#Single-pass in-line processing

[idexindia]

How Can High Shear Mixers Enhance Product Quality in Pharmaceuticals?

Particle size control is essential for achieving reliable drug performance and maintaining manufacturing consistency in pharmaceuticals. The particle size control of pharmaceutical powders plays a crucial role in ensuring the consistent quality of solid oral dosage forms.

[butyoudidthis4what]

No Man's Land Part 2

Jack Abbot x f!reader || Part 1

18.6k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: mentions of blood, mentions of bones breaking, mentions of guns/shootings/gunshot wounds, mentions and discussions of suicide/suicidal ideation, CPR, mentions/discussions of jack's injury and losing his foot, anxiety about partner's safety, angst, Jack's traumatized, everyone's traumatized honestly, probably incorrect description of medical events, potentially incorrect medical descriptions/knowledge, PIV sex, mentions of morphine and alcohol, age gap referenced in passing once kind of, reader loves Paris and the Louvre, reader's favorite flowers are daffodils, I had this idea and started drafting before we knew Jack was a widow so in this world he has never been married, no use of y/n or related.

Summary: The aftermath of you being shot and collapsing in the trauma room and a new reality.

AN: I'm a certified yapper like our man, so I apologize for how long this is.

You drop at just the right point in your swaying that you fall backwards, head first. You hit the floor back of your skull first with a sickening crack. 

Everyone in the room knows what that was the sound of - your skull cracking.

“Fuck me!” “Fucking shit!” “Holy fuck!” “Oh god!” “Was that her fucking skull?” Verbalized reactions fill the air from Robby, Dana, Heather, Mel and Santos, respectively. Jack is silent. He’s not even sure he’s breathing. He’s frozen as he looks at you, both struggling to process what has happened and already understanding what has happened at once, hearing dulled as he focuses on you. 

Things have now gone from really fucking bad to somehow a lot fucking worse in a matter of seconds.

A head injury was the last thing you needed. And it was preventable. He should have prevented it. He should have stayed with you, told Robby to handle the code on his own, kept holding you, actually looked you over before letting you go but he didn’t. 

“Somebody get a fucking gurney in here!” Dana yells out the door. 

“Collins, you handle this. Mohan, you’re with me!” Robby orders. Once your neck is secured in a c-collar and you’re on a gurney you’re rushed into trauma two, the team swarming you just like they do any other unfortunate soul who ends up here. 

Jack suddenly finds himself again, hearing no longer dampened and follows your gurney into trauma two. “Mannitol-”

“Get out Jack!” Robby shouts at him amid the chaos of getting you hooked up to monitors and IVs going. “You can’t be in here!”

“And yet here I fucking am.” Jack almost snarls back at him as he takes a place on the other side of you. 

“Dana.” Robby shoots her a look and she steps back and away from you, peeling her gloves off and tossing them to the floor. 

“Jack,” she says softly to him, rests a hand on his bicep and squeezes gently. “Let’s step out.”

He shrugs her hand off. “No. No fucking way. Somebody…” He trails off as he looks down at you, freezing again. More blood pours from your mouth, and now your nose. He looks down and sure enough, it’s dripping out of your ear too, not unsurprising given the head trauma, but still. The image is seared in his brain.  

“Fuck!” Robby yells. “She’s in DIC.” He takes a look at your vitals. To say they’re abysmal would be a gross understatement. “Okay, massive transfusion protocol now, people! I wanna do two to one to one with how much blood she’s lost. Set up for a central line.” 

“Push etomidate and roc!” Mohan yells into the chaos. “7.0 ET please.”

“Jack, you have to move, okay? They need access to her.” Dana grabs Jack’s arm again and is able to pull him to the side. “Once she’s intubated you can sit by her, okay?” 

He gives a single nod in response, sits automatically when Dana pushes the stool into the back of his knees. It doesn’t take the team long to get you intubated and Dana helps him move so that he sits at the top of your head. 

Everything and everyone else fades away as he looks down at your face, your beautiful blood smeared face. He leans in towards you a little. He has so much he wants to say and yet he can’t get a word out. 

“We’re taking her up to surgery, Jack.” Robby is suddenly leaning down next to him. “We have to stop the internal bleeding before we can image her head.” 

“She’s in DIC. She has a subdural from the fall, I’m sure. Fractured skull. We have to address it.” Jack almost mumbles it as he watches them put the bed rails up and start to move you. 

“I know,” Robby tells him gently, “but if the major source of bleeding isn’t stopped, you and I both know that the skull fracture and subdural aren’t going to matter.”

Jack just nods and stands, follows your gurney in silence up to the OR floor. He hates it but he has to take one last look at you before turning to go into a locker room to grab a fresh pair of scrubs. He changes fast, finds Garcia and Shamsi in the scrub room. 

“What are you doing Jack?” Garcia asks him, sharing a look with Shamsi. “You’re not coming in the OR.”

“Yes I am.” He ignores her, grabs a pack and starts to scrub. The door opens again and Jack doesn’t need to turn to know it’s Robby. 

“You guys go.” Robby nods at Garcia and Shamsi. “Jack, come on. Let’s go to the gallery or waiting room.”

“Fuck that!” Jack yells as they walk in. He’s still scrubbing furiously. “I’m not going to watch them hack her-”

“You and I both know they’re not going to ‘hack her’ and that there’s nobody else you’d rather have operating on her. You need to let them do their work.” Robby stops next to the sink Jack is scrubbing at. “That is the best thing you can do for her right now. Let them work.”

Jack keeps scrubbing for a minute, jaw clenched tight. But then he stops. He knows Robby is right. Knows that scrubbing in and being in the OR isn’t going to fix you. It isn’t going to let him make up for not noticing you were shot earlier, before you were already half dead on the floor with a broken fucking skull he could have prevented. 

The combination of emotions is crushing. He throws the soap at one of the doors in the scrub room and yells a “fuck!” There’s a moment of silence and then a whispered “fuck,” that his voice crack on half way through. 

“Come on.” Robby picks up the soap and throws it away, throws a towel at Jack for his hands. “Let’s get some air.” 

“I’m going to obs.” Jack tells him. Robby tries to speak. “No. If I don’t get to be in the OR with her I at least get to fucking watch over her from obs.”

“No, Jack! I’m not letting you fucking torture yourself by watching this. She wouldn’t want that. She wouldn’t want you seeing her like this-”

“You don’t fucking know her!” Jack seethes, getting up in Robby’s face, chests touching. “So stop fucking acting like you do.”

A tense silence passes, a staring match before Robby holds his hands up in defeat and looks away. “Alright. I’m sorry.” 

“I have to watch her die, Robby. I have to have been there for her. Been there with her. I am not letting her go alone.” Jack shakes his head, eyes red rimmed and glassy but more serious than Robby has ever seen him before. 

“I know.” Robby opens the door of the observation suite for him. “If something happens and they get close to calling it you can go be with your girl, okay?”

“No.” Jack huffs, treading water more and more to try and stay above the flood of emotions. “No it’s not fucking okay! None of this is fucking okay! She’s not okay! I’m not okay!” Jack takes in a shuddery breath and turns his back on Robby. “None of this is okay,” he whispers, voice thick with emotion and tears that can no longer be held back. 

Robby lets Jack have a minute to try and pull himself together. He knows that right now is not the time to have some sort of heart to heart with Jack. Instead he puts the intercom on so that they can hear what’s happening in the OR but the OR can’t hear them. 

It’s not good but it’s not bad, you’re not dead. There’s no conversation between the two men, just Jack up almost pressed into the glass to watch while Robby observes him more than the surgery.

“So,” Robby says casually after a couple of minutes. “Peter?”

Jack huffs, shaking his head and coming to sit next to Robby. “Don’t ask.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I really like this little routine, you know?” You smile at Jack as he peruses the shelves, coffee in one hand and your hand in the other. You’re back at the bookstore where you met, off in the back shelves where it’s quieter, fewer people. You’re alone in the aisle. 

“Coming here?”

“Mhmm.” You nod at him. “It was a really good idea.” 

Somewhere between dates number three and four Jack had suggested you guys go back to the bookstore once a week. Make it a thing. Get coffee, pick out books together. Just walk around. How could you ever say no?

“I have one every now and then.” He smiles at you. 

You point to a book, say the title. “That looks interesting.” 

Jack looks at the book. It’s on the bottom shelf. You didn’t ask for him to bend down and get it for you but he will anyway. And you knew when you said it that he would. He’s just a gentleman like that. And so he does. Sets his coffee on the shelf and bends down to get it for you. 

“Why is it that every book you want is always on the bottom shelf?” He feigns a huff.

“Because I like making you bend down so that I can check out your ass.”

He freezes for a second. It was so not the answer he was expecting. He’s not sure he was expecting an answer. But then you come out with that. Always keeping him on his toes. 

He grabs the book and stands back up, smirking as he hands it to you. His fingers find the belt loops of your jeans and pull you close to him, lips brushing against yours. “You like my ass?” 

You giggle against his lips and kiss him. “I do.” 

“You’re terrible, woman.” He gives you another kiss. 

“More like your terrible woman.” You can feel his jaw clench at that and he holds you a little tighter. Oh he liked that. A lot. It makes you smirk. 

“Damn right you are.” One last kiss and then you break apart.

“I think I’m falling in love with you, Peter.”

He cocks his head at the name. “Peter? Should I be concerned you can’t keep your men straight?” He doesn’t mean it, nor does any anxiety roll through him. He knows you, knows it was deliberate, and knows you’re about to give him some ridiculous explanation. 

“Rabbit,” you grin. “Peter Rabbit. Abbot. Jack Abbot always makes me want to call you Jack rabbit. Ergo, Peter.” You run the back of your second knuckle on your index finger over his shirt. “Inspired by the book.” You nod and look to the side. He follows your eyes to the display you look over at where, sure enough, a copy of Peter Rabbit sits.

He groans and makes a face. “Really?” He grimaces. But you both know it’s fake. His eyes are too sparkly and the ghost of a smile is too present on his face. It’s so ridiculous. If anyone else dared to call him that he would hate it and they would know it.  

“Really, Peter. Better get used to it.” You wink and start walking down another aisle. 

“I think I’ve already fallen in love with you, Doll.” Jack whispers to himself. “You’re not allowed to go anywhere on me.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You wake with a start, your body jerking for a second before pain rips through your stomach and head. It’s bright. So so bright. Your eyes instinctively close and you pull your head back, trying to get away from the tube that feels like it’s down your throat but it follows. You start panicking. 

It filters back in. What happened. Passing out in the trauma room. Jack’s face. The pain. The bullet hole you’d felt on your skin.

“Honey?” A voice you can’t place calls out your name. A woman’s voice. “It’s okay.” You know she’s trying to be reassuring but at the moment it’s not. There’s only one voice you want to hear and it’s not hers and you panic more when you don’t hear his because where is he? Did something happen to him? Maybe he’s here and you just can’t hear him. One way to find out. 

Your eyes blink back open to an unfamiliar face above you. After you adjust to the light you quickly look around as much as you can without moving too much. 

Jack isn’t here. 

The woman above you smiles down at you. “I’m Dana. Jack just stepped out to shower and I said I’d stay with you. He’s going to kill me for convincing him to go and you waking up while he wasn’t here. It was his nightmare. He’s on his way. Knowing him he’s liable to just have a towel wrapped around him and soap in his hair because god knows if he wasn’t finished showering he wasn’t going to finish when he heard you’re awake.” 

You blink a few times, start to calm. Dana. She has a calming presence. Jack told you about her. You trust her. “Good, that’s good. He’s going to be here any second. And I’m going to get your doctor and see what we can do about getting this tube out of your throat, yeah?” 

You can hear Jack before you see him. Hear him running down the hall towards you. He’s panting when he runs into your room, looks at you, your vitals, Dana and then back to you. “You’re awake.”

All you can really do is look at him with wide eyes. He’s over by you in a second, taking Dana’s place as she goes to find your doctor. One of his hands finds yours, squeezes reassuringly. “I’m here. God I’m so sorry I wasn’t when you woke up, I didn’t want to go but they convinced me and-”

You squeeze his hand and then let go, make a motion like writing. “You want to write? Hopefully you can be extubated soon, you might be breathing over the vent already, I can look.”

You squeeze his hand again and it focuses him back on you. “Shit. Yes, um…” He feels all the pockets on his scrub pants until he finds the little notebook and pen. He gives you the pen and holds the book for you. 

Scared.

A piece of his heart shatters when he reads the word. 

“I know Doll, I know. It’s okay.” He strokes your hair gently. “I’m right here, okay? I’m not going anywhere. I love you.” Jack’s eyes bore into yours and in the moment you’re so grateful for his need for direct eye contact. It’s reassuring in a way you can’t describe. Even if he hadn’t said anything. If he had just looked at you like he is now it would have been enough to calm your fears. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you, okay?”

“I heard she’s awake?” Your eyes leave Jack’s and look over at the man who entered, but Jack’s eyes never leave you. 

“Yeah, she is. This is Robby, sweetheart.” You blink slowly. 

It’s a lot. Everything is a lot and there’s a tube in your throat and more people walk in, Dana again and your doctor, a nurse. You’re overwhelmed. You just want it to be you and Jack and you want to be at home cuddled in bed together, both of you perfectly fine. You don’t want this. It makes you kind of dizzy. And your inability to express yourself makes it all that much more difficult.

You focus on Jack’s eyes, try to block everything else out. Focus on his touch. His hand holding yours, the other stroking your hair. There’s a faint buzz of the others talking together and you know it’s about you but you remain centered on Jack. “That’s right, Doll,” he murmurs, voice low, just between the two of you. “Just focus on me. I’m right here. You’re okay. We’re okay.” 

“She’s breathing over.” Robby says quietly. “We can pull it.”

Jack raises his eyebrows at you and nods his head a little. “That’s good. We’re going to get the tube out, okay? Then you’ll be able to talk.” 

Your eyes widen a bit and you move your hand towards the notebook again, point at the word. 

Scared. 

“I know. I know it’s all scary, and I know thinking about having the tube out is scary. But you’re safe, okay? If you need it back in then we will put it back in okay?” He squeezes your hand. You give the smallest nod. 

Jack explains what will happen to you and then they do it. It hurts and is uncomfortable and you panic for a minute after it’s out because you’re coughing and it feels like you can’t breathe. Jack puts an oxygen mask to your face. “Breathe, baby. Just breathe. You’re just coughing, it’s okay. It’ll be better in a minute. I promise.” 

And just like he promises it does get better. “How about we switch this,” he takes the oxygen mask from your face and hands it to Dana while taking the nasal cannula from her, “with this.” He gets the cannula adjusted under your nose and over your ears and then smiles at you. 

You still haven’t spoken. You can’t find words. You don’t know what to say. 

Robby hands Jack a cup of water with a straw silently before he, Dana, your doctor and the other nurse slip out. 

“Here, I’m sure your throat is dry.” Jack holds the straw for you. “Small sips.”

You take a few before pulling back a little. “Thank you.” You’re quite hoarse and make a face at the sound of your voice but Jack. Jack beams. It makes you smile, makes everything start to melt away. You’re here and awake and Jack is here and everything is okay. “I love you too.” 

You press your lips out a little and it hits him. He can kiss you now and he does, soft but lingering. He never wants to pull away. 

“How long was I out?’’

“Since surgery?” Jack glances down at his watch. “Sixteen hours and thirty seven minutes. Give or take ten seconds.”

You smile. It’s a little weak which shoots a bit of a pang through him, but it’s okay because you’re smiling at him. “Not that you were counting.”

He laughs and rolls his eyes at you, eyes watery. “I’m really fucking glad you’re okay.” 

You get a little teary. “I’m really glad you’re here. I was really fucking scared Jack.” You let out a breath and a few tears. 

“There is nowhere else I’d rather be than by your side.” He leans back in, kisses you again, kisses all the tears away. “There is nowhere else I will be, okay?” 

You nod a little. You want to ask him what happened, what your injuries are but you can’t bring yourself to. You don’t want to know. Not now. 

Jack doesn’t volunteer anything. He figures that you’ll ask when you’re ready. He knows what it’s like to have it shoved in your face when you’re scared and drugged out on morphine and other medications and overwhelmed and not in a mental place to process it. 

You can’t have been awake for more than thirty or forty minutes but you’re already so tired again. Jack can tell.

“Sleepy?” 

“A little.” You pause. Then, a whispered admission. “Kind of scared to go back to sleep.”

Jack’s heart squeezes. “That’s understandable,” he nods. He knows the answer is no but he asks anyway. “Can I do anything?”

“Hold me.” Your words are out before he finishes his questions. His eyebrows raise. He wasn’t expecting that. 

You can see him thinking. Thinking about how to say no. His face is pained and he tilts it. You know he’s afraid to hurt you. “Please.” He bites his bottom lip. “I need this Jack,” you whisper. “You need this.” 

“If I hurt you at all you have to tell me, okay? If anything feels like it’s tearing or pulling or ripping, you have to tell me immediately.” He gives you a serious look, fear blazing in his eyes.

“I promise.”

He nods. “Okay.” It takes a while for him to help shift you over a bit and move all the wires and lines but eventually he’s in bed with you, holding you. 

“Thanks Peter.” It’s completely sleep garbled but so precious and he has to laugh because even with all that’s happened you’re still calling him that name.  

“You’re welcome, Doll.”

Once he’s sure you’re asleep Jack sobs as quietly as he can as he holds you. Lets himself process the emotions that he has tried to keep himself walled off from since you went down in the trauma room. He doesn’t want you to see, doesn’t want you to have to deal with him right now when you need to focus on yourself and recovering. He doesn’t want you to feel guilty, because he knows you and he knows you already feel bad about all of this. Like it’s your fault. 

Jack doesn’t know it but you wake when you feel him start to tremble. You hear and feel every sob. A little piece of you dies inside.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jack leans against one of the windows in his apartment, stares out into the dark city and alternates watching the rain fall under the light of the street lamps and tracking drops that slide down the window. The bedroom is dark, only illuminated by the light of the city that pours in. He’s half dressed, shirtless, a pair of flannel pajama pants. The window is cold against his arm but he likes it. It reminds him in the moment that he can still feel. 

You watch him from the bathroom doorway. You’ve been together seven and a bit months now.

You’re struck by how beautiful he looks in the backlighting. Struck by how sad and conflicted he looks. 

You walk over to him quietly, but making your footsteps just heavy enough so that you don’t startle him when you wrap your arms around him from behind, rest the side of your head on the smooth skin of his back. Always so warm, your Jack, even now in the chill of the rainy night. 

He leans back into you for just a second, just long enough to acknowledge that he knows you’re there, appreciates it. 

Neither of you say anything for a few minutes before his voice interrupts the patter of the raindrops hitting the window.

“I’m sorry.”

Your brows furrow. “For what?”

“Being like this,” he shrugs. “It’s been so long. It shouldn’t still affect me like this.”

“Well first, should is a stupid word. Nothing should or shouldn’t be. Things just are. And it’s okay for them to be as they are. It’s okay for this to be as it is.” You lift your head from his back and gently pull at his torso a bit to get him to turn and look at you. He tries to avoid that eye contact he normally needs but you don’t let him. “Second, you have nothing to apologize for. And third, I don’t know Jack, I’d almost be more concerned if the anniversary of the day you lost a piece of yourself, literally, and woke up alone and terrified in a hospital bed ever stopped affecting you.”

As difficult as it is to hear, he likes that you just say it, say what happened. You don’t shy away from it, don’t avoid talking about it or speak about it without actually saying it. You never have. You’ve always just accepted it as part of him. He takes in a deep breath and then grabs your hand, leads you over to bed with him and waits for you to get in. 

But you give him a look, a slight raise of your eyebrows and nod. He sits on the edge like you wordlessly asked. You kneel before him and it makes his heart pound, blood rush towards his groin even though he knows this isn’t going there. It’s just instinctual. 

Jack watches you with glassy eyes as you push his pant leg up and remove his prosthetic for him, set it aside. You don’t have to ask if it’s hurting, of course it is. It’s the anniversary of losing his foot. Even when there’s no real reason for it to be causing him pain it is anyway. You know it. He knows you know it. 

You open the drawer of his nightstand and pull out the balm he has, get a little bit and warm it between your hands before placing them there. You glance up at him. You always do. Always make sure it’s okay. You know how hard it can be for him to have you touching there sometimes if he’s too in his head. He just barely narrows his eyes before letting them go back to being wide and round as he watches. An unspoken please. 

You start massaging gently and he takes another big breath in and holds it for a moment before letting it out and leaning into your hands slightly. “Mirror?”

He knows you’re asking if the pain is bad enough for him to want to do mirror therapy. He shakes his head. “No. It’s not that bad.” He gives you a small smile, cups your face with a hand. “Especially not now. You make it better. You always make it better, make everything better.” 

A slow smile spreads over your face. You work on him a little more before his hands are on yours and pulling you towards him a little. He slides into bed and you follow. 

You lay on your sides looking at each other. “You wanna talk about it?”

“Not right now, no.” He swallows hard, looks like he’s waiting for you to be upset. “Is that okay?”

“Course it is. I’m never going to force you to talk about it with me.” You already have talked about it. You know everything, every detail he can remember and was told about what happened. About his hospital stay at Landstuhl, transfer to Walter-Reed. How depressed he got, the survivor’s guilt, the wishing he had just died instead.

But he knows what you mean. You don’t have to talk about it now, about his feelings, what he’s carrying in his chest and mind at the moment. You lean in and kiss him. “We can whenever. If and when you’re ready. Or you can talk to your therapist. It doesn’t have to be me.”

The way he looks at you makes your stomach flip. Like you’re the most important thing in his world, like you hung the moon and stars for him, like he’s amazed by you. Like you’re helping to heal him.

He reaches out to cup your face again, runs a thumb over your cheek. “I want you.”

You smile at him, soft and small, befitting of the moment. “You have me. You’ll always have me. No matter what.”

He gives you a look that acknowledges your words. “You know what I mean.” His hand starts to wander down to the hem of his shirt you wear. “I need to turn that part of my brain off. Get lost in you.”

“God, what a tough ask,” you click your tongue, voice teasing and full of feigned exasperation. “Such a real hardship for me.”

He laughs a little. “I’ll make it up to you.” 

“Oh no Dr. Abbot,” you move closer to him and push at his chest so he rolls on his back, straddle his hips and bring your chest to his, lean in to kiss him but stop short, just let your lips move against his, “this is all about you.”

Jack groans from somewhere deep in his chest. “You know what doctor does to me,” he murmurs before he kisses you hard, possessively, holding the back of your head with one hand so you can’t move away, not that you’d ever want to. 

“Indeed I do, sir.” Another groan from him and a smirk from you as you sit up and push the covers back, pull his pajama pants and boxer briefs down all at once. 

Jack swears you spend hours lavishing him in attention, kissing every inch of him, every scar. Even that one. 

By the time you guide him inside of you you’re the only thing on his mind. You ride him slow, just fast enough to not be teasing, at the rhythm and pace you’ve learned he loves, let him watch as he slides in and out of you because you know how much he loves it. 

You lean back at one point, rest your hands on both his thighs and something about the move and the way you’re not afraid to get close to the missing part of him heals him and makes him lose it. 

After, you lay on his chest, absentmindedly draw random shapes on his skin while he runs a hand up and down your back. “This part always feels just as good but in a different way,” you murmur. 

“Cuddling releases oxytocin. Oxytocin makes you feel happy, helps you heal, reduces stress, bonds you to the one you’re snuggling with. It’s called the love hormone.” Jack always makes you laugh when he does that, explains something medically, biologically. You like him sharing his knowledge, little pieces of his job with you, and you like that he’s not condescending about it, just tells you it like you’re a student.

You laugh a little. “That tracks then.”

You sit in a comfortable silence for a bit. Jack thinks about everything you’ve done for him tonight, over the past seven months, how you feel laying here on his chest. A surge of oxytocin hits him and he’s overwhelmed by it, how much he loves you, how much you do for him, care for him.

“I don’t deserve you.” He says it quietly, almost like he doesn’t mean to speak the thought out loud.

You stop tracing shapes, furrow your brows and lift yourself up to look down at him sternly, eyes burning with love. “I’m not even gracing that absolute bullshit with a reply tonight Peter.” You kiss him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Four days pass. Things are simultaneously getting better and increasingly harder. 

You meet everyone, the entire ED, you swear, everyone Jack has ever talked about. They’re all lovely and genuine. You hit it off with them all despite the circumstances. Part of you worries though, that they only like you because they pity you and because you’re in the hospital and what else can they do. Jack reassures you that you’re one of them now, you’re Pitt family, that even when they didn’t know you or about you and had never met you, you already were.

Jack helps you shower. Really Jack showers you. Does it all for you. It’s one of those most intimate things you’ve experienced with him. Him taking care of you like this, when you can’t take care of yourself. He takes his time washing your hair and body gently, like you’ll break if he touches you just a little too hard. He makes sure your stitches and central line stay dry. Makes sure you don’t lean your head back too far and aggravate your skull fracture. 

Physically you’re doing okay. Improving. Maybe not as fast as everyone, Jack especially, would like. But you’re not getting worse. 

Mentally, however, things are devolving. Rapidly. 

Once the initial shock and happiness at being alive wore off you’re left with reality. 

A nurse from the floor comes in to take vitals like they do a couple of times a day. Jack steps out to go grab a drink from the vending machine while you and the nurse chat a little. You ask her if you can move into the chair, go sit by the window. She says of course, unhooks you from some monitors and helps you move over. She takes your dinner and sets it on the table in front of you. You thank her and wait for Jack to come back.

Dusk is falling over the city. It’s easier to sit and look outside when it’s not so bright. You keep the lighting in your room low to help with the headaches you’re still fighting. You suppose a broken skull will do that to you.

You haven’t felt well all day, have slept more than usual. You’re sure it’s just depression from being here and all the changes and mostly, probably, seeing what all of this already has done and continues to do to Jack, physically and mentally. Your stomach turns at the thought and you shiver despite your cheeks burning. You’re so uncomfortable and there’s no end in sight and you don’t want to keep doing this to Jack, keep asking him to be here and sleep here. The logical and rational part of your brain knows that you’re not asking him to do anything. He’s doing it because he wants to, because he loves you. 

“You need to eat,” Jack reminds you as he walks back in the room. 

“I’m not hungry,” you murmur, continue to look out the window. 

“I know, Doll, but you’ve gotta eat to keep your strength up.” Jack says softly as he pulls up a chair to sit across from you. You nod a little at him but don’t move to start eating. “What’s wrong?” he finally whispers. 

It takes a moment but eventually you shrug. You don’t want to burden him with it. 

“Talk to me. Please. Even if just a little.” 

“I don’t know… I’m just tired, I think.” 

He tilts his head at you, eyes appraising and clinically evaluating you. Something is off, something has been off, he’s just struggling to figure out what. 

“Don’t look at me like that, please,” you whisper. 

He furrows his brows. “Like what?”

“Like I’m a patient who needs to be evaluated.” 

“I can’t help it. It helps reassure me that you’re okay.” He lets out a bit of a breath. “I’m worried about you right now. Is everything okay? Do you feel okay?”

You take in a big breath of air and fight back the wince before letting it out. “I’m just… I don’t know Jack. I’m sad. I’m fucking sad. All the time.”

Ah. Depression. 

He knows it intimately and chastises himself mentally a bit for not realizing it sooner, not recognizing it. Not anticipating it from minute one. He gives you a moment to see if you want to say more. 

“I… I feel sorry for myself, yes, but it’s more than that. I see what it’s doing to you, the pain it’s causing, I’m causing you. Physically, having to sleep here. I can practically see your back and hip hurting, Jack. I can see the overcompensation when you walk. I know you cried. I was awake. And I didn’t want to make it a thing and pressure you into talking to me. But I see how scared and on edge you are, all the time. Because of me-”

“No.” He doesn’t mean to interrupt but he has to right there. “Not because of you. This is not your fault. None of this is. This isn’t because of you, it’s because of what happened to you.”

You shake your head. “No, Jack, it’s me. It is me. I feel like I’m sucking the fucking life out of you. Dealing with me is exhausting. I can’t keep asking you to do this, be here and take care of me. It’s not fair.” You sniffle and wipe some tears you didn’t know fell with the back of your hand. “I mean, Jesus, Jack, I’m exhausted and all I have to do is sit in bed all day. I hate it.” The tears fall a little faster and he gives you space to let it all out. Your emotional brain takes his silence as some sort of tacit and silent agreement. That you are hurting him, that it is exhausting him, that you are sucking the life out of him. 

The rational part of your brain is right there but you’re too exhausted to listen to it, to fight your emotional brain on it. So it all consumes you. 

“I sit here and sometimes I just wish it would stop, wish it would be over, for both of us. Wish I had never even made it out of the OR, fuck out of the courthouse. You could be properly grieving already and working towards mo-”

“What the fuck?” It falls out of his mouth before he can even stop it. “Are you for fucking real?” He knows this reaction is wrong, that he should be validating your feelings. He knows far too well what it’s like to be depressed in a hospital bed wishing that you had died instead. But it’s too much for him because he already lived so intimately with the possibility of that reality. Of you dying. And so to have it brought up and brought up by you. All rational thought and ability to control himself disappears. “Properly grieving? You think I’d be properly grieving? Jesus fucking Christ, Robby would have had to beat me to the fucking roof or they’d be burying us together!”

You shake your head, tears falling harder. “I don’t want that, I would never want you to do that. I’d want you to take care of yourself! I’d want you to live for me. For us. Find-”

“No.” He shakes his head, runs both of his hands over his face, heel of his palms pressing into his eyes for a moment. “No. I can’t fucking-” He has to swallow hard through the intense nausea that threatens to make him dry heave. Just thinking about this, let alone living it. He knows this is not his finest moment, not a good reaction, that it’s a really really fucking bad one, but he can’t think about it right now, about an alternate reality where you died, where he was anywhere other than right next to your side in this moment. It’s too much. And so he reverts back a bit, starts to completely emotionally shut down. You’ve never seen him like this before. “I can’t fucking talk about this right now.” 

A knock on the door interrupts you and you both look up and over at a smiling Robby. “Hey! Look who’s awake! How are you feeling sleepy? You’ve been asleep every time I’ve come to visit today.” He starts making his way closer. 

“We can talk about this more later,” Jack mutters at you under his breath. His tone is a little sharper and more brusque than he means or even realizes. 

But with your emotions where they are already it feels a little like he’s pulled a piece of your heart away. You wonder if this is it. If he’s finally had enough of all of this. Of you. 

He didn’t sign up for this. There haven’t been any vows of sickness and health. 

The adrenaline runs icy through your fingers and toes and sits like a rock in the back of your throat, hugging tightly around your stomach so much that your incision burns and itches. It gets hard to breathe. It’s panic, you tell yourself. You nod silently, fidget with your fingers and whisper the smallest “okay.”

You’re thankful for the low lighting and the cover it gives you and your tears. “Sorry about that,” you force a small laugh at Robby. “Just one of those days I guess.” You force a yawn this time. “Honestly I’m actually a little sleepy again,” you admit sheepishly. “I think I might get back in bed.” 

There’s a pause as Robby waits for Jack to react. But Jack says nothing, and the look on his face tells Robby he’s a million miles away. You getting up is what brings Jack back to himself somewhat and he’s up and hovering behind you to make sure you don’t fall in an instant. 

“Um, well.” Robby runs a hand through his hair and over his beard. “Jack, if you wanted we’re pretty backlogged down there, we could use someone for even just a few hours to help out. I just wanted to offer. We’ll be fine if you don’t.” Robby’s eyes flick between the two of you. “Thought it might be a good way to help transition back to full shifts eventually.” He coughs awkwardly. 

Jack looks at you with his eyebrows slightly raised, like he’ll do whatever you say as opposed to what he actually wants. Despite looking at you it’s like he doesn’t consciously take in your face at the moment, how hurt you look, how small, the tears lining your eyes, how scared you look, how anxious, how questioning. 

“Up to you.” You give him a strained smile. “I’m just going to sleep, so it’s not like you’re going to miss much here. Robby is right, might be a good way to help transition.”

Jack nods. “Okay. Okay, yeah.”

“Fuck, thank you so much,” Robby sighs in relief. “It’s pretty bad honestly.” He looks at you with a soft smile. “Sleep well and I’ll keep an eye on him for you.” 

You give him a forced smile back and nod, waiting for Jack to come say goodbye before following Robby out the door. But Jack is so shut down and on autopilot he doesn’t even give you a kiss or say anything other than an absent, “sleep well,” before he follows Robby out of the room. The sound of the door closing behind him may as well be the sound of your heart shattering.

Hours pass. 

Hours you do not in fact spend sleeping but instead wide awake feeling like you’ve got the flu. Everything hurts, you shake, you’re sweaty because you’re so hot but you feel so cold. You just feel so weak. You’re so miserable you’re not even aware of the way breathing takes more effort and seems less effective, how much it hurts. Hours enough for you to miss Jack and wish he was here and want to call down and beg him to please come back up. But not quite enough hours for the next vitals check.

The hours are quick for Jack. Work helps him. It keeps his mind busy. The more and more he comes back to himself fully and opens back up with clear eyes the more desperate he is to get up to you and apologize. He feels awful about actually deciding to come down here. How could he leave you? He knows he didn’t react well. It just caught him so off guard and he reverted back to a previous version of himself. All he can do is hope you’ll forgive him, but he knows you well enough to know that you’ll understand and be able to put yourself in his shoes and forgive him and you guys can talk. 

He volunteers to take one last ambulance coming in. He goes outside to wait for it, to get some fresh air. To be out of the hospital if only for a moment.

Mel runs through the automatic door, head on a swivel to find him. She starts running to him when she sees him. “Dr. Abbot!” 

Jack turns his head, thinks Mel’s voice is off, but he guesses it’s been a bit since he’s heard it down here. But when he sees her face, the way she’s running towards him, his heart speeds up and he shakes his head a little as she approaches him. Mel’s eyes are wide, just the slightest bit wet.  

“Dr. Abbot,” Mel breathes. “She’s crashing. Robby went up to see her and she crashed.”

“What?” It’s whispered. Jack’s whole world stops again. He doesn’t even wait for an answer, is sprinting inside and screaming to hold the elevator because he knows it’ll be faster than he can take all the flights up to your room. He tries to hold onto hope. Mel had said crashing not coding.

This would fucking happen. This would fucking happen. He leaves you and then you crash. The realizations hit him when he gets in the elevator and presses the door closed button over and over. That the last thing you said to him was that small, barely audible “okay.” That your last interaction was an almost fight in a way, was him upset when you were telling him what was on your mind when that’s what he has been begging you to do. That he walked out of your room without saying goodbye, without giving you a kiss, without telling you he loved you.

Sleep well.

That could be the last fucking thing he ever said to you. Sleep well. He pictures your face when he looked at you that last time, near tears, scared, small, anxious, questioning. Probably questioning whether he was going to come back or whether he loved you or whether he still wanted to be with you after so clearly hitting a nerve with him. Especially on top of all the guilt you were already feeling before that conversation. The guilt you were telling him about when he shut down. 

The world already gave him a second chance with you and he fucked it all up in a minute. Somewhere deep in his bones he knows “sleep well” will be the last thing he ever said to you, that your last interaction together will be a quasi-argument. Because if you’re crashing at this point, this far out from surgery, something bad is happening. Differential diagnoses flip through his mind. Pulmonary embolism, having somehow reopened one of your internal wounds and bleeding out, sepsis, delayed collapsed lung, drug reaction, the list goes on and on. None of them are good. All of them would require you to fight hard to pull through. 

And with fucking “sleep well” as the last thing he said to you after he practically jumped in your shit you probably think you have nothing left to fight for. 

You’re vaguely aware of Robby coming into your room and talking to you even though you can’t make out any words at first. But then you become acutely aware of him screaming about you crashing and somebody call Jack. 

Jack. 

Robby says something about intubation but you get a hand up, cling to the fabric on the arm of that blue sweatshirt he always wears. “Wait,” you choke out, wondering when it got so hard to breathe and how you’re just noticing. “Jack,” you force out in a wheeze, “want to talk,” you look up at Robby with terrified eyes he’s seen hundreds of times in patients who think they’re about to die, only yours have a slight look of determination. “Please.” 

He hesitates for just a second. “Okay,” he nods, looking down at you. “Okay. But only if he’s here within the next two minutes. I’m counting.” He grabs an oxygen mask and holds it over your mouth and nose. Your eyes say ‘thank you’ in the most heartbreaking of ways. You both know he’ll be there with one minute and fifty six or seven seconds to spare. 

The elevator door opens on your floor and Jack’s sprinting out of it to your room, praying that maybe you’ll still be alive when he gets there. He could talk to you, tell you he’s sorry and he loves you and please fight. He’s panting when he runs into your room, looks at you, your vitals, and then Robby. “Why the fuck isn’t she intubated yet?!”

“She wanted to be able to say something to you,” Robby tells him as he pushes drugs, barks out orders and gets ready to intubate you. “She’s totally fucking septic Jack, out of fucking nowhere,” he calls back over his shoulder. “She must have thrown a septic PE.” Robby pulls the oxygen mask away from your face.

Jack looks back at you as he moves closer. You lick your lips and rub them together a little, trying to get them wet and unstuck from each other. You look terrified but try to offer him a brave smile anyway. “I love you,” you manage to mouth before everything is consumed by black and quiet.

Where everything goes black and quiet for you, Jack’s senses are overwhelmed by the look on your face, the way your eyes shut, the way Robby’s hands so gently turn your head back so he can intubate you and seconds later by the high pitched whine coming from your patient monitor announcing you’ve flatlined and Robby yelling for someone to start compressions. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He’s not exactly looking for it when he spots it as he walks down a street to pick up the take out you ordered on his way home. But it’s there and it makes him think of you. It’s almost perfect. Almost. 

He slips inside, gets in a conversation with the store owner. They can customize it for him. He thinks you’ll love that, the idea that nobody has the same engagement ring as you. The owner says he’ll get him some sketches. Jack puts down a deposit. You text asking if he’s okay. 

He says a quick goodbye to the owner and that he’ll be back and runs to get the food and back to you. He’s known for a while now that he wants to ask, wants to marry you. You just get him in a way he can’t describe and knows he’ll never find again. 

That night in bed he lays awake spooning you and thinking about how to propose. You wouldn’t want something too big and flashy. But he doesn’t think you’d hate it being in public necessarily. God, what if you say no? What if you’re not ready or it’s too fast or he’s too old, too broken? 

No. He knows you don’t think he’s too old or broken at all. He knows you’ll say yes, knows you’ll cry. But how to do it. Where to do it. 

The bookstore with the ring in the book feels like too much, a little too on the nose. You wouldn’t hate it by any means but it doesn’t feel right. 

He thinks about a conversation you had in the travel section at the bookstore. 

“I love travelling.” You say it as you look over the shelves. “Especially internationally.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhmmm,” you hum. “We should go somewhere.” You hand him a book on Paris. “I love Paris. Have you been?”

Jack shakes his head, starts thumbing through the book. “Can’t say that I have.”

“I would love to show you around. It’s just so pretty. The Eiffel Tower sparkles and they light up all the buildings at night and I swear almost every building looks so beautifully historic. And the Louvre. I love the Louvre. I don’t even really know why, I just do. I like the inverted pyramids by the entrance and I like how you just get lost in there.” You’re flipping through your own book, this one about France in general. “We could do a France tour. Start in Nice or somewhere and work our way up.” You look up at him, and when he looks up from his book at you he’s surprised to see nerves. “If you would want to, of course. Obviously. There’s no pressure. I know you’d have to take time off from work and you love work and it would waste a lot of time off, probably depending on how long we went for. If we did. So it’s okay. I could go by myself or with a friend if I got desperate enough.” You give a breathy, anxious laugh and fiddle with the book. 

Jack gives you a little smile and puts the book back where it belongs. “It might shock you to hear this but I have maxed out the amount of annual leave time off I can accrue. I donate everything I have leftover at the end of the year. I’ve donated all of it for a couple of years now because I can’t accrue it anymore.”

“Oh, well,” you clear your throat and it would almost be funny and adorable if he didn’t hate seeing you in distress. “That’s very nice of you. You’re a very good man Peter.”

“I want to go with you.” Your lips twitch up and eyebrows raise. “I want us to do that.”

“Yeah?” You beam at him and it’s straight sunshine. You’re too good for him, he swears. 

“Yeah,” he nods, returns your smile, kisses you quickly. “Robby might try to kiss you like that for getting me to go. He’s always on me about taking a vacation.” 

Yes. In Paris. That would be perfect. You haven’t started planning the trip because life has gotten busy for both of you, but he mentions it enough to make sure you know he hasn’t forgotten, you talk about when you’ll start planning it some nights but often fall asleep mid conversation, exhausted from your day. 

In front of the inverted pyramids at the Louvre. He can hire a photographer and they won’t even look suspicious. Just like someone taking photos of the Louvre. 

He starts planning it, the France trip. Doesn’t tell you. Reaches out to your boss who he has met to make sure you can get the time off. He’ll surprise you with it soon, he tells himself. He’ll tell you soon now that he has the ring hidden away in a box in a closet that you can’t reach easily. 

Soon. He knows he can’t keep putting it off, can just hear Dana and Robby in his ear if they knew, telling him to grow a pair and do it, that tomorrow isn’t promised, that he should do it here at the hospital so they can finally fucking meet you. That, while they don’t know you, Dana would give him a sharp look then, they know you’ll love it. 

You’ll be at the courthouse tomorrow. It’s not too far from his place. He could surprise you and pick you up, take you out somewhere nice. He has the day off too so he could go get the book you handed him, put the tickets and copy of the itinerary he’s planned so far in it. 

He smiles to himself as he imagines the shock on your face, the way you’ll struggle for words and repeat a bunch of one syllable ones for thirty seconds before the ability to form real sentences comes back to you. Yeah, that’ll work. 

Tomorrow. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s a perfect day. Not too hot and not too cold. Like that Miss Congeniality bullshit that you made him watch and he secretly and surprisingly enjoyed.

It’s your perfect day. 

Jack thinks that’s real fucking ironic. 

Sleep well. 

Jack was right.

Those were in fact the last words he ever spoke to you. 

While you were conscious anyway. It’s all he can think about as he sits here in his dress blues at your fucking funeral. He couldn’t bring himself to buy a plain navy suit for the occasion. 

No, that day he had said a lot more words to your unconscious self up by your head as Robby and the team tried and succeeded at stabilizing you enough to get you to the OR. And he had said a lot more words when they let him in the OR so that he could hold your hand and talk to you for just a bit longer before they called it. Somehow in the moment he had managed to block out Garcia standing on the other side across from him with her hand in your chest, manually beating your heart to give him more time with you. 

And then he had said a lot more words to your dead body.

He must have sat in that stupid operating room with you for hours just holding you once they had closed your chest and sat the OR bed up a bit for him. He thinks he must have cycled through every stage of grief with you in his arms. 

Denial. All he could do for a while was mumble to himself that this couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be real. You weren’t really dead. This is some twisted fucking joke you’re trying to play. To see if you could get him to cry. You can stop playing now, Doll, you got me to cry. Okay so not an elaborate joke. Well, you’d wake up in his arms any second now, shock everyone, the whole medical community with your recovery. Because this simply could not be fucking happening.  

Anger. He yelled at you to wake up and not do this to him, to think about how unfair and selfish you were being, how fucking dare you. How dare you leave him here alone. How dare you for talking about him properly grieving. Does it look like he’s properly fucking grieving to you? And he knew, he fucking knew you were about to say moving on, that he could be working towards moving on as if he’s ever going to fucking move on, fuck you for that. He was supposed to propose and you ruined it. You left him How. Fucking. Dare. You.

