky mulder. what a nickname, spooky- even in its mainstream use, it has not lost its effect. there was always something off about him, something unsettling, which piqued your interest. you liked it so much that you paid special attention. it was your nature to keep tabs; you watched him come and go from his basement office, all the while pretending to be down in the gutter of the j. edgar hoover building for any other suspicious reason than taking mental notes on him. 

sure, it may sound creepy, but this is your job- this is why the fbi has you on the payroll. you’re what they call “the eyes and ears”, and in a sense, you don’t really have a job. your cover is to work in the filing department, faceless and nameless, and keep things organized as they go off to different sectors. you are the one sending weapons to evidence (or elsewhere) and case files to agents (or not) at the heart of the organization, where you just become the signing-off signature. but that office, where you blend in, is how they use you best. orders directly from the top tell you who to watch and when to come forward with information. but they never assigned you to special agent fox mulder. as was his infamous passion project dubbed the X files, this was your unassigned interest within the bureau- he was your freakish fixation.

you followed his case files as they came to inconclusive endings. you noticed when his hair grew too long. you knew he liked the coffee from the break room by a.d. skinner’s office, but he liked the creamer they kept on the first floor, so he traveled cross-complex to make the cup taste just right. you’d read every report and drowned in his philosophical, metaphysical droning, admiring the prose so overdosed on sleep deprivation and the ramblings of a transcending mind. it was like twisted poetry, how he explained what each case had imparted upon him. the way he viewed sociology, the way he viewed intervention both divine and damned, the manner in which he proposed the forces at play work and how they are ever-changing and insurmountable… god, he really is a genius. everyone may think he’s insane, or that his work is a waste of valuable resources, but fox mulder’s mind was one to be entertained, one to be challenged. to let his power go misrepresented or his purpose go any less than unabated would be a crime (if anyone asked you.)

see, this is why it could be considered weird. you revered him like a deity, unapologetically idolatrous of his brainpower- and from a more internal, girlish yearning, you loved his face. god, that face. you had examined his personal files many times in the safety of your office, tracing invisible lines over the photographs of him; caressing the scrapes and bruises documented from altercations with suspects, drooling over his academy polaroids stashed away from old physical exams. he still looked as young and charming as he did in his old school photos. a young oxford man, beautiful, traumatized, in need of proof. his work demanded his darkest instincts and most disgusting thoughts, and you loved him for it, or at least the idea of what it turned him into. and as far as word travels, fox mulder bars no personality incontinuities. after all the stories of the blood he’s tasted at crime scenes and the horrific pictures of murders and monsters plastered on the walls of his murky office, he was more than just spooky. he was freakish, and uncomfortable, and alluring.

now, fox is no idiot. in fact, to even think your interest was going unnoticed was a major misjudgment of his perceptive abilities; the man is the best analyst in the crime division, for god’s sake. he's never missed a clue. yet somehow, in the midst of your innocent stalking, you’d imagined he never saw you standing in his basement hallway, or mingling in the first-floor break room by the irish cream. naivety never crossed into your work, but it clouded your visions when it came to him. he’d seen you every time, shifty eyes fidgeting with blatant secrecy. when the man who didn’t believe in random events saw you more than once, he began following your lead. 

fox mulder kept copies of your personal files on his desk and sifted through them often, trying to get any information on you to substantiate why you paid so much attention to him. aside from his widespread suspicion, he also had a sense for intent, and he felt you were of no harm. even lurking in the shadows, there was a comfort to your presence. that might be his creepy personality being used to unsettling beings, but he didn’t mind. he liked catching you looking. he liked the way your suit jacket never matched your pants, but always somehow coordinated even in clashing patterns. he liked how your hair curled like french fries at the bottom, wide and loose. he liked how your manicured nails were always dark and sharp, and blatantly against bureau policy. fox knew you were as new to the fbi as he, so not new at all, but a child to seasoned agents; he learned of your ridiculous retention of information, and that you read twice the clocked words per minute of the average american. he knew of your graduation from yale and your speedy completion of the academy, as well as your elevated skill for firearms, which immunized you from a majority of field training. he knows about your secret connection, yet not who it’s with, and that it’s ushered you into a disguised deep-level position. in less legal ways of determining, the agent discovered you were the president of your high school’s history club, as well as the chief editor of the newsletter, and your family had a summer cabin on the oregon coast. you were smart, valuable, integral, even- and your talents were being wasted under cover of the monotonous filing department. he knew more than you realized. but even with his disturbing understanding of you, fox couldn’t figure out why it was him you watched- you had no connection to him, no link to his work or anyone who aimed to sabotage it. of all your secrets, he seemed to be the biggest.

you’d never expected anything to come of your little infatuation, but fox mulder didn’t like to let things linger. so when you just so happened to be venturing into the basement for something in the archived evidence room, he went into pursuit. you swiped your key card in the automatic door, and he followed you inside and made sure to close it nice and loud behind you. the lock clicked, causing you to jump out of your skin, and he laughed.