Bargaining. He negotiated with himself. He should have looked you over before stepping away from you, should have taken you right into an exam room and checked every inch of you for injury before leaving you. If he could go back he would. He would do it all differently. He wouldn’t let you out of the house, would have insisted you skip work that day. He’s not a particularly religious man but he’s praying, bargaining with a God he’s not sure he believes in to bring you back to him. Take his other foot, take his hands, take his ability to be a doctor, take anything and everything that’s enough to bring you back. 

Depression. Crushing and all consuming. The reality that this was happening. A sadness so deep in his soul and causing so much physical pain in his heart that for one glimmer of a second he thought maybe he was suffering from broken heart syndrome, that maybe if he could keep himself worked up and sobbing it would kill him. A sadness so consuming he’d never pull himself out of it. There would never be enough tears shed or enough therapy or enough anything to make any of it better. 

Acceptance. Eventually it washed over him. You were dead in his arms. He was holding your lifeless body. This was his new reality. One without you in it.

But mostly he just sat there and cried over you. Cried for you. Buried his face in your neck at times to muffle the screaming sobs that made him shake. Rocked you and held the side of your face against his when his sobs became so deep they were soundless.

For a while he thought Robby and Dana were going to have to drag him out of there, drag you out of his arms. But at some point he just broke in a different way. Became some sort of numb. Resigned. So he forced himself to leave.

The only thing he could think to do at the end as he laid you back down was to try and make them better. Those two words. 

Brushing some hair back from your face and running his thumb over your jaw he had told you that he loves you and that he always will. He whispered for you to rest now, gave you one last unreciprocated kiss, and then murmured “sleep well.”

He had to damn near drag himself out of the OR after that. Robby knew it. Dana knew it. They were both right there waiting for him. He had needed to get the fuck out of the hospital and to somewhere he could just send himself into oblivion because he had no fucking idea how to deal with the pain, with the loss of you. 

Dana’s hand on his arm grounded him a little. Enough that he heard Robby say quietly, “let’s get you home.” 

Home. 

Jack had realized in that moment that he didn’t have a home. You were his home. Your heartbeat. The one that was now gone. That simply no longer existed. That had been thrown away by the universe like it meant nothing when it meant everything to him. 

Yes, he realized he had an apartment, he had somewhere to go. But that was the apartment that he was supposed to have shared with you. The apartment with all of his things, all of your things, still in boxes. You had been planning on spending the weekend unpacking and painting and getting furniture where you wanted it. You had been planning on making it your home. Together. And then you got shot.

And now, Jack had realized, there was no more together. There was simply an apartment full of boxes of shit and furniture haphazardly placed just to get it in. 

He had had to laugh about it, it was so fucked up. He had barely even realized that he, Dana, and Robby had made it outside somehow, through a side door so that he didn’t have to walk through the entire Pitt. And so out there on the sidewalk in the sun - because of course it couldn’t have been night, he couldn’t have had one thing to give him comfort - he’d broken down in a fit of laughter for a moment that quickly devolved into sobs. 

Big wracking ones that required Robby to hold him up until he had let Jack slide down the side wall onto the ground where the sobs came so hard they were silent. It hadn’t been just you he was weeping for at that point. It had been for you and for himself and for the future you should have had together. For the apartment whose lease would be broken and the trip to Paris he had planned to surprise you with that would never be gone on. For the engagement ring that would never grace your finger. For everything that could have been. For everything that already was.

He’d stopped crying at some point. Dana had gotten her car and driven him and Robby to Robby’s place. Everything since then had more or less blurred together. 

Schedules had been changed so that Dana and Robby worked opposite shifts so that one of them could always be with him. Always watching him. Acutely aware what was likely to happen if they didn’t.

You had no family so everything had been left to Jack, which meant it really had been left to Dana because Jack was barely functioning. Funeral planning. Burial or cremation. Dealing with all of your things.

Unsure of your preferences Dana had picked burial, found a cemetery, bought a plot, gotten it all arranged. Unbeknownst to Dana the one thing Jack had managed to do during all of this was purchase the burial plot next to yours. Only time would tell how long that space next to you would remain empty. Not long if Jack had it his way.

And so here they all were. At the cemetery. On your perfect day.

The funeral was to be held graveside and then back to somewhere for the celebration of life, Dana told him where at one point but he doesn’t remember. Somewhere in his mind he notes that it feels like the entire damn department is here and he can’t help but wonder who the fuck is staffing it right now. As if it matters. As if he’ll ever bring himself back to that hospital. 

Jack’s completely zoned out, unaware of what’s being said, if anything is being said. Your casket is right there. With you in it. He wants to climb inside with you and let them bury you both with him alive. He wants to let your grave smother him to death. He realizes it already is in its own way. So then he might as well be with you, right? No. You’d specifically told him you wouldn’t want that. You said you’d want him to take care of himself and live for you, for the two of you.  But he doesn’t fucking want to. He just wants to be with you.

He tracks your casket as it lowers six feet down. He wants to dive in after you. After a moment Dana nudges him. Right. It’s time. Time for him to throw a flower and some dirt on the top of your grave. 

He forces himself to stand, takes the two daffodils from Dana and approaches your grave. One for him and one for you. They’re your favorite. He stops for a second and just stares down at the wooden box that houses you. Some sort of broken and raw moan slips out before he can stop it, a whimper just a second long, just enough to prove to himself that he’s alive and you’re not standing next to him and there to comfort him and make it all better. He can’t cry. Not here. Not now. Not in front of all of these people. 

He brings a shaky hand up and reaches under his overly pressed shirt until he finds the chain, pulls his dog tags up and over his head, wraps them around the stems of the two daffodils. His chin trembles as he tosses them on top of your casket before following with a little dirt. He thought about tossing the ring he bought you in too, but instead he wears it on a different chain around his neck for now. 

The symbolic burial of himself with you through his dog tags doesn’t escape anyone’s notice and if anyone present wasn’t crying already they were now. Robby and Dana share a heavy tear blurred look with each other. He still can’t be alone. 

Jack just stares down. Can’t bring himself to move. To go sit back down. So the funeral ends with him standing there, looking down at you. 

Robby and Dana give him a few minutes. As he senses people leave he lets the tears slide down his face silently but copiously. His shirt is darkened by his tears quickly. Eventually Robby clears his throat and steps up behind him. 

“Jack?” Robby says his name softly at first. Jack doesn’t respond. “Jack, come on.” It’s a bit louder this time, but still nothing. Robby grabs his shoulder and gives it a little squeeze, is much louder now. “Jack!” 

“What? What happened?” Jack’s head snaps up, the rest of his body following and pushing him out of the chair in seconds. His neck twinges from the awkward angle as his two fingers curl over your wrist automatically, finding your pulse as his vision clears and the patient monitor showing your vitals becomes readable.

All your vitals are normal. Stable.

Your eyes remain closed. Comatose. 

“Nothing,” Robby says quietly, squeezing his shoulder again. “You fell asleep. It didn’t look comfortable. You’re going to fuck your neck if you’re not careful.”

“Jesus fucking christ,” Jack pants, the sheer amount of adrenaline spreading through his system so fast making him shake. He closes his eyes as he tries to bring his heart rate and breathing back to normal. He takes a second to focus and it’s there, under his two fingers thumping along in time with the reading on the patient monitor. Your heartbeat. 

“Fuck.” Jack brings his free hand up and uses it to wipe away the tears itching his face. His chest is wet, shirt undoubtedly darkened by his tears. 

“Another one?” Robby gives him a knowing look. “Funeral again?” 

Jack just nods. It’s not the first nightmare Robby has woken him from in the last three days. It’s not the first time Robby has woken him up from that nightmare. 

“You talked to your therapist recently?” Robby asks as he sits in the other chair near your bed. 

“I don’t have fucking time for the psych-bullshit right now, Robby.” Jack huffs as he sits back in his chair, stretching out his neck. “And I don’t need therapy. I need her to wake the fuck up and come back to me.” He leans forward to kiss your hand, gives it a squeeze and holds his breath that you’ll squeeze back. You don’t. “It’s been five days Robby. Five fucking days.”

Robby nods slowly. “I know. Her body has been through a lot. Sepsis on top of a gunshot and skull fracture is a lot and brain bleed is a lot. And she had a PE, and they had to crack her chest, Jack.” You got lucky and didn’t need surgery to fix the brain bleed. And nobody had wanted to do a thoracotomy on you, not while you were septic, but with your other injuries they had to be careful with blood thinners and the thoracotomy quickly became the only real option. The last ditch option. “All of that is a lot. She needs time. And it’s not bad news. She’s been extubated. That’s a big thing, you know that.” 

“I know,” Jack sighs. It’s small and as exhausted as he sounds and makes him deflate into the chair. “I just… can’t Robby. I can’t keep having that nightmare. I need to hear her voice. I need to know she heard something from me other than fucking ‘sleep well.’ I need this to have never fucking happened!”

Robby doesn’t reply immediately, gives Jack a few minutes to come back down. “She knows you love her, Jack. She knows that you guys would have worked through whatever it was. Deep down she knows that, even if in the moment she was having anxiety.” 

“You don’t even fucking know her. You can’t say that.” Jack shakes his head at Robby “You have no fucking idea.” 

Robby just raises his eyebrows and gives him a resigned look, lets the silence take back over. 

“I need to get back down there, but Dana is going to come up in a bit,” Robby tells him as he stands up. 

“I don’t need babysat.” Jack huffs. 

Robby walks by and squeezes Jack’s shoulder again. “There’s a difference between being babysat and your friends wanting to sit with you to be with you through a difficult time, Jack. We just want to help and right now all we can really do is be here. It’s not babysitting. It’s being a friend. It’s loving a friend. Let us do it, okay?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before walking out. 

And so here you are again. Just the two of you. Only one of you conscious. Jack runs a hand through his hair, moves his chair back closer to your bed and holds your hand. He’s exhausted but terrified to sleep. It always ends the same. 

He’s hardly aware of time passing but knows it must because Dana walks in, hands him a cup of tea. “How’re you?” Jack shrugs. Dana lets him. “Drink the tea.”

He takes a sip, if for nothing more than to get her off his back about it. They sit mostly in silence. Sometimes Dana volunteers a funny story or tells him about some ridiculous patient they had, keeps him up to date on the Pitt gossip. 

“You should shower,” she suggests to him. She’d gone over to your guy’s place at some point and brought in toiletries, fresh clothes for you both. “I’ll sit with her.”

“I’m fine. It’s not like I do anything other than sit here.” 

“Still, it’s a good place to take a minute to yourself. Clear your head.” Dana tilts her head at him. “Look at me.” 

After a second he does, tears his eyes from you to look at her. “She’d want you to take care of yourself.” 

Her words are a little too close to what you had said to him and he bristles, looks back at you. “Nerve there,” Dana observes, always perceptive. “I know I’m right. I know she must have told you that at some point or it wouldn’t have pulled whatever that reaction was.” 

“I’m not leaving her. I don’t care if I can use the shower in her room.” All he can think about is showering you there, watching the pink water go down the drain as he got all of the blood out of your hair and off the rest of your body, the way you melted into his touch and thanked him. How intimate it was. Potentially one of your last moments of intimacy. 

“And the last time I gave into you and showered she fucking woke up without me.” The words hit him and he looks at Dana. “The last time I showered she woke up,” he whispers. He’s not really one to normally believe in such a thing but right now he’s clinging to anything. “I should shower.”

Dana gives him a long nod with a small smile. “Yeah.”

So he does. Tries to split the difference between quickly so that he doesn’t have to spend too much time alone thinking but slow enough to give you time to wake up. But when he turns the water off and doesn’t hear Dana talking he already knows. 

You haven’t woken up. 

“I’m sorry, hon. I was hoping it would work.” Dana looks at him apologetically. 

He shakes his head. “It’s fine.”

Dana nods a bit and walks out. 

Jack finds it hard to talk to you like this. He doesn’t really know why. Maybe it’s just too hard for him to stand the silence he gets in return. 

Sometimes he’ll read to you. That feels nice. You go on and on sometimes about how much you love his voice. You guys met at a bookstore, both love reading. So it just feels right. And he doesn’t have to stop talking and forget and be waiting for a reply that you won’t give him. He can just read. 

He picks up whatever he had been reading to you and starts back up. He doesn’t make it through much though because he just can’t. The sun is setting outside again, another whole day of you in a coma almost finished and he can’t stand it. 

It burns him from the inside, makes him feel like he needs to crawl out of his skin. He needs you to wake up. He needs to fix you. He’s a doctor. Fixing is what he does. He’s fixed countless people. 

But he simply cannot fix you. The only one that matters.

“You know,” he starts, leans back in his chair and looks at you. He scoffs. “God I don’t even know. I don’t know how to do this. What to say to you.” He shakes his head. “And I hate that,” he whispers. 

He sets the book down and the author’s name catches his eye. He moves in closer to you, gets up and sits on the edge of your bed, leans his head in a bit towards you as he holds one of your hands. He needs you to hear this. “I’ve decided that if you don’t wake the fuck up soon I’m going to have no choice but to have someone bring me that book and start reading it to you.” He squeezes your hand and shrugs. “So there. That’s my motivating wake up talk.” Tears hit his eyes and his lips wobble a little. “Wake the fuck up or I’m reading you the god damn book.” 

Jack watches you for a moment and sighs. He leans in and gives your cheek the lightest kiss. He can’t bring himself to kiss your lips again and not feel yours move back against his. He settles back in his chair and picks up the book he was reading. Instead of opening though he just vaguely hits himself straight in the face with it a few times. He doesn’t even know why. He just has the impulse. It’s not hard, it doesn’t do anything. It’s just tapping, just something to ground him maybe. He rests it on his face, closes his eyes and leans his forehead into the cover just to feel the resistance when he pushes the back against him a bit. Maybe he tries to pretend it’s your forehead and the way you lean into each other with your foreheads together sometimes. 

“Should I be jealous of the book Peter?” Your voice is barely audible with how cracked and dry your throat is. 

It takes a second for the book to drop out of Jack’s hands and hit the floor. “Holy fucking shit,” he breathes. “You’re awake.” 

He’s frozen for a minute, shaking hard as adrenaline pours into his system and he feels every emotion he can think of at once. 

“Fuck me,” he huffs. “Really? All I had to do was threaten to read that stupid book to get you to wake up?”

You give him a pained smile and small laugh. It sends him into action. 

“What can I say? I really hate that book. Couldn’t have you torture both of us. I think I’m doing that enough to the both of us right now.” You lick your lips and try to swallow. “Water?” You whisper at him. 

He brings you a cup quickly, holds the straw for you. “Sips,” he says softly. “Little sips right now, okay?” You do as he says, eventually nodding for him to take it away. “Pain? Are you in pain?” He looks on your bed and finds the remote. “Here.” He puts it in your hand, your thumb on top of the red button. “If you need a booster of morphine press the button.” 

You’re immediately pressing it over and over. “What happened?” You groan slightly. “My chest, Jack. It’s so bad. It hurts to breathe, like a weight’s on it.” Your words are a little slurred as the boost of morphine hits. It takes him back to the way you slurred in the trauma room and he has to fight not to go right back there in his mind. You need him. 

“I know.” He strokes your hair. “I know, I’m so sorry.” He looks over at one of your IV pumps. “I can ask them about upping your dose now that you’re awake, okay?”

You nod, blink at him. Your hand drops the button and finds one of his and gives it a little squeeze. “What happened?”

He searches your eyes with his, lets them flit about your face. His lip trembles. It breaks your heart. Whatever it was destroyed him. 

He sits back in his chair, moves it as close to you as he can get it. You reach up to cup his face with your hand and he leans into it immediately, puts both of his hands over yours. “You went septic. Threw a clot. It was bad. It was really bad. You coded. They had to crack your chest to get you back. So that’s why your chest hurts so bad. You’ve been in a coma for five days. I’m so sorry,” he whispers, “I’m so sorry I didn’t-”

“Hey, hey,” you whisper back to him. “Don’t do that. Don’t apologize. None of this is your fault. You didn’t do anything, didn’t cause this.” 

“No,” he sniffles, “I know, but I just… I…” Tears start to stream down his face as he looks at you helplessly and shrugs. “I couldn’t…”

“Jack.” The way you say his name shatters him and he folds, buries his head in your lap, wary of hurting you, and sobs as he keeps squeezing your hand. “It’s okay,” you whisper, run your free hand through his hair. You both know its a lie. Nothing is okay right now. 

But you’re awake. 

He doesn’t cry for long, too conscious of how exhausted you must be, how he doesn’t want this to be how he spends the time he just got back with you. Not right now anyway. There will be time for tears and emotions and processing later. 

He rubs his face in your lap a bit to wipe his eyes and then lifts his head before resting it on its side against your legs. “I’m just so happy you’re awake.” 

“Me too.” You give him a sleepy smile. “Was always going to wake up, couldn’t leave you here alone could I?”

He gives a little half laugh, half sob. “Good. Because I don’t know what I’d do without you.” You want to tell him he’d figure it out but you don’t. 

“You gonna give me a kiss now Jack Abbot? I know I haven’t brushed-”

He’s moving the second you say kiss. He feels bad it didn’t occur to him immediately but he was just so overwhelmed with you being awake. His lips against yours cut you off. It’s not just one kiss, it’s two and three and you lose count. 

Soft ones, small, just long enough. They say more than he could figure out how to say with his words right now. Each one is perfect in its simplicity.

“You should rest,” he murmurs against your lips. You hum at him in response, eyes already fluttering closed. “You know I love you right? More than anything. More than I deserve.” 

You open your eyes back up and look at him. “Course I know that,” you murmur. “You know I love you right?”

He smiles at you. It’s a little watery, a little trembly. “Course I know that.” 

You swallow hard, just from all the meds and fighting the exhaustion. “Get in bed.” Your tone doesn’t leave much room to argue but he does anyway. 

“No. It’s not safe. I could hurt you. You need to heal a bit more.” He squeezes your hand. “But believe me, I want to, more than anything.”

“You won’t hurt me. Didn’t last time.” You look at him with big sleepy eyes that kill him. “Heal better with you in bed with me.” He bites his lip, torn, so scared of causing you any pain and so desperate to give you what you want. To give himself what he wants. “You’re the one that said oxytocin helps healing…” Your eyes flutter closed again. 

He has to laugh through some tears. “God, you really do listen and learn don’t you?”

You hum at him. “Someone has to be your best student. And it better always be me Dr. Abbot.” 

He laughs at that. It’s so you, such a you thing to say. For the first time in days he really laughs even with as short as it is. For the first time in days he feels hope. Hope that everything is going to be okay and you’re going to go home together and unpack and set up your place and paint and just be together.  

“You’re my best everything,” he murmurs as he gently shifts you and all your wires and climbs carefully into bed next to you. He needs it. And you need it. And so he lets you both have it. He lets himself hold you as best he can while keeping you in a neutral position that won’t hurt you. Your head falls to rest on his shoulder and you sigh softly as you fall asleep. Jack kisses the top of your head, lets his lips linger. 

“Sleep well.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Doll, I am not a dancer. I promise you. Nobody wants to see it.” 

“I don’t believe you,” you pout at him. “And I’ve seen those hips in action Peter. I know how much control you have over them. How you can isolate all the little muscles in them.”

“None of the muscles in your hips are particularly little-”

“You’re not changing the subject,” you cut him off. “It’s a wedding. We’re going to have to dance. At least to the slow songs.” 

“Are you sure you really want to take me?” He doesn’t even really mean to ask it, it just comes out. 

You look up at him and pause, drop his comforter that you were pulling back to get into his bed. “I… Is it too soon? Too serious too soon? I guess going to a wedding together is kind of…” you trail off looking for the word. “I don’t know a thing.”

“No!” He’s quick to reassure you. He leans up and pulls the comforter back for you. “Get in bed.” 

You do as he says. “It’s not too soon, and I want to go with you, trust me. Even under threat of dancing. I just wanted to make sure you don’t feel like you have to take me. I know a lot of your friends will be there and if you’re not ready to make those introductions, that’s okay,” he explains as he pulls you to him, arms wrapping around you but loose enough so that you can see each other. 

“I don’t feel like I have to take you. I want to. I want people to meet you. I want to show you off.” One of your hands slips into the back of his hair and plays with it, ruffles the curls and scratches at his scalp on and off as you look at each other. 

“Show me off?” He smirks at you. “You wanna show me off?”

“My intelligent, thoughtful, hot as all fuck doctor of a boyfriend? Yeah. I wanna show you off.” You grab at the old shirt he’s wearing to sleep in and give it and him a look of mock offense at it being on but pull him to you by it anyway. “Wanna see you in a partial suit. Nice slim fit pants, collared shirt, a tie, one or two buttons open at the reception and the tie shoved in your pocket to use on me later.” 

Jack sucks in a sharp breath of air and you just give him a little raise of your eyebrow, start to roll onto your back. He’s on top of you and kissing you and has his hands roaming all over you the second your head hits the pillow. 

He always pauses for a moment and makes eye contact with you before letting himself collapse on top of you after he’s done fucking you like this. The intimacy of that quick moment always makes your heart metaphorically skip a beat. This time is no exception. 

Jack snuggles into your chest, kissing at the top of your breasts as he does before he settles. You run your hands through his hair, are always running them through his hair or up and down his back or both. He loves it. 

“Hey Jack?” He’ll never get used to hearing his name come off your tongue.

He makes a little hum of acknowledgment, still blissed out and coming down. 

“We’re dancing at the wedding.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Days blur together. 

Your Pitt family rallies around both of you. 

You start seeing a therapist and it helps, you improve some, mentally. Jack finally makes an appointment with his therapist and it helps him. 

Everyone helps distract you, but it’s not just sitting in your room with you. One night Samira, Javadi, McKay, Mel and Heather show up in your room with painting supplies, easels, foldable stools, and a woman you’ve never met before. 

Paint and sip, they explain. You’re doing a paint and sip right here in your room, minus the sipping, unfortunately, because of your meds. It’s so sweet and thoughtful it makes you teary. Jack will never admit it but it may or may not have made him a little teary as he gave you a kiss and walked out to be with Robby for a bit as you guys did your painting. 

There are more things. There are a lot more things that they all do for you, and for Jack. Robby forces Jack to leave the hospital, just to go home, get more things for you, pick up food you like, small things. The first time is rough for both of you. But it gets better.

Of course, the most special though, the one that helps your mental health the most, is what Jack does for you. 

One night a good two and a half weeks into your hospital stay, Jack goes out to pick up dinner and Dana, Samira and Heather show up in your room again, but this time they have clothes for you. Nice clothes. A nice dress, the one you were going to wear to the wedding. Nice shoes. Make-up. Perfume. 

The Pitt is having a little get together on the roof and you should come, they explain. You worry that Jack is not going to be happy with you out of your room and on the roof, that it’ll scare him and you don’t want to scare him any more than you already have. They convince you that it’s okay, that Robby called Jack already and told him and so he knows to meet you up there. You’re confused by it all but don’t feel you’re in a position to really question anything and also very excited about the prospect of getting to be out on the roof in fresh air and city noise. 

The girls help you get dressed and your makeup and hair done nicely. Dana sprays some perfume on you. It makes you smile. 

“What?” She asks, but it’s a little too knowing. 

“I wore this perfume on Jack and I’s first date.” 

She hums. “Well isn’t that special? You’ll have to see if he remembers.” 

Heather and Samira disappear, say they’ll meet you up there, they’re going to go change. Dana brings you up, opens the roof door and tells you to go, she’s gotta go change. You look at her confused and shaking your head and now you know something is up. But she’s off before you can question her.

You turn around and walk out onto the roof a little, around a little corner and there’s Jack. 

There’s Jack standing next to a dinner table with a white linen tablecloth with candles on it, fairy lights strung up on the guard rail. There’s Jack holding a bouquet of daffodils for you and looking at you like you’re a vision. There’s Jack standing in front of you in nice slim fit pants, a collared shirt with two buttons undone. 

You look shocked because you are so far fucking beyond shocked you didn’t even know it was possible. He did this for you. 

“We didn’t get to go to the wedding,” he calls to you as he walks over while you walk to him. “You look gorgeous.”

You’re speechless. Beyond. You’re thoughtless, struggling to process this, all this work that he did for you.

“I promise to give you a raincheck on the tie,” he smirks as he reaches you, leans in and kisses you. He pulls back, brows furrowed like he’s confused and it makes you laugh a little because how the hell is he the confused one now. “You smell like our first date.”

“I…Jack, this is… Yeah, it’s the same perfume. Dana brought it.” You pause, think back on your conversations with Dana. She dragged it out of you so casually one day you thought nothing of it. You shake your head and laugh a little. “She asked me about it one day and I didn’t even think about it.

“She’s pretty good, isn’t she?” Jack laughs. You nod. 

“Jack, I’m,” you look around, hold onto his forearms to ground you. You’re teary. Of course. “You did all this? For me?”

“Well I certainly had many co-conspirators who helped me get it all set up, but yeah. It was my idea. You needed it. I needed it. We needed it. A date night. And this was the only place we could get in.” He hands you the daffodils, grabs your hand and leads you over to the table where you stop.

“I…” You look around again. “It’s safe? For me?” You look back at him and he knows from the look in your eye that you’re not asking because you’re worried about yourself. You’re asking because you’re worried about him, worried about putting him through more trauma and more pain if something were to happen to you up here. 

“Yes.” He helps you into the chair. “You’re probably the safest diner in all of Pittsburgh tonight. You’ve got a physician’s supervision.” He smirks at you. His eyes flick to the ground on the side. His go-bag. He’s prepared, just in case. That brings you back to reality, brings you back to yourself, makes you smile and give a soft laugh. 

He sits down opposite you, starts to take a drink of water. “Have I ever told you how hot I find it that you’re a doctor?”

Jack chokes, starts coughing and it makes you giggle.

“What?” You draw the word out with a bit of that shit-eating grin he loves. “What did you expect me to say?” 

“I don’t fucking know but not that! You were so speechless a minute ago!” He’s laughing a bit now, looking at you like you’re one of the seven wonders of the world. 

“It’s just the truth!” you say through a laugh. He reveals dinner to you. Your favorite dish from your favorite place. You thank him for this, all of it, you keep saying it because you’re so blown away. 

You eat dinner. You eat all of yours for the first time in two weeks and it makes Jack so incredibly happy and relieved. After you’re done with dinner you sit for a bit, chat a little before Jack stands up and holds out his hand to you. You raise an eyebrow at him. 

He takes his phone out and thirty seconds later your guy's song, soft and slow, starts playing from a speaker he had hidden under the table. He offers you his hand again. 

“Oh Jack.” You pull the words out a little bit as you start to cry.

Through tears you take it and let him pull you close into a dancing hold. “I hope they’re good tears,” Jack murmurs as he holds you close.

“They’re the best,” you sniffle. “I love you so much.”

Jack kisses your temple at the side of your eyebrow. “I love you more.”

The song plays on a loop. Jack dances with you until you admit you’re tired and need to rest. It’s not even really dancing more than just swaying together, him holding you close, murmured conversation. But it’s everything. He’s everything. 

You’re there for weeks. Weeks that are beautifully uneventful, the only exception being when you hit some milestones in your recovery. 

And then one day is eventful again because a word starts being used. The word you’ve both been desperate to hear. 

Home. 

You’re desperate to get out of the hospital and home. Jack is just as desperate to get you there. He never wants to let you out of it again, but that’s a conversation for a later day. He’s dreading when you have to go back to work, back to that courthouse. Rationally he knows with the increased security since the shooting it’s probably one of the safest places for you to be but his emotional brain doesn’t give a single fuck about that. 

You laugh about it with Jack one day, how you’re going to go home to your apartment that’s still in boxes with furniture pushed to the center of rooms so you could paint. “It’s okay, we can wait to paint or I can make Robby help. And then you can just boss me around and tell me where to put things as I unpack while you rest on the couch.”

He gives you a very pointed look. 

“I think I’ll be okay to help you unpack. At least some things and at least for a while. If I get tired I’ll rest and I won’t go lifting a box of books, okay?” You give him a reassuring smile. 

“No.” 

You let out a deep sigh. “Jack, we’ve talked about this. You can’t treat me like I’m glass forever. Especially once we’re home.” 

“Why not? And it’s not even treating you like glass, it’s making sure you take it easy and recover.” His face is set, but not quite as hard as it has been when you’ve had this conversation in the past. 

“I will take it easy. And I will recover. And you will be there to make sure I do both of those things. But being active, to an extent, I know, is important. Robby has said it. Dana. Heather, Mel, Santos, Shen, Parker, Perlah, Princess, Shamsi, Whitaker, Garcia, Javadi, Mohan, Mateo, everyone who has ever stepped in this room. Even you told me that, back when I didn’t want to get out of bed.” You run your hands over his chest, try to be soothing. You don’t want to upset him. “I know you have been through a lot with this. I know I have been. I know we have a lot to process and work through together and individually. I don’t want to argue. And I know that if our positions were reversed I would be the exact same way towards you, and that if anything you have it worse because you’re a doctor and so you know way too much about the things that could go wrong. But I’m okay. I will be okay. You tell me everyday how I’m getting stronger.”

Jack settles his hands on your hips, rests his forehead against yours. “I know. I just… struggle. Because you were better and then you weren’t. And I am terrified that’s going to happen again even though I know the chances at this point are so low.” His hands squeeze your hips. “I think maybe seeing you out of here will help. Seeing you at home. It’ll make it more real. That you’re really okay.” He pulls his head from yours. “I’m sorry.” 

“Hey,” you cup his face with both of your hands. “I don’t want you to be sorry, Jack. Not for caring so much, for loving so much. Because that’s what this is and I know it. It’s not micromanaging or not trusting me or wanting to control me. I know that. I promise. I know this is motivated by fear and by love. We’re going to get through this together, okay?”

He nods because he knows it’s true. 

And then there’s another eventful day, with a phrase you’ve both been itching to hear. 

Discharge instructions. 

They let Robby give you them even though he’s not technically your doctor. He gives them to you even though he doesn’t need to because you have Jack who’s going to be all over you and enforce stricter ones. But you still appreciate hearing them so that you have some idea of what’s okay and what isn’t and what appointments you have scheduled for follow ups and the meds they’re sending you home with. 

You ask about sex. 

Jack almost drops the bottle he’s packing away for you. “Why, please tell me why on earth,” he draws the word out, “you’re thinking about sex? And not recovering.”

You look at him, hold a finger up and then riffle through the bag next to you on the bed. You take out the small stand mirror Dana had brought you so that you could do your makeup that one night. You open it and hand it to Jack. “Take a look in the mirror Dr. Abbot.”

You’re so nonchalant with how you say it, like it’s obvious and just a fact and nothing you should really have to be explaining. 

“Oh my god,” he mutters. 

Robby ends up totally snorting his laugh because he tried to stifle it for Jack for a minute but it’s too good, it’s too funny. Robby smiles at you as he pulls it together, thinks how good you are for Jack. How you’re what he needed.

“You could have just asked me, you know! I’m a doctor! I know you know that, you tell me how hot it is all the time! We didn’t have to fucking drag Michael into this,” he huffs. But all of you know it’s not serious. He’s not really mad. He’s just worried and scared and wants to protect you and doesn’t want anything to happen to you and more than anything he doesn’t want to hurt you. But there’s the subtlest tinge to his voice that reflects his lust, his want, his desire to have you like that again. 

“Yes, but I don’t trust you to give me a straight answer right now,” he goes to interrupt you but you shake your head and continue, speaking over him, and Jack pouts. Truly pouts. “And you know that’s valid and you would have given me the most conservative answer possible. And it’s Robby,” you shrug, “he’s a doctor and your best friend and obviously knows we’re having sex, or were before all of this. Plus he saw my tits when he coded me, I think we lost some boundaries when that happened.”

“They’re very nice b-”

Jack shoots him a glare, one that would have Robby dead on the floor if looks could kill.

Robby stops talking and clears his throat. “Right, well, uh,” Robby hugs his tablet to him and rocks back and forth a bit. “I mean as soon as you’re ready and feel up to it.” You look over at Jack and flash a pleased smile, raise your eyebrows. “But nothing too rough or overly strenuous. Keep it soft, slow. You know real love-making-”

“I’m going to fucking quit if you keep talking.” Jack interrupts Robby who wears the biggest self-satisfied shit eating grin. 

You snort a laugh because the whole situation is so fucking absurd. “Thank you, Robby.”  

“Of course.” He opens his arms and you hug. “Don’t take this the wrong way but I am really fucking glad I won’t see either of you tomorrow.” 

The three of you share a laugh. “Ready?” Jack asks you. It’s funny how in the moment you’ve been dying for you’re suddenly terrified and unsure. The hospital is safe. There are doctors and medications. 

You remind yourself that there’s a doctor and medications at home too and the thought lets you smile at Jack and nod.

He flicks his chin to the wheelchair. “Oh you cannot be serious. That is so unnecessary.”

“Hospital policy.” Jack shrugs. 

“Hospital policy or Jack policy?”

“That one actually is hospital policy.” Robby confirms. 

Jack gives you a triumphant smirk and you roll your eyes and stick your tongue out at him. He does it back. 

And then he wheels you out.

Being home is strange. It’s a whole new normal to get used to again. There are lots of emotions. You’re all over the place, somehow more emotional labile the first two days at home than you ever were in the hospital. 

Despite his own emotions Jack is your rock through it and things start to get better. He paints with Robby’s help. You talk him into letting you paint. You direct Jack and Robby on where furniture should go, with Jack’s input of course. You and Jack unpack boxes together. 

Six or seven days after you came home you’re down to just two boxes left. All books. You and Jack are unpacking them together, him bending to get them out of the box and you alphabetizing as you put them on the shelves. 

Jack picks up a book. The book. The one that started it all. The one ‘Move in with me?’ is written in. He stares down at it. 

Earlier today he’d unpacked the box where he’d hidden the ring. The ring box is in his pocket, pants loose enough to hide it. 

“Peter?” You hold a hand out behind you to get the next book from him but Jack doesn’t put one in your hand or say anything. “Jack?” you repeat as you turn around to him staring at the book. He has a weird look that you can’t really place. Your brows furrow in concern. “Are you okay?”

He sets the book back in the box and looks up at you for a second. And then he’s sliding down to one knee and your eyes widen. “Jack,” you whisper, already teary. 

“We’re going on the France trip,” he starts. “It’s all planned. You should be well enough to travel by then and we can adjust to take it easier if we need.” Your mouth drops open a little. “I had this all planned too. Proposing. I was going to take you to the Louvre, propose in front of the inverted pyramids, have a photographer. I had planned to tell you about the trip the night of the day you got shot. And then the entire time you were in the hospital I wanted to ask but I didn’t want it to feel like I was asking because you were in the hospital and things were scary.” 

You bring a trembling hand to your mouth. “But I can’t wait anymore. I can’t wait for Paris. You know this has nothing to do with what happened. I had planned this before what happened. I knew I wanted to marry you within a month. That time you met me outside of the hospital after I coded that vet at the very end of my shift. We had spoken on the phone for less than a minute, I didn’t tell you about it or say anything was wrong and yet you just showed up. In your work clothes. When I asked why you were there you said you could hear it in my voice, that I needed someone, needed to not be alone and so you took the day off, and it’s funny because up until you said it I had been telling myself that I needed to be alone. But you were right. When I started to argue you just put a hand to my chest and kissed me, told me that it was already done, you’d already let your boss know, grabbed my hand and started walking to my place. And that’s when I realized you knew me better than I knew myself and that you weren’t afraid to just do things for me, that you weren’t going to make me ask, ever, for anything, when you knew I wouldn’t be able to. You weren’t going to make me struggle, force me to either open up or not get what I need from you. That’s when I knew I wanted to marry you.” He pauses and swallows, trying to clear the tears that line his eyes from his voice. “There’s so much I wanted to say in this moment, so much you deserve to hear” he laughs a little, the sound wet with tears, “but everything has fallen out of my mind. I promise though that, if you’ll let me, I’ll spend the rest of our lives making sure you hear them and know how important and necessary you are to me, how much I love you.” 

Tears stream down your face. They have been for a while now. Your mouth and chin tremble under your hand. 

Jack gets the box from his pocket and opens it.

The way Jack says your name is etched into your memory. Then. “Will you marry me?”

You move your hand from your mouth, give him a look and move your shoulders in a way that says he didn’t even have to ask. 

“Yes.” 

It’s not exactly whispered, your voice is just so choked with tears it makes it sound like it. Jack’s face breaks out into the biggest teary smile and yours matches. Shaking hands get the ring on your finger and then Jack is standing up, arms going straight to hold your face and he kisses you like he never has before. It’s indescribable. It’s perfect. 

You hug him tightly for a minute before you both pull away. “Is it okay? The ring?”

“Oh,” you sniffle, try and wipe at your eyes with your hands. “You’re going to laugh,” your voice gets a little more high pitched as another wave of emotion hits you. “The tears, there’s too many, I haven’t been able to see it.” You cover your mouth with your hand. 

And Jack, Jack starts laughing. Because it’s so you, from being too teary to see it to the way you got even more emotional when you told him. You laugh-cry with him. 

The entirety of the proposal is perfect. 

As is what follows once you’ve seen the ring, almost screamed about it and how perfect it is, and gushed about it for several minutes to him. 

Jack takes your hand and leads you to your bedroom. Your shared bedroom. He lays you down on soft sheets. It’s your first time after what happened. 

He takes his time with you. Kisses every inch of you, every scar, new and old, lingers on the new ones. He worships you. Takes you apart and puts you back together again. Lets you do the same to him. 

The groan of relief that comes from his chest when he finally pushes inside of you is unholy. He holds you tight to him. He adjusts so that he’s on top of you, arms under your shoulders with his elbows supporting him, holding your face in his hands. It’s all panting and breathy and sloppy kisses and uncontrollable groans and moans and warm sweaty skin and eye contact and Jack slowly losing it and groaning nonstop as he fucks you and chases your hips harder and harder, moving you both up the bed a bit as he tries to get deeper and closer to you. 

You take a bath after to clean the sweat off of you both and just to feel each other. He pours in so much epsom salts to help you heal that you tease him you’re going to float in the water. It’s so warm and his touch is so relaxing that you actually fall asleep leaning back against him for a few minutes. He lets you sleep. Tries to commit the moment to memory. 

You decide to have a housewarming party. You invite everyone from the Pitt, time it so that the night shifters can drop by for a little bit before their shift starts if they want. You invite some of your friends too. 

You use it to announce your engagement. Every time someone knocks you and Jack go get them and you hold your left hand up. Everyone is happy for you. Some cry which makes you get teary. Jack hears you discussing the ring with Dana, Samira, McKay, and Javadi, you holding your hand out and all of them looking closely at it. He can’t hear the conversation but he catches, “he custom designed it,” and “it’s so perfect, just like him.”

He stands alone for a minute watching you and the party. He smiles as you walk up to him, arms automatically opening for you to step into. “And how is my beautiful fiancée doing?” You giggle at the word. Fianceé. It makes it so real. “Tired?” He’s checking in on you and you know he’d have all of these people out in a literal minute if you said you were tired and needed to rest. 

“No, I’m okay, I promise.” You lean up and give him a kiss. “How’s my handsome fiancé?” 

“I’m pretty perfect, Doll.” He gives your hip a squeeze. “Thank you.”

“For what?” You cock your head at him a little and he melts even more for you somehow. 

“For everything.” Jack kisses you. “For saying yes.” Another kiss. “For waking up.” Another kiss. “And for telling me that book wasn’t worth it.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I wanted both without having to destroy Jack because he deserves everything so here we are. I hope it was okay! Please let me know your thoughts and comments!! Liking, replies and reblogging are so so appreciated! My inbox and requests are open (see masterlist for more)! Thank you for reading all of this, I know it was long!

Part 3 is up!

And let me know if you'd like to see more of these two! Wedding, more before reader is shot, just little domestic moments between the two? I'm hoping to do a follow up to Perfumer and maybe a few more shorter things, maybe some Robby? Who knows, certainly not I.

Thank you again for reading and your support!

[popcornpoppypop]

Like You

Summary: You're a single mom to an angry teen boy. Jack isn't phased, he can handle the anger. He is there for your son, no matter what. Years later, Pittfest makes them more alike than anyone would wish.

Warnings: Angst, fighting, angry teen, mentions of death, mass shooting, blood, medical inaccuracies, talk of amputation.

There wasn’t a day that passed where you weren’t beyond grateful for Jack Abbot. Most people would have turned and ran the moment they found out you had a 14 year old son. You couldn’t blame them. It’s a lot of baggage. But Jack never blinked.

“Honey, you are the best person I’ve ever met. Why the hell wouldn’t I love someone you made?” He told you the night you had finally let him in.

“He can be angry sometimes, Jack. He might not like you for a while.” You warned, not wanting to sugar coat anything and be left when things got hard.

“I was angry for most of my life. I know what it’s like. I’ll be okay. It’s not about me anyway.” He shrugged.

“Oh my god, just fucking kiss me already.” You sighed as you pulled him into you, his laughter rumbling in his chest,

Your son wasn’t introduced to your boyfriends often. You never really found any that you felt would stand the rough weather. But something in Jack made you trust him. The first meeting went over like a lead balloon. Ended with your son shouting at Jack.

“You don’t care about me! You just want to fuck my mom! Fucking pervert!” Your son,Matt, shouted at him.

“Matthew! Stop that, you don’t speak like to anyone, let alone someone I care about!” You scolded.

“Y/N, it’s okay.” Jack said stroking your arm, trying to calm you down.

“He’s just here to get in your pants! Thinks if he buddies up to me it’ll happen.” Matt growled.

“I know that’s what’s happened in the past, but I promise that is not what I’m doing right now.” Jack raised his hands up like he was calming a wild animal.

“Oh please, you’re just like the rest.” Matt scoffed, pacing back and forth.

“Matt, please just sit down and let’s talk about this.” You plead with the boy.

“Shut up, bitch!” He snapped. Jack stood up fast, the chair flying back from underneath him.

“Hey! You listen to me now! You can talk how you want to me, I don’t care, I can take it. You will never, NEVER, speak to your mother like that. She doesn’t deserve your anger.” Jack growled. Matt stopped looking at Jack in all his intimidating power.

“You’ll never be my father.” Matt whispered before running upstairs. Jack sighed shaking his head.

“I’m so sorry, Jack. I-I didn’t think he’d get this upset. Maybe that was naïve. You didn’t deserve that.” You sighed, head in your hands.

“Honey, I’ve had worst hurled in my direction. He can be angry with me. If that’s what he needs.” He said smoothing your hair from your face.

For months, Jack would come by the house and try to speak with Matt only to be met with insults. Jack saw how it tore you up, tried to console you. You both knew it was part of the process, it didn’t make it easier.

You had to go on a work trip for the weekend, you’d asked Jack to stay at your house to keep an eye on Matt. Matt had broken a glass when you’d told him.

“If I can handle violent psych patients and IEDs, I can handle a teenager.” Jack joked.

Matt had stayed in his room for the most part, running downstairs to grab food and run back to his room. One night, Jack was asleep on the couch, the TV playing old M*A*S*H reruns. His prosthetic leaning against the side table.

Matt watched him for a moment. Seeing the stoic man in such a vulnerable state took him back for a moment. He stalked over, keeping as quiet as he could. He picked up the fake leg and tried to leave with it.

“If you don’t give that back, I’ll have to hop on one leg while I kick your ass and that’ll be embarrassing for both of us.” Jack grumbled as he woke up.  Matt cringed as he brought the leg back. He’d crossed a line he didn’t want to.