“not a fan of followers, huh?” the man teased.

“you just locked us in here, sir!” you nearly choked. you’d never seen him up close and personal. his shirt was a wrinkled mess, but it looked so nice rolled up on his fair-skinned arms, and his hair was a lot darker in person than it looked in the pictures. so were his eyes. 

“sir? no, nobody calls me sir.”

“what should i call you, then?” you groaned.

“agent mulder. spooky mulder. basement boy. whatever floats your boat!”

“well, then, agent mulder,” you elected, “you just locked us in here!”

“is that what you’re worried about? don’t worry, i'm sure agent scully will come down soon enough. or maybe not. maybe you’re stuck in here with me.”

you pivoted and began walking down the first aisle of archives, trying to come up with something to grab to avoid blowing your cover. fox kept at your heels, poking his head playfully into your eyeline.

“looking for something… you?” he inquired.

“that’s agent to you.”

“no name? ooo… spooky,” he wiggled his eyebrows, and you suppressed the fluttering in your stomach. you thought in frustration, how dare he make wordplay hot?

“says you.” you negated.

“so you do know me!”

“everyone knows you, agent mulder.”

“oh, sure… but you’ve been watching me, haven’t you?”

you stopped between the alphabetized boxes marked by Hs and Js, biting your tongue. you watched as fox sauntered around to the front of you, leaning nonchalantly against the filing shelf and smirking. his hand raised to wipe his mouth, and you analyzed the rough calluses and ink splotches carving uniqueness into his knuckles. a deep cut rested along his thumbnail down to his wrist. you recognized it as a healed-over wound from an inconclusive case months ago- something he claimed to have involved lizard men.

“i- i’m not sure what you mean.”

“you’ve been following me around, taking note of what i do. i see you every day. sometimes in the break room, sometimes in the bullpen by the car desk, sometimes shooting guns down at the range room on saturdays like i usually am. you’re always… floating around.'' fox mused, running a hand through his thick hair. a few pieces curled agonizingly over the frame of his face, and you felt like dying.

“must be coincidences.”

“you know well as me that there are no such things as coincidences,” fox stated, “there are simply events that occur, and more often than not, they occur causally, or in my case, through spurious correlation, but nobody can ever seem to pinpoint the third invisible factor that links one event to another, except for me.”

“speak english, agent mulder, would you?”

“you’ve been following me, which caused me to notice you, which caused you to pretend you haven’t been, and so forth,” he sighed, “but you know what i’m saying, don’t lie. you’re a yale alumni, graduated summa cum laude with a double major in psychology and international affairs. you’re one of the smartest women in the building. so why are you acting dumb?”

your stomach flipped as he stepped closer to you, leaning down in all his six-foot glory to meet your gaze. swallowing thickly, you shoved your hand in a box labeled CONFISCATED Ka-Kz and fished out the first object you grasped: a bloodied kazoo. wincing in embarrassment, you waved it in his face and grimaced.

“i'm just down here for this.”

“for a murder kazoo.” he deadpanned.

“…yes.”

you turned away and began heading for the door, but a strong palm wrapped around your wrist, halting your stride. fox tugged you back, and you tried to keep your drooling gaze to a minimum at how handsome he looked when he was searching for answers.

“if you tell me what you want from me, i'll let you go.”

“i don't want anything.”

“bullshit,” the agent rolled his eyes, “everyone wants something, agent, even you. you’re a bad liar, you know that? that’s why you’re not under deep cover.”

how little you know, you thought with a smirk. “well, not everyone is made for danger.”

“no. you’re just made for stalking.”

you seized up, “i am not stalking you!”

fox grinned, liking how worked up you were becoming. “then why are you always in the corner of my eye, agent?”

you huffed in desperation, weighing your options. you could,

a) keep lying.

b) tell fox the truth.

c) bang on the locked door and scream until someone saves you from spooky mulder.

none of your options were appealing, but you weren’t getting out of here if you didn’t choose. option A would drag it out, and option C would get him fired, so you only had one path if you wanted to control casualties and your level of embarrassment in one shot.

as he stood patiently waiting, tie so horrendously knotted that it took all your willpower not to tug him down by it, you gave in. 

“well, agent mulder, you… you’re interesting.”

“am i?”

“y-yes. you do amazing work. you catch killers. and you… write beautifully.”

fox chuckled softly, “you like my writing? what, are you the one who files my field reports or something?”

now may not be a good time to admit you tweaked the computer system to always assign you files submitted by agents between L and P in the alphabet just to be the sole individual who received fox’s files, so you withheld the truth a bit. it will come back to bite you in the ass when he looks into the signatures on his official paperwork, but oh, well.