“Whatever.” Matt mumbled as he set the leg back down. He stood staring at Jack’s leg for a while. Jack let him, not embarrassed about it, never had been. Occasionally, he’d be insecure when it made certain activities of the sexual nature more difficult. He’d learned how to work around it.

“You can ask.” Jack said, catching Matt off guard.

“What happened? Mom said you were in the Army. It get blown off?” Matt was trying to poke the sensitive parts.

“Yeah. I was a medic on a tour in Iraq. Got shot, blew most of my foot off.” Jack nodded. Matt was somehow not prepared for a blunt answer, even though he got nothing else from Jack.

“What’s it like being less of a man?” Matt hissed.

“I’ll let you know if that happens.” Jack sniffed.

“You’re annoying.”

“Kid, you can say what you want. It’s not going to phase me.” Jack turned the volume up, his ring catching the light.

“Mom said you’re a widow too.”

“Yes.” Jack’s voice ever so slightly tightens, ready for some insult.

“You remember her still?” Matt’s head hung low as he sat at the other end of the couch.

“Every damn day. Always will. Your mother understands.” Jack nodded.

“What happened?” Matt didn’t meet his eyes.

“She got sick. I couldn’t save her.” Jack cleared his throat.

“That’s like your whole thing.”

“Yeah. I know. Some things are beyond our control.” Jack’s eyes didn’t leave the screen.

“My dad watched this shit too.” Matt nodded to the TV.

“He had good taste.”

“He would have liked you.” Matt huffed. Jack looked over at him, bewildered.

“Yeah? Why?”

“You take good care of us. You’re not a real asshole, just like a surface asshole. You want people to think you are but you’re not.”

“I try my best. I care about you too, Matt. I know it’s hard to believe, but I do.” Jack turned to face the boy. He looked like a child more than he ever had.

“I know. It’s…something in my head makes me want to hate you. Like if…if I don’t I’ll forget him.”

“You won’t. He’ll always be around for you. I’m not him, I wouldn’t try to be. Maybe we can try getting along for a bit, see how it feels. I know it would make your mom’s life easier.” Jack raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah. Try it out.” He chuckled as he got up and left.

After that night, Matt relaxed a little. You were so grateful to have some relief to his anger. Jack felt that same relief.

Life got a rhythm to it soon after. Jack moved in and Matt didn’t argue so much. They would watch the Steelers together and you’d pretend you wanted to, mostly you just enjoyed being one family for a moment.

Three years on and things were comfortable. Matt asking Jack’s advise about girls and school. They would go out to the batting cage every Sunday. Jack always made sure he had Sundays off, time to spend with his family.

“Jack, I’ll be fine. I have enough sunscreen!” Matt groaned as Jack shoved a can of sunscreen spray into Jacks bag.

“It’s going to be hot and there will no shade. Melanoma ain’t something to fuck around with, Kid.” Jack said.

“Matt, humor him so you can leave.” You laughed as you walked out of the kitchen.

“Look,” Jack whispered looking behind to make sure you were out of ear shot. “not just sunscreen in there. You be careful, I put a couple sizes so we didn’t have to get that personal.” He winked.

“Oh my god! Stop talking!” Matt whined.

“He’s right Sweetie! I see way too many teen boys at the clinic with STDs. It’s no fun.” You chuckled as you walked back in.

“I tried to be subtle, that’s on you.” Jack pointed at Matt. “Jake will be there, if you need someone go find him.”

“It’s a concert. I think I’ll be fine. You two are paranoid.” Matt laughed.

“It’s our job. I see too many things go sideways.” Jack sighed.

“Matty, we just want you to be careful. Be back in this house by 10pm. A second later and I will lose my shit.” You smiled.

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” Matt rolled his eyes.

“Hey, listen to your mother. You treat that girl well too.” Jack said.

“Girl? What girl?” You asked looking between them.

“Jack! Come on man!”

“Matt, please be careful. Go have fun.” You sighed, not wanting to give yourself more to worry about.

“Call if you need anything.” Jack said. Matt waved you both off as he ran out the door.

“Is 17 too young for a music festival? Did I just make a huge mistake?” You asked, suddenly filled with anxiety.

“Hell if I know. Things are different these days. I would have snuck out to go, so he was probably going either way.” Jack shook his head as he started for the bedroom.

“You want breakfast before you pass out?”

“No. Rough night. Just want sleep.” Jack said. You marveled at how he never let Matt see how heavy his job was. He watched people die and came home and joke about football with Matt. You worked in the low-income clinic attached to PTMC, never seeing half the things he did.

You sat in the sun, enjoying the quiet of the late afternoon. Your garden was the small way you kept your sanity. The flowers blooming made you feel like you weren’t a complete failure at life. You tried to stay out of the house when Jack was sleeping, allowing him some peace.

“Didn’t I just give the melanoma speech this morning?” Jack stood in the patio doorway.

“The day got away from me.” You chuckled.

“Get in here before you fry.” He said, his eyes twinkling.

“Was that an order?” You smirked.

“Yes, it very much was.” He said, he leaned on the doorway, his biceps flexing in the sun. You felt a little dizzy looking at him. You stood, dusting yourself off as you walked up.

“I’m covered in dirt.” You laughed.

“Never minded a little dirt.” He said tilting your chin up with a finger and gently kissing you. His hand tangled in your hair as he deepened the kiss.

“The neighbors are definitely watching.” You smiled.

“Let them.” He said as he pulled you close.

“Take me to the bed, our backs can’t handle the patio bricks.” You chuckled.

“Is that an order?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, Sir, it is.” You bit at his bottom lip. In a swift motion he wrapped an arm around your waist and lifted you over his shoulder.

“Yes, Ma’am!” He said taking you towards the bedroom.

“Oh my god! Do not hurt yourself being an idiot!” You giggled.

“I lift patients all day, you think I can’t carry you to bed? Please!” He threw you on the bed.

“Take your shirt off.” You barked, suddenly desperate to see him. He didn’t waste time, threw the shirt onto the floor. His muscles shining in the sunlight.

“Now you.” He was practically drooling as you undid your shirt and let it sink to the floor. He stood between your legs, running his hands up your arms, across your collar bone, taking his time tracing his fingertips up your throat.

“dispatch sending all available units, Signal 36, Pittfest. Shots fired.” The police scanner buzzed with the warning.

“Jack did that just say-”

“Call Matt.” Jack dropped his hands fumbling to find his phone. You scrambled to find your phone, dialing Matt.

“It’s going straight to voicemail.” Your voice shook.

“Dammit! They probably took over the cell signal.” Jack growled.

“Jack, what do I do!?” You’re breath picking up.

“Honey, breathe. You gotta stay calm.” He said, holding your face in his hands. “You keep trying to call him. Once he gets away from the festival grounds, he’ll be able to reach you. You stay here, let all your neighbors know to watch out for him.” He told you.

“What are you doing?” You looked confused as he started dressing.

“Baby, I gotta go into work. They’ll be overwhelmed with patients. He might head there first, I’ll be there if he is.” Jack sighed.

“Jack, what if-”

“No. Don’t go there.” He stopped the thought before you could finish it. “I’ll have someone monitoring my phone if I can’t. You call me the second you see him. I love you.” Jack kissed you as he grabbed his bag and ran out the door.

Jack was right, The Pitt was overwhelmed almost immediately. He kept his head down, going from patient to patient. Kept asking Dana for updates.

“Jake? Jake, where’s Matt?” Jack ran up to the boy, his leg oozing blood.

“I don’t know, man! I lost him in the crowd. I tried to find him.”

“Okay, it’s okay. Sit down, we’ll fix you up.” Jack said as he assessed the leg and ordered treatments,  running back, seeing the state Leah was in. Robby wasn’t going to handle that well. He kept working, all he could do was keep working.

“Jack…” Dana’s voice brought him back, looking over as Robby crumbled.

“Come on man. You’ve done more for her than anyone else. If this was a different day, she still wouldn’t have made it.” Jack said.  Robby kept pushing meds and doing compressions for a moment, Jack’s words settling into him.

“Stop compressions.”

“Want me to call it?” Jack offered. Robby shook his head.

“Time of death 2104.”  Robby shook his head. Jack patted him on the shoulder.

“I got another red! GSW to the abdomen and right leg! Lost a lot of blood in the field.” Shen called as he wheeled in another patient. Jack tossed his gloves off and grabbed new ones. When he turned he saw the shoes. The shoes he bought Matt for his sixteenth birthday. The shoes he had begged for, never giving you or Jack peace until he had them. The white shoes now red.

“No.” He whispered as he ran over. The pale face of Matt knocked the wind out of him.

“Dr. Abbot, IO is placed. Should I start giving blood?” Princess asked. Jack froze. “Dr. Abbot?” Princess asked, looking at him confused.

“uh…yeah, yes. Start giving blood, we have to get his clothes off.” Jack’s voice shook. “Dr. Mohan! I need you here!” He called, his voice sharp and broken making everyone face him.

“Oh god.” Dana gasped.

“Dr. Abbot?” Samira questioned. “Do you need to step away?” She asked.

“I-I…Robby! I need you!” He cried out. Robby turned, his face red and confused until he saw Matt’s face. He ran over, pushing Jack away.

“Dr. Mohan start intubation.” Robby started barking orders. Dana came over and dragged Jack away.

“Call her.” She handed him the phone and ran over to help.

His hands shook as he hit your contact.

“Jack? What’s going on? Is he there?” Your voice is thick with worry.

“Honey, he’s here. He’s hurt.” His voice was so broken, you’d never heard him like that. The fear ran up your spine and grabbed your heart.

“Oh my god. Okay. I’m…fuck. Okay, I’m on my way.” You cried as you hung up the phone and ran to your car.

Jack watched as his friends worked to save his stepson. Watched as Robby did everything he could after just coding his own stepson’s girlfriend. He felt like his heart was in his throat and he was choking.

“Dr. Walsh, admit this one to surgery.” Robby called.

“He’ll be next in line, we’re finishing up with the other now.” She nodded as she walked with the nurses towards the elevators with Matt.

“Dr. Abbot, he’s okay. He’s going to surgery. Damage to the bowel, his right leg has some pretty bad damage, but he’ll survive.” Dr. Mohan told him.

“Jack, get some air.” Dana said. Jack stood, going straight to Robby.

“Brother…thank you…” He said.

“Yeah. You did the same.” Robby nodded. “Jake’s leg is okay?” Robby questioned.

“Yeah, yeah. It’ll be okay, won’t need amputation.” Jack cleared his throat. Robby nodded and walked off.

“Jack! Jack, where is he!?” You came running in, the blood on the floor almost stopping you. Jack ran up and wrapped you in his arms.

“He’s okay! He’s okay! He’s in surgery. Robby saved him.” He told you as you sobbed into his chest.

“Oh my god, thank god!” You cried.

“The leg was pretty bad, Honey. I don’t know if they’ll be able to fix it.” Jack sighed.

“He’s alive, that’s what matters to me.” You said, finally taking in the state of him. You brushed the sweat soaked hair from his face.

“I froze.” He said, his voice catching as he looked away.

“You got the right people to help him. That’s all you needed to do.” You told him.

“I’ve never froze like that.” He said, trying to stop the tears.

“Jack, your son was on the table in front of you. I would have too. Everyone would have. He’s going to be okay, Right?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s what we need to hold onto right now.” You kissed his temple.

“He’ll be in surgery for a while, you can sit in the break room until I can take you up.” Jack nodded.

“I can help.” You said.

“No, not tonight.” He said as he walked off.

“Hun, come sit with me.” Dana said pulling to the nurses station.

“He’s in shock.” You muttered.

“Yeah. We all are. He loves that boy.” Dana sighed as she handed you a chart to start entering, knowing you’d go crazy if you didn’t do anything.

Jack powered through getting his patients charts in and dealing with any last treatments. His mind clouded but functional.

“Dr. Abbot? Dana said to let you know they called down from surgery for you.” Javadi said.

“Okay. Can you make sure that the patient in bay six gets another round of O-neg.” He ordered as he walked off towards the nurses station.

“He’s getting moved to a room right now. They said Room 314.” Dana told him. You jumped up and followed him to the elevator.

The ride up to the third floor felt like an eternity. The door opened and the quiet on the floor was stunning. You both took a breath before leaving.

“Dr. Abbot, we got your boy over here.” Walsh waved over. “Some damage to the small bowel, we were able to correct, made the repairs to the liver. He’s got a broken rib from the impact. He’ll be on strict rest and NPO for a few days, IV calories strictly so those bowels can heal.” Walsh rattled off.

“Thank you.” You said, wiping the tears from your face.

“Course. I do need to warn you. We did everything we could to save the leg. The damage was too much. We had to amputate. Half way up the shin, like yours.” Walsh nodded. Jack squeezed his eyes shut. He never wanted this for him. He wanted to keep this pain from him.

“Okay. Thank you.” Jack said as if he was still holding his breath. You both entered the room. The breath caught in your throat as you took him in. His face so pale and the wires sticking off of him. The way he lay so still.

“Jack…” You sobbed. He wrapped you up in his arms. His eyes never left Matt’s right leg.

“He’ll be okay.” He said, burying his face in your hair.

You both sat next to him, refusing to leave. He didn’t wake for two days. The agony of waiting was obvious on your face. You were dozing off, head on Jack’s shoulder.

“Mom…” Matt groaned. You both shot awake.

“I’m here, baby. I’m here.” You said as you held his face in your hands.

“Mom.” He started to cry. You wrapped him up in the arms. Jack kept a hand on his leg.

“You’re okay, Matty.” You sobbed.

“it hurts.” He groaned, he tried to sit up. Jack put a hand to his chest and pushed him back.

“Take it easy. You gotta stay down for a while.” Jack said as he hit the call button.

“I remember the shots, I heard everyone screaming. There was a burning in my belly and then nothing.” Matt’s voice shook.

“Dr. Abbot?” a nurse came in.

“He’s in pain. Have Walsh put in an order for more morphine please.” He ordered.

“You got shot in the abdomen, Matt. They repaired it, you’ll be able to eat solids in a few days.” Jack explained.

“Okay. My leg hurts though.” Matt looked confused. Jack shook his head looking at the ground.

“Baby, you got shot in the leg. They tried everything, but they couldn’t save it. They had to cut it off at the shin.” You explained, trying to take the burden from Jack. It was heavy, too heavy for anyone but more so for Jack.

“I lost my leg? It’s just gone?” His voice filled with panic and confusion.

“If they left it, you would have been in so much pain.” You told him.

“We’ll help you through this, Kid. You’re strong. Stronger than I was.” Jack told him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m like you?” Matt looked up at Jack, he looked like a child.

“Yeah.” Jack nodded, trying and failing to stop the tears.

“Right now, we focus on getting you better. Then we focus on your leg.” You told him.

“You’ll help me, right?” Matt looked at Jack.

“Always, Matt. I’m always going to help you.” Jack pulled him into a tight hug. The two clung onto each other and cried.

You watched them, your chest tight. The healing would hurt, but you knew your family would make it.

[capsyst]

Sorry I haven’t posted much lately. I’m working on a new project. Here’s a sneak peek of what I’m doing!

The idea I had was that in the original NES manual there are these gorgeous anime cel illustrations highlighting some of the action you’ll get into playing the game.

However, these are not actually part of any long lost anime or anything. They were single images produced to look like an anime by hand painting cels and placing them over backgrounds.

So my thought was… why don’t I actually animate these scenes and try to make them look like true hand painted 80’s anime?

To help with this project I’ve identified a number of factors that go into what makes 80’s anime look the way it does. Take a look at the example:

SHADING: Unlike a lot of American productions where the shadow layer is a separate animation pass overlayed on top of the original through a composting effect, Anime is done much cheaper. Artists would actually ink the colors of where shadows are supposed to be on the cels themselves, and then paint the shadows onto the cels using a different color.

BRUSH WORK: 80’s anime has a rougher edge to it. Either through using the xerox method or by hand painting the ink lines with a dry brush, the one point that is clear is that the actual linework of each stroke is often broken up and brittle.

CEL LAYERS: Anime cels are actual sheets of celluloid painted and layed down on top of a background painting. No matter how flat you try to make it, the more layers you introduce the more likely cel shadows will start to pile up, and the foggier the background gets.

MY PROCESS: So this is what I’ve come up with as my method of reproducing this digitally.

1) I’m going to use a dry brush that cracks and will intentionally try to make the animation a little messy. I won’t be trying to clean it up much (if at all) and if I make a mistake it stays in. Anime was often produced very fast and very cheaply so I am trying to replicate that effect.

2) I’m going to use multiple shades of colors to represent the flats, shadows, and the painted lines depicting where shadows will go.

3) I will include a shadow layer underneath the animation to give it a traditional 2D effect of having multiple cels piled up on top of each other.

4) When all is said and done I will run the whole thing through a VHS filter to really sell the idea this is a long lost animation from a bygone era.

I hope you like the results, I think all this attention to detail has really paid off and makes it look like an old 80’s anime of Link tossing a boomerang. I hope to make more of these and stitch them all together to make a commercial for the NES Zelda.

[mariasont]

i have a fic request what about like bimbo assistant reader x hotch and they go for like a team night out or something and ofc reader wears something cute and probably a tad bit too short and maybe she sees one of her friends or just dances with one of the bau girls and hotch just watches from the booth and his jaw is literally on the floor and the guys are trying to have a conversation with him and he’s just completely unaware of what’s happening around him

Red Flags & Pink-Colored Glasses - A.H

summary: hotch shouldn't be at this bar, shouldn't be watching you while you dance in that too-short dress and he definitely shouldn't be the one trying to teach you a lesson about bad men, not when he's fighting every instinct to be one. pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader warning tags: alcohol consumption (reader is tipsy, hotch is suffering), pre-relationship pining, mentions of past toxic relationships, protective!hotch, jealously/protectiveness, accidental touching, repressed feelings, hotch contemplating murder wc: 2.2k

Hotch could lie to himself and pretend he had no idea how he ended up here, but that would be exactly that, a lie.

He knew.

It was because you had asked him, bright-eyed, voice melting like white chocolate on his tongue, and something long disciplined into obedience had caved. At some point along the path of your employment, he had come to realize he had developed this inexplicable inability to deny you.

He had agreed to one drink. Technically, he was keeping his word. Said first drink was sitting half-full on the table, a thin line of amber liquid sloshing against the sides every time he gripped it too hard. Two hours had passed and he was still here, still planted in this booth, still convincing himself he wasn't waiting for something he shouldn't want.

He knew he should leave. He could leave. He had every capability. His legs worked just fine and his willpower had seen him through worse (I mean, for gods sake, he worked with you everyday). But he also knew there wasn't a chance in hell he was walking out that door when you were still on that dance floor.

Not because he didn't trust you. Of course, he trusted you. He trusted JJ and Emily and Garcia, too, though that didn’t stop his jaw from locking up every time one of them spun you, making your dress rise higher on your thighs. And being a profiler came with its downfalls, one of them the acute, inescapable awareness of how every single man in this bar had their eyes on you.

On your legs. Your thighs. Your hips. Your breasts. Your ass.

He knew how they thought and how they operated and worse than that, he knew he was acting no different. Because his own gaze had been glued to you all night.

And he hated that. Hated that his pulse kicked up whenever you laughed, that his fingers itched to tug that dress a little lower, that he had half a mind to send every single one of those men home in body bags.

Hotch exhaled before tipping his glass against his lips, the drink was barely cold anymore, the bite of alcohol dulled from where the ice had long since melted, not that it mattered, not that he noticed.

You were swaying your hips now, and he shouldn't be watching you, especially not like this. Not with this lump that was screwing up tightly in his throat, with some part of him wanting to abandon reason entirely and just pull you back down into the booth beside him where he could keep you sedentary.

Physics had a rule for this, right? An object in motion stays in motion. Sounds about right.

It took him a second to process a voice piercing through his thoughts. Morgan. Talking. Right. He should probably be listening.

He blinked, refocusing. He could see Morgan’s mouth moving. Could hear the general cadence of a conversation happening, but not a single word was registering.

And then Morgan laughed. "Man, you're not even pretending to listen."

Hotch blinked, forcing himself to look away from you long enough to level them with a stare. "What?"

Rossi gave him a look before leaning back, like he wasn't going to push the subject. "I still don't know how we managed to get you out tonight."

Mogan nodded. "Yeah, I was expecting the usual, grumbling about paperwork, maybe a half-hearted have fun before you disappeared like a ghost."

"I don't disappear," Hotch said flatly.

Rossi scoffed. "You do if we turn out heads for five seconds."

"Batman-style," Morgan agreed, grinning. "One minute you're there, and the next, gone. Poof."

"That's an exaggeration," Reid cut in. "Batman's disappearances rely on strategic misdirection, which, while impressive, aren't—"

"Not the point, kid."

Morgan turned back to Hotch, still grinning. "Point is, you're still here, and that's weird."

Rossi nodded, swirling his drink. "So what's the angle? Trying to prove us wrong? Or just waiting for us to stop paying attention so you can slip out the back?"

"That does seem like the more likely scenario," Reid mused.

Hotch signed, setting his glass down with a quiet clink. "Do you all spend this much time keeping tabs on each other's whereabouts, or am I just the lucky one tonight?"

"Oh, this is just for you, old man."

The conversation dissolved into static the second he caught the faintest whiff of your perfume. Some part of him recognized it immediately, sugar and flowers, something that had clung to his suit in phantom traces after too many hours spent near you. His pulse stalled. A fraction of a second where his body froze like it had learned, through painful repetition, to prepare for the inevitable distraction.

And then he saw you. All smiles, all tipsy giggles, flushed and glowing skin moving toward the table like some ridiculous vision, wrapped in pink and glitter with the careless beauty of someone who had never one second-guessed how easily they could command attention.

Hotch swore the rest of the room dimmed, reduced to shadows in his periphery and he had to forcibly remind himself to breathe because Christ, that dress was really that short, wasn't it?

You had a drink in your hand. And you looked happy. And warm. And a little unsteady on your heels.

The second your eyes found him, your whole face transformed, lit up like fireworks. Never mind that he had been here all night. Never mind that you had already waved at him enough times to make it clear you knew he existed. This time, apparently, counted more than the rest.

You waved. The motion sent your drink lurching dangerously in your hand, the liquid kissing the rim in protest, and before you could overcorrect, your heel tipped just enough that you stumbled, swaying too far to the right.

It wasn't much, just a little misstep, but it was enough to make Hotch move on instinct, his hand closing around your elbow guiding you into the booth beside him before either of you could think twice.

And then, because his life could never be easy, your dress slid up.

Just an inch, maybe two, of more thigh than should be visible. Nothing scandalous, just the kind of softness that could undo a man if he let it.

Hotch noticed. But then, so did someone else.

Some nameless stranger's eyes dragged, slow, audacious, a miscalculation he wouldn't be making again because Hotch's stare landed like a blade against his throat. Sharp and completely final. It was immediate that the same man was now finding the ceiling, the wall, the floor, anywhere but you, exceedingly fascinating.

Smart.

The second you're fully seated in the booth, you tip into him, like a magnet pulled to its inevitable counterpart. Your arm burns against his, the warmth of your skin creeping through fabric like a slow, smoldering fuse. He shouldn't let you, but he doesn't move, doesn't stop it, doesn't do anything but let it happen. 

Then as if you had any right to be this careless with him, you smile.

"Hi."

He should say something, should probably acknowledge the absurdity of how close you are, the way your perfume is now thick in his lungs, the way every fleck of light caught on your lashes, the shimmer scattered across your cheekbones like you'd been dipped in gold. He should ask why you wear it, how you do it, this thing where you make the prettiest parts of yourself even prettier.

He wants to do all these things but instead, because he's a coward, he just watches you. And when he finally forces a response, it comes out quieter than he intends.

"...Hi."

You hold your drink up between you. "You should try this. It's so good."

Hotch glanced down at it. It's the kind of drink that shouldn't exist outside of a beach vacation. Something red or pink or maybe orange, hard to tell under the low lights, undeniably fruity, he was sure. The kind that would probably leave him regretting his choices within minutes.

"No, thanks."

"Your loss," you mumble, as if you genuinely feel bad for him, then take a long sip, eyes fluttering shut like you're savoring the best thing you've ever tasted. "S'okay, more for me."

You glance at him, eyes still sparkling from whatever's buzzing in your bloodstream. "Are you having fun? 'Cause I'm having fun."

"I can tell."

You barely noticed how your drink wobbled under the careless placement of your elbow, or how your blinks stretched just a fraction too long, like your thoughts were floating somewhere just beyond your reach.

Hotch, however, did. "Do you want some water?"

Your pout deepened, your voice dipping into something vaguely petulant. "No, Hotch. I don't want water. Why would I want water?"

Before he could counter you, you moved, too loose-limbed, too uncoordinated, and suddenly your hand was on his thigh, gripping just a little too fight, fingers digging in for balance.

Hotch hissed under his breath, hands snapping to your waist before you could push this any further, intentionally or not.

"Okay, honey," he muttered, vocal chords strained. "C'mon."

Hotch kept you steady as he led you to the bar, your weight pressing into his side like you'd entirely abandoned the idea of walking on your own. By the time he handed you a water from the bartender, you squinted at it like it required advanced problem-solving.

"You're too nice to me."

Hotch sighed, rubbing a slow hand down his face. "If this is your definition of too nice, you've been dealing with the wrong men."

"Well, yeah." You took a sip of water then grinned like he had said something funny. "But I thought we'd already covered that."

Hotch's jaw locked. His grip on the bar tightened. Had he blacked out? Had there been a conversation where you casually admitted to dating the worst men alive?

"No." His eye twitched. "We didn't."

You pursed your lips, thinking. "Huh. Maybe I just thought you knew."

"That’s not really something I should just… know."

"I mean, I don't think it's that surprising."

"Why," he asked, each syllable carefully controlled, "would that not be surprising?"

"I don't know, Hotch. I mean, look at me."

He was. That was the problem.

"I'm not, like... super great at spotting red flags. I mostly think oh he's kinda mean but maybe he just had a bad day," you admitted, swirling your water with a little too much focus."You know, things like that."

Hotch inhaled sharply. Things like that. The thought of you sitting across from some guy, smiling, excusing his bullshit, convincing yourself he didn't mean to be cruel, made his stomach churn.

He wanted names. He wanted to know if any man had ever made you feel less than the goddamn sun, and if so, he wanted to make sure they never breathed the same air as you again. He wanted to show you. Show you how a man should look at you, should treat you.

But he wasn't that man.

Instead, he forced out an even voice. "You know that excusing bad behavior only teaches someone they can keep doing it right?" You titled your head, smiling up at him. "Mmm, yeah, that makes sense."

Hotch sighed, rubbing his temples. "Okay. Noted."

You blinked up at him. "Noted?"

"Yes. As in, we're going to talk about this again when you're sober enough to realize why what you just said was deeply concerning."

"But that doesn't sound fun."

Hotch's lips pressed into a straight line. "Neither does finding out you ignored a red flag because you liked a guy's smile."

Without warning, you reached up and placed a hand on his face, your fingertips pressing against his jaw as you studied him, way too close.

Hotch went completely still. "What are you—,"

"But you have a really great smile," you mumbled, squinting at him like this was some shocking new discovery, despite the fact, that he hadn't done anything remotely resembling a smile in the last ten minutes.

His jaw tensed beneath your touch, but he didn't pull away. His voice sounded different when he finally muttered your name.

You huffed, dragging your fingers down his cheek like he was some sort of sculpture you were admiring.

"You'd be worth it," you sighed dreamily. "I’d ignore so many red flags for you. So many."

Hotch felt like a man standing on a ledge, heart in his throat, knowing the drop was inevitable.

Your fingers were soft against his skin, moving far too slow, too easy, like you knew you could get away with it. All he wanted was to catch your wrist, drag you in, kiss you until you couldn't say things like that anymore. Until you have something real to ignore.

But that would be a mistake. A selfish, unforgivable mistake.

You needed to learn that some men didn't deserve saving, weren't worth the risk. That just because someone looked at you the way he did, ached for you the way he did, didn't mean they were good for you.

His voice came low and rough. "That's not the conclusion you should be coming to."

You pouted up at him, then practically threw yourself against him, arms wrapped tight around his waist. "Hotch, I was joking."

His entire body locked up, his hands hovering, unsurely. "You shouldn't joke about things like that."

You hummed, completely unconcerned, pressing your cheek to his chest. "Mmm, but you know, you don't have any of those."

"Those?"

You sighed and your breath was warm against his shirt.

"Those... bad things I always miss in people." Before he could correct you, you sighed again, breath warm against his shirt, voice nothing but soft, drunken honesty. "You're the best man I've ever known."

Hotch's hands betrayed him, settling against your back, pulling you in, holding you like he had a right to. Like he could protect you from the exact kind of man he was trying to tell you to avoid.

It was a lie. A beautiful, easy one, but a lie nonetheless. And it was dangerous, how easily you fit against him, how naturally your body responded to being his for just a second.

And most of all, it was cruel, how much he wanted to believe you.

His fingers curled against the small of your back before he forced himself to let go.

"Alright," he murmured. "Let's get you home."

Hotch had barely taken two steps past the table when Morgan let out a slow whistle, shaking his head like he’d seen something interesting.

"Man," he drawled, "and here I assumed you were just deep in thought earlier."

Hotch exhaled through his nose. "Goodnight, Morgan."

Morgan grinned, lifting his drink. "Oh, it already is."

💌 masterlist

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[moonchildstyles]

complicated

y/n meets someone, only to find out that he's going to be her stepbrother

wordcount: 17.3k+

—————

(Y/N)'s mouth pinched as she looked at the aisles of wine before her. Knowing her Uncle Mick, he wasn't even going to have a sip, not when he had whisky in the cabinet instead. But, it felt wrong meeting his new girlfriend—fianceé, actually, as of last weekend—empty handed. She wanted to make a good first impression, especially since she hadn't made any serious efforts to come by and meet her until her uncle dropped the proposal on her. 

Truthfully, it was because of her uncle; he was a hopeless romantic who had told (Y/N) on more than one occasion that he had fallen in love with someone he'd just met in the years since his wife had passed. It was hard justifying taking time off from work and booking plane tickets for a short-lived relationship.

But, that obviously wasn't the case this time. He'd been raving about this woman—Anne—for the last six months. Enough so that he purchased a ring and wanted to marry her as soon as they could thread something together. And her Uncle Mick wanted her to be a part of the whole process—she was the daughter he never had, he'd said. 

So, even if he wasn't going to take a single sip of whatever rosé she picked out, she was going to do it anyway. She needed to get to know this woman and let her know that she was going to be welcomed with open arms into this small, but loving family. 

Perusing down the aisle, (Y/N)'s eye caught a bottle with a golden foiling around the cork. The label was especially pretty, printed in French with a year on it that would take at least a couple of minutes for (Y/N) to do the math on. It was pretty, and undoubtedly more worth more money than she planned on spending tonight. But, that was the point, she thought. 

She'd make more money, but her uncle wasn't going to get married again. (She hoped, anyway).

The only problem? It was on the very top shelf and nowhere near the edge. She wasn't going to be able to reach it unless she called for help from one of the employees wandering around here. They didn't particularly seem to be in the mood, though. She didn't blame them, what with this being how they spent their Friday evening, watching every patron come in looking for some liquor to kick the night off. 

Looking around, she wondered if there was anything around here, one of those pokers that many retail spaces used to get high up t-shirts off the top racks. She knew the idea was stupid before she even finished the thought, but she couldn't completely ignore the hope that fizzled in her chest. 

Okay, maybe if she stood on the tips of her toes and reached really hard, then jumped she could reach it. Yeah, she could try that. Hopefully, she would only be able to reach the bottle she wanted and not knock over the plenty of other ones lining the shelves. 

With her hand blindly reaching the top of the shelf, fingertips grazing the empty surface, (Y/N) readied herself to jump as high and controlled as she could. 

"Do y'need help?"

The stranger's voice knocked her out of her plan. At the end of the aisle was a man with curling brown hair looking at her with a pinch between his brows. He had a white button up covering his torso, a light blue cardigan slouching over his form. He didn't wait for his answer before he started towards her.

"Um," she started, dropping to stand flat on her feet, "Yeah, actually. Thanks." 

"Of course," he smiled, relief unstitching his brows. "'M happy I caught y'before y'jumped. I don't think that would have worked out like y'hoped." 

"Me neither," she laughed, adjusting the strap of her bag over her shoulder, "But thank you. I was trying to reach the gold one on top." 

His smile was kind as he effortlessly reached for the bottle. (Y/N) couldn't help the way her eyes dropped over him, appraising every inch. Rings glittered on his hands, some with gaudy gems, others nothing more than brassy bands. The cardigan she had seen across the aisle was actually a knitted depiction of a cloudy sky, fluffs of clouds stitched into the material. His trousers were a warm brown, matching the belt cinched around his waist and shin of his shoes. As he reached, his hand had a cross inked between his thumb and forefinger. 

He was really cute. Really, really cute. In a real way, she considered if he was a model. Why a model like him, with a perfect nose and shattered green eyes, would be in the wine aisle of the liquor store of her home, she had no idea, but she was grateful for whatever circumstances put him here. 

Blinking away from him in hopes of concealing just how intently she had been staring at him, (Y/N) graciously took the offered bottle in his outstretched hand. 

"Thanks," she smiled, "Thinking now, I don't think my plan would have worked." 

The man in front of her settled in, hands in pockets as he gazed down at her. "Yeah? Rethinking the jump?" 

"Oh yeah," she laughed, "I think my bag alone would have knocked down an entire shelf." 

A short, breathy laugh fell from his lips. "Definitely. Would've ruined your night before 's even started." He gave a pointed look to the bottle in her hand. 

"Oh no, I'm just going to my uncle's house for dinner. He probably wouldn't have even noticed if I was soaked in wine with glass stuck in my jacket as long as he had food in front of him." 

The man hummed, giving a slow drag of his eyes over her form. "I don't know. You're hard to ignore." 

Her skin was decidedly warmer under his gaze. She couldn't bite back the grin that sparked over her features. 

"In a good way?" she chirped, blinking up at him as if he were the sun and she a flower. 

He had dimples. Her breath clung to her throat. 

"Only the best," he flirted, shifting on his feet as his phone buzzed in his pocket. He hesitated before reaching for the device. A beat passed as she let him read the notification, his lips thinning before glancing up at her. "I have to get going, but... I hope this isn't weird to ask, but could I have your number? Or whatever y'would want to share?" 

The man had come off so confident, approaching her without prompting. Lazily dragging his eyes over her with his hand shrugged in his pockets, entirely sure of what he could offer her should she take him up on it. But, now, asking for any way to contact her, he had struggled to find his words. She watched as he attempted to form the best way to ask for her number, a thin smile on his lips. 

She only nodded her head. "I can give you my number." 

The man before her brightened, dimples and bunny teeth on display. "Cool," he muttered, offering his phone up the same way he had offered the wine. 

Typing in her information, she glanced at him through her lashes. "My name's (Y/N), by the way." 

"Oh, yeah," he rushed out, breathing out a huff of laughter, "That's right—names. 'M Harry." 

"Nice to meet you, Harry," she smiled, passing his phone back, "Thanks, again." 

"Yeah, yeah," he grinned, looking down at the new contact on his phone. "Of course. I'll—um—I'll text you soon. Have a nice night at your uncle's." 

"Have a nice night," (Y/N) said, biting back her own grin.

Harry hesitated in his spot for a moment, looking at her with pretty green eyes and fluttering lashes before forcing himself to take off.

He only glanced back at her twice. 

—————

Sitting in her rental car, the drive to Uncle Mick's house mapped on her phone, (Y/N) took a moment in the silence. 

What kind of romantic comedy had she just found herself in? Giving out her number to random, pretty boys she met in the liquor store of all places. If she found out this had been a bad choice later, she would blame the cloud cardigan and the shades of green in his eyes. Anyone would melt when faced with those. 

Pushing the car into drive, (Y/N) allowed herself to wonder for a moment just how long she would have to wait for him to message her. She hoped she wouldn't have to wait very long at all before she had a chance to see him again. 

—————

(Y/N) felt out of breath as she approached the front door of her Uncle Mick's house, as if she had ran here instead of driven. 

The traffic on the way here had been humbling to say the least. And to think she called his place her hometown when she had turned into the wrong subdivision twice and was shocked every time another stoplight blocked what she remembered to be a straight path home. She could do another other than watch her arrival time drift further and further than the eight o'clock they had agreed upon. 

Clutching the neck of the wine bottle, (Y/N) figured thirty minutes late was better than not showing up at all. Despite having texted her uncle when she pulled up, she still pressed the doorbell. On the other side, she heard the clattering of overgrown feet with barking following shortly after. Flipper was awake, then. 

She was stuck outside for only a minute before the knob clicked and turned. Uncle Mick pulled the door open, smiling lips and crinkled eyes the first things she saw. 

"Hi, honey," he greeted, pulling her into a hug while Flipper went crazy behind him, "You made it." 

"Hi, Uncle Mick," she smiled, feeling suddenly emotional now that she was hugging him. It had been way too long since she saw him—the man that had raised her from the age of eleven. She hugged him especially tight at the thought. "I've missed you." 

"I've missed you, too. But you're here now, and we've got dinner warming in the oven for you." His kind smile only widened when he saw her gift in hand. "And you brought wine! Did I tell you this one was my favorite?" 

(Y/N) blinked. "Since when did you have a favorite wine?" she asked, passing off the wine as she locked the door behind herself. 

Her uncle shrugged, tipping his chin up in faux-superiority. "Can't a man change, (Y/N)? Or must I always drink acetone?" 

She let out a bubbling laugh as she followed after him, petting Flipper on his shaggy head. Trailing through the living room, she could see the lighting in the dining room, the chandelier that had gone unused for most of her childhood now lit at full power. A scented candle now dotted the coffee table, along with fluffy throw pillows and a knitted blanket on the sofa. 

The entire house seemed... softened. Eased into another phase of life that included delicate edges and soft-scented air. This woman must really be something to get Uncle Mick to take down his fish of the month calendar. 

Approaching the threshold, (Y/N) braced herself to follow after her uncle. She was going to have to start the night with an apology. 

Mick started the introduction, stepping aside when he said her name as if presenting her to a ballroom instead of his fianceé. 

"Sorry, I'm late. I—" 

Her words became stuck in her throat. 

Sitting in one of the four chairs at the small table was Harry. Cloud cardigan and all. 

What the fuck was he doing here?

"You alright, kiddo?" 

Blinking back to earth, (Y/N) nodded her head. "Yeah sorry," she muttered, forcing out a laugh, "I forgot what I was saying, as I was saying it." 

A round of laughter filled the room. Including Harry's. 

Making a point to avoid the end of the table that his chair sat, (Y/N) pointed her smile at the pretty, dark haired woman sitting right next to where her uncle had set himself up. 

"Sorry," she started, again, walking around the table to meet the woman halfway. "I wish I could have come around to meet you sooner. You must be Anne." 

(Y/N) had her hand outstretched to shake, only to be pulled into a warm hug. The embrace was soft and comforting, just like the effect she seemed to have on her uncle. 

"Don't worry," the woman, Anne, smiled, "Mick has told me all about your job, so I understand. Thank you for taking the time to come down and see us. It's wonderful to finally meet you." 

She had kind eyes, hazel with shatters of a familiar green. Just the reminder had a flush plucking at her cheeks, knowing who was sitting just behind her. 

"It's really nice to meet you too, Anne," (Y/N) smiled, hoping the natural turn of the conversation wasn't the one that this would take. 

Her hopes were shot down when Anne gestured behind her, her grin only widening. 

"(Y/N), this is my son, Harry. He's down visiting from work too." 

Harry. Harry was her uncle's—who was really like her father for all intents and purposes—fianceé's son. The man that would be as close to a bother as she could get as soon as this wedding happened, was the same one she had thought about going on a date with all during the drive here. 

He seemed to have the same shock running through his system as she stood from his chair. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. "Nice to meet you, (Y/N)."

Boundaries were maintained as they shook hands. Even if she was, unfortunately, taken aback by how large his palm was compared to hers. Warm and encompassing around her fingers. 

Matching his gaze, she could see the matching panic she was sure was also written on her face. They both felt that flirty energy in the wine aisle. They had only been cut off because they had somewhere to be—which happened to be the same place. 

Her name was in his phone with a pink heart emoji. 

And now they were just a wedding short of being step-siblings. 

"Nice to meet you, Harry." 

Forcing herself to pull her hand back, (Y/N) made the self-serving choice of looking towards her uncle. Whatever had conspired between her and Harry had gone unnoticed if the beaming grin on Mick's face was anything to go by. 

"I can help with dinner," (Y/N) offered, hoping for a reprieve in the form of the quiet kitchen, "You said it was in the oven, right?" 

"Oh yes, dinner," Uncle Mick laughed, "The lasagna is in the oven. Thank you, (Y/N)." 

That was all the permission she needed before scurrying off to the kitchen. She moved on robotic limbs to the appliance, but stopped short of pulling open the door.

Instead, she leaned over the stove, hands braced on the ledge. 

What kind of tragic comedy had she found herself in?

—————

"Goodnight, kiddo. Thanks for coming tonight." 

(Y/N) hugged her uncle that much tighter. She could hear the sincerity in his voice; this was about more than a dinner she had managed to make it down for. 

"Goodnight, Uncle Mick." 

Their embrace lasted a beat longer before she unraveled herself from his hold. Over his shoulder, she could see Harry having a moment with his mother. Seeing them side by side like that, the resemblance was so clear. Even down to the set of their teeth and the cheekbones. 

Especially when they smiled at each other like that. 

"Still on for breakfast in the morning?" Mick asked, fatherly affection painting his features. 

"If you can pick me up, yes," she conditioned, batting her lashes and beaming up at him. 

"As long as you're up and ready to go, I can make that happen." 

She pulled him into another hug to show her thanks. "I'll see you in the morning. Love you." 

"Love you too, kiddo. Get to bed so you don't keep me waiting." 

Heading towards the door, (Y/N) threw a glance over her shoulder, intending to wave to her uncle one more time, only to catch Harry following in her footsteps. Her lips thinned. She knew he was on his way out too, but she had hoped she was moving faster than him. Now It would be weird to rush out ahead of him and let the door slam in his face. Especially if this was now her soon-to-be stepbrother. 

Harry's pleading eyes met hers. Begging her to wait just a second for him. She supposed, even if she wanted to avoid it, they needed to talk about this at some point. 

Now, they both were waving goodbye to their respective parents. Final declarations of how nice it was to meet one another were shared, following them out onto the chilly stoop. Silence fell over them as the door sealed behind them. 

Just the two of them now. (Y/N) and her almost-stepbrother. (Y/N) and the guy she had just short of fantasized going on a date with only hours earlier. 

His steps slowed to match hers. 

"So," he started. 

She didn't offer any words. Was now when they acknowledged the obvious flirting they shared in the liquor store? Or were they going to save that for the wedding? 

"Kind of fucked up, huh?" 

At that, (Y/N) couldn't help but to laugh. The sound was surprisingly loud, breaking into the quiet neighborhood. 

"That's exactly what I was thinking," she murmured, coming to a stop next to her car. Daring to look up at him, she caught him already looking down at her. His eyes were just as pretty now as when she saw him for the first time that night. Before she knew her adoptive dad was marrying his mom. "Did you... You didn't know before, right?" 

A pinch appeared between his brows. "No. Had no idea. The last time I was down here was two years ago, when I helped my mum move."

"That's crazy. The last time I was here was two years ago, too." 

A rueful smile touching his lips. They were both having the same thought. 

If only...

"They seem really happy together, though," (Y/N) posited, knowing they were going to have to accept the terms of their newfound relationship. 

"Really happy," Harry agreed, glancing back at her childhood home, "'S been a long time since I've seen my mum that happy." 

"Same for my uncle." (Y/N) nodded her head, her smile thin when Harry turned back towards her. Whatever she had started knitting for him this evening, now needed to be severed. "It was really nice to meet you, Harry. Thanks for everything tonight." 

Faint dimpled dented his cheeks. "It was nice to meet you, (Y/N). Get back to your hotel safe." 

"You, too," she reciprocated, pulling open her car door. Harry took a step back, his hands in his pockets as his eyes followed her. "Oh," she gasped, "You should probably change my name in your phone, by the way. I think the emoji might throw some people off." 

At that, she was granted Harry's bursting laughter as she climbed into her car. She probably felt a little bit too much pride over that. 

Pulling out of her uncle's driveway and out into the street, she couldn't help but peek into her rearview. Though a part of her wanted to think Harry had his eyes following her, the other part of her was quick to send a reminder that that wasn't something she should want. Not anymore. 

While there wasn't anything serious that had conjured between them, the potential having been torn from their hands was enough to feel a little bit of loss. They hadn't even had time to mess it all up themselves. 

Now they'd never know. 

 —————

Tucked away in her cubicle, (Y/N) smiled at her phone. 

The group chat labeled Wedding Party complete with every floral emoji the keyboard had to offer was going crazy. But, she still went to the single message from Harry first. 

     I love my sister so much but I think I'm going to have to block her if she sends one more Pinterest board to my mum. This whole thing was supposed to be small and now we're looking at a gelato bar for the reception.

     There wasn't even supposed to be a reception.

She covered her mouth as if that would make the grin growing over it obsolete. She knew well what he was going through. For the first two months of this engagement, all talks of the wedding had been flippant, that the ceremony would happen when it happened. In a matter of weeks, everything had changed. There was now a joint bachelor and bachelorette party to plan. 

Harry had been her lifeline through this roller coaster. They didn't talk about the night in the wine aisle, never breaching the previous terms of their acquaintance. Instead, they had grown to be friends. Good friends. The kind of friends that had separate conversations outside of group chats. The kind that would send anything that reminded them of one another. They had inside jokes now. 

They were friends. Soon to be step siblings. 

(Though, even if it wasn't something she acknowledged, (Y/N) knew good and well there was a phantom following her any time she interacted with Harry. That phantom never let her forget that she was still attracted to him. Even if no action could be taken, she wasn't going to be able to forget him as the man in the cloud cardigan with the pretty eyes and freckled nose).

     I'm supposed to be figuring out a bachelor party and I think I would rather die than think about what my Uncle Mick would want to do on his last night as a "single man"

     I might just change my number actually and hope no one notices 

     Hahahahahaha

     And now we both get to be there for that last "single" night. Thrilling stuff! 

     You'd still let me have your number though, right?

She didn't want to admit how her cheeks warmed reading his texts. Maybe because it was something she wanted to see—though she'd never admit to as much out loud—, but she swore there was still that flirty undertone to the way he spoke to her. Like he wasn't quite over things like they were supposed to be. 

     Of course

     I'm scared you'll go crazy without it and I still need you for the actual wedding 

It was a small indulgence, telling him she needed him. While she wouldn't act like there was something astronomical that had been built between them, it was hard to ignore the fact that the more she spoke with him, it didn't exactly tamp down her feelings for him. 

     I know you do.

(Y/N) blinked at her phone screen. She could hear the words in his voice, that drawling accented voice. The way his eyes would have connected with hers had they been speaking in person. How there would have been a quirk in his lips, a reminder that this was very much a silly, lighthearted joke even if a part of her short-circuited. 

Ignoring everything else, (Y/N) typed out a lame, noncommittal response ("You wish lol") before locking her phone and placing it face down on her desk. The email in her inbox suddenly sounded a lot more appealing than they had only a few minutes prior. Even making the copies she had been putting off for the whole morning had suddenly been pushed up the to-do list. 

Anything to keep herself busy—too busy to think about Harry. 

She would be seeing him again soon because of the bachelor/rette parties that were coming up within the next month, and she needed to have her head on straight. It was embarrassing to be so distracted, caught up in someone she'd only met in person once. A total of maybe six hours had been spent together that entire weekend she had visited home, counting both the initial dinner and the brunch before the both of them were to jet back to their respective homes. Each of those hours had even been buffered by the attendance of their parents. 

And yet, here she was. 

Forcing herself out of her seat, (Y/N) made her way to the copy room. Everything was going to be okay, she reminded herself, fiddling with the blunt edge of her master copies in her hands. She was going to see Harry, be so clearly and readily reminded that she was going to be his stepsister for all intents and purposes, and every affection she held for him was going to dry up. All she needed was to meet him once more, and wipe away the liquor store meeting from her head. 

Everything was going to be fine. Perfectly fine. 

As long as she somehow figured out how to mash the idea of a fancy dinner for Anne's bachelorette party with a fishing trip for Uncle Mick's bachelor counterpart. 

—————

(Y/N) scrolled to yet another page of search results. 

If she saw any more party bus and strip club ideas for a joint bachelor/bachelorette party, she was going to scream. There was no way she was going to down shots and dance on a pole around her uncle and her soon to be stepfamily. 

There wasn't a single chance that she was the first to ever plan something like this for an older couple. Someone—one of the billions in the world—would have undoubtedly come up with an idea far before her. And yet, she was on the third page of google results, and she knew if she drifted to the fourth, she was done for. 

There had to be at least something nearby that could check the boxes for both sides of the honored couple. 

She was this close to booking reservations at a restaurant that had a claw machine for diners to pick out their "lobster" (looking at photos, it appeared to just be a handful of plastic lobster figurines based off of a cartoon). If Gemma hadn't already taken on so much with her mother, including planning out many elements of the wedding itself, (Y/N) would have just short of begged her to come up with something. But, that wasn't fair. She wanted to be a good soon-to-be sister and take something off of Gemma's plate, especially since she had apparently recently welcomed her first baby. 

Shuttering her eyes, (Y/N) rubbed her temples. She needed to focus and make a decision. The reserved weekend was only a handful of weeks away, and she needed to get these plans finalized before it was too late. 

At her side, her phone buzzed, the vibration scaring (Y/N) out of her skin for a brief second. 

Blindly reaching, she brought her phone up, effectively blocking her laptop screen. A text message had come through. From Harry. 

     Are you busy?

She sighed, lips thinning as she debated answering. While she was busy, the idea of being distracted sounded much more fun than looking at another aquarium dining space—complete with a tab that would take her months to work off. 

    Not really why??

With that, a call came through. Also from Harry. 

(YN) clutched her phone. She'd only talked to him on the phone once, and it was brief. He'd hadn't been able to reach his mother and needed quick directions to the brunch spot he met them that first weekend. She had barely talked to him, passing along the phone to his mother in the same breath as her greeting. 

Tapping her thumb on the green circle, (Y/N) accepted the call before she could think better of herself. It was just Harry, she drilled into her head. Just Harry—a friend and nothing more. 

"Hello?" 

"Hey, you," was his greeting, his accented voice flowing through the speakers in a way that almost felt offensive. How dare he answer he as if he was just as happy to hear her voice as she was for him? 

"What's going on?" she forced out, hoping it sounded a lot more casual than she felt. 

Harry let out a sigh, the sound of rustling fabric audible in the background. "Nothing jus' trying to figure out m'plans for the stag weekend. Figured I'd call you since y'have all the answers." 

His tone had been teasing, lilting through a smile. He knew she had been struggling to figure out what to plan for everyone, but she hadn't revealed just how much of a problem she was having. The last time they had even really discussed the topic was a week ago, when she felt as if she had all the time in the world to thread something together. 

Today, after looking at the calendar and the countdown to the agreed upon dates, his poking didn't feel so funny. 

"Um, yeah," she muttered, running a stressed hand down her face, "I'm figuring out everything right now, and finalizing stuff. I'll let you know for sure when I can." 

A brief pause settled between them. 

"(Y/N)," Harry started, his voice decidedly gentle compared to the teasing a moment before. "Y'alright?" 

"Hm? Oh, yeah, sorry," she murmured, stumbling over her thoughts. "It's just been a little bit of a long week, so I'm really tired." 

She meant to finish on a breathy laugh, lighthearted even if she didn't really feel that way.  Instead, it came off as just a little bit sad. 

"Bad week? Or jus' a lot?"

"A lot," (Y/N) sighed, "But it's alright. I think once I get everything figured out for the party, I'll be fine." 

"If y'want, I can take over some things. I can make calls or set up reservations. Whatever y'need." 

A small quirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. "That would  be really nice, Harry," she started, resigning herself to telling the truth, "but, I actually haven't picked out anywhere or decided anything yet. It's a lot harder to plan something that has the vibe of a fishing trip, but served high-class food. The closest I've found is this place with a 'lobster' claw machine." 

(Y/N) didn't have to see him to know he blanched at the idea, his scoff evidence enough that he was on the same page as her. 

 "Yeah , that might not be what mum's looking for," Harry laughed. (Y/N) wished she could see his dimples. "I can take a look around too, though. It might help to have some more eyes."

Her lips thinned at the idea. She was supposed to be taking this on by herself; Gemma and Harry had enough on their plate, it didn't feel fair to pawn any more tasks off. 

"I don't know," she mumbled, "You and your sister are already don't so much, I don't want to—" 

"(Y/N), 's alright. 'S just a couple of google searches, 's not a big deal," Harry interrupted her, his voice gentle, "'M getting a little worried about you." 

He ended with a breath of laughter, though (Y/N) found it hard to buy that he wasn't sharing a little bit of honesty with her. 

With her bottom lip between her teeth, (Y/N) blinked at her laptop screen once more. If she had to figure out how to reword "fancy fishing restaurant" one more time, she might explode. If anything, it would be nice to take a small break from attempting to make these decisions. 

"That would be nice, Harry. Thank you."

She could hear the smile in his voice when he spoke again, "See? I told you, y'needed me." 

(Y/N) didn't even attempt to argue.

—————

Through bleary eyes, (Y/N) caught the time on her phone. One in the morning. The phone call with Harry had just hit over the four hour mark. 

"But, yeah," Harry laughed, cutting himself off with a small yawn, "I don't plan on going to any of my school reunions. I don't think it'd go over very well." 

(Y/N) let out a peal of laughter, the noise quiet and tired. "I think you should; it would be very funny, at the least." 

"Maybe," he hummed, "If I don't get arrested." 

"For something that happened ten years ago? I don't know," she countered, singing the syllables, "We'll only know for sure if you go." 

"Then y'have to come with me. If I get in any trouble, 'm making it your problem." 

It could be the late hour making her delirious, or the fact that she wasn't able to convincingly lie to herself at the moment, but it felt like something to have Harry casually make those future plans with her. 

"I'll be there," she cemented through a sleepy smile. 

A pause settled between them, the sound of rustling sheets audible through the phone.

"I should let y'go, (Y/N). 'S later than I thought," he drawled, "I didn't mean to keep you up." 

"No, it's okay," she insisted, "This was nice. Thank you for helping me—and hanging out with me tonight." 

I missed you is what she wanted to say. Just barely was she able to choke the thought back. 

"You've got me, you know that," he promised, "But, all of the confirmations and everything should go to you. If you need anything though, you can send them to me, I don't mind." 

"Thanks, H," she hummed, letting her eyes fall to a close. "I'll talk to you soon?" 

"Of course—I'll probably start bothering you first thing in the morning." He spoke as if his first text message wasn't going to be the highlight of her day. 

"That'll be nice," she let slip, incredibly warm with the tufts of her bedding fluffed around her, "And I'll actually see you in a few weeks." 

"That'll be really nice," Harry said, something running under his tone she was too tired to examine, "'M excited, (Y/N)." 

"Me too," she yawned. 

"Goodnight, (Y/N)," Harry drawled, tongue lingering over her name, "Sleep well" 

"Goodnight, Harry," she smiled.

There was a brief moment. A pause where neither of them hung up.

(Y/N)'s breath caught, suddenly so awake compared to just a moment ago. 

Then the call cut. 

Four hours on the phone with him, leaving with sore, smiling cheeks and drooping, sleepy eyes. 

In three weeks, she would see him again for the first time in months. Everything was going to be fine—and normal. 

—————

"To mum and Mick. Congratulations." 

Flutes of champagne were raised over a white-tableclothed table, sparkling and golden. Smiling faces were shared over the setting, blushing cheeks on Anne's face with an eye-crinkling smile on Uncle Mick's. The clinking of the glasses sounded in the quiet, reserved space before being brought to smiling lips. 

A wonderful way to end dinner. 

(Y/N) couldn't help but to meet Harry's eyes across the flute. He was already looking at her, bouncing his brows when he caught her attention.

She looked away first, cheeks warming. 

"Thank you, Gem," Anne smiled, voice sing-songing over the syllables. "I love you so much, you know." 

Gemma only smiled at her mother. That was definitely the third glass of champagne beginning to talk. "I love you too, mum. Just as much." 

Anne's eyes watered, glossing the already glazed look over her irises. "Both of you," she said, looking to her children, "The best, you are. I couldn't be luckier." 

Gemma shared a sly smile with her husband at her side as Harry opened his mouth to take on his mother's emotional reaction. Only for Anne to cut him off, turning her attention to (Y/N).

"And, you," she started, folding her hands over her heart, "I couldn't be more excited to have you in my family. Thank you for everything you've done for Mick." 

Though (Y/N) thought it was a little bit funny, the slur to Anne's words and the overly affectionate way she spoke to her, but she couldn't help but to match a bit of that emotion. It was nice to hear something so loving, and know that she would be there for her Uncle Mick when (Y/N) wasn't able to. 

"Of course," she smiled, hoping no one noticed the slight sniffle of her nose, "I can't wait to be a part of your family either. I know my Uncle Mick is very lucky to have you." 

It was then that Anne broke, letting out a stream of sobs. (Y/N) watched as her Uncle had his own soft smile on his face, amused at his bride's antics though there was a matching sheen to his eyes. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, looking at the guests in attendance. 

"Tonight was very special, you guys. Thank you," he smiled, complete joy in his eyes, "I think it's time we head home." 

Gemma was quick to agree, a gentle hand on her mother's arm. "Us too," she smiled, glancing at her husband, "It's time we get back and let the sitter go home." 

When neither Harry nor (Y/N) disagreed, no one hesitated to start getting up and readying for the journey home. Jackets were donned, and eyes were wiped. While Anne was busy with her children,  her hushed voice emotional, Uncle Mick came right to (Y/N).

"Thanks, kiddo. Really," he muttered, "This was perfect—and I doubt it was easy." He cast his gaze through the bow windows encompassing this private room.

Outside, the shining lake rippled under the moonlight, dock rocking in the waves. The elegance Anne had requested came in the crown molding and clean decor, while Mick's requests came through in the dock outside and the fresh seafood from the kitchen. How (Y/N) had overlooked this place through her searches, she wasn't sure, but she wasn't sure she would have been able to do this without Harry. 

"Harry helped a lot," (Y/N) specified, beaming up at Mick, "But I'm happy you liked it. I'm happy you're happy."

Seeing the way he looked over his shoulder at his bride-to-be, (Y/N)'s heart almost burst. How truly lucky were they. The perfect movie they made. 

"Love you, kiddo," Uncle Mick murmured, wrapping her in a hug, "You going back to the hotel?" 

"Probably," she nodded, "We're still looking for your suit tomorrow, right?" 

"Yeah," her uncle sighed, not entirely excited at the idea of the outfit, but willing to do what it took to make his soon-to-be wife happy. "I'll pick you up, okay?" 

"Thank you," she smiled, giving him one more hug. "Goodnight." 

"Goodnight," he smiled, dropping a kiss to the top of her head before departing. 

Anne was passed from her daughter to her almost-husband, happily falling into his arms with loose limbs. She gave a noncommittal wave to the group following after her.

Gemma was the next to depart, hugging (Y/N) and sharing her thanks for planning this part of the evening. Harry didn't attempt to take any of the credit, only watching quietly until it was his turn to bid goodnight to his sister and brother-in-law. 

Out in the parking lot, the pavement bathed in moonlight, (Y/N) rubbed at her thinly covered arms. 

Just she and Harry were left. 

"Tonight turned out really well," Harry commented, a dimpled smile on his face, "Good job, (Y/N)." 

She shook her head. "I just confirmed everything, and you know that. Thank you for getting this all taken care of." 

Harry shrugged, shoulders lifting though he kept his eyes trained on her. It had been like this for most of the night; his undivided attention had clung to her like a second skin. He came back to her every time. The end of every conversation was punctuated by his look to her face, gauging her reaction. It was thrilling, though the thrill was tempered from the fact that she knew she wasn't supposed to keen under his attention like that.

Looking out towards the water that had set the scene for the evening, (Y/N) could feel his eyes on her. She felt a bit crazy, her skin prickling under his attention. There was a large part of her that dreaded the fact that she had to head back to her hotel alone now. They'd barely had time to speak to one another as a group, let alone on their own. She doubted they would have a chance like this again for the rest of the weekend. 

Harry was her family now. Maybe some extra time with him was all she needed to officially understand that. Overwrite those previous flirty memories of him with something much more appropriate. 

That was why she wanted to keep the night going. That was why she opened her mouth, question on the tip of her tongue. 

"Did you..." (Y/N) started, carefully picking her words as she kept her gaze out on the lake, "Are you tired?" 

She could cringe at the sound of her voice tripping over her question.  

"Not really," he drawled, smile audible in his voice, "Are you?" 

"Not really," she repeated, daring to match his gaze. Her skin warmed when she caught him with his eyes already engaged on her. With the moon above draining the world of color around them, his eyes somehow still acted as a beacon, the green rippling like the lake. "Do you want to get a drink, or something?" 

His dimples were cast in shadow, denting his cheeks as his grin grew. "I think I saw a bar not too far from here when I booked this, if y'don't mind walking." 

While her dress didn't exactly agree with the weather, the chilly breeze kicking up the hem and casting goosebumps over her skin, there wasn't a single part of her that could find a reason to decline. 

"Lead the way." 

—————

"After you." 

Harry opened the door with a flourish, bending at the waist as he gestured (Y/N) through the doorway. It was entirely too dramatic, especially for the kind of bar he had taken her to. A peal of laughter left her lips.

The inside of the bar was much warmer than the chilly air outside, enough so that even with the thin jacket on her arms, (Y/N) started to sweat. After Harry entered behind her, the door closed, sealing behind them. 

The nautical bar was a drastic change to the restaurant they had just left. 

Fishing nets were strewn over the ceiling, filled with weather torn life-preservers, various starfish, oysters and clam shells. Sparkling pearls were dotted throughout. The walls were decorated with different portraits depicting sea-faring legends and the glorious ships they sailed. Creaky floorboards sounded under their feet, the lumber matching that that boarded up the walls and made the majority of the round tables of the bar. The bartop itself was a candy apple-red, sleek and only a little scuffed. The mirrored back wall of the bar was lined with liquor, reflected int the low light of the establishment, only a single bartender fixing drinks for people (Y/N) had no doubt were a mix of regulars, and people like she and Harry who were just looking for a drink after touring through the area. 

When a gentle hand landed on her back, ushering her forward, (Y/N) stiffened. Blinking behind her, she knew the touch came from Harry, though it still had her throat running dry just to see that it was, in fact, him looking out for her.

He cast his eyes around them as they slowly approached the bar, the whining floorboards louder than his voice, "'S a little different than the pictures online." 

"Yeah?" she smiled, following his eyes to the portrait of a fishing captain with a sopping beard and hardened eyes. Truthfully, (Y/N) worried that if she looked away and then glanced back at the painting, a skeleton or ghoul would be in his place. "I can't believe that." 

Harry let out a breathy laugh at her joke. Stepping to the bar, he didn't build upon their teasing, instead, pulling one of the vinyl stools out for (Y/N) to sit. Taking the proffered seat, she pretended to study the liquor bottles behind the bar instead of just how close Harry was now that he took the spot at her side. Especially when he settled in with his legs spreading, his knee touching hers. 

 "You kno—" 

"What can I get you two?" 

The gruff voice of the bartender cut Harry off unceremoniously, his tired eyes flicking between the two of them impatiently. 

"(Y/N)?" Harry murmured, letting her go first as if she was going to be able to concentrate when she heard the syllables of her name wrapped in his voice. 

"Um," she stumbled, looking at the bottles behind the barkeep as if it were a menu, "A—uh—a cosmo? Or just a vodka cranberry? Something like that." 

The bartender bounced his brows as he grunted. He must not have liked (Y/N)'s answer as much as she didn't. Harry's order went much smoother, even if he did have to wipe the sly smile off of his lips as he asked for a whiskey, neat. 

As soon as the man who could have easily been the subject of one of the paintings left them be as he started their drinks, (Y/N) hung her head in her hands. "Oh my god," she quietly groaned. 

Harry nudged her with his shoulder, ducking his head to conspire with her though she didn't really feel like he was on her side given the way he had to bite back his amusement. "It wasn't that bad." 

"Yes it was," she laughed, "I thought he was going to ID me and think it was a fake." 

He shrugged. "We've got time." 

(Y/N) let out a laugh, feeling a little less embarrassed as she turned to look at him, cheek cushioned by her hand. It was quite the feeling, to know that they really did have time. At least for tonight (after their parents joint bachelor/rette parties, of course). Then, she would come to her senses, and live the rest of her life with Harry as her legal sibling. 

"Right. We've got time." 

—————

"Harryyy."

"Yes?" 

"Harryyy."

"Yes, (Y/N)?"

"Harryyy—" 

Putting his hand out, Harry stopped her from spinning on her stool. (Y/N)'s singsong voice stopped right in its tracks when she saw him, warmth creeping up her neck, though she doubted it was from the alcohol. Even if there was a lot of that in her system. 

"What, (Y/N)?" he laughed, craning his neck as he crowded around her. 

"Do you think they'd let me do karaoke, even if there isn't a stage?" 

Another bright laugh left Harry's lips at her words. "I think there might be a little more missing than jus' the stage, but 'm sure we can work something out. You've got to ask first, though." 

Giving a slight incline of his head, (Y/N) followed to see him gesturing to the bartender. The one person in the whole room she was sure would immediately shoot down her idea. As if it wasn't a fun one. 

"H, you know he's going to say no." 

"I don't know," Harry crooned, "Y'should probably ask. He might like karaoke, too." 

A light could have pinged over her head. He really could like karaoke, he's just shy about it. It would only take a little bit of convincing, maybe even a song or two, and he'd be so on board. Should she start with a ballad or a—

(Y/N) felt someone crowd around her, static running down her back. Harry looked over her head, lips thinning. 

"Hey stranger." 

Blanching at the greeting, (Y/N) whipped her head around. Behind her was a vaguely familiar face. She couldn't place the name, but she knew this man. Even if he was a bit harder to recognize out of uniform.

And acting way more familiar than a waiter should. 

"Hi," (Y/N) answered with an owlish blink. 

The man paused, as if waiting for something more to come out of her mouth. Nothing did. 

He let out an awkward laugh, thrown off by her lack of response. "Wedding things over for the night?" 

Behind her, she could hear Harry shifting over his seat. Just that much closer to her, his knee brushing against hers. 

"For tonight, yeah," he answered for her, "Jus' getting a couple of drinks before going back home." 

The man hummed, nodding his head. He didn't pay much attention to Harry, only looking at him for as long as it took him to finish his words before he was stitching his eyes back to (Y/N). 

"You should've told me you were looking to go out tonight. I could have shown you the good spots." 

It was a bit childish the way she pouted at him. "This place is good," she countered. 

She wasn't going to let him speak bad about this place. Harry picked it and she was having fun. 

"Well yeah, but," he started, "There's a couple of other places that look a little more your speed."

"I'm having fun here," she insisted, reaching blindly back towards Harry, "He picked it. I like it." 

It was odd the way he looked at her. The way he followed her hand as she found his leg. He looked through her, searching for something more. 

"Aren't you..." he started voice trailing off before Harry stepped in. 

"I think we're alright for now, man," Harry said, "I think we're gonna head home soon, anyway." 

Whatever this man had been looking for before had been pushed to the wayside. Something a little too fast flash through his eyes for her to decipher, though the brown of his irises lacked some of the flirty warmth from before.

He decidedly ignored Harry, looking towards (Y/N) as if Harry hadn't spoken at all. 

"Let me buy you a drink at least," he charmed, dipping his head until he was level with her. "I can't lie, I was hoping that dinner wasn't the only time I'd see you." 

(Y/N) blinked. She opened her mouth to say something disjointed and a little too drunk back, only for Harry to pipe up.

"I think we're alright; the tip we left earlier should have been enough. Thanks." 

His hand landed gently upon her own where it sat on the cuff of his knee, warming her skin.

That searching look was back on the man's face, gaze locked on their hands. 

"I thought... Isn't she your sister?" the man blanched, scoffing. 

"Actually," (Y/N) hiccuped, "I'm his stepsister. But, not even that, if you want to get specific. His mom is marrying my uncle, so it's, like, legally even less than that." 

(Y/N)'s bubbling didn't make much sense, but it didn't appear that this man was listening anyway. He only looked towards Harry, as if he was the one that was attempting to argue these details. A frown tipped her lips.  

"We're alright, mate." 

The man paused for a moment. Shaking his head, he muttered under his breath, "Weird," before stalking away. 

Her brows knitted together as she watched him leave to haunt a different corner of the bar, a group of people she hadn't noticed before welcoming him in with conspiratorial glances and whispered voices. 

"Sorry," Harry muttered behind her, causing her to whirl on the stool to face him, "I should have asked if you..." 

She canted her head at him. She was too drunk for things to not be spelled out. "What?" 

He let out a short laugh, dropping his gaze from hers as he knuckled at his nose. "I... Did y'want to talk to him? I didn't mean to get involved if y'were..." 

"No," (Y/N) shook her head, "He was being annoying. Was he from the restaurant?" 

There was a line holding Harry's shoulders that seemingly was cut loose then, dropping the lines of his body into something much more relaxed. "He was, yeah. Can't remember his name, though." 

"Me neither!" she blurted, reaching towards him with her hands landing on his shoulders, "I thought I was just really drunk, so that's nice to—"

As if on command, she suddenly stumbled from her stool, falling into him with a gasp. Harry didn't hesitate before his hands landed on her waist, steadying her with a tight grip. Her heart bounced around her chest as she came down from. Looking up at him through the fan of her lashes, she saw him already watching her, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth.

"Y'alright?" he asked, a pinch between his brows. 

"Yeah, sorry," she answered, simply, melting into him despite being more than capable of settling into her own spot once more. He was too comfortable, too warm, too everything she had been thinking about for months now to move on. And she was too tipsy to know better. "Thanks for catching me." 

With her cheek pressed against his chest, Harry's hold on her shifted until he had his arm around her middle. The other waved down the bartender. 

"I think 's time we get y'home, love." 

"No," she whined, "We just got here." 

The laugh he let out rumbled underneath her cheek, warming her further from the sound alone. "Maybe a few hours ago. You've got a big day tomorrow anyway, y'need to sleep." 

"Maybe," she sighed, eyes fluttering to a close as Harry handled their tab. "Are you coming tomorrow? For the suits?" 

"No," he murmured distractedly, "'M going home tomorrow, remember?"

"But you just got here," she argued, suddenly offended at the idea of airports and planes and flight times. What was the point of any of that if that meant Harry would be miles and miles away from her again? 

"I know," he smiled, standing from his spot with a guiding hand on her back, "But we'll see each other again soon, okay? I'll make sure of it." 

She didn't doubt his promise. If Harry wanted to see her, he would make it happen. 

(Y/N) could only stare at him with stars in her eyes, warmth simmering under her skin. 

They had time, she reminded herself. Even if just tonight. 

—————

"C'mon, (Y/N). Gotta help me, love." 

"Okay." 

"Love, you've gotta stand up on your own for a second, 'kay? Jus' until I get the door open, then I can help y'again." 

"Okay." 

"(Y/N)." 

"Hm?" 

Harry sighed, the curve of his lips audible. Looping his arm tightly around her waist, he continued attempting to get the keycard to her hotel room to work, all while she clung to him, almost sliding down his body now that he wasn't devoting all of his attention to steadying her. 

She was too tired. How could he expect her to stand up on her own when she was so tired she almost fell asleep on the way here? It was unrealistic. Especially when he was offering his body as her crutch; he was warm like a blanket, firm yet forgiving at the same time. The perfect kind of pillow. 

A faint technological beep came from behind her. Harry fiddled around for a moment before he was clutching her again. 

"C'mon," he murmured through an amused smile, guiding her inside though she didn't bother to turn around and face forward with her steps. Instead, she let Harry do the heavy lifting, getting her through the threshold and letting the lumbering door click to a close behind them. 

Her hotel room was small and rudimentally furnished, stiff carpet under their feet. When she had checked in, she hadn't thought much of the space. Now, through bleary eyes with Harry holding her so carefully, it was the prettiest, coziest, most comforting place she'd ever come to spend the night in. 

Her clothing was still strewn out of her opened suitcase, the lamp on the side of her bed turned on with the television streaming the default channel for the hotel. A normal, sober part of herself would have felt a bit embarrassed at the sight of her panties hanging out of her luggage, knowing Harry would no doubt spot it. But, she wasn't normal or sober. She was drunk and clinging to Harry like a lifeline. 

"There we go," Harry mumbled, depositing her on the edge of her bed. He stood before her, running a hand through his hair. "Y'gonna be alright?" 

"Mhm," she hummed, looking up at him with what she was sure were hearts in her eyes, "Are you?" 

Harry laughed. His smile, dimples and all, was more intoxicating than any mixed drink could hope to be. "I think I'll be alright, (Y/N)." 

She canted her head as she looked up at him, taking in the rumpled collar of his white shirt, now sporting a smudge of her pink lipstick. "Do you really have to leave tomorrow?" 

His lips thinned as he gazed down at her. "Yeah. I do." 

Her lips puffed into a pout, wandering hands reaching for the hem of his shirt. "When am I going to see you again, then?"

"I don't know," he answered, lips into a lopsided smile, "Before the wedding, hopefully?" 

"Just hopefully?" she whined, using her grip on his shirt to tug him down until he was forced to flop onto the mattress at her side. "I thought we'd see each other more when we found out... everything." 

Harry only let out a heavy sigh. His eyes glanced around her face, searching through the planes of her features. "I know." 

(Y/N) laid back on her bed, suddenly hit with a weight that she had avoided thinking about for the last few hours. She could feel Harry's eyes following her.

"I don't want to be mean," she said, speaking quietly in the empty of the hotel room, "But it kind of sucks, right?" 

A beat passed. 

"What do y'mean?" His voice was strained. She didn't need to look at him to know that he knew what she meant. 

"Like," she started, matching his gaze, "You know. Everything. I'm happy for them, but... We get along so well, you know? At least I think we do." 

A small quirk tugged at his lips. A sad curl. "We do, don't we?" 

"I think we would have had a lot of fun," she smiled, biting back a yawn. 

"Aren't we already?" he asked, falling back to lay beside her. 

This close, (Y/N) was able to see the details that had made her heart race all those months ago. The shatters of green in his irises. The sprinkle of freckles along his nose. The scar on his chin. The uneven stubble shadowing his cheeks. 

"Yeah," she exhaled, tone dreamy. She reached for him, her fingers grazing over the warmth of his cheek. "I just—I thought, when we met...I thought it would be different for us." 

Harry didn't say anything. His eyes fluttered closed as she touched his face, fingertips grazing over the lines of his features. Touching his cupid's bow had her heart hammering in her chest.

"Didn't you?" 

When Harry blinked his eyes open, he matched her gaze unabashedly. "I did." 

Reaching up to grab her hand, he laced their fingers together and pulled the bundled limbs to his chest. "But, we're alright like this, don't y'think?" he murmured, that sad smile back on his face, "At least we never had a chance to mess anything up." 

She knew he was attempting to spin her thoughts into something hopeful. That they would be happy and partners in crime together like this for the rest of their lives. And it would be okay. There would never be a need or even a thought for anything more. 

But, all that stood out to her was that they never had a chance. 

(Y/N) rolled her lips between her teeth, a well of emotion crashing behind her ribs. "We never had a chance." 

"Oh, (Y/N)," he crooned, collecting her in his arms until her cheek was cushioned in his neck and his arms were a comforting cage around her waist. 

She melted into him, reveling in the warmth of his hold and the blocks of muscle making up his body. There was so much softness to him, with the way he touched her, the way he looked at her, the way he spoke to her. So much she could have gotten to know, she thought. There were always going to be parts of him that she wouldn't know.

"I miss you already," she whispered. 

"You know I've got you, love. 'M always here." 

"Not in the way I want." 

It was bravery in the form of alcohol and the lack of eyes on her face that made it so easy for the words to slip out. Though it didn't feel so right when his hands on her back paused. 

It felt even worse when he started disentangling himself from her hold, the phantom of his arms lingering around him. He slowed when he caught her eye, his own a bit sad to match the own on his lips. 

"I know," he whispered, "Me too, (Y/N). But, we're going to be alright. Like this, we're going to be okay." 

She didn't stop him when he left her hotel room, the door clicking behind him. He will be on a flight tomorrow, leaving her once more.

Hopefully, he had said, that they would see one another before the wedding. Though, in the silence of the suite, (Y/N) didn't have to be sober to know she had been a mistake, speaking so blatantly. The hope he had shared that they would see each other again before the wedding was no doubt diminished. 

Blinking up at the texture of the ceiling, she sighed. 

What the fuck had she done?

—————

"My uncle said he can pick me up from the airport, so that should be fine." 

"Good, good," Gemma mumbled, "And you're staying with me and my mum or did you want your own space for the week?" 

"I mean," (Y/N) mused, "I was going to leave it up to you guys. I can get a room somewhere if you want family time, or whatever you want." 

"Well, you are family now, (Y/N). You're more than welcome to stay with us. I know my mum would enjoy getting to spend time with you." 

(Y/N) wanted so badly to glow at the thought of being welcomed into a family like the Styles'. She had wished for years that she would somehow find out she had a long-lost sister or any sibling at all to spend her days with. 

Instead, she was grateful this was only a phone call, so Gemma didn't catch the way her lips tightened at the idea of being considered family to someone she had attempted to kiss the night of her uncle's bachelor dinner. 

And been promptly rejected by, of course. 

But, she was over all of that, she reminded herself. Just like Harry was. 

"I think that would be a lot of fun, Gemma. Thank you," she accepted in a way she hoped was gracious. 

"Mum's going to be so excited to hear that," Gemma bubbled, "That works out perfect, too, since I think Harry and Michel are going to stay with your uncle for the week. Keep up the whole tradition thing, everyone all separate." 

(Y/N)'s lips pinched that much more at the mention of his name. She could still feel the way the emptiness of her hotel room settled over her when he had left. Nothing was more sobering than that, she found.

"Yeah," (Y/N) chirped, "It's cute."

Gemma let out a bubbly laugh, "Exactly. Okay, so I'll get with mum and figure out all of the little things we still need to do before the wedding, and I'll let you know as soon as I know!"

"So exciting! I can't wait." There was a part that really was very excited and was looking forward to seeing her Uncle Mick get married, eager for him to be happy again after experiencing so much grief the years prior. There was another large part of her that could wait a little longer; wait a few more months, or even a year before she saw Harry again. At least long enough for her to have forgotten that night at the bar, and have a new boyfriend. 

Gemma chattered a bit more, thinking out loud as she ticked things off her list. (Y/N) was fine being her sounding board, nodding and humming where needed before sharing a quick goodbye. 

Locking her phone, (Y/N) was left in the quiet of her apartment. It was a little too close to the silence at the hotel room, the experience at the forefront of her mind. 

Pursing her lips, she gripped the edge of her countertop. She was going to see Harry again, in just a couple of weeks. 

Should she text him? Attempt to clear the air before even seeing him? 

No, it was bad enough that she had scared him off, she couldn't be the one to reach out first. Months after, even. If he wanted to talk to her, he would have by now—even if only to clear the air. 

It was times like this that she wished she had siblings. If she had a brother or a sister, she wouldn't be walking into this whole thing by herself. Despite her Uncle being there, his wedding wasn't exactly the setting to let him know that she'd attempted to go out with his new wife's son—the one that would be her stepbrother for all intents and purposes.

Legally, though, she corrected herself. Stepcousins.

(Y/N) sighed. That still didn't sound very good, especially not when she usually just considered her uncle her dad, no matter what she called him. 

Her phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. (Y/N) flinched back at the noise before reaching for the device. 

On the screen she had a single notification. A text message from a friend. 

Mitchell Row-Lund

     How was the phone call? Do you have to room with that guy? 

Staring at the message thread, an idea came to mind. It wasn't a good one. (Y/N) could even field an argument about how it is actually a stupid idea. But it was an idea, nonetheless.

Gemma did say she still had a plus one available. And, it wasn't like Mitch had anything going on, she knew that for a fact.

Plus, he knew some of what was going on with Harry, sans many details, but enough to understand why it was a very big deal that she couldn't go into this alone. Uncle Mick would enjoy seeing him too. 

Ignoring the text, (Y/N) called Mitch's contact instead. It only took a couple of rings before he picked up. 

"Hello?" 

"Mitch, are you busy in, like, three weeks?" 

"(Y/N)..." 

—————

"Are you sure you girls don't need help with anything?" 

Gemma whipped around from the stove where she was spreading the different layers to the lasagna. She gave her mother a glare. 

"Mum," she reprimanded, "We're fine. You're supposed to be relaxing." 

"I know, I know," she sighed, "But, I don't mind helping. I can—" 

"No," Gemma cut her off, abandoning her post at the stove to escort her mother back to the glass of chardonnay waiting for her in the living room. "Your only job is to answer the door when the boys get here, and watch your show." 

Anne hmphed, casting a playful roll of her eyes only where (Y/N) could see. A huff of laughter left her lips as she watched the mother-daughter duo argue before Anne relented to actually being taken care of for the night. It was sweet, the kind of banter and familiarity they had between one another. It reminded (Y/N) of the relationship she had with her aunt. It was nice to know that her Uncle was marrying into a family like this. 

"When will she learn?" Gemma joked when she reentered the kitchen, casting a very familiar roll of her eyes towards (Y/N). "It's like pulling teeth to get her to relax." 

"She's too sweet for her own good," (Y/N) said, continuing the chopping of the vegetables for the side salad. 

"Her biggest flaw," Gemma sighed, shaking her head. 

"I can hear you!" 

Anne's shout from the living room drew laughter from both of them. 

"Then what did I say?" Gemma shot back, giving (Y/N) a look like watch this.

A pause. 

"I don't know, but I know you're whispering!" 

Gemma lifted her brows like see. It was enough to pull another peal of laughter from her. It was already shaping up to be quite the night. The last one before the wedding, before Mitch would be in town and the first time she would be forced to speak in a confined room with Harry since arriving. 

She had been lucky enough to avoid being alone with him, the activities and rooms having been too busy to catch more than a single glance of him before rushing through. It was the nice part about Anne and Uncle Mick wanting to uphold a bit of tradition, the bridal party and groomsmen being separated as much as possible during this last week. 

(As far as (Y/N) remembered, she thought it was only the night before the ceremony where this distance mattered. She wasn't going to correct anyone, though).

But, tonight had come and her sanctuary was on a timer.

In Anne's cozy dining room, there was nowhere to hide from Harry. Especially not when this evening was considered a family dinner. 

(Y/N) rolled her lips between her teeth as she kept her eyes on her hands, attempting to focus on the strokes of the knife and not anything else. Especially not the time. 

That did seem to work against her, though, when the knock on the door took her by surprise. She hadn't had time to brace herself, school herself into someone who didn't care about whatever happened tonight. 

Her throat bobbed when she heard the sound of Anne's front door opening, a familiar set of voices sounding from the stoop. 

Gemma practically beamed as she slid the pan of lasagna into the oven before rushing out to meet her husband, who also had her daughter on his hip. (Y/N) lingered back, listening to the sounds of the stitched together family. 

This time tomorrow, her uncle would be married and she would have two new siblings. One of them being the man she could hear right now cooing to his niece. 

Wiping down the knife and placing it off to the side, (YN) ran a stressed hand through her hair. Seeing her uncle would make her feel better, she thought. She'd start there. 

"Hey kid," her uncle murmured when he caught sight of her. His creased eyes lit up as she stepped into his hug. "How are you?" 

"I'm good," she smiled, making sure her eyes stayed stitched on his face with not even a peek over his shoulder, "How are you, though? Tomorrow's the day." 

(Y/N) could see light practically dancing through his eyes when he cast his own gaze behind himself, where the cooing of a baby and her fawning audience could be heard. "Excited. Really excited." 

"Good, good," (Y/N) smiled, suddenly feeling a bit choked up. She wondered if this was how he was going to feel when she had her own wedding (fingers crossed, anyway. She needed to find a partner first before considering a wedding.)

"The lasagna has a few more minutes in the oven, but (Y/N)'s salad is almost done. Harry, you can set the table." 

Perking up at the sound of her name, (Y/N) regretted it as soon as she heard Harry's only a moment later. Gemma was playing the role of gracious hostess, though it didn't appear she could turn down the opportunity of bossing her little brother around. 

Though, it didn't seem like he minded much at all. Harry only gave a beaming grin to his niece before poking at her stomach and making his way towards the dining room.

For the first time since walking through the door, their eyes met. 

(Y/N) felt her throat run dry. The last time she saw those shatters of green, the intensity of his gaze turned in her direction, he had been telling her that there wasn't any room for what she wanted with him. That they were going to be okay—whatever that was supposed to mean. 

All after she had so clumsily fallen all over him, even attempting to kiss him.

Harry only cracked a small, polite smile. Not a single dimple or crease on his freckled nose appeared. 

"You made a salad tonight?" Uncle Mick asked her, ripping her back to reality, "And you still have all your fingers?"

Turning to face him, (Y/N) plastered a smile on her face, playing into his small joke. "Barely. Gemma had to sew my pinky back on, but I think it should be better by tomorrow." 

Her uncle let out a boisterous laugh at her jest, none the wiser to whatever had passed between her and Harry only a breath before. 

This was going to be a long dinner.

—————

"Dinner was wonderful, ladies. Thank you." 

Uncle Mick handed out praises to the women at the table, though Anne was quick to shrug it off. 

"It was all the two girls," she insisted, "I was quarantined to wine-and-couch duties." 

(Y/N) didn't have to peek under the table to know that her uncle had squeezed his bride's hand. All she needed to see was the affection that painted his gaze as he looked at her. "Well deserved," he muttered to her before looking to where (Y/N) and Gemma were sitting side-by-side, "Thank you two, then. Everything has been amazing." 

Gemma gave a similar reaction to her mother, shrugging it off with a shy smile on her face. "Of course. It's the least we could do for the happy couple, right?" 

She gave a look to (Y/N) the shadow of dimples in her cheeks. Too much like Harry, (Y/N) thought. She still made sure to nod and smile along. 

"I'm happy everyone liked it," (Y/N) interjected, hoping she sounded more present than she really felt. Especially when she could feel eyes on her—eyes she had been pointedly avoiding all throughout the meal. 

Anne stood up, beginning to collect dishes from the mats around the table. "I can start cleaning up, and—" 

"Mum, no. I thought Gemma told you that you're not supposed to be doing any hard work tonight." 

Harry's clear voice had (Y/N) blinking, her spine stiffening as she kept her eyes on her soon-to-be aunt. 

She scoffed at his words. "Doing the dishes in my own home is far from hard work, Harry. You kids—" 

"Anne," Uncle Mick piped up, a gentle hand landing on her arm, "Let them take care of this. There's still some time before I think we call it a night, and there's wine still in the bottle." 