“every so often,” is what you settled on. “you have something to say, and you say it like you’ve been contemplating the proper phrasing forever. it’s always so eloquent and intelligent and… fascinating.” you stopped praising him, feeling shame wash over you like a bad shot of vodka.

“well, aren’t you a regular fan?” fox rested his head against the filing shelf, eyes raising to the ceiling. his neck stretched open far enough that you could watch his adam's apple bob as he spoke. “glad to know my conclusions aren’t just the ramblings of a lunatic.”

“quite the opposite, agent mulder.” you blushed.

fox looked back down to you, and his puppy dog eyes bore holes into your cheeks. “i know a lot about you, you know. i know where you went to high school. i know you also use the irish cream for your cup of joe every day. i know you drive that baby blue car out in the garage, with the stupid “honk if you love labs” bumper sticker. but what i don't know, agent, or rather what i can’t figure out, is why you’re working in the filing department when you should be on an analyst team, or why you’re so insistent on following me around work. so, can you enlighten me with the truth?”

the truth. even when encountering you, his true colors show. you would be frustrated if it wasn’t so attractive how he interrogated you.

with a shaky breath as support, you said, “i want to know you.”

“is that all? you just… want to know me?”

“we don't work together. you’re too off-limits. my orders require me to stick to the mundane and watch from afar. but you, agent mulder, you are never mundane. you sit down here every day and crane over horrific cases, imagining the unimaginable, and all in the stuffy confines of a basement office that people would rather die than visit you in. y-you’re terrifying, you’re… fresh air.”

fox would never admit to it, but his entire body experienced pins and needles at the sound of your voice. in the least creepy way possible, you reminded him of the school librarian from his childhood- thin glasses, a loose blouse, and a voice thick and sweet, just how he liked his coffee.

“well, as the resident spooky one around here, i'd say you’re more freakish than me. you’re quite the stalker.”

“that's my business.”

you put the kazoo back in the box, frustrated you even attempted to jeopardize the secrecy of your nature for being down in the basement. fox’s hazel eyes followed your lethal nails as they replaced the object, and he wondered if they hurt when they grazed skin. a part of him really wanted to find out.

the man huffed, “so that’s it? no plans to kill me, or turn me in to the boss for my beliefs?”

“nope. just… watching from a distance.”

“you could watch up close if you wanted to. i could really benefit from someone so smart as you are, and someone who has such a knack for detail,” he teased. “you seem to have a way with words yourself, agent.”

“well, i appreciate the offer, but my hands are full as it is, agent mulder.”

“call me fox.”

in a flustered blackout, you blurted, “but no one calls you fox!” and the agent’s pupils blew wide.

somehow, deep inside, the idea of you knowing his secrets without ever speaking to him turned him on. you were a watcher, and as a profiler he’d even go so far as to call you a creep- a girl with a case of muldermania following his every move and sniffing the air when he walked past. he saw it in how your hands shook before him, how you craned your neck back in submission, how your eyes darted between his eyes and lips with fervor; how you swallowed nothing every five seconds in what he couldn’t discern between fear and anticipation. you had slightly sick motivations, so driven by the feeling his writing gave you and the idea of what it must be like to be inside his mind. and he liked it. he liked being studied, and understood, and having no say in it being done by a pretty girl like you. the man took another step closer this time, and you didn’t budge. this was one of his personal space invasions he’s so famous for- the kind people complain about when they’re put on the job with him. also the kind you’d dreamt of since you learned of his existence beneath the bureau.

“but you do when you think of me, don’t you?” he crooned, knowing how to play you from one freak to another. “when you think of watching me when you’re alone, and how we might interact. you call me fox in that pretty little head of yours, right? so say it.”

“w-well…”

“come on, don’t leave me hanging.”

you licked your lips as the heat of his breath danced across your face, and you flushed. “a-as much as i'd love to stay and talk, i have my obligations. not everyone is at your whim, fox.”

in a hormonal lapse, fox let out a soft, “mmm,” and flashed his adorable grin for you to fuss over. “that's too bad, then.”

“but,” you interrupted, “if you ever need, um, proofreading… or help, i can- you can, uh, maybe leave me a note? or something?”

“on your desk? in the filing department, right? in that office with the blue walls and the photograph of you and your chocolate lab, the one who inspired your bumper sticker, agent?” fox revealed, showing his intellectual hand.

with a dry mouth, you mustered a meek, “yeah, that’s the one.”

“good. maybe i'll spray it with my cologne, so you can savor the moment.”

“excuse me?” you squeaked.

“come on, agent,” fox winked, “just a joke. unless you’d like that, y’know, i won’t judge.”

and of course you would. he smelled like dust and paper, with a little sugar left from the coffee he drinks, and a little smoke from the candles he lights when they turn the lights off on him overnight in that dark hole of an office.

“you live up to your name, spooky mulder,” you bit your lip.