(Y/N) watched as Anne's eyes softened, features flourishing into a gentle smile. 

"Oh alright," she relented, "Just for tonight. And, maybe tomorrow." 

That was (Y/N)'s cue to begin collecting the dishes herself. Gemma had done the hard work by putting together the main part of the meal, and deserved a moment with her child and husband. Besides, the quiet of the kitchen and task of taking care of the dishes was what she needed after being on edge during dinner. 

"I've got it, then," she offered, beaming a smile to her Uncle, "You guys go relax for a little while." 

Arms laden with china and silverware, (Y/N) took to the kitchen while the rest of the family moved onto the other room. A heavy breath left her lips. 

She fixed her eyes to the faucet as the sink filled with warm water, soap bubbles forming on the surface. 

Truthfully, she knew there wasn't any reason to be so nervous, so stiff, all night. It wasn't like Harry was going to speak about that night out in the open—if he wanted his family to know, he'd had months to expose the facts before now. But, he hadn't. 

It was a bit pathetic to admit given the fact they had never even so much as kissed, but seeing him felt a lot like running into an ex. Embarrassing, seeing as he had seen her more vulnerable than she felt comfortable showing. Nerve-wracking, as she wasn't sure what kind of reaction she was going to get from him. And a bit heartbreaking; it was hard to see him knowing there was such a definitive line in the sand. 

As if there wasn't always one there, (Y/N) reminded herself. The second they made it to her uncle's house that night, there was always goin to be a barrier between them. 

Flicking off the faucet, she got to work cleaning off the dishes. From the living room, she could hear quiet coos from a sleepy baby, and slight laughter amongst a family sharing memories. 

That was enough to have the line holding her shoulders taut to give. A family. Everything her uncle deserved. 

"Want help?" 

(Y/N) practically jumped out of her skin at the sound of the deep, accented voice suddenly joining her in the space.

 Whipping her head around, she saw Harry lingering in the threshold of the entrance to the kitchen. He had a short smile on his lips, the ghost of dimples in his cheeks. 

Not a real smile. Something polite to be offered to someone he didn't really care to be talking to. 

"No, I'm alright,"(Y/N) answered, just as tight. "Thanks, though." 

"Are y'sure?" he pressed, taking a cautious step inside the barrier of the tiles, "I could dry while y'wash. It'll cut the time in half, or something like that." 

She let out a huff of laughter at his attempt to lighten the mood. She was sure she wasn't the only one feeling a touch of the tension that had gathered. 

She figured she couldn't really continue to avoid him forever. 

"If you really want to," she relented, letting a genuine, though small, smile curl her lips. 

Harry took her words as the invitation needed, crossing the room to join her at the sink. The damp dishes had begun to accumulate on the towel she had laid out at her side. He moved with familiarity through his childhood home, finding another dish towel before pushing up the sleeves of his warm brown sweater. 

Just like the first time she had met him, (Y/N) couldn't help but trace her eyes over the cross tattooed on his hand. Seeing the sleeves of his shirt pushed up, she got a view of what she remembered wondering hid between that cloud-cardigan those months ago. 

A bare-chested mermaid. A nightmarish beetle. A collection of tiny sketches around an anchor at his wrist. 

"So," he started, wiping off the first dish in the pile, "I've barely gotten a chance to talk to y'since we've got here. How have y'been?"

She nodded absently, swiftly turning her gaze to the soapy basin. "I've been alright. Just busy getting the final details figured out with your mom and sister. How about you?" 

"Same," he murmured, "'S all gone by so fast. I can't believe 's already tomorrow. I feel like we were jus' meeting for the first time." 

He meant for the comment to be something lighthearted. They could bond over the passage of time, right? It was easy to nod her head and laugh, tell him that yes, everything had gone by so fast. But she was excited, nonetheless. That his mother was a wonderful person and she couldn't wait to welcome her into their small family. 

Instead, (Y/N) was only able to manage a small smile. 

"Yeah. Crazy." 

Crazy that it really had only been months since she met Harry while perusing wine for her uncle, thinking he was just a handsome stranger. Someone she could see herself going on a date with. 

Now, he was going to be as good as her stepbrother. The revelation left a sour taste in her mouth. 

A beat passed. 

"(Y/N)," Harry started, one of his rings clinking against the plate in his hand, "If y'want to talk about—"

She shook her head. She didn't need to revisit that night. Especially not right now, while washing his mother's dishes in her sink. 

"I don't," she insisted, "Sorry if I'm being weird. I just... I was worried I had scared you off or something, since we haven't talked. But, I'm fine, really." 

"You didn't. Scare me off, I mean," Harry answered, the words coming out in a rush as if a reflex. The pile of damp dishes were forgotten for the moment as he turned his attention to her. "I jus' wanted sure if y'wanted to talk to me after... everything."

"Don't worry about it," she answered, sidestepping just how much she wanted to hear anything from him in the time that had passed since the night at the bar. That she wanted to know if he still even tolerated her. "Everything got a little complicated, so it's probably best we didn't—don't. You know?" 

Harry's expression seemed to solidify at her words. Unmoving, unchanging, though something seemed to leave from his eyes. 

"Yeah," he agreed, a single nod of his head. He waved the cloth in her direction, nonchalant. "We've got a while to figure everything out as long as tomorrow goes well, right?" 

"Right," (Y/N) laughed, a little less rigid. While it wasn't the outcome she may have wanted (that was one where he came in on a flying steed, hearts in his eyes, and unwavering conviction in his feelings for her. Or at least trying it out with her), it was the best outcome she could have predicted. 

They finished the dishes in silence.

—————

(Y/N) clapped, tears in her eyes as she watched her uncle plant a kiss on his blushing bride. The white of her gauzy dress made Anne's skin glow that much brighter, sweet pink and a warm bronze. 

They were now man and wife as the officiant announced, allowing them on their way. 

Falling back into her role as dutiful bridesmaid, she followed after Gemma as the procession to the reception began. Glancing at Mitch, she caught him biting back a smile. She knew he would have something to say about her sobbing two seconds into the ceremony. 

Getting out of the chilly garden and into the reception venue was a needed transition. (Y/N) hadn't even realized her fingers were turning to icicles until the heat from the hall wrapped around her. 

It was quiet in the space. Only a select few of the venue staff milling about as they made the finishing touches on the reception space, and a newly knitted family were present. Much like herself, Gemma had tiny tears in her eyes as she reached for her daughter from her husband's hip. Harry had his mother wrapped up in a long hug.

It was her uncle that brought her attention away from the embrace. He murmured something to her, the words a bit garbled through his thick throat before he had her in his arms. 

(Y/N) didn't hesitate before she was reciprocating the hold. She tucked herself against his chest, feeling just as safe as the day he had told her that she was going to be taken care of now that he was there. The memory only made her snuggle that much closer to him. 

"Congratulations, dad," she whispered, choking up hearing the title she only rarely used. She knew it had the same effect on him when he clutched her tighter, a shuddering breath wracking his chest. 

"Thanks for being here, kiddo. Love you." 

"Love you, too." 

All too soon, her uncle was whisked away to take photos with his bride, the photographer eager to capture the moments with that blissful glow on their faces. Family shots had been taken prior to the ceremony, when everyone's makeup and hair were in perfect condition, leaving (Y/N) a moment alone for the first time that day. 

It wasn't until she was putting on her false lashes that she had heard Harry had brought a date. She knew that there was no reason to have any kind of reaction to that revelation, especially since she had also invited Mitch. And yet, there was still that sour, churning feeling in her stomach.

While it wasn't a thought she nurtured or had the guts to admit, there had been a lingering hope in her that maybe, with everything twisted up and complicated, that there could be something worked out. That Harry was so unhappy with the distance as she was. 

But, he had brought a date. Someone serious enough to invite to a family wedding, though not serious enough to mention to her when they were washing the dishes the night before. 

That was fine. He could do whatever he wanted, just as (Y/N) was doing. 

And neither of them were going to be heartbroken. Least of all (Y/N).

—————

"Are you sure that's his date?" 

(Y/N) only grumbled through her spoonful of gelato. That counted as the third time Mitch had questioned Harry's choice of plus one. And the third time (Y/N) thought she made it abundantly clear that she wasn't interested in speaking on the details of the coupling. It was bad enough explaining to everyone that Mitch was just a friend instead of a boyfriend, he didn't also have to rub it in that Harry had brought a real date. 

"(Y/N), don't get mad at me," Mitch warned, casting his eyes over her head towards the dance floor, "I'm just asking. Because he's barely talked to her all night." 

"Well, that's rude of him, then," (Y/N) cemented, taking another bite of her birthday cake gelato. This dessert had been Gemma's idea—about the same cost as a cake, but many more people could eat from the bar and there wouldn't be a handful of leftover slices that the family would be forced to take home. 

"Will you still think that if I tell you it's been because he's too busy looking at you?" 

She glared at Mitch through furrowed brows. "Right." 

"I'm serious," he hedged, bouncing his brows before tipping his head towards her, urging her to look at her back. "If you turn around right now, you'll see." 

"Just because he's looking at me, doesn't mean anything. He's my brother now, Mitch." 

Reaching for his drink, Mitch didn't look very believing in the story she was spinning. "I would be a little nervous if I had a brother look at me the way he is right now."

 "What does that mean?" 

He knew he had her then, a crooked smile on his lips. "Look for yourself." 

Giving in, (Y/N) pretending to stretch in her spot. She pasted an easy smile on her face as she nonchalantly turned to look over her shoulder. 

There, on the dance floor, with his niece on his hip, Harry's cheeks flushed. He quickly looked away, having been caught by (Y/N) as he gazed at her. His date was fluttering around, speaking to Gemma and her husband with an easy smile on her face. She was familiar with the family—more familiar than (Y/N) would think a new girlfriend would be. 

But, that wasn't any of her business. 

Turning back to Mitch, she attempted to look as if nothing she saw had even sparked a train of thought in her mind. 

"That doesn't mean anything." 

"Right," he drawled, sly smile on his face. "And, he's not coming over here, right now." 

"What?" (Y/N) bubbled, suddenly at attention. Her cup of gelato created in her tightened grip. Whipping her head around, she stopped in her tracks, expression dropping. No one was walking over to their table—let alone Harry. 

A burst of laughter came from her date. 

"That wasn't nice," she said, fighting back her own laughter. Truthfully, while it was pathetic how easy it was to get her to react, she knew if the tables were turned, she wouldn't be able to contain her giggles at Mitch's desperation. 

He shrugged. "It was funny, though." He took a long sip of his drink, ice clinking together. "If you're so jumpy, I don't know why you haven't gone to talk to him at all." 

"Mitch," (Y/N) started, finally abandoning the remnants of her gelato, "It's just not the right time. You already know everything, so." 

"So what? He obviously wants to at least talk to you. Just put him out of his misery." 

(Y/N) shook her head. "Even if things weren't complicated, he brought a date, Mitch. I don't think he's really dying for my company." 

"So?" he repeated, raising his brows, "You brought a date, too. And it's me." 

She could only roll her lips between her teeth. She wasn't going to examine the point he was making. 

"I'm going to get a drink." 

—————

(Y/N) felt entirely too accomplished when Gemma's daughter burst into another round of laughter at the shapes she was throwing on the dance floor. It was easy to make her laugh now that she knew what made the little girl giggle, but it still felt like an all star achievement every time a bubbling peal left her heart-shaped lips. 

"Auntie (Y/N) is just so silly, isn't she?" Gemma babbled to her daughter, equally delighted to hear her having so much fun. The later the night went, the more and more of a miracle it was that she hadn't grown fussy and in need of a bedtime. 

Just as she was about to make another uncoordinated movement, a gentle hand landed on (Y/N)'s shoulder. She saw the gleaming diamond ring adorning the fourth finger first, already knowing who it belonged to. 

"Could I cut in, girls? Sorry to ruin the fun," Anne asked, her beaded gown trailing behind her as she beamed at her granddaughter, "It's my turn to dance with Aunt (Y/N)." She paused, glancing over. "If that's alright, anyway." 

"Yes, of course, of course," (Y/N) bubbled off, "We'll just finish our dance battle later." 

"I'd watch out if I were you," Gemma teased, "After a snack, this one is going to run you out of town, I'm afraid." 

"I'd like to see her try," (Y/N) played along, narrowing her eyes despite the smile attempting to take over her mouth. 

Gemma walked away with a laugh, taking her daughter back to her husband. A happy little family, they were. 

"I can't believe you're still at it," Anne laughed, swaying along to the music with (Y/N), "I can barely handle standing in these shoes, and you've been dancing like nothing." 

(Y/N) lifted the hem of her dress, showing off her socked feet. "I took my heels off hours ago. I got through one dance before I had to make a choice." 

Anne let out a boisterous laugh. The champagne bubbles from the number of toasts recited throughout the night had seemingly had their intended effect. From the corner of her eye, (Y/N) could see both her Uncle Mick and Harry looking in their direction, affectionate smiles on their faces. 

"I'm just happy you're having a good time," Anne crooned, blissful smile stuck to her features, "I was getting worried." 

A furrow pinched (Y/N)'s brows. "You were? Why?" 

A heavy sigh left her lips. "I told Mick I wouldn't say anything," she started, casting her eyes to her new husband, "But, I've just been worried about you and H." 

(Y/N)'s movements lagged in time to the music. "Me and Harry?" 

"Don't tell him I told you," she rushed out, "But, he said there was something? I can't remember exactly what he said, but he just seemed really upset when I told him you were bringing a date, and when I asked what was wrong he just said it was complicated, or something like that. I could tell something was going on last night, but I didn't want to push." 

In so many words, Anne was laying out her mother's intuition. Despite neither she nor Harry divulging any secrets, Anne had been able to pick up on the words between the lines. 

"Oh," (Y/N) sounded, her grip on the skirt of her dress tightening. 

Anne chewed on her bottom lip before speaking again. "I know it's not any of my business, you kids are adults and can do whatever you want—or don't want. But, I think you should talk to him. If it's complicated in the way I think, I want you to know that... It's okay. Complicated things happen all the time, but that doesn't mean it has to be impossible." 

Champagne was a hell of a drug. 

"Right," (Y/N) answered, a tight smile on her face. "Thank you, Anne. I think I need some air, I'll be right back." 

Before much else could be said, Anne's brother popped in to steal her away for a dance. The heavy subject she had just dropped on (Y/N) was forgotten, instead excited to chat with someone new for the time being. 

That left (Y/N) to swiftly creep out of the venue and into the garden that had previously been fashioned into an elegant aisle for the ceremony.

The chilly air she had been eager to get out of earlier now felt like a balm on her skin. In so many words, Anne had basically given permission for (Y/N) to do whatever she wanted when it came to Harry. Despite the marriage that had just connected them as family. 

It was both freeing and heavy as she stood in the garden. 

Freeing to know that even from someone both removed but so close to the situation, she didn't think (Y/N) was catastrophically insane or unnervingly gross for even considering Harry as someone. 

Heavy to know that they hadn't been quite as undercover as she hoped. Not everyone would agree with Anne's ruling, and (Y/N) dreaded the idea of finding out just who could be on the opposing side. Including Harry and the date he brought tonight.

The music from inside seeped through the open windows. As if reading the mood from even out here, the DJ had switched to a slow song. The singing violins and melodic voice of the singer floated around (Y/N), making it that much easier to be a bit melodramatic as she trailed her finger of a wilting cornflower, the hue matching the color of her dress. 

"There you are." 

(Y/N) didn't have to turn to know who had joined her in the garden. The voice alone was enough to have her spine straightening, goosebumps sparking over her skin. 

She offered a quiet smile to Harry as she dropped her hand from the flower. "Here I am," she said, "Is everything okay?" 

Harry shoved his hands into his pockets. A wilting periwinkle flower went lopsided in his breast pocket. 

"Yeah, jus' saw y'with mum and then y'disappeared. I wanted to make sure y'were alright." 

"I'm fine," she offered, "It got a little stuffy in there, that's all." 

"Well," he started, moving towards her until his toes were just on the edge between the patio and the garden, "Y'missed our dates sneaking off together." 

(Y/N) blanched at the information. "Are you joking? I'm so sorry, oh my god. I'll find Mitch right now, I can't be—" 

"No, no," Harry laughed, "'S fine. Sarah's been asking me about him since he got here anyway. I know it was only a matter of time." 

"Oh," she sounded, settling at the information Harry was sharing, "So Sarah's not...?" 

Harry shook his head. "She's a friend I've had for years. Mum loves her, so she was coming whether or not she came as m'plus one. This way she got to pick where she sat." 

(Y/N) laughed. Half from the practicality of this woman's choices, as well as a wave of relief that ran over her. So he hadn't brought a date tonight. Only a friend that was seemingly much more interested in (Y/N)'s date. 

"Mitch is just a friend, too," (Y/N) clarified, pretending as if she didn't hear Anne's voice in the back of her head as she offered the information. 

"I was hoping you'd say that. Otherwise, I was going to have to follow them and beat him up or something." 

"No need," (Y/N) sighed, "He'd be sad if you did that, anyway. He thinks you're cool." 

Harry's eyes brightened. "Really?" 

"Don't get too ahead of yourself," (Y/N) warned, biting back a smile, "He only said that when I told him you put together the music list for the DJ. He thinks you have good taste." 

"Well, he's not wr—" 

"I had to break it to him that you think frosé is better than actual rosé. I think he's still coming to terms with it." 

Mock offense took over Harry's features. "How dare you? I told y'that in confidence." 

(Y/N) shrugged, a playful smile painted on her lips. "I had to save him the trouble of finding out on his own. He never would have recovered." 

Harry shook his head. "'S not even that bad, I don't get it." 

"Coming from someone who thinks frosé is the best wine offering, that makes sense." 

He playfully nudged his shoulder against hers, shaking his head. A beat passed between them, the muffled voices from inside spilling out into the courtyard. 

"I saw y'talking to mum," Harry started, switching off the subject with the tease falling out of his voice, "Looked a little intense." 

She hoped he didn't catch the way her spine stiffened. "It wasn't anything serious," she lied, "Just got a little emotional with everything." 

When Harry didn't immediately answer, (Y/N) chanced a look in his direction. He already had his eyes trained on her, shatters of green examining her features with raspberry lips rolled between his teeth.

"What?" 

"She didn't—" Harry started, cutting himself off before reorienting himself, "It wasn't about anything complicated?" 

(Y/N) blinked. Had their conversation really been that loud?

"Harry, I didn't tell her anything," (Y/N) insisted, "She said she just had a feeling, but I didn't—I don't know how she knew—"

"I told her," Harry piped up, dropping his eyes to the grass at their feet, "Kind of. She could tell something's been going on, and she asked once. She thought I didn't like y'or something. I jus' told her it was complicated, but that must have been enough." 

He let out a huff of laughter though she was sure neither of them were feeling particularly humorous at the moment. 

"'M sorry if she made y'feel uncomfortable or anything. She jus' wants me to be happy, and—"

"She told me it was okay." 

Harry went silent at her admission. Raspberry lips rolled between his teeth. 

(Y/N) waited, a breeze playing with her dress. 

"She said it was okay? That... whatever she thought was happening between me and you, was okay?" 

(Y/N) nodded. 

She watched as the very corners of his lips turned upwards. 

"Your uncle said the same thing." 

A furrow had (Y/N)'s brows pinching above her pointed gaze. "When?" 

Harry's lips stretched into a full smile. "Jus' now." 

It took a moment to process the fact that Harry was telling her this information with a grin on his face. Nothing polite and short. A real, dimple-baring, nose scrunching smile. 

He was happy. He was happy to hear this news. 

That whatever had started those months ago was okay. Whatever that meant for them. 

"This is good," (Y/N) whispered, voice melding with the music from inside the venue, "Right?" 

There was a part of her that wanted to close the distance between them. Crush the grass under her socked feet and cup his jaw between her palms. To slot her lips between his and kiss him. To do the one thing she had been holding back from since that first dinner at her uncle's house. 

But, she needed to wait. She wasn't going to have another moment like that in the hotel room. If Harry wanted her, he was going to have to say it, otherwise she was staying rig—

Taking the leap for her, Harry closed the distance in one long stride. He gently took the line of her jaw in his hands, tipping her head up until the tips of their noses were touching. The length of his lashes were only a breath away from tangling with hers. 

"Really good," he breathed, waiting for her.

That was all she needed to hear before she was stretching to the tips of her toes, pressing her lips to his. 

Harry steadied her with his hands on either side of her face, guiding her into this first kiss. He took her bottom lip between his two, his kiss lingering and sweet. The only urgency came from the fact that they both knew just how long they had waited for this moment, though there was no reason to rush through it. 

She could taste the pistachio gelato he had earlier in the night, alongside the sweet wine served by the bar. With each tip and tilt of her head, she felt the tip of his nose grazing hers, the scruff of his chin against her own, the soft give of his mouth. Reaching up, she bundled her fingers into the lapels of his jacket, keeping the lines of their bodies close together. 

(Y/N) no longer felt the chill in the air, consumed by the feeling of Harry's kiss. This was worth waiting for. Worth the complications, and the uncertainty. Worth bringing Mitch to a family wedding just for him to disappear with someone else's date. (Something she was going to expect a thank you over, if he and Sarah worked out past a hookup). 

Harry drew away first, though only far enough to rest his forehead against hers. Blinking her eyes open, she found him already looking at her, half-lidded with blown pupils.

"'M sorry," he murmured, the fullest points of his lips grazing her own, "About the last time. I should have—I didn't want to leave, I jus'—" 

"It's okay," (Y/N) whispered, puckering her lips to give him a delicate kiss, "I get it. It hurt at the time, but I understand. Everything was just too much then." 

A slight quirk angled his lips. "Complicated, right?" 

(Y/N) couldn't contain the small huff of laughter that fanned from her lungs. "Exactly." 

Tipping his chin, Harry sealed his lips to hers in a lingering kiss. His hands on her jaw slid down, following the line of her arms until he reached her hands. 

"We should go back inside." 

Lacing her fingers between his, (Y/N) made no move to head back inside the venue. 

"Do we?" 

A light danced through his eyes. Casting a glance at the party going on behind them, Harry tightened his hold on her hands. 

"I think we could wait a little longer. Don't you?" 

All (Y/N) could do was attempt to kiss him through her smile. 

—————

thank u sm for reading! sorry for any mistakes and if you have any fun ideas or requests of your own pleaseee send them in!

[coconutdays]

imagine! ghoul sukuna catching a whiff of you while he's knee deep ravaging in some deserving creep's guts. you've just been dropped off home by a cab directly in front of your apartment, and he's right around the corner, hidden in an alleyway, perfect for perching up and getting a view of you.

what kind of human are you?

sukuna has never wanted to fuck a human. they're weak and incapable of pleasure the way ghouls are, boring.

but the sight of you...

his bloodshot eyes hone in on the sound of your heartbeat from so far, fuck even the way it beats is turning him on.

and, is that, fear? he smells?

you seem to be taking a bit long in tapping in the code to your apartment building.

"you wanna give me a taste cheeky!" a slurred and cackling voice jeers and suddenly sukuna's head reels to the forty some year old cat-calling you from the end of the street. before he can even process the thought, he feels his body tense and get ready to defend you, watching critically as your eyes widen and you fumble with the door again.

and right just when the creep crosses a distance that might get close to you, you quickly zoom inside after a low buzz of your door.

and it's then that the creep is at your door, starting to yell at the building for you to come out. you don't hear it considering your apartment was rather far from where his yells could reach. and you don't hear him stop abruptly either.

the next morning, on your way to work, you don't even pay much attention to the small splatter of blood stains near the entrance of your building.

but what does catch your attention is the large and tall meat stack of a man that walks by you while you're on the way back home that afternoon. he's immensely handsome, scarily so. but he looks so serious and as if he couldn't notice the blatant stare you gave him in awe.

and everyday, you see him again at the same point in time. as if his schedule perfectly lined up with yours. except he never looks at you and you feel as if he's destined to never do so.

maybe its your own small obsession over him, but you start seeing him in your part of town more often. at the grocery store he's always buying packs of instant coffee and and what looks like regular groceries for his pantry. whenever you're on the metro, he's barely just escaping to another destination and off to the stairs. if he's at a cafe, theres a cup of coffee in his hands, black, from the one time you got an intense whiff of it in passerby.

but his obsession with you is anything but small. sukuna prides himself in eating every single piece of scum that has made you uncomfortable. it's worked out, considering his hunger's grown a thousand times more ever since he laid eyes on you and you're such a beauty that a number of men flock to you.

a month of this behavior passes, and sukuna had thought he'd already reached rock bottom until he catches a whiff of you, on your period.

his right eye almost twitches when he passes by you.

and it gets his blood boiling when the precinct's famous sleazy ghoul also passes by you, pheromones screaming that he wants to devour you.

sukuna devours him later that night after he spied on him spying on you the entire day. if anybody was going to devour you, it'd be him. and you were going to scream for only him, pleasure or not.

you belong to him.

this fan art of him on the left corner with blood on his mouth got me bad :(

[sowerpatch]

unfold [chapter one - begin]

Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

Summary: Paige Bueckers didn’t expect to lose the WNBA championship. She also didn’t expect to find comfort in a bartender who spoke more with her in guarded silences than most people did with words.

Author's note: this is an AU where Azzi doesn't play basketball but works as a bartender.

*CHAPTER LIST HERE* Chapter Summary: Paige doesn’t drink. Not really. But the night after the championship slips away, she walks into a club looking for something that won’t ask questions. Azzi doesn’t offer comfort. She offers calm. Measured glances. The unapologetic truth. They meet in the hush between grief and curiosity, in low light and unchartered thoughts.

Paige returns. Azzi lets her. What passes between them isn’t loud. It isn’t defined. But it holds. And in the quiet that follows, something begins to shift.

Word count: 4,000

The locker room felt like a tomb. 

A quiet, sterile hush filled the space, broken only by the soft scrape of cleats against tile and the muffled hiss of water from the showers. The air was thick with the bitter weight unique to losing—stale adrenaline, drying sweat, and the sharp sting of something that had slipped just out of reach. 

Paige sat still in front of her open locker, arms braced on her thighs, hands clasped together as if in prayer. But she wasn’t praying. Her elbows ached. Her lungs felt bruised. She stared ahead, past the row of cubbies, past her teammates exchanging solemn words, past the championship banner on the wall that would remain untouched for yet another year. 

LA Sparks – 78  Minnesota Lynx – 83 

Five points. Just five unbearable points. 

They had exceeded expectations, especially after a rough start to the season. Paige had carried the team through injuries and long road trips, holding them together when it mattered most. This was supposed to be her moment. 

But her sixth foul came with just over two minutes left in the fourth quarter—a defensive reach she never should have tried. That single mistake disqualified her from the game when they needed her most. She was forced to sit on the sidelines, gnawing at her fingernails while watching the dream unravel in slow motion. 

At the postgame press conference, she had said all the right things. She congratulated the Lynx. She thanked her teammates. She spoke of learning experiences and trusting the process. But it was mostly noise. What she didn’t say was that she couldn’t even look herself in the mirror without wanting to scream. 

She didn’t want to go home. 

Didn’t want to sit in silence with her failure wrapped around her like a second skin. 

- 

The taxi driver dropped her off at a place she didn’t recognize. 

Vault 35 was carved into the base of the Hollywood Hills like an urban myth. It had no sign, no valet, just a matte black steel door hidden behind a hedge and a narrow stone path that seemed to lead nowhere. It was the kind of place where people paid to be forgotten, at least for a few hours. 

Paige stepped out of the car slowly, her body stiff from the numbness of emotions, from the silence, from the weight of it all. She wore a black bomber jacket, zipped halfway over a plain white tee. Dark joggers cinched at her waist and a beat-up pair of Air Force 1s completed the look. She didn’t resemble a rising basketball star or a second-year WNBA finalist. She just looked tired. Maybe that was the point. 

The bouncer at the door looked like someone who had tackled people for a living. He gave her a quick once-over, his gaze not suspicious but familiar. He nodded and stepped aside without checking her name or asking questions. 

Inside felt like another world. 

The lighting was low and warm, glowing from hidden corners and recessed strips along the black marble bar. Velvet booths lined the room, half-concealed in shadow. The music—jazzy, hypnotic, and downtempo—throbbed softly beneath a murmur of conversation. No phones were out. No selfies. Just quiet murmurs, slow drinks, and the palpable ache of people trying to outrun something. 

Paige went straight to the bar. 

She didn’t know why she had come. Something about the driver’s tone when he said "Vault" had stuck with her. Maybe it was the look he gave her in the mirror—the kind of look only someone who had carried that kind of weight would understand. He hadn’t finished the sentence. Just said, "I got you." 

The bar stretched along the far wall like a river of obsidian and gold, gleaming under the low light. Behind it stood a woman Paige hadn’t expected. 

She didn’t demand attention; she held it—steadily, quietly, with intent. Her hair was pulled back into a sleek, natural bun, its soft edges framing her face with gentle ease. She wore a black button-down dress shirt tucked into dark tailored slacks, her sleeves rolled precisely to the forearms. Her skin, warm and radiant, caught the golden glow of the lights—not because of makeup or shimmer, but because of the kind of calm stillness that comes from being deeply grounded in your own skin. 

She moved with a serene precision, setting down glassware gently, wiping down polished surfaces with quiet efficiency. She didn’t appear rushed. She didn’t perform. She simply existed in the space like it was hers to keep balanced. 

Then the woman looked at her. 

And for the first time since the final buzzer, Paige felt alive. 

"What can I get you?" the woman asked, her voice smooth and rich. 

Paige hesitated. Her fingers curled against the bar’s edge. 

"I don’t usually drink," she murmured. "But tonight feels like it earned one." 

The woman didn’t respond right away. Her gaze moved slowly over Paige’s face, reading the space between the words. There was no hint of recognition in the celebrity sense. Just a quiet curiosity. 

"Rough night?" 

Paige gave a tired half-laugh. "That’s one way to put it." 

"I caught the game," the woman said, her tone neutral. 

"Oh, yeah?" Paige lifted an eyebrow. 

The woman leaned back against the counter, her hands still. "I thought the Sparks had it in the third. Defense was tight. Rotations looked clean. You were making space for shooters they didn’t capitalize on." 

The words hit harder than expected. They weren’t flattery. They weren’t criticism. Just truth. 

"You watched that closely?" 

"I played," she said simply. "A long time ago. I notice things." 

A quiet moment passed. 

"I fouled out," Paige said, softer now. "With two minutes left. Had to sit and watch the collapse." 

The woman didn’t wince or offer the usual empty comfort. 

"That call on the reach? Borderline." 

Paige blinked. "You think so?" 

"Refs let more go on the other end." 

Paige exhaled, the tension loosening in her chest. "Thank you. You have no idea how long I’ve been gaslighting myself over that." 

The woman gave a small shrug. "Sometimes the game just doesn’t swing your way." 

That was it. No follow-up. No comfort. No awkward relatability. 

It should have felt hollow. Dismissive, even. But it didn’t. It felt honest. Like she had seen it before. Like she understood that some losses didn’t need to be unpacked. They just needed room to breathe. 

"I don’t want to hear about growth or silver linings," Paige muttered. "I just don’t want to feel like shit." 

The woman nodded slowly, then turned away, gliding along the bar to another customer. Someone louder. Someone waiting. 

Paige sat back, not realizing she’d been leaning in. She watched the woman work, her profile composed and unreadable. Every movement was practiced. Efficient. Rehearsed until seamless. 

Maybe nothing about tonight had touched her. 

Paige looked down at her drink. The ice had started to melt. Rings of condensation spread beneath her fingers. 

She hadn’t expected a quick heart-to-heart. She hadn’t expected anything, really. But the woman hadn’t offered pity or pep talks. 

Just a drink and a truth. It was disarming. She wasn’t used to silence that didn’t try to fix her. 

- 

Three nights passed before she went back to Vault 35. 

She told herself it was because she couldn’t sleep. That the condo was too quiet. That ESPN was replaying the championship highlights on loop, dragging the wound back open each time her face appeared on-screen. That her name kept surfacing in tweets she didn’t want to read, her mentions brimming with strangers who either praised her too much or blamed her too hard. That her agent’s texts had grown increasingly insistent—media sit-downs, interview offers, the promise of redemption through spin. 

But it wasn’t any of that. 

What drove her back across the city, long after midnight, was the silence. 

Not the silence of her apartment, heavy with expectation. The silence that followed Azzi’s words. That rare, steady quiet where nothing was demanded of her. No sympathy. No apology. Just a glance, a drink, and a truth she hadn’t been able to stop replaying since. 

This time, she didn’t head straight to the bar. She walked in slowly, letting the hush of Vault 35 settle around her shoulders like a worn blanket. The music still pulsed low and warm, and the shadows still clung to the booths like whispered secrets. She slipped into one near the back, her hands folding neatly on the polished wood table, and watched. 

She wasn’t watching like a fan. Not like someone who needed anything. She watched like someone who was still trying to finish a thought she didn’t have the language for. 

Azzi moved behind the bar with the same grounded ease. Her posture was upright, her rhythm unbroken. Same black shirt. Same tight bun. Same air of quiet command. If she noticed Paige enter, she gave no indication. No flicker. No break. 

Paige observed her mix drinks without checking labels. Watched the way customers leaned in toward her, eager for a connection they rarely received. Azzi offered only what was needed—an arched brow, a tilt of the chin, a curve of her mouth that almost resembled a smile but never lasted long enough to linger. 

Eventually, Paige stood. She didn’t choose the same stool. She didn’t make a show of returning. She just walked over, brushed her fingers along the smooth edge of the bar, and stood there. 

Azzi glanced up. Recognition passed through her eyes like a spark catching low light. 

“Back for another Gold Rush?” she asked, already reaching for a glass. 

Her voice hadn’t changed. It was still quiet and composed, warm in its restraint. 

Paige’s lips lifted. “Back for the silence.” 

That made Azzi pause. Her hands kept moving, but her gaze held. 

“Not many people come looking for that,” Azzi said. 

Paige gave a small shrug. “I’m not most people.” 

Azzi’s mouth curved, just slightly. “No. You’re not.” 

She poured something different this time. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t light. It was a drink with depth—something that rested on the tongue with weight, like memory. 

The quiet between them had shifted. No longer uncertain. Just full. 

Paige watched her work. 

She had always watched her. 

Even that first night, through the fog of disappointment and unspoken anger, she had felt it—that tether of attention. Azzi didn’t chase connection. Didn’t fill space just to prove she belonged in it. And because of that, people couldn’t stop looking. 

She set the glass down between them. No garnish. No flourish. Just the drink. It wasn’t meant to impress. It was meant to be tasted. 

Paige took a sip. It was dark, quiet, a little bitter. It lingered. 

“You always been like this?” she asked. “Measured. Composed.” 

Azzi folded a bar towel with clinical precision. “You say that like it’s rare.” 

“It is.” 

Azzi thought for a moment. “Then yes. I learned not to open the door unless I knew what was waiting on the other side.” 

Paige leaned in, elbows resting lightly on the bar. “You think I’m dangerous?” 

“No,” Azzi said, her voice lower now. “I think you’re looking for something and pretending you’re not.” 

That pulled something out of Paige — not a smile, but the ghost of one. She didn’t refute it. Couldn’t, really. 

“You know,” she said after a pause, “I’ve done a hundred interviews in the last two weeks. Said the right things. Brushed it off. Talked about growth. All of it carefully worded, prepackaged. But none of that felt real.” 

Azzi didn’t interrupt. 

“And then I walked in here, and you looked at me like I didn’t need to explain myself to be understood. Like you already knew.” 

Azzi’s expression didn’t change. “I didn’t know,” she said. “I just didn’t ask for the performance.” 

Paige let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. 

“Most people do.” 

“That’s their problem,” Azzi replied. 

Paige studied her for a moment, the set of her jaw, the stillness in her eyes. “You’re not easy to figure out.” 

“Is that the goal?” 

Paige’s lips curved slightly. “Maybe not. But I’d like to keep trying.” 

Azzi didn’t smile — not fully. But her eyes held something that hadn’t been there before. A flicker of warmth, maybe. Curiosity, returned. 

“I’m off in an hour.” 

It wasn’t said with expectation. Just the simple truth of what came next. 

Paige nodded, voice steady. “I’ll wait.” 

Azzi held her gaze for a moment longer, then turned away, moving down the bar to close out tabs and reset the space. Paige stayed where she was, her half-empty glass in front of her, pulse quieter than it had been when she walked in. 

Something had shifted. 

And for once, she didn’t feel the need to name it. 

- 

The walk was wordless. 

Not the kind of silence that demanded filling. The kind that expanded between two people who had already said more than enough without speaking. The streets just off Sunset had emptied by the time they stepped outside. A soft breeze moved through the palms, carrying with it the faint smell of night-blooming jasmine and exhaust. Paige walked beside her, a few steps behind at first, then beside, her shoulders brushing close but not quite touching. 

Azzi’s curls were loose now, no longer tightly braided, framing her face in soft, natural coils that caught the glow of passing streetlights. Her black polo was layered beneath a light gray hoodie, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, revealing the quiet confidence in the way she carried herself. She looked relaxed, deliberate, like the night belonged to her. Beside her, Paige walked in dark jeans and a slate crewneck. Her hands were tucked into her pockets, her shoulders finally easing into the quiet rhythm of their steps. 

They didn’t speak until the flicker of a red neon sign appeared ahead, cutting through the dark like a heartbeat against glass. 

The diner was almost empty. 

No music played inside. Just the low hum of the overhead lights and the occasional clang of a dish being stacked in the back. They didn’t wait to be seated. Paige slid into a booth near the window, and Azzi followed without hesitation. 

A waitress appeared without introduction, dropped two glasses of water on the table with a faint clink, and disappeared again. 

Azzi ordered tea. Paige ordered coffee she wouldn’t drink. 

For a while, they just sat. 

Not in the absence of words, but in the fullness of quiet. 

There was a tension beneath Paige’s skin she hadn’t realized she was still carrying. She could feel it in the slope of her shoulders, in the restless tap of her thumb against the rim of her mug. The silence here was different than Vault’s. Less curated. Less sacred. But it was real. Lived-in. Familiar. And when Paige finally spoke, her voice came out lower than expected, like it had been waiting for a reason to be used. 

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” she said. “The loss. That last quarter. It keeps playing back like maybe if I watch it enough times, it’ll change.” 

Azzi didn’t look surprised. She didn’t soften. She just listened. 

“I tell myself to move on. To let it go. But it keeps showing up in every quiet moment like it has something else to say.” 

Azzi’s tea sat untouched between her hands. 

“You’ve been holding it in,” she said, not unkindly. “It shows.” 

Paige huffed out a breath, not quite a laugh. “Yeah. I thought if I didn’t talk about it, it would get smaller. That silence would shrink it.” 

Azzi looked up then. Her expression was calm. Certain. 

“It doesn’t shrink,” she said. “It waits.” 

Paige stared down at her coffee, at the way the cream curled at the surface. Her voice was quiet, almost raw. 

“I’m tired.” 

Azzi didn’t interrupt. 

“Not physically. Not even emotionally. It’s like… I’m tired of pretending I’m not still in it. That I’m already on the other side.” 

Azzi nodded once. “That kind of tired settles in your bones.” 

And Paige believed her. 

Not because Azzi spoke like she had the answers. But because she didn’t. She didn’t offer solutions or bright sides. She didn’t try to fix the shape of what hurt. 

She just stayed. 

Paige studied her, the clean line of her jaw, the way she held her cup like it gave her something to do with her steadiness. And for the first time since the championship, Paige felt like maybe she didn’t need to get over it. Not yet. Maybe it was okay to still be in the middle of the ache. 

“It’s strange,” she said. “I feel more like myself right now—in this booth, in this diner with you—than I have in days.” 

Azzi didn’t smile. But something softened at the corners of her eyes. 

“You ever think,” she said, “that it’s easier to be seen by someone who doesn’t need anything from you?” 

Paige’s chest tightened. 

Yes. That was it. That was exactly it. 

Azzi hadn’t asked for Paige Bueckers the athlete, the public figure, the face of a franchise. She hadn’t asked for anything. 

And in return, Paige found herself wanting to give her something real. 

“I don’t know what this is,” she said honestly, “but it feels like something I want to come back to.” 

Azzi acknowledged the confession with a nod. 

The check arrived without being asked for. Azzi reached for it first. Paige started to protest, but Azzi gently placed a hand on her wrist. 

“I’ve got it.” 

“I can—” 

“I know. But this one’s mine.” 

Her touch was light. Grounding. Brief. 

They stepped out into the night, cooler now, as if the city had finally exhaled. The streets were hushed. Not empty, but slow, like even the asphalt needed rest. 

At the corner, they paused. 

Azzi didn’t offer her number. Paige didn’t ask. 

They just looked at each other for a long, steady moment, both knowing something had shifted, neither needing to name it. 

- 

Vault 35 hadn’t changed. 

The golden hush still curved around the room like a whisper too elegant to disturb. The bar stretched out like a vein of obsidian, anchored in polished brass, while the velvet booths still held shadows like they’d been designed to keep secrets safe. Everything looked the same. But for Paige, it no longer felt like a place to hide. 

It felt like a threshold. 

She didn’t go to the bar. 

She didn’t order. Didn’t scan the menu. Didn’t make small talk with the bartender who had taken Azzi’s place during the early shift. She just sat at a quiet table tucked into the corner, her coat still zipped halfway up, her hands resting loosely on a glass of water she hadn’t touched. Around her, Vault breathed. Glasses clinked in lazy rhythm. Laughter unspooled in low threads. Someone took a picture with the flash off, pretending not to. But Paige stayed still. 

She was waiting. 

And eventually, Azzi moved behind the bar like she always had—fluid, deliberate, without waste. There was no hesitation in her steps, no urgency in her pace. The night unfolded around her, and she moved through it with the kind of quiet control that didn’t need to prove itself. Paige watched her stir, pour, nod, move on. A study in contained warmth. Present, but never performing. 

Each interaction was just long enough to matter, never long enough to linger. She gave people exactly what they needed and nothing more. And Paige, without realizing, found herself lingering anyway. On her movements. On the intentionality in her hands. On the way her voice—low, unhurried—could cut through the room without ever needing to rise. 

The shift slowed. Lights dipped in the corners. Staff began to thin. Someone stacked cocktail napkins into neat squares at the end of the bar. And Paige remained in her booth, finishing her water without hurry, her posture easy but alert. 

Azzi found her. 

She came over without ceremony, a university jacket slung over one arm, sleeves rolled back down. There was something unguarded in her expression now, the first hint of the night’s weight settling in—not fatigue exactly, more like release. She slid into the seat across from Paige like it was a rhythm they’d already rehearsed. 

“You didn’t drink,” she said, her voice neutral but tuned to detail. 

Paige met her eyes. “Didn’t come here for that.” 

Azzi considered her, then rested her forearms on the table. “No one waits through a four-hour shift just for the ambiance.” 

“No,” Paige said. “I waited for you.” 

Azzi didn’t flinch. Her gaze didn’t sharpen. She just absorbed the words like someone who had heard plenty of lines and knew how to tell the difference. 

“You didn’t have to wait.” 

“I know,” Paige replied. “But I don’t have your number and asking for a way to reach you felt like skipping ahead.” 

Azzi studied her, one brow lifting slightly. “So waiting here was… what? Earning your place?” 

Paige shook her head once, slow and sure. “It wasn’t about earning. It was about showing up and meaning it.” 

For the first time that night, Azzi smiled — subtle, but genuine. It didn’t flash. It unfolded, slowly, like something that had been waiting for permission. 

“Well,” she said. “You showed up alright.” 

They drove with the windows cracked. The streets were mostly empty, the kind of late-night quiet that made everything feel cinematic. Azzi sat in the passenger seat, her jacket tucked across her lap, braid loose from the long shift, eyes soft from the kind of tired that didn’t beg to be fixed. Paige kept one hand on the wheel, the other draped casually over the gear shift, stealing glances at her whenever they hit a red light. 

Chick-fil-A was half-lit, like the staff had already started mentally closing. But the drive-thru was open, and no one gave them a second look as they ordered 2 dozens of nuggets, fries, and two milkshakes. Paige insisted on paying. Azzi insisted on stealing the last fry. 

They parked in an empty lot a few blocks away, the kind used for weekend markets or nothing at all. The overhead lamps buzzed faintly, casting long shadows across the dash. They ate in comfortable silence, passing sauce packets between them like currency. 

When the wrappers were torn and the shakes were half-gone, Paige leaned back in her seat, one knee tucked up loosely. 

“You’re hard to pin down,” she said. “Not in the mysterious bartender way. In the way that makes you feel like the room keeps changing around you, but you’re always steady.” 

Azzi took a long sip of her milkshake. “And you’re used to people making themselves easy.” 

“I’m used to people asking for my attention and then not knowing what to do with it.” 

Azzi didn’t blink. “You give it carefully.” 

Paige looked at her, the shape of her in the quiet. 

“Speaking of giving…” Her voice was light, not nervous. “What are the chances you’ll give me your number?” 

Azzi didn’t answer right away. She turned toward her, slow and unhurried, studying Paige like she was flipping a page she didn’t want to skim. 

Her look didn’t say yes. It didn’t say no either. It said: you’re asking for more than a number. 

“I don’t give it out lightly,” Azzi said. 

“I didn’t think you would,” Paige said. “But I'm still taking my chances.” 

Azzi held her gaze for a beat. Then, without breaking eye contact, extended her hand. 

“Phone.” 

Paige didn’t hesitate. She placed it in Azzi’s palm, the moment humming with something unspoken and sharp. 

Azzi typed. Added her name. First name only. No emoji. No last name. Just presence and four letters. Then passed it back, her fingers brushing lightly against Paige’s. 

Paige glanced at the screen, then up. “This looks boring in my contacts.” 

Azzi smirked, just barely. “Asking for an emoji and a nickname is skipping ahead. This one, you have to earn it.” 

 “I can work with that.” 

[kedreeva]

i have an odd animal husbandry question you seem like you might know the answer to, your comment about stan reminded me - ive been thinking about getting into backyard chickens for a couple years and the thing that makes me hesitate most is hard culling. im confident in my ability to put down an animal thats sick, or infirm, or for food, but for like, temperament? or for poor egg layers? just sticks on me for some reason. i think it would feel like telling them theyre not a good enough chicken for me. how to you process this part of animal husbandry?

This will be a little long, so bear with me.

If you want to keep use animals (animals bred for a purpose, to be used for a purpose instead of kept as a companion), you gotta get good with the idea that they are here for you under the agreement that you will only keep them as long as you need to. When you take them on, you are agreeing that you will release them to whatever their next life holds for them as soon as you do not need (or they've completed) their service. Maybe for some people that's just release to the biological cycle of life, for others maybe there's an eternal rest, for others maybe it's reincarnation. For soft culling that's just moving to the next household. Whatever it is, you are allowing them to pass to it in as humane a way as you can, and ultimately it is the single greatest kindness and gratitude you can show to them, to give them proper care while they are here and allow them to end with little to no pain- something animals outside of our care rarely get. You are thanking them for their service, and letting them go. Worth does not even begin to factor into it.

It is not easy to take a life. It is NEVER easy, regardless of reason, regardless of excuse, regardless of anything. It is ALWAYS heavy, and it will always hurt you. And it should. I am grateful for the weight of taking a life, because it reminds me that it is serious, and reminds me to take the production of life seriously, because at some point any life I cause to come into existence via breeding animals will have to end.

On top of that, some things ARE heath related that do not seem health related. Aggression in domestic animals IS A HEALTH ISSUE. A cock is aggressive because he is stressed about intruders, containment, mating threats, resource guarding, etc. Even with the best of care this can be true, and unfortunately for you both, this means the animal is not suited for domestic keeping. The same goes for animals (in any stripe of use, but particularly private care) that display repetitive stress behaviors from normal, proper captive care (for example, mice that are food chewing are stressed and should be culled from lines where possible because they are not having a good time). You are doing them a disservice to keep them in a stressful situation you cannot change because of their biology. It has nothing to do with not being good enough for you, and everything to do with producing/keeping animals that do not experience that stress in captive care and releasing the rest from duty because they will not be okay in any captive care.

For some issues (poor egg laying, for example) you CAN pet-home culls instead of hard culling. It's harder to do, you will spend time finding people who just want pets that don't intend to breed or don't care, but it can be done. However!! Is the bird just slow at producing eggs because her genetics say that's how fast eggs get produced, or is she producing slowly because there's a health problem that isn't immediately evident? Is her ovary damaged, is her reproductive tract infected, does she have a disorder that prevents her from processing food correctly so she can't get what she needs to produce eggs as fast as normal? Are you setting the bird up for failure (and someone else for heartbreak/money troubles) sending them to a pet home? Is it something which could lead to pain/suffering down the road if she's allowed to continue? Hard to say without spending a lot of money. Are you willing to risk your reputation, if someone takes a surprise illness/genetic issue down the road badly ("Oh THAT breeder sold me a sick/unhealthy bird/bird with bad genetics"), and compromise your ability to find homes for healthy birds down the road?

You are okay with culling a bird for food- there's nothing that says you cannot eat the bad temperaments, the poor egg layers, the one with genetic issues, and so on. And if you can tell early enough that you, personally, can't make use of the meat, there are plenty of folks with other animals that would LOVE feed for those animals. Take yourself down to a local reptile expo, grab the business cards for a few people who have big snake babies (retics, burmese, anaconda, redtail boa, even BP) that say they'd be interested in taking culls, OR look up local bird of prey rescues in your area (or reptile rescues or big cat rescues if there are any) and ask if they'd be interested in culls. There is ALWAYS someone that can use what you can't/won't. You may have to jump through some hoops to donate to some kinds of rescues (health testing for example), but it's an option you can look into if you want to combat the feelings you're talking about.

As a last note- and I am saying this gently and holding your face in both hands: do not anthropomorphize animals in reality.

In YOUR eyes, you are culling them an illness or an injury or for food or for temperament or for poor quality or or or---- it does not matter to the animal why you are culling them. A death is a death, to them. They are here, and then a thing happens, and they are no longer. They do not understand life or death or afterlife or reincarnation or that they are here for a purpose or not a purpose or literally anything you as a human might impose upon them in your head. They live while they are alive, and then they are not. They do not "want to live" in the "avoid death" sense because they do not necessarily understand "death" as a future concept. Instincts that have worked well to preserve life have been encoded in their DNA to one degree or another, they can and do respond to avoid pain, but with little exception (like... maybe elephants and dolphins and a crows and a few others), it's unlikely that they understand the connection between doing those things and being alive/avoiding death.

So while TO YOU it may feel like telling the bird they are not good enough, and TO ME it feels like allowing the bird to move on in peace... the bird doesn't know either way, and honestly the reason hardly matters. It is alive in the present, and one way or another it will not be alive someday, and you are responsible for making sure that the one way under your control is so peaceful or quick that the bird hardly knows it is no longer alive. The bird doesn't care about (and cannot understand) the why of their death, any more than they understand their pain/stress and how it relates medical assistance; it's why animals often freak out, refuse meds, etc. They don't hate the vet or the car or the carrier or anything- they just simply don't understand human stuff and react according to instincts/what they do understand. If you treat an animal like the animal it IS rather than the person you imagine it to be, you will find yourself with a lot better relationship with them during life, and be able to frame their passing a bit better later on.

[idexindia]

Powder Dispersion: Best Practices for Increased Efficiency

Powder dispersion, which involves blending particles into a liquid medium, plays a crucial role in various industrial processes. Whether in the food industry, pharmaceuticals, or manufacturing paints and coatings, achieving dispersion is vital for ensuring product quality and performance. Inadequate dispersion can result in issues such as clumping of powder particles, uneven distribution leading to quality variations, processing times, and increased energy consumption. By following these recommended strategies, you can enhance your powder dispersion process, boost efficiency, and produce high-quality products.

[almostempty]

too good to be true

(frankie morales x f!reader) | wc: 10k | other fics  | Ao3

summary: frankie, a regular at your coffee shop, is there for you when your boyfriend joel breaks up with you and disappears practically overnight. despite not knowing each other long, frankie just seems to be perfect for you and you fall hard and fast 

song inspo: can’t take my eyes off of you

warnings/tags: explicit smut, dark!frankie, stalker!frankie, dubcon, lies, deceit, coffee shop au gone wrong, bad bf Joel, abandonment issues, anxiety, breakup grief, sex to avoid processing emotions (yay!), face fucking, masturbation, crying, love bombing (aka emotional abuse), frankie doesn’t have a job bc he nefariously acquired a large cash settlement from his return trip to the jungle– or maybe he has a military pension idk don’t ask questions, revenge porn, jealousy, delusional reader, no y/n, unprotected sex with no consequences bc it’s fiction so it’s free to imagine it raw; f!reader is able-bodied otherwise, no specific descriptions; likely many mistakes and i accept that 

update: i gave this a re-read bc i wanted it to be fresh before i carry on with part 2, and was paralyzed by the typos (kill me). the story hasn’t changed, but i’ve done some heavy editing to hopefully improve some of the flow and impact in certain scenes (there’s probably still mistakes) 

You don’t remember meeting Frankie for the first time—only the feeling. How he slipped into your mind before your alarm even rang. How you sprung out of bed in the dark, already thinking of him. You remember the heat that rushed to your cheeks when you caught yourself grinning and waving at him before he’d even made it across the cafe to the counter. 

Once he started visiting your coffee shop, he quickly became your favorite regular. He had an enticing mix of confidence and calm. Always polite. Always kind. Once you learned his order–dark roast in a for-here mug–you’d have it poured just as he approached the register. 

He’d thank you with his deep morning voice and a smile that made his eyes crinkle before he’d slink away to find a table. He came in at the same time every morning, a man of routine, right when your rush would hit. Everything demanded your immediate attention–the screaming steam wand, the line that formed at the register, the whirring coffee grinder. Frenzied as it was, you’d sink into your own routine. A flow state, slinging drinks and greeting regulars as they trickled in with their suits and shiny hair. 

It made the shift pass quickly, but you never had a quiet moment to start a conversation with the one man you looked forward to seeing. It wasn’t too busy to sneak glances at him though. Sometimes, he’d scroll through his phone, and you’d steal a moment to take in his features—wondering what, exactly, people read in a cafe before sunrise. Other times it was like he knew you were looking, his eyes would flit up, matching your gaze before you could play it off. 

You would’ve denied it at the time–but when he caught you watching, the way he smiled back, unafraid to hold eye contact–it gave you butterflies. You wouldn’t acknowledge the meaning in that or admit to the daydreams that he sparked. It wasn’t anything real! And besides, there was nothing to it. You weren’t single, or looking. He was just a good looking guy that seemed to have manners and a pleasant attitude. 

And, for some reason, that was refreshing. It wasn’t like you had time to get to know him anyway. There was never time for more than a quick good morning, or have a good day when he’d leave his empty mug at the end of the counter. 

Until it changed.  

He started slipping in the front door in the quiet dark of the morning, while the espresso machines were still warming up and you were stocking the display with fresh pastries. You’d slide the mug toward him and he’d stay at the counter while you finished setting up. His curls were still damp from his post-workout shower and you’d let your eyes linger on his neck, his shoulders, his arms between tasks or his eyes, his nose, and his lips between questions. 

The conversation between you flowed so easily you’d find yourself buzzing around the cafe before you’d even had a sip of your own coffee. He’d share as you worked, giving you plenty to absorb as you cleaned and prepped. You learned about when he moved to town, how he lives in another neighborhood but kept coming back for the coffee and the atmosphere. 

You learned that he’s single. Ex-military. 

You laughed, flashing him a grin. “That explains everything,” you quipped. 

“Everything?” he asked. 

“You know,” you waved your hand at him like it was obvious, but he waited patiently for an explanation. “The routine? Up to workout at the asscrack of dawn, getting your coffee before half the city gets up for work. The manners and the whole...” You trail off before completing the end of that sentence. 

Frankie tilted his head, something playful and knowing in his eyes. “I’ll concede to most of that, but my mamá raised me to have manners long before the military.” 

As the mornings passed you learned more. Not just from what he shared, but from your own observations. He remembers details. He asks follow-up questions on Monday mornings about the weekend plans you shared on Friday. 

Did you and your boyfriend see that movie you were thinking about? 

Did you get to sleep in like you’d hoped? 

Did he take you to the farmer’s market? 

Did he like the recipe you wanted to try out? 

It was sweet. 

And infuriating. 

Your stomach twisted. A man you barely knew remembered your plans, your throwaway comments, your interests. He saw you. He wanted to know you. The realization sank like lead, heavy in your chest, lingering long after he left.

In your heart, you knew it wasn’t intentional, but it stung when he’d ask about your plans. Every time you had to come up with an excuse for why they never happened. Poking holes in your relationship. And shining a spotlight on the disappointments that you’d been trying to sweep under the rug. 

You carried that discomfort around like a parasite. It ate at you while you poured lattes and cleaned the ice machine. It soured your mood as you ran errands and walked home. And finally, it spilled over into your relationship. 

As ugly as it was, you almost appreciated Frankie for picking at the wounds—forcing you to finally confront the truth with your boyfriend. Joel had been drifting away and you were afraid to acknowledge it. As if saying it outloud would make it true. But it already was real. The closer you tried to get, the farther Joel would run—emotionally. Well, maybe in other ways too. 

He was slowly disappearing. Staying late at work instead of coming to yours, cancelling on your weekend plans, always too tired to fuck, generally just a bad-tempered brick wall rather than a boyfriend. All things considered, you thought addressing him directly would be the final nail in the coffin—but it wasn’t. 

After some long and serious conversations that left you both exhausted at work the next few days, you’d come up with some strategies to reconnect. He’d agreed with you, acknowledging his own avoidance, and claiming he wanted to make changes. 

It was working, too. You scheduled date nights. You sent flirty texts during the day—even if neither of you had time to respond right away. You assured him you’d rather see him for only an hour between him getting home late and you having to go to bed early than not seeing him at all. 

On those nights, when he had long days that made his whole body ache, you’d give him a back massage. Straddling his ass, rubbing down his shoulder blades, kneading circles with your thumbs, and savoring the view of his broad back and the heat of his body beneath you. 

It was meditative. Your touch dissolved his tension and his presence soothed your anxieties. Sometimes the rhythm and pressure would elicit low groans of pleasure from Joel. Each time it would ladle heat in your core. You’d do everything to find out what sounds he’d make for you. 

Some nights, you’d keep going until you lulled him to sleep. But on your favorite nights, he’d roll onto his back, keeping you on top, watching you ride him until you were both slick with sweat and in need of a shower.

It’s those tender moments that make it hurt so deep now. Like the pain seeped all the way to your bones, threaded through all your muscles, and numbed your nervous system. 

It makes you nauseous. Cycling through rage, shame, and something bleak and endless. 

To know after everything that Joel could throw you away like this. That he didn’t even care enough to have a face-to-face conversation about it with you. He couldn’t give you closure. Just leaving you a note. A piece of paper. Here’s your memo letting you know he no longer requires your services. Barely longer than a postcard. He realized he can’t do it anymore. He can’t be a part of your life. He can’t do just friends. He’s sorry.

Fucking coward. 

The letter is flimsy in your hand as you scan the words for the thousandth time. You’ve got it down by heart at this point, you re-read it just to confirm that it’s real. That you aren’t insane–or at least that you didn’t make up the note—or the whole relationship. 

With a deep sigh, you slip the folded paper back into your apron pocket. It fits neatly. Your token. A reminder that this hell is your reality. 

The tiled floor is unforgiving as you trudge back toward the front counter, plastering on your best customer service smile. 

And of course. It’s fucking Frankie. 

The wrinkle between his brow deepens before he makes it to the register. Are you that easy to read? You’re never going to survive this shift. You turn away from him, pouring the coffee in a daze until it nearly overflows. You dump the mug out and get a whole new one, forcing yourself to stop the tap before it’s a burn hazard. With one more blink you pray you’ve mustered enough strength to survive this interaction without another breakdown. 

“Hey,” Frankie starts softly, as if he might spook you. “You doing okay?” Stupid big brown eyes. Just like Joel’s. They make you weak. You can’t be weak. Pulling your shoulders back you search for a defensive–no, confident–stance. 

“Why? Do I look like shit today?” 

“No, never,” he tries to reassure you. Unfazed by your prickly questions. 

You swallow down a grimace. He’s too kind to you. Too good. 

“Sorry,” you correct yourself, pushing the mug toward him. “I just mean, I would be surprised. I feel like shit.” The words come out grumbly and you drag a hand over your face annoyed with yourself. 

“I take it he’s still gone then?” 

Your head feels heavy as you nod back in agreement. It’s too much to see the concern in his round eyes; you linger on his mouth instead. It feels like a safer place to stare. Until it shifts into a frown. 

“You deserve better, you know.” His voice is quiet. A confession only meant for you and his coffee to hear. 

“Sure,” you sigh. Maybe he’s right. You deserve someone that could look you in the eye when they break up with you. Who could explain with more than a few scribbled sentences why they’d block you and disappear like a fucking ghost. Everytime you run through it, the details feel colder and colder. Harsher and crueler. Maybe you never really knew Joel at all. Not if he could do this to you. 

Your still swollen face burns when your eyes begin to well up again. Anger flashes in your eyes—you’re so sick of the emotional whiplash. The lights in the cafe blur. Your pulse pounds, erratic and sharp. Questions race through your mind. 

Were there signs the whole time that you missed? 

Was it something you did? 

Will you ever know? 

“Hey,” Frankie murmurs, “breathe.” 

It’s soft, but the timbre of his voice draws your attention. 

“Breathe,” you repeat. 

He places a hand on his stomach, modeling deep, slow breaths. Willing away the sobs, you copy him with only a few shudders interrupting the rhythm. The fresh coffee wafts into your nose, earthy and rich. Frankie’s broad chest looks solid, expanding steadily like he’s some kind of breathing guru robot. The thought makes you laugh, but the laugh almost cracks into another sob when everything rushes back in at once. 

“Fuck,” you curse at yourself. “I’m sorry, I must seem pathetic. Or crazy.” You suck in a shaky breath, trying not to have a complete breakdown in front of a customer. 

Frankie doesn’t waver. He assures you that he doesn’t think you’re losing it and you believe him. 

Somehow, you get through the rest of the morning. And the next. Day by day, you crawl through the week. Fighting everything inside of you that wants to scream and decay in bed for the rest of your life. By the end of the week, all you’ve got left to cling to is that it’s your last shift before the weekend. It’s all you’ve got to keep your feet moving and your fake chipper morning greetings. 

There’s no way you could do this another day. Dragging yourself through the motions like an undead barista. It’s survival. On edge, fragile and raw. You can finish this shift and then you’re free to spend the weekend indulging in your worst ideas. Wallowing, ugly crying, binge eating, anything. 

Everything nearly comes apart when Frankie shows up with flowers for you. 

It’s too much. Too sweet. Why does he care? 

Your brows furrow, unreasonably skeptical of a kind gesture. You start to process what he’s saying to you through the fog. He wanted you to have something to cheer you up over the weekend. 

It’s thoughtful. It’s an overwhelming gesture. 

He thinks of you? He worries about you? 

Then a sick voice slithers into your mind. Frankie makes it seem so easy. To notice you. To care. To make your life better. He makes you wonder if you aren’t hard to love. 

The realizations hit like falling dominos. Too fast to stop. Too late to change course.

Frankie notices the way your eyes shine, tears threatening to roll down your cheeks. He apologizes, “If it’s too much, you don’t have to take them. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, and I definitely didn’t want to make you cry.” 

The fear dies in your throat.

“They’re lovely, really.” Your eyes are round and wet as you blink sweetly at him. “Thank you.” You give him your warmest smile through your misty eyes. 

You take the flowers home after your shift. They fit perfectly in the crystal vase that was collecting dust on your window sill. 

You move them to the kitchen table where you can see them from your living room too. 

And you stare at them all weekend. 

Your favorite flowers. How did he know? 

You stare and stare until they don’t look real anymore. And all you can think of is Frankie. 

His reliable nature. His thoughtfulness. His kindness. 

The qualities you thought you had found in Joel. 

You let yourself embrace your agony for the weekend. Determined to make it through at least the first stage of grief. As if you can allot a number of hours to it and just check it off your list. Brute forcing yourself through the wreckage trying to re-emerge unscathed. 

Your friends send texts checking in on you. Gratitude flickers in your chest but you don’t have the capacity to respond. To fake it or, worse, to be real. It feels wrong, but even though you can’t fathom the idea of talking to a friend, you’re drawn to the thought of Frankie. Knowing you’ll see him Monday morning. That he’ll check in, too. 

And he does. 

Dependable as ever, he shows up in the cover of darkness. You greet each other with raspy morning voices. The first words of the day, murmured just between you. It feels intimate. Special. Like something that belongs only to the two of you.

The thought sends warmth curling in your chest. You smile genuinely, for the first time in days.

You keep going to work. 

Frankie keeps showing up. 

The world keeps turning.

Soon you get to the point where you can fall asleep without having to exhaust yourself completely. Some mornings Frankie’s jokes make your ribs shake with laughter and some of the suffocating weight sloughs off of your chest. Rest begins to heal you. Frankie’s charm brightens your darkest days. 

One afternoon, you’re dropping an armful of grocery bags onto the counter and your heart squeezes with an ache. The flowers Frankie gave you are starting to wilt. With one twitch of your hand and a shake of your head, you hesitate. You aren’t ready to toss them out. Convinced they’ve got another day in them, at least. 

You sweep the fallen petals and pollen into your hand, then spin the vase to find the best angle left. The flowers may be fading, but Frankie’s presence has taken root in your mind and only grows stronger. 

You lay in bed making mental notes. A joke about a show you both watch. A story from your walk home. A question you meant to ask but forgot—because you got distracted.

By things that shouldn’t be distracting. But are. The shape of his bottom lip. The curve where his neck meets his shoulder. The way his hands look wrapped around his coffee mug, fingers slow and steady, like he’s holding something delicate.

The way he smiles—wide enough to show his dimples—when you bicker over movies or the best takeout spot in town. You replay it. Again. And again.

You smile at your ceiling, telling yourself it’s harmless appreciation. Lying to yourself when you hope he finds his way into your dreams.

The next morning, your jaw drops–stunned. Fresh flowers. Frankie stands on the other side of the counter, holding them out like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

It’s as if he knew. Like he heard through the grapevine that you hesitated to throw the old ones out. That you weren’t ready to let them go. That you didn’t want to lose the evidence of what he gave you

You squint at him, making a playful accusation. “How did you know?” 

“It’s been a week,” he shrugs. “Figured it was time to refresh.” 

A week. It feels like it’s only been a day, and at the same time, it feels like a whole month has passed. 

It helps. 

The following week is much of the same. Morning chats with Frankie. Busy shifts with rushes and endless cleaning tasks. Running errands, trying to keep in touch with friends, trying to keep yourself too busy and distracted to fall back into the sharp pain of loss. Of coming home to an empty apartment. Of waking up alone. Of the way Joel erased himself so completely from your life, you have to find tangible reminders that he was ever real. 

You stop hoping Joel will show up with an apology. Stop waiting for a text. He won’t even hear you out—won’t answer a single question. You let go of the idea that any of this was a mistake.

There’s still a hole rotting in your heart, but if you stay busy enough, you can ignore it. Mostly. 

You stick to your plan, steadfast that time will heal your wounds. Days pass, and you find yourself once again asking Frankie what he has planned for the day. But this time, he hesitates. 

Frankie tells you he’ll be out of town for a few days. You aren’t sure why, but it feels like he jammed his fingers into that hole in your heart when he tells you. Don’t abandon me. Please. 

He must see right through you. 

“Here,” he says, holding out his hand. “I know it’s only a few days, but I was thinking I don’t want to miss out on your remarkably accurate reality TV predictions. You take the napkin with his number written on it. How old-fashioned. It makes your heart flutter. “Keep me updated.” 

You swallow the butterflies and turn the energy into a smirk. “You’re so going to regret this,” you tease. 

You feel lit from within, glowing and floaty for the rest of your shift. Getting the hot regular’s number gives you a rush. It’s not like he asked you on a date or anything, but still, it feels good to have someone want to keep talking to you. 

Until you clock out and immediately start spiraling. Should you text him now just to give him your number? Wish him a safe trip? Play it cool and wait until tomorrow morning? Or maybe he’s busy in the morning? Shit. You never even asked what his trip was for. 

……

It’s early afternoon when Frankie’s phone buzzes. He smirks. Your shift must have just ended.

You: it’s me! You: figured it’s only fair you get my number now, too

Frankie: Hey you :)

You: hey :) You: i hope the trip goes well

Frankie: Thanks, it’ll be better now.

You: how come?

He thought it would take longer. Thought you’d make him wait. You’re already reaching for him.

Frankie: Well, I just got this pretty girl’s number. Now I’ve got her updates to look forward to.

He exhales, stretching out on his couch. Maybe he didn’t need the ruse at all. You don’t need the absence to suck you in any deeper; you’re already moving on. Good.

He scans the apartment—bare walls, empty space. He needs to fix that. Needs to make it a place you’ll want to stay.

He checks the notes hidden in his phone of places you shop, your favorite color, the way your apartment is decorated. He already knows what you want. What you need. With that thought, he drifts off, satisfied, into a long nap. 

He doesn’t wake until his evening alarm goes off, checking his phone to see what reality show you’re going to be glued to tonight. MILF manor. Who comes up with these? He rolls his eyes, stretching, yawning, and traipsing across his apartment to find some cold pizza in the fridge. 

Holding one slice between his teeth and the other in one hand, he debates whether he should take a drive through your neighborhood or stay in for the night. His phone buzzes again, and he figures it’s a sign. He drops his pants near the hallway and scarfs his cold dinner as he settles back in the living room, unmuting the show and opening your messages. 

You’re funny. 

Sending quick-witted observations and callbacks. 

You force him to pay attention. You’re sharp. If he doesn’t watch, you’ll know. You always call him out for missing the nuance. You challenge that he could predict the next winner if he paid closer attention. 

When you get frustrated with him and huff about how he missed something completely obvious, he memorizes your expressions. The fire in your eyes when you’re passionate. You feel so deeply and express your emotions so freely. 

He likes that about you. Funny. Smart. Bold. Passionate. Sexy.

Perfect. 

He lets his mind wander as he leans back. The room glows from the light of the TV, flashing brighter and dimmer. The look on your face when he said he’d be gone for a few days pops into his mind, how your eyes flashed wide and the soft pout that tugged at your bottom lip. 

You need him. It’s so clear. And you’re so perfect. 

The show is just noise. Static. 

He closes out of your messages. Opening up his photos. Scrolling through pictures of you. Some from social media, and some taken while you were working and unaware. 

Perfect. 

His eyes fall shut as he tips his head back, relaxed and comfortable as he sinks deeper into the cushion. 

“Perfect lips, perfect mouth,” he mutters to himself as he sets the phone aside altogether. 

It’s a simple but effective scene that plays out in his mind. A go-to fantasy since the day he first laid eyes on you. 

He wedges his boxers down just far enough to free his half-hard cock. He tries to start slow, with languid strokes as he imagines the heat of your mouth sucking him deeper. The sight of you looking up at him with your lips stretched around him. 

“Just perfect,” he groans to himself. He can’t hold back his urgency at the thought of you, quickly amping up the speed of his wrist and the strength of his grip. It’s minutes, or maybe seconds before his muscles are tensing and jerking as he comes to the thought of you. 

It eases the tension, but he still needs you. Soon. 

……

The rest of your week passes quickly. 

Your head is in the clouds over your new texting buddy. You check your phone on all your breaks but send yourself into another spiral, trying to work out the balance between enthusiastic but not needy. Responding quickly, but not being too much. You don’t want to come off as crazy.

It fully absorbs your attention. The excitement and the anxiety. The rush when you get a new message and the anguish over every word you type. Rereading your messages until you get a response. Worrying yourself over your silly jokes and banter. But when he responds, it’s addictive. You’re smitten when he matches your energy or sends a flirty quip. 

It makes you smile so hard your cheeks burn. You get distracted taking orders. It’s all-consuming. 

………

Frankie keeps tabs on you the rest of the week. When you walk home from work, when you run errands, when you’re out with your friends. He picks up things for his apartment while you’re at work. At night, he drives down your block. He watches you watching TV. Until dark, then you diligently shut your curtains just as the last dregs of the sunset disappear. 

Tonight, he lingers, still parked across the street from your apartment building. He sends another text, and his eyes flick to your curtains like you might open them back up just for him. You’re such a good girl for that, though–not letting anyone else watch. 

Frankie: I’m back tomorrow. You have weekend plans? 

You: that’s great! no plans for me

Frankie: You want to watch tomorrow’s episode together? 

You: that would be fun! 

Frankie: Perfect :) 

………

You don’t know why you offered to host. Your place is a mess. Since Joel left, you’ve been letting your depression piles calcify. You shove your laundry into the washer, toss your unopened mail into a drawer, and do your best to make it look like you’re a fully functioning adult. 

Something about having Frankie over has you feeling pent up. 

You’re nervous. Excited. And you’re still unregulated and exhausted from the emotional devastation of Joel disappearing on you. You’ve been letting yourself sink into the distraction of making a new friend. A hot, new friend. But as helpful as the distraction is, you still haven’t really processed the pain. 

Maybe it’s too soon to let yourself think about Frankie all the time. Maybe you need to really feel your misery and figure out what you missed. What you did wrong. No, even your body rejects that idea, sending a shiver of anxiety through you. 

Fuck it. 

You’re both single adults. There’s no rulebook that says you can’t entertain a new crush. So what’s the harm? You’re hoping that seeing Frankie in person will help you get clarity on the flirty vibe of his texts. Are they truly flirty, or are you just delusional? 

You do your best to find a casual “just watching trash TV” type of outfit after your everything shower. You bought enough snacks to feed a high school football team, you know, just in case. You flutter around your space, hastily cleaning anything else you can think of, worried about details that only an evil in-law would scrutinize you for. 

Despite your frenzy and feeling on edge all afternoon, the concern all seems to vanish when Frankie shows up at your door. You welcome him in and swoon a little over the fresh flowers he brought you. You still have some nerves that don’t relent, but they’re the smiley, giggly, butterfly type of nerves now. 

As you get settled, it all feels surprisingly easy. 

You make each other laugh. You offer your insane spread of snacks, and he settles next to you on your sofa before the episode starts. He appreciates all of your commentary and banters with you over your strongest opinions. It feels surprisingly natural to be spending time together like this. Without an espresso machine between you. 

You’re taken with his presence. He balances you. Even when he debates your controversial takes and unpopular opinions, he doesn’t get worked up like you. 

His calm demeanor is grounding. His nearness and steadiness relaxes you.  

The stress let down makes your head feel heavy, and without thinking, you rest your temple against Frankie’s shoulder with a deep sigh. It feels comforting until you realize how forward you’re being and snap your head back up. 

“Shit, I’m sorry,” you blurt out, scooting away. “I didn’t mean to.” 

“It’s okay,” he reassures you, voice soft and low. 

He’s staring at you so intently. You feel the heat in your face, embarrassed at acting so comfortable with him and self-conscious under his gaze. You still don’t really know what he wants. And you don’t want to fuck anything up. But he doesn’t seem bothered. In fact, you swear his eyes drop to your mouth before they flick back up. 

“More than okay,” he adds, and your stomach flips at his honesty. “Here,” he shifts and invites you to scoot under his arm. You get comfortable, resting your head on his chest. 

You try to watch the TV, but you can feel Frankie watching you. It makes you restless and unable to think clearly. You peer up at him. It’s a charged look—maybe it was obvious all along, but you hadn’t felt confident enough to put the pieces together until now.

“What?” You whisper, unable to fight the smile pulling at your mouth. 

“You look beautiful,” he murmurs. 

Uh oh. Your breath hitches, and something in you cracks. A tear slips from the corner of your eye, and you try to hide it, whispering thanks into his chest and looking down. 

“Hey,” he tilts your chin to look up at him. “Hey, what’s wrong?” 

“I don’t know,” you choke out, trying to will away the emotions that bubble up inside of you. “That’s really sweet of you.” You steady your breathing, slower and deeper. What is wrong with you? You expected something flirty. You didn’t expect something so.. heartfelt?

You slow your breathing. Frankie’s scent—clean, warm, steadying—grounds you.

But why? How does just breathing against him make you feel safe? 

You can’t even think about safety. You can’t count on anyone else. What if he leaves out of nowhere, too? Your thoughts pick up, racing. Falling deeper into your anxieties. You aren’t even on a date; you shouldn’t be worried about this guy abandoning you. 

Your fears eat at you, worsening your fragile state. Your body shakes gently as you try to breathe through the anxiety. 

Frankie runs his hand along your back. He’s so warm, solid, and strong. 

You must seem insane, your emotional flooding has you drowning now. He just keeps murmuring at you about how you’re okay, and he pulls you into his arms to give you a firm hug, regulating you. Fixing you. 

When you lean back to apologize for crying on him, he shakes his head in disagreement. 

“Don’t apologize,” he says it like he means it, like he won’t be taking questions or arguments. You sniffle as you do your best to accept that. “You still look beautiful,” he says, pulling you back towards him. 

It’s everything you didn’t know you needed to hear.

Your face nestles against his neck, warmth pooling in your chest. You shouldn’t—should you?—but the way he breathes, slow and steady, so sure of you, makes you crave something grounding. Something solid. A shiver trails down your spine, and before you can second-guess, you press your lips to his neck. Frankie hums, deep and approving, fingers curling against your back. 

You do it again.

The exact spot you’ve been so distracted by on so many mornings. His skin is soft and warm; you can taste your tears, wet and salty on your lips. You do it again before you freeze. What are you doing? 

Frankie’s hand slips up the back of your neck, cradling your head in his warm palm. It feels like encouragement. You test your theory, pressing another gentle kiss to his jaw where his scruffy beard tickles your nose. 

The TV might still be on, but all you can hear is your breathing and his. The sound of your lips against his skin. And the low-pitched noise in Frankie’s throat that urges you on. Provoking a needful fire within you. Intense and frantic. You nip at his ear before stamping open-mouthed kisses back down his neck, pulling back only to breathe hot and humid against his skin. 

You hesitate, a frenzied desire has you wanting to straddle his lap and take more and more, but something makes you pause. Frankie knows. He feels your weight shifting and makes the move for you, pulling you onto his lap. 

“I know,” he says as his large hands wrap around both sides of your jaw. “Keep going.” The encouragement pours over you like warm honey. Face to face, you wrap your arms around his neck. The last thread of your doubt snaps and you close the gap. Pressing your lips together. Softly for a second, before your mouths are parting and your tongues and teeth work fervently to express your desire. 

Then it becomes a desperate blur, your fingers curling into his hair, tugging until he’s groaning into your mouth. His hands slipping under your shirt, hot against your skin, snaking back down to knead the curve of your ass while you roll your hips, grinding into his lap in search of friction. 

You feel him hardening beneath you and a molten hot thrill radiates between your legs. There’s a raw quality to your movements as you bite at his lip, scratch at his shoulders, and whine with a frustrated edge. 

You’re taking out all your emotional distress on him. Or, rather, you’re begging him to erase it all, to bite back harder, to use force, to dominate. You keep trying to use your body instead of words. Just teeth, nails, and needy writhing. Anything sharp, forceful, rough. An offering. 

Tears still roll down your cheeks, hot with anger, anguish, and everything you can’t name. You aren’t interested in exploring your emotions. You need something more visceral. 

You sit back, hands shooting towards Frankie’s belt, chasing more, when he stops you in your tracks. His hand possessively grips below your jaw, forcing you to look at him. 

Your cunt throbs at the look on his face. The soft, gentle Frankie is gone. His face is hard and dangerous as he studies you. For some reason that makes you want him even more. 

His fingers dig into your cheek eliciting a sharp inhale from you, parting your lips into a small “o” shape, before he releases you. You know you’re a mess. Teary, panting, wild-eyed–but his lips curl into a sinful grin. Reflexively you tilt your pelvis, drawing the heat of your core along the ridge of his erection. 

Your eyes flutter shut, chasing sensation—until Frankie’s chest shakes with a dark chuckle. Condescending. Your hips still. You blink at him. The air thickens. The rest of the room fades. Your thighs tense.

“Keep going.” 

It’s a demand this time, not an affirmation or encourager. His sinister smirk is gone, replaced by a frighteningly blank stare. His carnivorous eyes drop, watching your fingers as you work open his belt and jeans. 

Shit. You can tell he’s big as you trace your fingers along his cock, over his boxers, savoring the heat in your palm. The damp fabric at the tip pleases you, and you peel the waistband down to reveal the glorious vision that has you wetting your lips. 

“Shit,” you repeat out loud this time. A primal, hungry need possesses you as you admire his cock. The glistening head, thick shaft, and dark patch of curls at the base. Just the sight of him is intoxicatingly masculine and dominant. 

You need him in your mouth. 

You slink off his lap, sinking to your knees between his legs. Excitement flutters in your pussy and you feel like you’ve fallen into a trance. Your body moves faster than your mind, tugging at his jeans as he repositions at the edge of the couch. 

“I know,” he mutters under his breath as you wrap your hand around the smooth skin. “I know what you need,” he continues. You can only hum in response. Preoccupied by the slip of your thumb dragging a trail of precome down along the underside of his cock. 

He cups the back of your head, urging you to his tip with a commanding growl. You want to pout for not getting the chance to tease and savor the moment, but you don’t have the time when he slides past your lips and hits the back of your throat. 

You choke, sputtering around him and pulling back. His hand encourages you to try again and you’re eager to take it like he gives it. Refocusing on controlling your breath, you look up to see the fierceness in his eyes on his otherwise blank face. A confusing mix of warning and excitement stirs in your core, making you squirm on your knees. 

The discomfort makes something flicker across his face. 

You try again, determined, like you’ve got something to prove. You pull his other hand to your cheek. Please lead. You catch the start of a smirk on his face before he’s guiding you once again. It makes your mind blank; all you can do is breathe and focus on relaxing your muscles. It’s a welcome release from stress. Grounding you in the present. You can only think as fast as he can glide along your tongue. 

As you build a rhythm, he verges on brutal, but when you’re rewarded with the delicious sound of Frankie groaning because of you the intensity means nothing. Your eyes water as you refuse to gag out of sheer willpower. His thumb smears your tears across your cheekbone, and he pulls you off of his cock.

He takes in your swollen lips, ragged breathing, and wet lashes like he’s committing the details to memory as you catch your breath, before he’s tapping at your cheek. You open wide for him and he rests the head of his cock on your tongue, shallowly tipping you back and forth. 

Your jaw could be aching or your knees may be digging into the rug, but it doesn’t matter to you. It’s much easier to meditate on the weight of his length slipping along your wet tongue. Centering yourself on that thought, your eyes flutter shut. 

You wonder if this side of Frankie has always been lurking beneath the surface. Chillingly collected, but with something viscous bleeding into the edges. You wonder if maybe you’ve called to this part of him with the mayhem of your state of mind. 

“Yeah,” Frankie rasps in his gravelly tone causing you to blink back up at him. You wonder if he can read your mind; if he was answering you. The hint of a smile remains on the corner of his lips when you look up, “Making you feel better already.” He’s presumptive but accurate. 

You give a muffled affirmation that vibrates in your throat as he slides past your lips and you take him deep as he can be. All your senses are filled with Frankie when you inhale, when you swallow, when you blink. You give, pliant for him, trusting him with the control. You don’t care how obscene you look, tears rolling down your cheeks. You just want to hear what other sounds he might make for you. His thumb drags over your cheek again, wiping away the wet streaks. 

“This is the only reason you ever cry for me.” Frankie’s voice is dripping with affection. And possession. 

It makes everything foggy. The sentiment, the delivery, the authority. He doesn’t let you dwell on the unspoken commitment in his statement. Doesn’t give you the time to question him or spiral inward. 

Your head swims until he pulls you up, strips you, and settles you back onto his lap. Some action movie autoplayed after your episode ended. The crashing and explosions of the chase scene in the background don’t ruin the moment, in a twisted way it’s almost a fitting soundtrack for the two of you. 

You pull his shirt over his head, and time slows. The heat between you is nothing compared to his gaze. His grip on your hips is firm, guiding you closer. Dizzying.

You go entirely mindless when the head of his cock nudges your clit, gasping as it slides along your wet seam. It brings everything into focus. Greedily you reach between your bodies to guide him directly to your deplorably empty cunt. 

“Oh, fuck,” your word turns to a groan as he breaches your entrance, and you tense at the stretch, holding still. 

“Keep going,” he orders lowly, and you inch down until he impatiently takes control, slamming you down until you meet his hips. Your mouth hangs open at his move and the immediate fullness. His hardened look softens as your walls ripple and flex, adjusting to his size. 

At least until you start moving, grinding against him, slowly at first. Then the sharp sternness returns. You’re unaware, chasing the friction as your clit rubs against the dark hair surrounding the base of his cock. 

“Knew you’d be perfect,” he says it more like an I told you so to himself than praise for you, but the words affect you just the same. Your chest rises, swelling with pride, and you chase his approval instead of your pleasure. 

You ride him until your thighs burn. His hands are everywhere. Rolling your nipples between his fingers, squeezing all of your soft curves, spreading your legs wider to watch where he disappears inside of you. You bounce eagerly for him, spine arching to draw his eyes to the way your tits ripple from the force of your body colliding into his. 

You whine in disapproval when he interrupts you, pulling you flush against his chest, grazing his teeth along your neck. “Give it to me,” Frankie demands, his voice rough and raw, breath hot along your sweat-damp skin. 

He runs his hand down your body, thumb circling your clit, adding the pressure you need. You edge closer and closer, body taut with anticipation. “Come for me,” he commands. It’s his authority, his gravelly voice rolling through you, that launches you into a shuddering release.

Frankie continues talking while you’re disoriented by the overwhelming pleasure. “For me,” he grunts through clenched teeth as your pussy contracts around him. “I know that’s what you need.” You can only moan as you cling to his broad shoulders. “Only me.” 

You figure he’s just rambling until he grabs you by the jaw again, demanding you respond. Demanding you repeat it for him. And you do. With glassy eyes and you mutter his words back to him. Declaring you only come for him. That you need him. 

Your words unlock something within Frankie. “Good,” he approves. “Good girl.” He praises you gruffly as he holds you steady, pounding into you with an untamed strength. You’re floating, starry-eyed and soft headed at his praise. Murmuring sentence fragments and his name, conjuring throaty grunts from Frankie until he stills, coming deep inside of you. “Only me,” he echoes and you confirm. 

“Only you.” 

In your unguarded state, it’s a welcome commitment. Maybe you haven’t had any real dates yet, but he knows you. He wants you. He tells you he wants to take care of you, and that feels fucking good. 

You collapse against his chest, matching his breathing. The movie playing behind you reaches a tragic twist, setting the third act in motion and solidifying the protagonist's dark path. You run your tongue along the column of Frankie’s throat as the score of the film hangs unresolved on a dissonant chord. He pulls you to his lips, kissing you possessively and captivating you. 