“so do you,” fox agreed, “what would we do without our eyes and ears?”

“… what did you just say?” you could barely muster a voice.

“you heard me.” 

fox slipped a hand in his suit pant pocket and revealed your business card- not the filing office one, but for your cover. you have no idea how he’d gotten one, because the only place you keep them is in the locked safe beneath your desk. you were in bold, with your full name, position, boss, and reserved extension line. you thought of fox breaking into your office at night- while you were at home having dreams you’d never admit to- and sifting through your belongings, touching all that was yours, cracking open your secrets. you shuddered as he placed the card gently in your hand, his fingers trailing against the veins at the center of your wrist, where he could feel your pulse hammering.

the man slid past you in a split second, heading for the evidence room door and jiggling the handle upwards. when it unlocked, he shot a premeditated glance towards your mortified face and said, “somebody ought to get this fixed. see you around, agent.”

just about shaking, you stood in the aisle, dizzy from the sound of his departure and how every word fell from his lips with such intention. after a moment of weakness in which you let yourself lean against the filing shelf and catch your breath, you straightened out your blazer and made for the door. when you came into the hallway, you saw spooky mulder standing in his doorframe, thumbing through a file with his silver-rimmed glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. you turned quickly towards the stairs and left him to his devices, those being the file that was full of pictures of you.

all this time admiring from afar made you feel like a fool. now you were stuck with a lingering conversation and the overwhelming urge to visit the archives again, because someone downstairs had his eye on you. he knew you by way of his own eyes and ears, and there are a few things that aren’t in your files he’d like to learn. 

and to think you were the stalker!

[republicsecurity]

The Follow-Up

Thirty minutes passed in suffocating silence before the door slid open again. The conscript entered, as impassive as before, his black full-body armor glinting in the stark light of the interrogation room. In his hand, he held the remote control for the collar, the device that had stripped the dissident of any semblance of control over his own body. A cruel smirk curled across the conscript’s lips as he stepped closer.

The dissident’s body remained stiff, unmoving, his mind still trapped in a constant war against the collar’s grip. But then, with a flick of the conscript’s wrist, the collar released its hold on his neck, allowing his limbs a brief semblance of autonomy.

The conscript placed a set of papers on the table in front of the dissident, the sheets rustling as they slid into place. The dissident’s eyes, though strained with the effort of moving his head, focused on the documents now within his reach.

"Read those," the conscript said, his voice a mockery of casualness. "They're for you. Or should I say, for your son."

The dissident’s hands trembled slightly as they moved toward the papers. The collar had granted him enough movement to turn the pages, but the effort to focus was almost unbearable. When the dissident saw the first page, his stomach churned.

It was his son’s enlistment papers—transferred custody, enrollment in the Security Forces Academy, the whole package. His son’s name was at the top, bold and final, but the final line, the place for his own signature, was conspicuously blank. It wasn’t signed. Not yet.

The conscript, having observed the dissident’s silent reaction, casually set a pen down on the table, letting it roll a bit to ensure it was directly within his view.

“Go on,” the conscript murmured, eyes gleaming with cold amusement. “Sign it. You don’t have much choice now.”

He paused, as if savoring the moment, then continued in the same mockingly casual tone.

“You know, I used to be like you. A bratty kid, full of ideas about rebellion, freedom, all that nonsense. I thought the system was... well, a cage, like you probably think now. I hated everything about it. Thought I could get away. But that was before the academy. Before they stripped me down, rewired my brain, and turned me into what I am now.”

He laughed, a sound that carried no humor, just the echo of a system that had long since stripped him of anything that could resemble joy.

“The academy... that’s where they made me a model enforcer. I used to be just like your son—full of potential, rebellious, eager to run wild. But the academy—it doesn’t care about that. It breaks you. Conditions you. Shapes you into the perfect soldier. Now, I’m exactly what the Republic needs. And you know what? It works. It works. I’m an enforcer, one of the best. Strong. Resilient. Loyal to the core. And none of it’s fake. It's all... real. The conditioning, the mental adjustments—they make you better. The system shapes you into something better. Something unstoppable."

He leaned in closer, his voice turning darker, more sinister.

“Your son, he’s a perfect candidate. Just like I was. Just like I still am. The academy will make him better. He’ll become exactly what the Republic needs. He’ll thank us for it, eventually. Or maybe you’ll just see him become something unrecognizable. What’s one more life sacrificed for the greater good, eh?”

The conscript’s grin widened as he backed away, watching the dissident with an air of expectation.

“Go ahead. Sign it. Don’t worry,” he added, as the dissident hesitated, “you’ll never be the one to regret it.”

The words hung in the air like a taunt, an insidious reminder of just how little control the dissident had over his own future—and his son’s. The conscript’s gaze remained fixed, waiting for the signature that would seal the fate of both father and son.