Your bodies flow, connected and attuned. In his lap, in his arms, with his tongue slipping between your lips, you feel wanted. Assured. Content to accept that he knows what you need. 

And he’s unrelenting. Determined to prove it to you. Again and again. 

All night. On the couch, in the shower, in your bed. 

Until the night bleeds into the morning and he doesn’t disappear. 

You take turns waking and watching one another sleep. Reassuring yourselves this is real. 

Until the sun heats your room and you find yourself curled into his broad frame. His chest to your back as he draws his fingers down the dip and swell of your waist and hip. 

“Did you mean it?” you ask, in a strikingly solemn tone for the soft setting. Breath shallow as you stare off toward the window. Not ready to turn and face him in the daylight. 

“Every word.” He punctuates his affirmation with a tender kiss behind your ear. His reassurance satisfies you; warmth blooms from your chest spreading to your fingers and toes. 

You spend a lazy Sunday together. Eating, laughing, fucking, and gazing at each other like lovesick teenagers. It’s too sweet to end. Instead, you become inseparable, taking turns staying at each other’s places until you have to go back. 

The world feels bright again. Lighter. 

He’s paid such close attention. Almost suspiciously perfect. Your favorite takeout. Your favorite movies. Fresh flowers, always.

Somehow, you can never get enough of him. You think about him all day at work, even though he still visits you every morning like clockwork. Your heart swells when he meets you at the end of your shift to walk you home. 

You find yourself canceling your happy hour dates with friends to stay in with Frankie instead. Postponing and rescheduling, you’ll see them soon. It’s like there aren’t enough minutes in the day to get your fill of Frankie. 

You need him constantly—his mouth, his hands, his cock, anywhere, everywhere. You’re never too much. He always wants more. It's a mutual obsession. The two of you feed off each other, dark and insatiable. He frees the parts of you you’ve never let loose. Takes what he wants. Gives you what you need.

With your head in the clouds, all you can see is how much he cares about you. He texts you whenever you’re apart, picks you up after your shifts, shows you off to his friends. 

You barely have to do anything for yourself. He’s always thinking of you, predicting your needs before know them yourself. He picks up your mail for you, runs errands before you get home, and stocks his apartment with all of the products you use and love so you don’t have to go home for days at a time. 

Things are so good that it’s rare when something goes wrong. 

But when it does, it really fucking hurts. 

When you get into an argument, a real one, he doesn’t fight with you. He leaves, swiftly and without another word. He doesn’t respond to your texts or calls. It feels like you’ve been torn in half; you sob and shake alone in your bed until your alarm blares and your headache throbs. 

He doesn’t respond the following day, doesn’t come in for coffee, and doesn’t show any signs of existing. You move through your shift like a hollow corpse haunting the cafe. Time drags agonizingly slowly. 

Every time the door opens your eyes snap towards the entrance, hoping to see the familiar curls and broad shoulders, but it’s not him. You restart your phone just on the odd chance there’s something wrong with it. He wouldn’t abandon you. He knows that would destroy you. 

The void in your chest is cold and dark. Anger simmers somewhere inside of it, but it’s not strong enough to set you off. When Frankie shows up at the end of your shift, the anger is snuffed out completely. His presence immediately erases your heartbreak, and suddenly you’re apologizing before he even gets a word out.

You have to. He has to know you wouldn’t do anything to make him leave. He can’t. He’s calm, accepting your apology and taking you home where he erases your pain. With his hands, and mouth, and cock. Until you forget what the argument was ever about, and what it felt like to watch him walk away. Until it’s back to normal. 

Every day you rely on him more and more; you can’t breathe without him. But when he’s with you, everything feels easy. Right. 

Not many things can throw the two of you off. Your friends seem happy enough for you, despite their questions and insistence that you come out with them more often. You get along well with Frankie’s friends. They’re quick witted and welcome you genuinely. 

They treat you like family, but it doesn’t stop Frankie’s jealousy from flaring up. If Benny smiles at you for too long or if you rest a hand on Will’s bicep when you laugh it only takes minutes before Frankie’s fingers dig into your arm and he whisks you away. 

It gives you a perverse thrill every time. 

When he folds you over the bathroom counter at his friend’s house. Demanding you watch in the mirror as he reminds you with a fierce snarl and devastating thrusts that you’re his. When you can still hear his friends horsing around outside, but he pounds into you with such force, you can’t quiet yourself. He slaps a hand around your mouth to silence you, growling into your ear that you’ll take it quietly, like a good girl. 

Sometimes you aren’t even sure what triggers him. 

Like when he fucks you against the side of his SUV in the parking lot of the trendy bar Benny had invited you both to. All you can piece together is Frankie muttering something about your dress as he yanks the top of it down letting your tits spill into the cool night air. He’s reckless and animalistic, claiming you roughly under the stars and streetlights before you can even get into the car let alone through your front door.

…..

Tonight, you both know exactly what got under his skin. Maybe not the why of it all, but he’s sure you know how he feels, and he wants to hear you say it. 

It started this afternoon. He picked you up from work, like usual, and you chatted in the car as he drove to the grocery store. You sighed, tiredly as you recounted an exchange with a rude customer. Frankie pulled your hand toward his mouth kissing the delicate skin on your inner wrist. 

Predictably, you light up. Like a flower turning toward the sun. Knowing your buttons doesn’t dull the intoxicating effect you have on him, though. He loves how easily you brighten for him, how it only deepens his conviction. That he is exactly where he should be. That everything he does for you is right. That he knows exactly what you need. 

You led him through the aisles, chatting, doubling back for something you forgot. You darted ahead, laughing—

Frankie stopped in his tracks.

Your laughter is cut off.

“What the fuck?” Your voice was quiet, disbelieving.

Joel. Walking past you, bouquet of flowers in hand. He didn’t even look at you.

You called his name, again. Louder. He didn’t even flinch. Didn’t turn. Just kept walking, bouquet in hand, like you never existed.

Frankie grips your wrist, watching your face as emotions flicker—shock, confusion, something darker. He doesn’t give you time to process.

“We’re going,” he says.

“I didn’t know he even lived here still,” you remarked. 

He doesn’t. The possessive fire tore through Frankie’s veins. “We’re. Leaving.” he commanded in a low tone that made your eyes flare wide. 

“What?”

“Now.”

“We can’t ditch our groceries.” 

“Nobody’s gonna stop us, baby.” He argued, as he all but carried you out the door, ushering you in a blur to his car and all the way home. 

Frankie moved swiftly and silently. Wholly consumed by the need to feel you writhing underneath him and crying out his name. He needed it so viscerally, he didn’t even have time to process how he was going to deal with Joel. 

Until you’re breathless and shuddering beneath him. Repeating everything he wants to hear. 

“Only for you,” you repeat as you rake your nails down his shoulder blades and the plane of his back. 

“Again,” he demands. You don’t know if he wants you to keep talking or to come again, but both are inevitable at this point. 

“I’m yours,” you pant, wrapping your legs around him as if you could pull him any deeper inside of you. He shifts slightly, angling your hips and your cunt clenches around him pulling him devastatingly close to the edge as you moan his name. 

He stills and you whine in protest as Frankie stretches past you to pick his phone up off the bedside table. “Keep going,” he orders as he points the lens at you. He needs you to say it again. He adjusts to resume his pace, snapping his hips into causing your lips to part with another moan. 

“I’m yours,” you repeat, “all yours.” He gives you a dark smile as he records you. Capturing all the lewd, wet sounds as he drives his cock into you, the euphoric smile that spreads on your face, and the words you know he always wants to hear. 

“Mine,” he agrees. 

……

You don’t see Joel again. And you don’t have time to dwell on the encounter anyway. Frankie keeps you busy and satisfied, and even surprises you by asking you to move in with him officially. Maybe it feels soon, but you spend nearly every day together anyway and the idea delights you. 

It’s an easy transition. You downsize some of your duplicate appliances, joking with him about how he must have great taste for having so many of the same products. He admits that you inspired a few of his purchases. 

You settle into a routine quickly, not much changes. 

Some mornings, before sunrise, as you slip out of bed for your shift, you wonder if any of this is real. If someone can really care about you this deeply. But by the time you’re showered and dressed, Frankie’s lips are on yours. Sleepy. Warm. Familiar. By the time you’re in the car, you forget the question entirely.

You let your gaze linger this morning. Trailing along his profile as he drives, admiring all the details that you used to wonder about from the other side of the counter. His neck, those arms, his hands, those lips. They’re illuminated in flashes as you pass under the streetlights. 

You catch the twitch at the corner of his mouth. He always knows when you’re looking. He rests a hand just above your knee. He always knows what you need. 

An idea takes root, and you do everything not to smile and give yourself away. It’ll take a few days to organize. He’s almost impossible to surprise. 

……

By the end of the week, Frankie’s on autopilot. Kicking off his shoes and pulling his sweaty shirt over his head before he lopes towards the ensuite for a shower. He only makes it a few strides before he’s on edge, noticing the lights he didn’t remember leaving on. He hears your voice. Relief and confusion twist together in his chest. How did you get back here before him? 

Walking into the bedroom you are a sexy surprise wrapped in red lingerie he’s never seen you wear before, but something is wrong. Your shoulders are curled inward, your cheeks are wet, and you’re hastily tying up your matching red satin robe. 

He scans the room, swallowing thickly when he notices the open closet door and the missing box on the shelf. 

He calls your name softly. 

“What the fuck is this, Frankie?” your voice shakes. Wavering between fear and anger. 

You hold up his phone. Well, his other phone. Shit. 

…..

“Answer me,” you beg. Desperate to understand how you went looking for the box with fuzzy handcuffs and instead found a phone with a new message from a number you still recognized. 

Your heart is pounding in your chest and when he takes you into his arms you flinch. You want to shove him off of you. Despite your hostility, your body is still drawn to his. He always knows what you need. In his arms your heart feels tethered to his, like they could merge through the proximity of your rib cages. Like they beat for each other. 

“You trust me, right?” he asks. 

“Explain, please,” is all you can whisper. 

“It was to keep you safe,” he starts. 

“From what?” 

“To protect you. Joel wasn’t good for you. He couldn’t take care of you. Not the way you deserve.” 

“How would you know?” it’s still not making sense to you. 

“You told me.” He’s so self-assured. Like, he’s always right. Like, he can’t even imagine why you’d be upset right now. “I did it for you,” he adds. 

“Did what?” you need him to say it out loud. You need him to fix this. 

“I know you thought Joel was trying, but he was only going to drag it out. Disappoint you over and over. Can you imagine what it would’ve been like for me? Having to watch you go through that?” 

You don’t answer. 

“I couldn’t watch. I made him an offer, but he’s a stubborn man.” 

You snort quietly at that understatement. Nobody tells Joel what to do. 

“I just had to find the right leverage.” 

Frankie holds you so tight, you can’t wriggle around to look him in the eyes. 

“He couldn’t give you what you need, not like I can. I know what you need. And, think of how fast you got over him anyway. You were mine all along.” 

You’re lightheaded. From the shock of finding the evidence. From his words. From the way you believe him. You want to sit down. You tap at his arms insistently, begging against his chest, but he keeps talking. His deep voice rumbling in your ears. 

“You wouldn’t have understood it then. I had to keep it from you to protect you. So we could have this. What we have now.” 

He’s not listening to you. Not letting you go. You snap. 

“Let go of me!” 

“You have to understand first.” 

“I’ll listen,” you plead. “Just let me breathe.” He lets you step back, but doesn’t release you from his grip. His hands are glued to your arms. He waits, steady and chillingly calm.

The pieces slam into place. The unanswered questions. The way Joel vanished. Oh, God.

“I thought he just left,” you whisper to yourself. 

“He did,” Frankie argues. 

“I thought he didn’t want me,” you continue. 

“He didn’t. Not the way that I want you.” 

Something cold trickles down your spine and you look at Frankie. For a moment he’s a complete stranger. Your stomach sinks and your vision spins. Slamming your eyes shut, you filter through your racing thoughts. 

It wasn’t fate that led you into Frankie’s arms. 

You wound up crying on his cock by design, trying to fuck away the pain of a heartbreak that wasn’t even real. You’ve fallen into a whole new life, while the man you had loved may have never stopped loving you back? 

“You blackmailed Joel Miller?” 

“Technically, it’s extortion.” 

Your hands tremble as you grip the phone. The air feels thinner, your chest too tight. The numbers on the screen blur, but you still recognize them.

The texts. The sent video.

The video.

Your stomach lurches. Your mouth opens, but no words come out. Frankie watches you, patient, expectant. Like he’s just waiting for you to catch up.

It’s all there on the surface. Exposed between the two of you. Who Frankie really is. Cunning and competent. Devoted and dangerous. Possessive and powerful. 

“It worked, until he came to town for someone’s engagement party.” 

“When we saw him at the store?” 

Frankie nods. 

“And then you sent him the video we made that day.” The words fall from your lips as the reality sinks in. 

“Hearing it from you seemed to do the trick. He knows you’re mine and you only want me.” 

Frankie gives you time to study him. Absorbing the information. The gleam in his dark eyes. The same eyes from when he would visit you at work. Just as fierce and just as earnest. 

You’ve always known him for his true self. He’s been yours since he first laid eyes on you. And he knew you needed him. 

“And you did it… for us.” 

“For you.” 

You can see it plainly on his face. He’d do it again and again to have you. Because you’re his. It’s all you ever wanted. It has to be wrong, but it’s the hottest thing anyone has ever done for you. 

You push him onto the bed, straddling him without a second thought. Instinct. Need. He’s already hard beneath you.

"You’re sick," you whisper, breath hot against his skin.

Frankie grins. "You make me fucking crazy."

Your mouths collide, hungry, desperate, perfect.

dividers by @/cyberangel-graphics

General tags 💗:

@lovely-vamp-princess

@gothcsz

@auteurdelabre

@adoreyouusugar

@swankyorange

@itwasntimethatdidit40 tags for folks who seemed interested when i shared a lil wip about it (aka no worries tags)

@hoelaris @punkseyes @ace-turned-confused @magneticecstasy @lotusbxtch

@bitchesuntitled

@baronessvonglitter

@thundermartini @milla-frenchy

[steddieas-shegoes]

fourth line, best line

for @steddiesportsau prompt 'first line' (i know the title is misleading, just trust me)

rated t | 2,577 words | cw: injury | tags: modern au, hockey au, getting together, happens during a time skip just go with it, love confessions

🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒

The buzzer echoes in his skull. He didn’t notch a point tonight. Not a single one.

He didn’t even drop the gloves.

He’s gonna end up sent back down to the farm team, he can feel it.

“Munson!” A voice yells from behind him as he walks down the tunnel to the dressing room. “Hey.”

Steve is a good captain, a great hockey player, and a beautiful man. His number will almost definitely be in the rafters someday, and he’s got a long career in the NHL waiting for him when he retires from playing. He shouldn’t waste more than what’s required on pep-talking Eddie through a shitty game.

“Yeah?” He asks, trying not to sound like he’s a second away from crying.

“That pass in the second was a beauty,” he says with a smile.

It’s like nothing phases him, like they didn’t just lose 5-1 against their biggest rival.

“Oh. Thanks.”

Steve pats his shoulder. “Gonna lose sometimes. You gave 100%, that’s all anyone can ask.”

Eddie doesn’t think Steve watched the same game he did. He knew he didn’t give his best. Steve did, because Steve always does, but Eddie doesn’t even think his best came to this game at all.

“I got lucky with a pass, that’s it.”

Steve shakes his head. “Half of hockey is luck. You knew what to do with it, which is more than I can say for some players.”

A lot of guys would give their left nut to get a compliment like that from Steve Harrington. Eddie is one of them.

He knows he’s blushing, but he hopes it’s hidden under the flush of the exertion from his last shift. He’s dripping sweat despite barely breaching five minutes of ice time for the entire game.

“Thanks,” Eddie squeaks out. Steve’s probably just being nice, giving him a compliment to take with him on his flight back to the AHL. “I’ll work harder next time.”

Steve looks like he wants to say more, but he’s taken to the side for a post-game interview. They lost, but Steve’s charm is enough for the interviewer to focus on more positive parts of the game instead of what they probably planned on asking.

Eddie makes his way to the dressing room, probably for the last time this season.

He may get another call up if someone gets injured, but he won’t hold his breath.

****

one year later

“Harrington against the boards…usually wins these battles, but it looks like he’s waving at the bench. Don’t know what that’s about.”

Eddie’s watching the game at his apartment, stuffing his face with chicken parm from his favorite restaurant down the street. He’s carb loading before their early afternoon game tomorrow.

Steve’s been off this entire game. He’s slower, hesitant where he’s normally aggressive, hasn’t put his body into blocking shots the way he normally does. Anyone who plays hockey or knows hockey knows what this is.

He’s playing through an injury. When you’re this close to clinching the number one spot in the playoffs, your top center can’t be injured. Eddie winces when someone checks Steve into the boards on his way to the bench.

He goes down hard, way harder than he normally would. He’s slow to get up.

Eddie’s holding his breath. Sauce drips onto his shirt.

It’s his ankle. Dammit.

There are a lot of impressive things about Steve Harrington. He’s a good captain, a great player, a beautiful man. He also defeated every odd against him his rookie year when he came back from a shattered ankle that led to two surgeries and a four month recovery process that most doctors didn’t think he’d ever finish. He did and he came back even better than before.

He’s played for years with minimal issues. One concussion a few years ago that left him day to day for about a week, one upper body injury that benched him for three weeks at the beginning of a season. Eddie can see this is different.

This is his career.

Eddie can’t stop watching as Steve limps off the ice, down the tunnel, and out of view.

“Seems like we won’t be seeing Harrington back tonight. Hopefully his goal earlier boosted his team enough that they’ll pull off the win without him,” the announcer says.

Eddie’s walking his takeout container to the kitchen and trying to find his shoes before he even realizes what he’s doing.

What is he doing?

He’s not gonna be the guy they call up. He’s not even the guy they called up earlier this season when Byers broke his toe and missed three weeks. He’s definitely not gonna get the call to help fill a gap for Steve.

His phone buzzes, but it’s just Wayne asking if he’s watching the game. He replies quickly, tries not to give the old man any hope. Wayne always believes in him more than anyone else, always has, even when he got cut from his 12U travel team.

They do manage a win without Steve, but the commentators spend most of the third period discussing the likelihood of their chances at the Cup diminishing without Steve on the ice. They act like he’s dead, like he’s already been written off.

His phone buzzes again.

Stevie: Don’t freak out. Going to get some scans

Eddie rushes to the door, freaking out. He hits call before his feet have even hit the stairs outside his apartment.

“I said don’t freak out, love,” Steve sighs into the phone. He sounds like he’s in pain. “It might just be a stress fracture. Couple weeks and I’ll be back.”

“Could be more though?” He asks, feeling like he might be sick. This was supposed to be Steve’s year. He was gonna go all the way, lead this team to a big win.

“Maybe. But I’m okay.”

“Didn’t look okay,” Eddie is in his car, waiting for the bluetooth to connect before he pulls out of the parking garage. “Looked pretty bad. Wayne even texted me.”

“He’s a worrywart. I told them to move Hagan to my spot and call you up,” Steve says casually. “I dunno if they’ll listen, but be ready in case.”

“Steve. I’m not playing without you there. I’m on my way to you, not the damn team.”

He should know better than to expect Eddie to put hockey above him.

“Ed,” Steve sighs. “Your career is first. We talked about this. I’ll be fine. It’s not like you can perform surgery.”

“Surgery?! You need surgery?”

“No! I don’t know!” Someone is heard in the background and then a siren. “Are the sirens necessary? Jesus, that’s dramatic.”

“Are you in an ambulance?” Eddie’s voice pitches higher in panic.

“It’s ridiculous. Someone could’ve just driven me when the game was over,” Steve explains. “I can walk, so it can’t be that bad.”

“You can’t put pressure on it, dumbass!”

“Is that Robin?” Eddie feels relief wash over him. If Robin’s there, he won’t be allowed to brush it off at the hospital. “Let me talk to her.”

“No. You two are gonna inspire against me.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, a fond smile creeping across his face despite his anxiety.

“We aren’t gonna conspire against you, sweetheart. I just wanna know the facts. You’re blinded by your Must Give Comfort No Matter What Disease.”

“Dumbass two, it’s definitely broken,” Robin says into the phone while Steve argues in the background. “He’s being so brave. But it’s gonna be eight weeks minimum even without looking at x-rays.”

“Knew it,” Eddie smacks his hand against the steering wheel. He’s driving on autopilot, heading straight for the hospital he knows Steve’s being taken to. He’s three hours away if there’s no traffic, maybe less if he takes the shortcut he knows when he’s closer. “So he’s done for the season.”

“Absolutely. Not worth the risk unless they get to the final round, and even then I’m pretty sure it won’t be worth it. He’s defeated the odds once, but he’s still got plenty of time to defeat them next season.”

Another call comes through for Eddie and he’s tempted to ignore it.

It’s his agent.

“Call you back in 10.”

He kinda knows what’s coming before he even answers.

He’s still shocked when he hears himself say he’s already on his way.

****

The team misses Steve like a limb.

It’s not that they aren’t good without him; They keep winning for the most part. His absence is felt, though.

It’s just tough to be a team without a proper captain.

Wheeler tries, but he just doesn’t have the room like Steve does.

Eddie feels like a visitor, and it’s no one’s fault. They all know him from his last stint and attending a few games to watch Steve, but adapting a new player into the lineup is hard.

He fits okay on the fourth line, even manages an assist in his first game.

His strength is faceoffs. He wins nearly all of them, might even have the highest average in the AHL. Steve’s always been jealous of it, especially because he didn’t even start playing center until he was 16 and it’s all Steve’s ever played.

Eddie stays with Steve while he’s called up. It’s what makes the most sense.

It’s also the longest they’ve ever been able to spend together at once.

Ever since their first date, they’ve pretty much been on a hockey schedule. Other than Christmas and one week over the summer when they were still so new that anything more would’ve been too much, they’ve only had random days that line up to spend time together.

To fuck, basically.

It’s easy. Wayne warned him that living with someone changes your perspective, but he just falls more in love with Steve by the minute. He’s fun, even when he’s hobbling around in a cast, barely leaning on the crutches he’s supposed to be relying on for at least two weeks. He’s smart, beats all the hockey guy stereotypes with his clever wit, even if he does misuse words sometimes.

He’s kind. He spends a few hours every other day at the children’s hospital, no media, no other teammates, just him.

“Not like I’ve got anything else to do. And I love seeing the kids. They’re funny,” Steve shrugs. “Plus, some of them play hockey and tell me all about their games.”

Eddie knows he’s probably way more in love than Steve is with him, but he’s gonna ride this out as long as he can. Steve could have anyone, an actress or supermodel or another NHL player, but he’s choosing a fourth line call-up who forgets to put his dirty laundry in the basket.

Steve watches every home game in a suite, and every away game on tv. He calls Wayne sometimes during the away games, but neither of them tell him exactly what they talk about.

Eddie scores his first NHL goal the same night he’s told he’ll be sent back down.

It’s bittersweet.

He knows it won’t change anything.

It’s still exciting when it happens, and he points up to the box he knows Steve’s watching from, then at one of the cameras for Wayne. The goal horn has never sounded so victorious.

He doesn’t notch another point the rest of the game, but he didn’t expect to.

He gets the puck after the game, poses for a picture for socials, and fist bumps everyone on his way out. He’s thankful for his time, proud of himself for being the guy they called up and kept up for so long. Maybe Steve had a lot to do with it, but they wouldn’t have risked their season on a guy they didn’t think could help.

Steve’s already outside waiting for him, beaming with pride.

“That’s my boy!” He yells.

Eddie’s heart flutters.

“Figured I’d put on a show before I go back,” he says, hating that his tone is so sad.

Steve’s face falls. “Go back? After the way you played tonight?”

Eddie shrugs. He kisses his cheek before he unlocks the car.

“It’s a business. I’m only two games away from having to sign league minimum and I’m not producing enough for them to do that,” Eddie explains even though Steve definitely already knows that. “Maybe next year.”

“Fuck next year!” Steve is mad. “You’re our best fourth liner now. You just need the chance!”

Eddie’s tired. He’s a little sore from taking a puck to the wrist and a stick to the neck. There’s nothing to argue about, and Steve’s not even trying to argue with him, but it still presses on Eddie’s nerves.

“I’m okay with it. Really,” Eddie is. He’s used to this back and forth. He knows he’s lucky to get a chance to shine once in a while. “They’ll do great without me.”

“But I won’t.”

Eddie closes his eyes, takes a deep breath.

“You will. You’ll be back on the ice soon and you won’t even have time to miss me. Plus we’ll have most of the summer,” Eddie explains.

“I’m not going back on the ice.”

Eddie’s heart stops.

“What are you talking about?” He manages to ask.

“I’m done. I wasn’t gonna announce it until the season was over. I have a fracture that needs more surgery and it’ll take another 8-10 months of physical therapy just to be able to do normal things, let alone hockey. And there’s only a 20% chance I’d be able to play competitively at all after, let alone the level expected of me. It’s not fair to the team to drag this on,” Steve says it like he’s practiced it. Maybe he has. There’s barely any emotion in it, like he’s pushed it far enough away that he doesn’t feel the pain Eddie knows he must feel. “I’ve got a statement ready. The team knows.”

“They didn’t tell me?” Eddie feels tears pooling in his eyes. “You didn’t tell me.”

Steve cups Eddie’s neck, kisses his forehead. “I didn’t want to distract you from playing. And I don’t want this to ruin the high of the night.”

“Steve, this is so much more important than me scoring a goal.”

“I just want you to be happy,” Steve admits quietly.

“I want the same for you,” Eddie says back. “Hockey is everything to you.”

“Not anymore.” Steve takes a shaky breath. “I think it’ll always be important to me. It was my childhood and my career and my passion. And it’ll always be that, I guess. I’m sure I’ll stick around as a coach or recruiter or something. But since I got to have you, you’re all I want.”

Eddie’s heart starts beating much faster, probably dangerously so.

“I love you, Eddie. I love you more than anything. More than hockey. More than Robin, but you better not tell her that.“ They both laugh. Steve grabs his hands and kisses his knuckles. “I can live without hockey. It hurts, but I can do it. I can’t live without you.”

Steve’s career is over. It hurts Eddie to know he overcame so much just to have everything shortened way before his time was actually up anyway.

But his life is still happening, and he wants Eddie to be a part of it.

“So you’ll come with me?” Eddie asks.

“I was hoping you’d ask,” Steve replies.

“Even though this is the best I’ll probably ever be?”

Steve smirks. “Fourth line, best line, right?”

[fireya-x]

caught in the undertow

【 AO3 Link (full tag list) || masterlist 】 ✦ John Price x Reader ✦ John made the right call that day. It could have cost you your life, but it saved a dozen others - innocent men, women and children. He made the right decision. …did he? ✦ 7k words ✦ tags/cw: injury, angst, feels, medical and military inaccuracies, guilt, trauma/ptsd, piv sex, …did i mention angst?

“Captain Price,” Kate Laswell stated in her usual cool, precise and professional manner. She was called forward to speak last, and the room seemed to hold its breath as she spoke. “Undoubtedly saved multiple lives. I was in communication with him the entire time, and the situation was dire. The moment the Sergeant moved to shield the mother and her child, the hostile shifted, presenting immediate danger and forced Captain Price to take the shot. His team's confirmations came almost immediately. Threat neutralized, Sergeant down, requesting immediate medevac. The sequence of events is clear. The timings, irrefutable. It was the only choice to prevent a larger loss of life.”

She paused, allowing her words to settle, her gaze sweeping across the jury, then to John. And finally, her eyes met yours, a flicker of empathy, a shared understanding of the burden of impossible choices, passing between you.

When you took your seat in the witness stand what felt like hours before, the air in the courtroom was thick, feeling more suffocating than the humid summer air outside. You felt the seams of your dress digging into your skin like a thousand tiny needles, the fabric clinging to your body like a second skin. The injury hidden beneath that fabric pulsed with a dull ache, a rhythm that echoed the beat of your heart, a constant reminder of why you were there in the first place.

Across from you, John shifted in his seat. Captain John Price. Your Captain. Your leader. The love of your life. Accused and tried for the choice he made that day. He held his composure with the effortless grace of a man who’d stared down far worse fates than a panel of judges, his gaze fixed on some point beyond the courtroom walls, as if searching for an escape. But you, who knew him better than anyone, saw the subtle signs of the storm raging beneath – the tension in his jaw and the way his fingers tapped a restless rhythm against the table.

It had been weeks since the operation, since the bullet meant for a terrorist found its path through your shoulder, but the memory was still vivid, a cruel film reel playing on a loop in his mind.

The mission had been textbook, up until the point it wasn’t. The intel, as so often happened in this line of work, had unraveled, leaving you and Gaz staring down the barrel of a hostage situation gone sideways. A dozen innocent lives held captive by a man desperate for freedom, his finger itching on the trigger of his AK. A man whose eyes held the cold glint of a cornered animal, ready to unleash a violence that could silence a room within seconds.

You aimed at him, your finger tightening on the trigger of your own weapon, but you couldn't fire.

A mother and her child were singled out from the rest of the group of hostages. He used them as leverage, as a shield, their bodies a barrier that prevented both you and Gaz from taking the shot. And then, without thinking, without hesitation, you moved. Instinct and years of training taking over, your body reacting before your mind could even process the risk, you stepped forward, ushering the mother and child behind you, shielding them with your own flesh and bone.

You’d made a choice.

And just as you made that conscious choice that second, so had John. It all happened in a blink of an eye. The radio comms were a mess, you heard your name, a strangled cry from John booming in your ear as he yelled for you to stand down, a mixture of desperate shouts that nobody had a clear shot – and then the unmistakable twitch of the finger on the enemy's AK –

The prosecutor, a man whose weapon was his voice, spoke up, his words cutting through the tense silence, slicing through your thoughts. “Captain Jonathan Price,” he began, walking slowly towards where John was sitting, “Let’s revisit the moments that led up to the point where you decided to fire upon the hostile. Was there any point during the hostage negotiation that didn’t involve engaging an armed man directly?”

John’s gaze shifted to the man standing before him, the predator circling its prey, seeking a weakness, an admission of guilt, that would seal his fate. “The situation was volatile,” he stated, his voice low, controlled. “The suspect had already demonstrated he was willing to use lethal force.”

“Yes, indeed,” the prosecutor agreed, his tone laced with a false sympathy that made your stomach churn. “One civilian had been shot, tragically. But tell me, Captain, were the remaining hostages in imminent danger at the precise moment you fired your – ” He paused, his gaze dropping to his notes, then snapping back to John. “...sniper rifle, an MCPR-300, I believe? With a compromised line of sight? Don’t you think that was reckless? Negligent, even?”

John didn’t answer at first, his eyes focused back onto a distant horizon beyond the room. He was taken back to that warehouse, the scene he had witnessed through his scope, the twitch of the finger of the man who was about to decide about the fate of innocent people, who was about to punish you for stepping in front of his only leverage, who —

“Captain,” the prosecutor repeated, “perhaps you haven’t been paying attention. I asked you a question.”

John took a slow, steadying breath, forcing himself to surface. “I heard the question," he said finally, his voice low and dangerous, almost sounding like a threat. “There wasn’t a second to spare. I had to take the shot. The second those hostages were moved, the hostile was enraged. He was about to shoot them all, and the Sergeant stepped into my line of fire. I knew that the shot wasn’t impossible. It was flesh and bone, no vital organ. I had to… I had to risk it.”

“So you risked the life of one of your own?” The prosecutor's voice dripped with disdain, a subtle emphasis on the word risked that twisted like a knife in John's gut.

“It was that,” John stated, his tone flat, devoid of emotion, a soldier reciting a mission report, the only way he knew how to survive this interrogation. “Or a far worse outcome. I made the choice that saved the most lives. It was the only choice.”

He refused to look at you, couldn't bear the sight of your bandaged shoulder, the visible reminder of his decision, his guilt. His gaze remained fixed on the far wall, as if he could will away the memories that haunted him.

The prosecutor, frustrated by John's stoicism, turned his attention to you.

“Sergeant,” he said, his voice taking on a deceptive gentleness designed to lull you into a false sense of security, to draw out the accusation he so desperately sought. “Perhaps you can help us understand what happened that day. Can you walk us through the events leading up to… the incident? In your own words.”

“Of course.” You stood, your back straight, your gaze meeting the prosecutor’s, your injured arm held slightly stiffly at your side – a consistent, throbbing reminder of the choice, the bullet, your pain.

You described how you and Gaz had entered the warehouse in hopes to clear the situation, how Price was in communication with Laswell about this unexpected turn of events, watching every movement through his scope; how Soap and Ghost were circling the perimeter outside to find any possible way to secure the situation from a different angle. You described the hostages huddled to the side of the room, their faces full of terror. You told them about the mother and her child, no more than five years old, singled out, terrorized by a man with nothing left to lose.

“Tell us,” the prosecutor interrupted, sharp and accusing, “why didn’t you fire on the man? You were closer. Why did you rely on someone outside to have a clear shot? Were you not confident in your own abilities, Sergeant?"

“Because, like I said, there was a mother and her child right in front of him,” you repeated, “and I knew he was going to shoot at them if one of us just lifted a finger.”

“But surely, a trained soldier -” The prosecutor began, his voice dripping with disdain, but you cut him off.

“There wasn't time, sir,” you shot back, “I didn't have time to think, to calculate, to consider my options. I acted on instinct. I reacted. And I did what I had to do to protect those innocent lives. Captain Price knew that, and he acted accordingly.”

“And by doing so,” the prosecutor pressed, “you put yourself directly in the path of Captain Price’s bullet. A bullet fired from a high-powered sniper rifle. A weapon designed to kill.”

You met his gaze, your jaw tightening. “Yes, sir,” you stated. “But if I hadn’t moved, that mother and child would be dead.”

You described the way you’d ushered the hostages behind you, ignoring John's desperate pleas for you to get down, knowing you had only seconds, maybe less, to act. “His finger was already on the trigger,” you continued. “He was unhinged. He wouldn't have hesitated. I did what I had to do.”

You looked at John, your heart twisting as you saw the agony in his eyes, the guilt he carried, the self-loathing that radiated off him in waves.

“And then?” the prosecutor pressed, his voice sharp, intent on dissecting this moment, this choice, until he’d found the weakness, the fault, that would bring John Price down.

“And then, everything happened very quickly. I saw the gunman fall, his weapon clattering to the floor.” You swallowed hard, forcing the memory down, the sight of the blood, his blood and yours, mingling on the concrete floor. “Then the pain hit. I fell… and then… everything went black.”

John’s shot, impossibly precise, impossibly fast, had found its mark, silencing a threat before it could unleash hell. 

“Captain Price’s shot,” you continued, “saved lives that day. He stopped a terrorist before he could execute any of those innocent men, women, and children. Before he could shoot Sergeant Garrick or me. It was the only shot, and it was the right choice.”

One by one, Gaz, Soap, and Ghost were questioned, their testimonies echoing your account – a chaotic situation, a volatile enemy, a split-second judgment call that had saved lives. 

Laswell’s testimony was calm, factual, and her words were carefully chosen. She offered no justification, no defense, only the cold, hard facts that painted a clear picture – there had been no other option, no other choice.

But his team’s words, their support, did nothing to soothe the guilt that burned in John’s gut. 

He’d fired the shot. He’d made the choice. And you, the woman he loved, the soldier who’d placed her life in his hands, carried the scar, the physical reminder, of that impossible decision.

Not guilty on all charges. 

John shook his lawyer’s hand, accepting congratulations with a curt nod, his gaze distant, his thoughts a million miles away. And as you watched him walk out of the courtroom, his shoulders hunched, his steps heavy, you knew, that the real battle had just begun.

The weeks that followed were punctuated by doctor’s visits, physical therapy, and the slow, agonizing process of reclaiming the strength and mobility you’d temporarily lost. Soap, Gaz, and even Ghost, took turns checking in, bringing you takeout, offering their clumsy attempts at comfort and companionship. It felt like you saw more of them during those weeks of recovery than you did John. 

But he was meticulous about your care, driven by a desperate need to somehow atone, to mend the damage he’d caused. He drove you to every doctor’s appointment, sat silently beside you in the waiting rooms. He made sure you had the best doctors, the best physical therapy. You’d find fresh ice packs in the freezer, pain medication neatly arranged on the kitchen counter, a schedule for your meds taped to the fridge with military precision.

He brought home flowers, he found that rare book you’d mentioned, the one you thought was lost forever, and placed it on your bedside table. A desperate attempt to bring back a sliver of the normalcy you’d lost.

He'd do it all to soothe his mind, to right the wrongs just a little bit. But it didn't help.

Just like that verdict hadn’t brought him any solace. He was a prisoner of his own self, the bars constructed from the barbed wire of guilt and self-accusation. He’d fired the bullet. With the knowledge that it would tear through your flesh, hurt you, make you bleed – 

Not guilty.

The words churned in his mind like a dark undercurrent, dragging him down, down, down into the depths of his self-inflicted torment. They echoed through the empty spaces of his days, a mocking chorus that followed him everywhere, laughing at him from the shadows.

Not guilty.

As the image of you being rushed into surgery repeated in his mind. His heart beating a million times a minute, replaying how your eyes rolled back into your head from the pain as soon as the adrenaline faded, how he had begged Laswell to send medical faster, how he watched his team tend to you because he was frozen in place, letting realization hit him of what he had just done with the force of a tidal wave.

Not guilty.

As he remembered pacing the waiting room like a caged animal, every thought about you a self-inflicting wound to his soul, every passing second an eternity. He saw your face everywhere, in the worried expressions of his team, on Laswell, as she relayed the surgeon’s updates on your condition. “It was a clean shot, John. Just like you knew it was. She will be okay.” But even those words – words of reassurance, of hope – couldn’t calm the storm raging within him, couldn’t drown out the relentless echo of that damning verdict.

Not guilty.

One centimeter. The surgeon talked to John personally, and it felt like a cruel joke when he praised the precision of the shot – painting him as the incredible soldier who’d done the unthinkable, the hero who saved the day – one fucking centimeter. A haunting reminder of your fragility, just how close he’d missed the subclavian artery, walking a thin line between duty and devastation, between love and loss.

Not guilty.

As he threw himself into his work, disappearing to the base for days, trying to outrun his own mind by getting lost in familiar routines – trainings, missions, briefings – a desperate attempt to swim against the current of guilt, but it was relentless, pulling him back into the depths of despair over and over again. 

He’d stand in the training room, the heavy bag swaying before him, a silent opponent that couldn't judge him, couldn't accuse him. He’d pummel it, again and again, the satisfying thud of leather against his knuckles a fleeting release.

Not guilty.

As he felt the sting of his knuckles split open, the blood a welcome distraction, a pain that grounded him in the present, momentarily pushing back the memories. He didn't stop, didn't flinch. He just kept hitting the bag, the rhythm of his blows a mantra, a futile attempt to atone for a sin he couldn’t wash away.

Not guilty.

As even his sleep was haunted by the echoes of that day. It was always the same - the screams of the hostages, the metallic clang of the terrorist's weapon hitting the concrete floor, your muffled gasps as the bullet ripped through you. He’d wake in a cold sweat, his sheets tangled, his heart hammering against his ribs.

He had to relive the moment over and over - his love for you against the lives of those hostages - the terror that seized him as his finger squeezed the trigger, the sickening thud of the bullet finding its mark, the knowledge that it was his skill, his precision, that had brought you so close to death.

Not guilty.

Could he have waited another second for a clear shot? 

No. He remembered it all too vividly; the frantic whispers in his earpiece - 

No clear shot, Captain. 

Civilians blocking the path. 

He’s moving. He’s gonna shoot.

The terrorist’s finger tightening on the trigger, the manic gleam in his eye. He was a cornered animal, desperate, ready to take everyone down with him.

The way you had moved, instinctively, selflessly, pushing the woman and child behind you, placing yourself in the path of the bullet he was about to unleash.

He’d made the only call he could, he knew that. But logic didn’t seem to matter against the gnawing guilt that had become his constant companion. The weight of it, the burden of that impossible choice, had him retreating further into himself, desperately seeking refuge from the truth he couldn't escape – he’d chosen to save those lives, and in doing so, had almost sacrificed yours.

Not guilty.

As he’d scrub his hands raw, the water running red in his mind, as if trying to wash away the phantom stain of your blood. He couldn’t bear to look at himself in the mirror, his reflection - the hard lines of his face, the haunted eyes - a constant accusation.

Not guilty.

As he’d walk through the door, late and weary, the aroma of his favorite meal would hit him, the familiar scent a painful reminder of the normalcy he craved, the domesticity he felt he no longer deserved. He’d find a bottle of his favorite whiskey already poured, two glasses waiting on the table, and you, in that soft, worn sweater he loved, would greet him with a smile that made his heart ache with a love he felt was both undeserved and unbearable.

Not guilty.

As he watched the aftermath of his choice everywhere. The way you winced when you tried to do mundane everyday tasks, reaching for the coffee on the cupboard, brushing your hair, finding a comfortable position to sleep. A reminder, constant and always present, of his choice, his bullet. 

And yet, when you caught him looking at you, you’d still offer him the brightest and reassuring smile. You smiled at him. You seemed to be so full of life, so full of love – something he felt he could no longer accept after what he had done. 

Not guilty.

It kept mocking him, over and over and over again – and the amber liquid in his glass did nothing to drown the demons that were laughing at him, their voices echoing the verdict, the words that condemned him more surely than any court of law ever could.

“Can’t sleep?” You’d ask, your voice soft and sleepy, as you approached him standing by the moonlit window, your hand reaching out to rest on his arm.

He’d flinch away from your touch, the reaction so instinctive, so painful, that it felt like a knife stabbed right through your heart.

“No.” His answer was short, clipped, and was followed by a silence that felt deafening, pushing the chasm that had been broken open between you even further. 

“Talk to me, John.” Your voice trembled, a mixture of frustration and sadness, a desperate plea for the man you loved to emerge from the shadows of his own making. You’d let him have his space, but you felt like you were losing him. You respected he would need time, but it was increasingly frightening to see him retreat further and further into this self-imposed exile.

“There’s nothing to say.” He set the glass down, the crystal clinking against the wood, a sharp sound in the stillness of the room. He turned to walk away, as if your presence was a physical burden.

You knew what he did wasn’t a rejection, but a shield, a desperate attempt to protect you from the shattered pieces of himself. He thought he was sparing you, keeping you from the darkness that threatened to drown him.

You longed for his touch, for the familiar comfort of his embrace, for the warmth of his laughter, the way he’d make you forget the world with a single glance. You longed for the man who laughed with his men, who stole kisses in the dead of night, whose touch had once been your sanctuary.

One evening, you stood in the bathroom to take a shower, as you desperately tried to reach for the clasp of your strapless bra. You hated that thing already, but you didn't have a choice, as straps would hurt your shoulder.

You couldn’t reach around, your shoulder throbbing with each awkward movement. The frustration of this simple task, the feeling of helplessness, amplified the deeper ache in your heart, the loneliness that had become your constant companion. You had enough.

“John!” It was both a cry for help as it was a plea for reconnection.

He was by your side in an instant, crossing your shared space to the bathroom in three quick strides, alert by the sound of your voice. “What is it? What’s wrong?” The urgency in his voice, the raw concern he couldn’t mask, a contrast to the coldness that had settled between you in the weeks since the trial, and it had tears flowing freely down your cheeks now.

The sight of you, usually so strong, so capable, brought low by something as simple as a stubborn clasp, tore through his gut like a burning blade.

He'd put that look on your face.

He did. 

“This damned thing…” you gestured to the bra clasp, your throat constricting as the emotions that had been suppressed for so long threatened to finally spill over. 

He didn’t hesitate. “Let me.” He said, moving behind you, his touch gentle as he brushed your hair aside and his fingers undid the clasp. Something he had done a million times before, but not with a touch that felt like you were made out of porcelain, about to shatter under the weight of his guilt.

“The doctor said I can change the bandages myself now,” you said, your voice soft, hesitant, “Can you… can you help me?”

He turned away, retrieving the first aid kit from the bathroom cabinet, his movements stiff, controlled, a familiar mask slipping back into place. But as you watched him lay out the gauze, the antiseptic, the scissors, you saw the slight tremor in his hands, the way his jaw clenched.

You knew, he was afraid of you. Or rather, he was afraid of himself, afraid of the damage he’d inflicted, the hurt he’d caused. He was afraid of hurting you again.

“Turn around, love,” he murmured, his voice husky, a rough caress against your ear. “May I?”

“You know you may.”

You turned, and you could feel the heat of his gaze, which burned into your back as if he could see right through you. You could feel the tension in him, the way he held his breath, as his fingers brushed against your skin, gently peeling away the old bandage.

Then you heard him inhale sharply, a sound that spoke volumes. He'd seen the bruise. 

“It’s…” His voice hitched, the word catching in his throat, the sight of that bruise, a grotesque masterpiece of purple and yellow blooming across your shoulder blade, a brutal reminder of the force of his impact, his choice, his guilt.

You didn't need to see his face to know the expression that twisted his features. You felt it, the self-loathing, the way it had poisoned him and had turned his love into a weapon turned against himself.

You tried to meet his gaze. “It's just a bruise, John,” you said, your voice softer now, a plea for him to see you, the woman who loved him, not the casualty he'd created in his own mind.

He worked silently to fixate the new bandage, the silence stretching between you, thick with unspoken emotions. Then he turned to leave, his hand reaching for the doorknob, but you stopped him, your hand reaching out, your fingers closing around his wrist.

“Don’t,” you whispered, your voice trembling, your touch a desperate attempt to anchor him to the present, to remind him that he hadn't destroyed you, that you were still here, still his.

He looked at you, his eyes clouded with a mix of emotions you couldn’t decipher - guilt, fear, longing, and a deep, abiding love that he'd tried so hard to bury. He wanted to pull away, to tell you that you deserved better, that he was no good for you, a danger, a threat.

“I should…” he began, his voice rough with the effort of holding himself together. “I have reports…”

But you weren't letting him escape. Not this time. You stepped closer, pressing your naked body against his, ignoring the ache in your shoulder, the protest of your wounded flesh, because the ache in your heart, the yearning for his touch, was a far more powerful force.

“Don’t,” you whispered, your breath warm on his skin, igniting a fire that threatened to burn away the carefully constructed walls he'd built around himself. “Don't push me away, John. Please.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, your scent filling his senses, something he’d craved, longed for, but felt he no longer had the right to claim.

“I don’t –” he started to protest, the denial on his lips, but you silenced him with a kiss, standing on your tiptoes to press your lips against his. He hesitated, a battle raging within him, then, with a groan that sounded more like surrender than anything else, he gave in. His hands, as if with a will of their own, found their way to your waist, pulling you closer, molding your curves against the hard lines of his body, seeking solace in the familiar feel of you, the warmth, the softness.

You moaned against his lips, a sound of pure need that seemed to break the last vestiges of his control. The weight of his guilt, the burden he’d carried for weeks, seemed to dissipate under the heat of your kiss, replaced by a more primal need; a raw, desperate hunger.

You pulled back just enough to catch your breath, to look into his eyes, the stormy blue depths you’d thought you’d lost forever, now blazing with a rekindled fire that sent a jolt of pure desire straight through you.

He kissed you again with a ferocity that had your knees going weak, his tongue a weapon claiming every inch of your mouth, his hands a possessive force on your hips, as if he could physically merge your bodies, your souls, erasing the distance, the doubt, that had haunted you for far too long.

He lifted you then, without breaking the kiss, carrying you towards the bedroom, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. He laid you down on the bed, his weight settling over you, his gaze never leaving yours as he reached behind you, tucking a pillow beneath your injured shoulder.

He loomed over you, his body a welcome weight against your own. “This okay?”

“Yes,” you breathed, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, your body arching towards his, needing more, needing everything he’d held back for far too long. “God, yes, John… Just… touch me.”

His touch was no longer hesitant, no longer laced with guilt or apprehension. This was the John you knew. His hands, large and calloused, yet infinitely gentle, roamed your body with a familiarity like it was a map he had studied for years.

“Like this?” he rasped, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin beneath your ear, a spot he knew made you shiver with anticipation.

“Yes!” You moaned, arching into his touch, needing more, needing all of him.

“Tell me when it’s too much, yeah?” 

You wanted to tell him that nothing he could ever do would be too much, that the thought of him hesitating, of holding back any part of himself from you, was more unbearable than any pain he could inflict. But the words wouldn’t come, caught in the swell of need that tightened your throat, that turned your insides to molten gold under his hungry gaze.

He’d shed his clothes in a heartbeat, and then he was pushing your thighs apart. His knee settled between your legs, and the heat of him, the solid evidence of his desire, his erection standing full and proud, made you ache with a need you hadn't thought possible.

This was him, offering up his vulnerability alongside his desire, reminding himself, reminding you, that he was still the man you’d fallen in love with somewhere between the training ground and the front lines.

“John,” you breathed, his name escaping your lips as he positioned himself at your entrance, the tip of his cock, slick and hot against your aching core, a sensation both familiar and intensely, unbearably, arousing.

He entered you with a force that stole your breath, the feeling both familiar and overwhelming after weeks of forced abstinence.

He was fucking you. Hard, fast, with a ferocity he hadn't unleashed in weeks. Every thrust a desperate attempt to exorcise the demons that haunted him, to rewrite the narrative of his actions, to find solace, oblivion, in the heat of your body and the taste of your skin.

For a stolen moment, it almost worked. He lost himself in the feel of you, tight and hot around him; the scent of you, the taste of you on his lips, a drug that dulled the edges of his pain, offering a fleeting escape from the torment.

But the past had a way of catching up, even in this vulnerable, shared haven of yours.

You arched into him, your head thrown back against the pillows, a moan escaping your lips as he pushed deeper. Your face distorted, your features twisted in the throes of passion, and something within him snapped.

His vision blurred, the lines of your face dissolving –

Your eyes, rolled back, your brows furrowed –

From pleasure. Not pain.

Your breath hitched as he moved – as the bullet hit your shoulder.

Pleasure. Not pain.

He repeated those words over and over like a frantic litany in his mind, trying to erase the image that superimposed itself onto you —

He saw it again, your face, contorted in agony, not ecstasy, as he ran towards you in the warehouse, your body a broken doll sprawled on the blood-soaked concrete, a testament to his choice, his aim, his failure.

Pain.

The warehouse lights glared in his memory, harsh and unforgiving, reflecting off the pool of blood that seemed to expand, to swallow him whole. The metallic tang of it filled his nostrils, choking him. He felt the phantom weight of the rifle against his shoulder, heard the echo of the gunshot, the sickening thud as his bullet found its mark.

His stomach churned, the pleasure, so intense moments before, turning bitter in his mouth, a sour, acidic taste that had bile rising in his throat.

He couldn’t breathe. The room seemed to spin, your body suddenly a stranger, a fragile thing he needed to put at a distance before he destroyed you all over again.

“No…” The denial escaped his lips, a strangled whisper. His body shuddered, a wave of nausea rolling over him, forcing him to pull back, breaking the contact, leaving him stranded on a shore of his own making again, the waves of his guilt crashing over him again, threatening to drag him under again.

“John?” You sat up, the sheet pooling around your waist, concern furrowing your brow as you watched him recoil from you, his face distorted with an anguish you couldn’t decipher. You reached for him, your hand hovering hesitantly above his arm, unsure of how to navigate this sudden shift, this retreat back into the darkness he'd been fighting for weeks.

He shook his head, unable to speak, unable to face you. The shame, the self-loathing, was a physical weight that had him collapsing back onto the bed, his back to you, his body curled in on itself, seeking a refuge he knew didn't exist. It was as if he were trying to fold himself into the smallest possible space, disappear into the shadows, become as invisible as the ghosts that haunted him.

“John, what's wrong?” You whispered, your hand still hovering above him, wanting to touch him, to offer comfort, but afraid of intruding, of shattering the fragile shell he seemed to have retreated into.

He shook his head again, the gesture frantic, a silent denial of your offer. He couldn't look at you, couldn't bear the judgment, the accusation, he knew he deserved. The guilt, the remorse, the images that replayed in his mind – they were a relentless tide, an undertow dragging him down into a darkness he wasn’t sure he could escape.

“God, I don’t…” His voice cracked, the weight of his guilt crushing him, squeezing the air from his lungs, stealing his breath. “I don't deserve you… I don’t deserve… any of this.”

He finally turned to you then, and you flinched involuntarily. The pain in your shoulder was nothing compared to the agony etched on his face, the raw, unfiltered torment in his eyes, a reflection of the hell he was living in.

“I look at you…” He choked out, the confession a jagged piece of shrapnel piercing his heart. “And all I see is... the blood. Your blood. Everywhere…” He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking as a sob ripped through him, the sound raw and guttural, a stark contrast to the strong soldier you'd always known, the man who had built his life on control, on burying his emotions beneath layers of duty and discipline.

This wasn't the John you knew, the man who faced every challenge head-on, who commanded a room with his presence. This was a man undone, a warrior stripped of his armor, reduced to tears by the torment of his guilt, the terror of his own actions and his love for you. Vulnerable and exposed.

And as he sat there, his body trembling, his breath coming in ragged gasps, the dam finally broke completely. He was a ship caught in a hurricane, the waves of his guilt crashing over him, the mast of his resolve snapping, the sails of his self-control ripped to shreds. His sobs, raw and guttural, filled the room, a lament that echoed the turmoil in his soul, a sound that had your heart shattering into a million pieces.

“It’s… it’s everywhere. On my hands... On the walls… In my dreams… God, I can't… I can't escape it.”

You reached out, your hand settling gently on his arm, but you didn't speak. You could offer no words, no reassurances, that could alleviate this pain. You could only offer him your presence, your touch; show him that he did still deserved you and your love.

“Those nights… Every time I close my eyes, it's there. The warehouse, the hostages, the look on your face, the blood…” He shuddered, his voice breaking as he continued, “It's like… I’m back there, in that moment, but this time… this time you don’t get up.”

His gaze, filled with a desolate pain you'd never witnessed before, settled on the bandage on your shoulder.

“One centimeter,” he whispered then, “one fucking centimeter... and it was my choice, my bullet… ” He trailed off, the realization of it all, the weight of his actions, crashing over him all over again. “God, I’ve seen men die… good men, the best… I've held them as they bled out, watched the light fade from their eyes… But this…” He shook his head, the words choking him. “This is different. I… I can't…”

He shifted slightly, his gaze still settled on your shoulder. “You’ve been injured before,” he choked out, “hell, I've been shot, stabbed, blown up…” He laughed, a harsh, brittle sound – he’d survived a hundred battles, a thousand close calls, only to be brought down by his own hand, his own love. “But this… this time, it was me. I was the one who…” 

He couldn't finish the sentence, the words dissolving into another sob that racked his body. He pressed his palms against his eyes, as if he could physically erase the images that haunted him, but the memories were too vivid, too deeply ingrained - your startled gasp, the sickening thud of the bullet, the blood, your blood, blossoming against your skin. He saw it everywhere: on his hands, on his uniform, on the sheets of your shared bed. A stain he couldn't wash away, a mark of Cain branded onto his soul.

“I’m a monster,” he choked out, the words a strangled cry, a confession ripped from the very core of his being, a truth he'd been running from since the moment he'd pulled the trigger. “Don’t you see? I could have killed you... I almost killed you…”

You could see that he was losing the battle against himself, the fight for control he’d waged for weeks finally slipping through his fingers.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, his voice cracking again, the words an admission of his vulnerability, his need for you, the one person he felt he'd failed. “Please… forgive me.”

“John, stop.” You finally whispered as he seemed to have paused his emotional confession. You shifted closer to him, gently placing your hands on his ribs, his warmth seeping into your skin. “You’re not a monster. The hostages, they’re alive because of you. You saved Gaz. You saved my life. And you were the only one who could make that shot. You know that.”

Your hands found their way around him, to lift his head, so that he would look at you, so you could see him, the man you loved, lost in the depths of his own despair. You gently cupped his cheeks, your fingers wiping away the trails of tears that were rolling down, a gesture of comfort, of reassurance, and a silent plea for him to believe in your love, in the truth that transcended his self-inflicted judgment. “Listen to me.” You said, louder now, your voice a lifeline thrown out to pull a man drowning back to the surface. “There is nothing to forgive.”

“But I –” He started to argue, to protest, but the words caught in his throat, his breath hitched as he surrendered to the grief, the remorse, that had been bottled up inside him for so long.

"Shh," you soothed, leaning in, your forehead resting against his.

You pulled back slightly, meeting his gaze. “I don’t blame you for this, John. Not one bit. Not a single, tiny bit."

His eyes, shadowed with doubt, searched yours, as if looking for the lie, the accusation he was convinced he deserved instead.

“Yes, it sucks. Yes, it hurts.” You continued, your voice soft but firm, “but you know what would have hurt more? Dead parents and their children, and me… maybe not even here to hurt at all. He was about to fire, John. You know it. I know it.”

You held his gaze, your thumbs stroking the lines of pain etched around his eyes, lines that spoke of sleepless nights. “You may not want to be called a hero, John,” you whispered, leaning forward, resting your forehead against his again, offering him the comfort, the understanding, the love he so desperately needed. “But you are my hero. You did the right thing. If there's anyone on this earth who could make that shot, that impossible shot, who could put a bullet through my shoulder and stop a terrorist’s heart in the same breath… it’s you. It’s always been you.”

He stared at you, the intensity of his gaze softening as he listened to your words, the frantic beating of his heart gradually slowing, the storm within him beginning to calm.

“I just…” The confession escaped his lips on a shuddering breath. “I almost lost you. The thought of it…” He trailed off, unable to voice the terror that haunted him, the vision of your lifeless body, his bullet the cause, a constant nightmare from which there seemed no escape.

“I’m here,” you whispered, cutting him off before he could descend back into the abyss of his own making. “I’m alive.”

He closed his eyes, surrendering to the pressure of your touch, your warmth seeping into his skin. He let himself get pulled against your chest, his head resting so he could hear your heartbeat steadily in his ear. A reassuring lullaby to soothe him, a reminder that you were still here, with him.

“I love you,” he whispered, the words broken, a confession wrenched from his soul. “God, I love you so much… I almost… I’m so sorry…”

“I know, John.”

His breathing slowed as the tension ebbed from his body. He realized then, in the quiet aftermath, that pulling away, retreating into the silence of his own guilt, had only deepened the cut, amplified his pain. The distance had been a lie, a shield he'd put up to protect you from him, but now he knew: you didn’t need protection. You needed him, just as he needed you. The only force strong enough to pull him back from the abyss, the only remedy to heal those self-inflicted wounds, was you.

“I know.”

His tears continued to fall, but they were different now – not the hot, frantic tears of a man drowning in guilt, but softer, almost silent tears, born of exhaustion and a fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to forgive himself.

You watched him as he drifted off to sleep, his face finally peaceful. For the first time in weeks, he slept without nightmares and tremors. He was exhausted – emotionally, physically drained – the weight of his guilt temporarily lifted by the power of your presence, your touch, your love.

You leaned down, your lips brushing against his hair, your lips lingering, as you rested your head above his.

“I love you, too, John. It’s alright. We’re alright.”

[sh4rkkks]

𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐜!𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭 ༒

𝐓𝐰: 𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐝-𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭, 𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐮𝐦𝐚, 𝐬𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬: 𝐟𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐦𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐞𝐱𝐡𝐢𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐦, 𝐦𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐝𝐨𝐦/𝐬𝐮𝐛 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬

𝐀𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬 | 𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧 ’𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭’ 𝐫𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

the terrifying Ghost, large hulking lieutenant of the tf141. you’ve known him for a while now, the regular appeal of his character a striking blow to your personality. he never speaks, never dares to look you in the eye as he walks by. the few glances you swipe at him are passing stares, watching from afar as Price drones on about missions. you watch him, just watch as he lives his life.

you’ve offered your assistance when he looks like he needs it, only to be shot down by a stern grunt—or if you’re lucky, a sharp no. he’s a peculiar figure, one who you’ve wanted to dig inside for so long now. you can’t lie to yourself, you’re utterly amazed by him. the way he carries himself at such a tall standard is as inspiring as it is attractive.

“good work with the sweep, i’m going to need the paperwork from each of you by tomorrow and…” Prices voice drones on, a practiced speech he gives after every successful mission. it’s the same spiel every time, a metaphoric pat on the back if you will. you pay no mind to him, alert in case of a change to routine, but your head is elsewhere. you’re sitting across the table from Ghost, watching. watching like you always do.

it’s an analytical approach, one you use on many people in interrogation when you want to read their body language. but with Ghost it’s different. his face is hidden behind the dark balaclava he wears. the worn skull pattern mocks you, almost taunting the ideas of what may lie beneath it. his dark eyes are focused on Price, eyebrows drawn together as if this is the first time hearing the script before. he shifts back in his chair as if he can feel your eyes on him, though he never dares to look at you.

his eyes are a dark hazel, sticking out against the dark eye grease he’s so clearly half assed onto his skin. you wonder what the grease feels like. is it a stale paste that is a burden to rub on? must not be if he wares it so frequently. his lashes flutter against the dark grease, and if you look hard enough you can see the blonde coloring closer to his eyelid. you’ve observed the small amounts of skin he’s let be shown so much you’ve created an image of him in your mind.

he shifts again, almost startling you by the movement of crossing his arms. what really gets your heart going is when his eyes find yours. his brows pull even further together, like he’s insulted you would dare look at him. but you can’t take your eyes off him. he blinks slowly, a subtle shift to his pupils as he narrows his eyes in your direction, the hazel of his irises disappearing behind the cold look.

“dismissed.” that’s all you register before Ghost is out the meeting room door.

the gym is quiet, the soft hum of the overhead fans filling the room with an almost eerie atmosphere. you don’t mind though, too enamored by the day to care. you cant sleep, your mind consumed by a single pressurized thought. one that you refuse to admit to yourself.

the sweat trickles down your back, the sports bra clinging to your skin in a nauseatingly uncomfortable manner. you sink down from your last hip thrust, body aching as you sit against one of the hard mats. the process of cleaning of the weights is exhausting to say the least, your body in need of any sort of hot compress.

the shower rooms are a nightmare during the daytime, the night providing a much nicer contrast to the usual lines or chaos. as you step into the large room, a faint steam surrounds you, the hiss of one of the showers echoing through the empty spaces. you look around the corner into the main shower room. one of the curtains are closed, a pair of feet visible from under the expanse of the showers before it. the long bench in the middle of the tiled room is currently housing one set of clothes. Ghost.

the familiar skull balaclava he was wearing earlier today is resting right on top of his discarded clothes, placed deliberately on top of the neatly folded black fabrics. you dare not speak, unable to even fathom what might happen if he knew you were just standing here. you’re torn with your choices, debating wether to just ignore him and shower, or run with your tail tucked between your legs.

a groan.

it pulls you from your own head, ricocheting off the tiled walls of the empty rooms. his breathing is labored above the spray of the water, his lips tightened as he seemingly conceals something. he sounds pained, like he’s wounded and forcing himself to shower through the pain. you move without realizing, footsteps silent as you walk past the empty stalls. you don’t even regulate that you’re not breathing, too focused on making sure that your lieutenant isn’t injured.

you almost feel your heart stop. the shower curtain is foggy but still clear, giving you a good view of his large back as it faces you. one of his arms is planted on the wall in front of him, the other seemingly gripping his stomach from what you can see. his back muscles ripple as he sucks in another breath, head tipping back so his face is facing the ceiling. he’s blonde. from what you can see at least, his hair darkened from being wet.

his hand rubs over his stomach, bicep flexing with the movement as he moves it faster. a realization dawns on you, everything going blank in your mind. “Ghost-“ you don’t know what you’re doing, you don’t know why you’re calling out to him as you watch him unfold.

“mm, fuck-“ he reels over slightly, body shaking as he moans. you’re stricken by your own horror as you feel the spot between your legs pulse. “fuck fuck fuck…” his head dips between his shoulders, arm flexing as it slows movement. his shoulders rise and fall as he pants, his mind clearly too clouded to recognize that it was your actual voice, not just imagination.

you swallow, hand reached out like you’re trying to hold him from the other side of the shower curtain. “Ghost,” you repeat, voice timid as if not to scare him. his head whips around, side profile sticking as he hides behind his outstretched arm.

“get the fuck out.” his voice is chilling as he practically yells at you. he spins around, clearly not realizing what he’s just done. his face is fueled by anger but your heart pounds at the tortured beauty of it. his nose is crooked from being broken so many times. there’s a large gash in his right cheek. his eyes fit so well with the rest of his rugged features you don’t even realize how heavily you’re staring until he tugs the shower curtain back. “you hear me?” he snaps. “get out of the goddamn showers.” it’s an eager bite to you, voice low and truly terrifying to an average person.

it would be terrifying if you weren’t so focused on his body. he’s absolutely built, his muscles carved into his scarred and pale skin like it’s never been any other way. it would be terrifying if you weren’t so focused on the way his biceps bulged with each tense and hardened breath. it would be terrifying if you weren’t so focused on the way his cock hangs between his legs. fuck.

he’s semi-hard you assume, only judging on the way it twitches with his movement. you feel lightheaded, your mind consumed by the imprinted picture of the man standing before you. he’s a bit bigger than average, you decide. jesus christ. you can feel your jaw slack as you watch a bead of his cum roll down the base of him. “shit- get-“ he growls in frustration, realizing a moment too late where you’re looking. “stop looking.” he snaps at you. he’s covered himself with a towel before you can begin foaming at the mouth unfortunately, your eyes wandering back up to his face.

“what the fuck are you doing in here?” he runs a hand through his hair, turning away so you can’t see his full face. “showering.” you answer simply, eyes tracing over his side profile. “jesus, fuck.” he scoffs humorously, his laugh hollow as if he can’t believe himself right now. “i-i’’ sorry i didn’t realize you were in here and when i heard you, you sounded like you were hurt, so i came to check on you to make sure everything was okay but-“ he cuts your rambling off by holding up his hand. “found me fucking wanking.” he grumbles, rubbing a hand over his jaw as he continues looking away.

“you don’t have to cover up, i saw everything just now.” you’re not sure how those words slip from your mouth, but they’re met with a glare from the corner of his eye. “this is not an ‘i showed you mine, so you show me yours,” type situation. he snaps. you blink slowly, as if you don’t understand. “it can be,” everything seems to move at lighting speed as the words spill form your tongue. the confidence of your tone isn’t lost on Ghost, his eyes widening in a way only someone who analyzed him every day could notice.

he scrubs a hand down his face, muttering something into the palm. your eyes drift down to where the towel covers his cock, you can see the imprint of it now. so your words did have an effect on him. “Ghost,” your voice is breathy as you stare at the way the towel visibly tents. “don’t-”his voice is gravely, a shiver rolling through his body. “are you embarrassed?” you feel more timid now, trying to hide the amusement in your voice at the flush that creeps up his neck.

“yes i’m fucking embarrassed,” he snaps. “j’st heard me fuckin’…” he makes a grotesque movement with his hand, mimicking a stroke of his cock. he drops his hand, scoffing at himself. “why am i even- the fuck are you doing?”

you’re stripping, that’s what. you’ve got the workout shorts you were wearing gone, left in the sports bra and panties covered in sweat. “you showed me yours, so i show you mine.” you say like it’s the simplest thing on earth. he swallows, unable to speak or move as you take off your underwear, stepping out of the fabric and kicking it aside. your sports bra comes next, arms working to peel the material over your head. you’re breathing heavily as you eyes find his again.

“you..” he’s at a loss for words, his eyes averting your body as whole. you huff with frustration, walking forward until you’re able to take his hand in yours, guiding it to rest on your stomach. “touch,” you tell him simply. his eyes drift down to where you’ve placed his hand, immediately moving closer like its muscle memory. his eyes follow the movement of his own hand as he drags it down your skin. his palm runs down your stomach, shifting to the left before he comes in contact with the soft pussy he’s been dreaming of.

his fingers squeeze at the flesh of your hip, his eyes moving their own path around your body. he grunts in response when you let out a pleased hum, his eyes never leaving your skin as he lifts his other hand. the towel covering him drops to his feet instantly, giving you a clear view of him. his tip is now a puffy pink, drooling at the slit just from touching you. he stumbles forward as his hand reaches up to your chest, palming at the soft globe of your tit. he crowds you against the tile wall in the shower, dragging the curtain closed like someone would walk in at this hour. you hiss as your back comes in contact with the cold wall, immediately warmed by his body pressing against yours.

“can i touch your pussy?” his voice is a quiet huff, eyes still moving over the way his hand gropes your chest. you nod, smiling to yourself at the embarrassment he feels. “you want to?” you can’t help the amusement that seeps from your voice. his eyes snap to yours, glaring but then softening at the look on your face. he swallows, adam’s apple bobbing. “please.” his head tilts, nose brushing against your cheek bone as he pushes his hips against your thigh. you can feel the precome running down your skin, as he shifts. a soft sound leaves your lips as his hand on your hip trails over to your pubic mound. the heel of his hand rests against your lower stomach as two fingers dip between your thighs. he gently touches your lower lips, parting them with a hitched inhale.

you feel as his head moves from yours, his eyes moving down to where he fiddles with your flesh. his breathing is heavy, shoulders moving with each passing second as he practically pants. his fingers spread your pussy lips, granting himself access to run them through the soaked slit. he swears under his breath as he brushes his fingers over your puffy clit, tugging his hand away to push his fingers into his mouth. his eyes close as he sucks, entranced by you and your sweet taste.

“j’st wanna-“ he grabs at your hips, tugging them against his as he shifts. his cock rubs against your clit, sliding through the puffy folds. he groans at the feeling, chest constricting with urge to hold his sounds back. “oh fuck-“ his head dips to press his forehead against yours. you moan at the pressure against your clit, sound swallowed by the spray of the shower still running.

his hips rub against yours, soft pants coming from his lips as he practically humps you. “Ghost..” your arms wrap around his neck, tugging at the strands of his wet hair. “don’t do that- don’t say my name in that voice.” he warns. “g’nna cum too fast.” you almost laugh at his words, but your mind is cut off by pure ecstasy as his tip rubs against your entrance. “j’st wanna put it in-” one of his hands move to grip the base of his cock, rubbing it against your hole. “can i? i promise i wont cum inside ya-“ he shifts forward a bit, not even waiting for your response as he presses fully against you. “just- oh fuck yeah-”

you feel the almost painful stretch as he sinks the tip of himself inside you, his hand strangling the flesh of your hip as he holds himself back. his head moves to rest against your shoulder, biting down on your skin to stop his whines threatening to escape. you feel as your legs begin to tremble, the ache subsiding as you’re filled with pure desire. “c’mon,” he’s talking to himself, his hips bucking forward in sloppy desperation. “tight fuckin’ pussy.” he grumbles, a string of drool collecting on the skin of your shoulder as he sheathes himself further inside you. it’s like he’s in a trance, his whole body shaking as he sloppily grinds against you. “you touch her? late at night,”

“yeah, Ghost. think of you when i do.” your head tips back against the tile wall, body shivering as he sinks even deeper. “yeah, yeah you do. good fuckin’ cunt.” he nods, slurring his words. he thrusts forward, fully sitting himself inside you with one single groan. he holds there for a beat, holding his breath as he collects himself. his lips find the skin of your neck, sucking the flesh into his mouth as he moves his hips. they’re rough thrusts, his swollen tip kissing your cervix as he fucks himself into your pussy.

you run your hand down his back, soothing him as he ruts into you. “so good,” you whisper into his ear, your lips grazing the shell. “mhm.” he nods. “yeah, m’making y’r pussy feel good.” his words are a jumbled mess, access growing thicker as he loses himself in you. “please lemme make you feel good.”

god he’s pathetic

“you are making me feel good,” you assure him. “m’k j’st wanna fuck you good.” he mumbles into your skin. one of his hands move to where you’re joined, two of his fingers searching for your clit. you reach down, guiding him to the small bundle of nerves with a soft chuckle. you guide him as he rubs at you, adjusting him to how you like your pussy played with. he moans, thrusts growing sloppy as he rolls your clit between the pads of his fingers. “please come-“ he begs. you’re swallowing thickly, unable to get words out as your legs tremble with pleasure.

the moment you come undone he’s a goner, his hands braced on the wall beside your head as he fucks into you at a frankly painful pace. “yeah fuck…fuck…fuck..” he pants, snapping his hips against yours at every swear. you feel as he spills inside of you, clearly forgetting about what he said about ‘not cumming inside you’.

and at that moment you realize how big of a slut your lieutenant is for you.

[shapard]

Tantrum🕷️

Satan x Succubus!fem!reader

Tw: Smut, slow burn, therapist x client, Satan being Satan to the low life, p in v

6k

Satan is so Hot

Part 1 > Part 2

The story begins after the cut

You exhaled slowly, your breath shaky as your eyes scanned the list of today's clients. One name stood out like a drop of blood on pristine parchment: Satan. Yes, the Satan. You’d laughed when the receptionist first told you. Surely, it was some dark joke, right? But the chilling sincerity in her eyes told you otherwise. For the next month, the King of Wrath himself would be your client. His personal therapist—or "anger coach," as they called it—was conveniently on vacation, leaving the responsibility to you.

Your fingers hovered over the file, tapping lightly on the thick paper. His profile was sparse yet enough to send a chill down your spine. Anger issues. As if that needed to be stated. Brutal, cruel, unpredictable. Lies often. Has a dangerously short temper. And the last line, hastily scrawled like a warning, stood out the most: Approach with caution.

The note on your pad detailed when and where you were to meet him: Satan’s castle. Even the thought of it made your stomach churn. The clock on your desk screeched, breaking your trance. It was time.

Your palms were clammy as you left your room, dread curling around your spine. The limousine waiting outside was overkill, with its glossy black finish and an interior too luxurious for comfort. You sank into the seat, but even its plush softness couldn’t ease the knot tightening in your chest. Your fingers toyed nervously with the fabric of your shirt. "Why am I doing this to myself?" you muttered, your voice a hoarse whisper.

The drive stretched on, the limousine cutting through a landscape that seemed to grow darker, more twisted with every passing mile. Gnarled trees loomed like skeletal hands, their shadows dancing over the cracked road. The closer you got to his estate, the more oppressive the air became, thick with heat and a faint metallic tang that clung to your throat. When the car finally stopped, your breath hitched.

The castle loomed above you like a blackened wound carved into the earth itself. Jagged spires clawed at the sky, and the air was heavy with the faint stench of sulfur. The gates creaked open, revealing a procession of imps scurrying about with feverish purpose. Their glowing eyes briefly landed on you before darting away, like vermin avoiding a predator.

You swallowed hard, stepping out of the limousine. The ground beneath your sneakers radiated an uncomfortable heat, as if the very earth resented your presence. You hesitated, looking up at the fortress before you. Every instinct screamed for you to run. But you were a therapist—for Lucifer’s sake, you’d dealt with impossible clients before. Just not ones who could incinerate you with a single breath.

A small, hunched imp dressed in a tattered butler’s uniform approached, its head bowed. Without a word, it gestured for you to follow. You obliged, your legs moving stiffly as if weighed down by chains. The castle’s interior was worse. Shadows seemed alive, twisting and curling around corners like smoke. The halls were cavernous and eerily silent, save for the echo of your footsteps against the stone floor.

You were led through corridors that gleamed with wealth. Gold littered every surface, accompanied by piles of glittering jewels—rubies, diamonds, and sapphires, carelessly heaped as if they were nothing more than pocket change. It was suffocating in its opulence, but it was the odd details that unsettled you. A scorch mark on the wall, as if something—or someone—had been obliterated there. Deep claw marks gouged into the stone.

When you entered his chamber, the atmosphere shifted entirely. Heat rolled over you in waves, and the room smelled faintly of ash. Your eyes roamed over the space, catching glimpses of heavy iron chains, monstrous workout equipment, and a hulking throne that seemed carved from molten rock. And then, your gaze rose.

He was there.

The dragon loomed in the far corner, a creature of pure, terrifying majesty. His scales shimmered like molten obsidian, and his horns, wickedly curved and sharp, glinted faintly in the dim light. His golden eyes burned like twin suns, locking onto you with an intensity that made your stomach drop. His chest rose and fell with a deep, growling breath that reverberated through the floor.

"So," he rumbled, his voice a deep, guttural drawl that made the air vibrate. "You’re the replacement.”

You froze, your body rigid as his gaze raked over you. His tone dripped with disdain, his lips curling into something between a snarl and a smirk. You felt like a mouse under the eye of a serpent.

“A succubus?” he sneered, the word laced with contempt. His massive frame shifted as he lowered his head, bringing his razor-sharp teeth dangerously close to your trembling form. His eyes narrowed, a flicker of amusement dancing in their molten depths. “For a succubus, you look... innocent.”

You flinched as his claw moved, its sharp tip hooking under the edge of your buttoned shirt. With terrifying ease, he pulled you closer, the heat radiating from him suffocating.

“Sir,” you managed, your voice wavering as you fought to hold your ground, “this is… inappropriate.”

The dragon chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “Inappropriate?” he repeated, his tone mockingly sweet. “Oh, little one, we’re far beyond ‘appropriate’ here.”

For a moment, the tension was unbearable, his golden gaze locking onto yours, unyielding and searing. Then, with a huff, he released you, his massive claw retracting as he settled back.

“Let’s see how long you last,” he muttered, his voice laced with dark amusement. “They always break, you know.”

Your knees felt weak, your breath shallow as you took a hesitant step back. This wasn’t going to be like any other client you’d dealt with. And as his gaze lingered on you, predatory and calculating, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were stepping into a game you didn’t fully understand—a game where the rules were written in blood.

“Let’s start with something simple—an introduction.” You tried to project confidence, raising your voice slightly to ensure he could hear you clearly. The weight of his molten gaze bore down on you, but you kept your posture straight. “Before we can trust each other, we need to know each other.”

Your words hung in the air, daring to challenge the suffocating silence. His golden eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his reptilian features. You forced a smile and continued, your voice steady despite the thrum of fear in your chest. “My name is Y/n L/n. I’ll be your therapist for the time being. In my spare time, I enjoy drawing. Now, would you care to introduce yourself?”

The room seemed to grow hotter. A deep huff escaped from Satan’s nostrils, the force of his breath stirring the papers on your clipboard. His head tilted ever so slightly, as though studying you from a new angle. “You know who I am.” His words were low and blunt, carrying the faintest edge of impatience.

You kept your expression neutral, though your heart thudded painfully in your chest. “Of course, I know. But I’d like to hear it from you.” Your tone was calm, measured, even as the edges of his form seemed to ripple with heat.

That caught him off guard. His brows furrowed, and for a moment, his eyes lost some of their predatory sharpness. His breathing, which had been fiery and erratic, grew slower, more controlled. “I am Satan,” he said at last, his voice still low but tinged with pride. “The Sin of Wrath. The first sin.”

You didn’t flinch, though the words carried a weight that pressed against you. Liar. The truth was well-known—Lucifer was the first. But you kept that observation to yourself, instead lowering your gaze to jot something down on your notepad.

The scratch of your pen seemed deafening in the charged silence.

“What are you writing?” His tone was sharper now, irritation bubbling just beneath the surface. You glanced up cautiously, noting the slight flare of his nostrils and the way his claws flexed against the stone floor.

“It’s nothing important,” you assured him, your voice soft but deliberate. “Just a few notes for me. Is that okay?”

His eyes narrowed further, glowing faintly as if testing your words for deceit. After a tense moment, he leaned back, the massive muscles in his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Yeah… I guess.”

You allowed yourself a small exhale, the pen trembling faintly in your grip as you made another note. “Thank you. So, tell me—what’s your favorite hobby?” you asked, keeping your tone light, almost conversational.

Satan blinked, clearly caught off guard again. “Hobby?” he repeated, as if the concept were foreign to him. A pause stretched between you, and then he shrugged. “Uh… I like working out.”

Internally, you groaned. Great, you thought, suppressing the urge to roll your eyes. A gym bro with anger issues. But outwardly, you smiled, though your fingers tightened slightly around your pen.

As you scribbled his answer, you felt a subtle shift in the air. His gaze hadn’t left you, and there was something unsettling about the way he watched you now—curious, calculating, like a predator studying its prey. The edges of his mouth twitched, as if he were amused by something only he understood.

“Do you always write so much?” he asked suddenly, his voice a little too casual.

You froze for half a second before looking up. “Only when it helps me understand my client better,” you said evenly.

Satan’s lip curled faintly, exposing a hint of razor-sharp teeth. “Interesting,” he murmured, leaning forward slightly. His massive frame seemed to loom larger, casting a shadow that swallowed the light around you. “You seem… different. For a therapist. For a succubus.”

The word dripped with disdain, but there was an odd curiosity in his tone as well. Your throat tightened, but you forced yourself to hold his gaze.

“I don’t think I fit the usual mold,” you replied lightly, though the words felt thin against the heavy atmosphere.

Satan chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “No, you don’t. But we’ll see how long that lasts.”

The way he said it felt more like a warning than a casual remark. And as the room grew unnervingly quiet again, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you had just stepped into something far more dangerous than you were prepared for.

“Anyway,” you began, trying to dissipate the strange tension in the air, “what do you usually do to calm yourself?” Your voice was steady, professional, but you were acutely aware of the weight of his golden gaze lingering on you.

Satan tapped his claw against his chin, the sharp tip glinting faintly in the dim light. “I work out,” he said simply.

You nodded and placed your notepad down. “Have you ever tried anything else? Something less… physical?”

He shook his head, leaning back with a nonchalant shrug. “No.”

“Interesting.” Your pen hovered over the page, a faint smile tugging at the corners of your lips. Bingo. A potential breakthrough, something to work on next week. “Maybe you should try something new,” you suggested, glancing up at him to gauge his reaction.

Satan raised an eyebrow, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Something new?”

You nodded, maintaining your professional tone. “Yes. There might be situations where you aren’t able to work out. Finding an alternative that brings you calm can help—something you enjoy that doesn’t rely on strength or exertion.”

You could see him thinking, his gaze becoming distant for a moment before snapping back to you. Then, he said it, blunt and unapologetic:

“Sex.”

Your pen slipped slightly, leaving a faint mark across your notepad as your head shot up to meet his gaze. “Excuse me?”

“Sex,” he repeated, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. “I enjoy it. Specifically, I love to dominate. It brings me a sense of calm, of control.”

The heat in the room seemed to spike as his words hung in the air, heavy and electric. You felt your breath hitch slightly, your professionalism faltering under the weight of his admission. Your teeth caught your bottom lip, a subconscious reflex as your mind betrayed you with images you hadn’t invited.

Satan, towering over you, his claws dragging possessively over your skin. His deep growls vibrating against your neck as his body pressed you into the bed like prey. The way his molten gaze would devour every inch of you, a predator savoring its prize.

The thought was dangerous, forbidden—and utterly intoxicating.

“You’re quiet,” Satan observed, a faint smirk curling at the edge of his lips. He leaned forward, resting his massive claws on the table between you. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to sit straighter in your chair, though the heat creeping up your neck betrayed your inner turmoil. “Not at all,” you lied, your voice wavering slightly.

His smirk widened, the sharp tips of his teeth glinting faintly in the low light. “Liar.”

Your breath hitched again as he stood, the sheer size of him making the room feel smaller, more suffocating. He stepped closer, his movements slow, deliberate, predatory. His shadow fell over you, and you tilted your head up to meet his gaze, your heart pounding furiously in your chest.

“Tell me,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, velvety growl. “Have you ever let someone take control of you? Completely?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came out. His presence was overwhelming, his golden eyes boring into you with an intensity that felt like it could strip you bare.

“Let me guess,” he continued, his voice smooth and teasing. “You play the role of the confident therapist. Always in control, always composed. But I wonder…” He leaned closer, his claw tipping your chin up slightly. “What would happen if you let go? If you surrendered—for once?”

Your pulse raced as his words sent a shiver down your spine. The air between you was charged, thick with tension that felt ready to snap at any moment.

“I—” You barely managed to speak before his smirk deepened.

“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” he purred, his voice dripping with dark amusement. “I can see it in your eyes, feel it in the way your body reacts to me.”

Your breath quickened, your mind a blur of conflicting thoughts. This wasn’t supposed to happen—this wasn’t professional. But the pull of his presence, the raw magnetism of him, was impossible to ignore.

As he leaned back, giving you a moment to catch your breath, his smirk softened into something darker, more sinister. “We’ll see how long you can resist,” he murmured, his voice like a promise—a challenge.

You swallowed hard, gripping the edge of your notepad like it was a lifeline. Whatever line had just been crossed, there was no going back now. And the worst part? Some small, treacherous part of you didn’t want to.

You glanced at the clock on the wall, the ticking seconds echoing louder in your ears as you realized the session had come to an end. It felt like both a relief and a punishment. You cleared your throat, trying to regain your composure. “Our time is up for today.”

Gripping your notepad tightly, you rose from your chair, the slight tremble in your legs betraying the inner conflict you fought to suppress. “I’ll see you next week?” you asked, your voice carefully measured, though the second heartbeat between your thighs throbbed mercilessly, reminding you of how thin the line was between professionalism and raw, unspoken desire.

Satan leaned back into his seat, his massive frame exuding power and ease as his ever-present smirk stretched across his face. “You’re quite interesting, you know that?” he said, his golden eyes glinting with something dark, something dangerous.

The way his words curled in the air, dripping with molten heat, sent a shiver down your spine. And then he said it—your name.

“See you next week, Y/n.”

The sound of your name, as it rolled off his tongue like a lazy threat, like a predator marking its prey, felt like fire licking at your skin. It wasn’t just the way he said it—it was the way he owned it, as if your name wasn’t yours anymore but his to use, to savor, to command.

You swallowed hard, your throat dry as you fought to maintain control of yourself. His gaze lingered on you, heavy and consuming, as if he could see every thought, every reaction you tried to bury. The room felt smaller, hotter, as if the very air bent to his will.

You took a deep breath, willing the flush creeping up your neck to subside, and bowed your head slightly—a courteous gesture, but also an excuse to break free of his burning gaze. “I’ll… take my leave now,” you managed, your voice steadier than you expected, though your body betrayed you with every trembling step toward the door.

The silence stretched, but you could feel him watching you, his presence looming even as you turned your back to him. Each step felt heavier, your legs weaker, as if some invisible tether pulled you back to him.

“Y/n,” he called softly, his voice low and dripping with amusement. It was enough to stop you in your tracks, your hand hovering just above the door handle.

You turned slightly, not enough to meet his gaze but enough to let him know you were listening.

“I’ll be looking forward to it,” he said, his smirk audible in his voice. “Next week… I expect us to get much more personal.”

Your breath caught, and you didn’t trust yourself to respond. With a hurried nod, you pushed open the heavy door, stepping into the hall as quickly as you could without outright running.

As the door closed behind you, the weight of his words lingered, wrapping around you like a vice. Each step away from his chamber only made the ache within you stronger, and the echo of his voice—dark, commanding, possessive—played on repeat in your mind.

When you finally reached the outside air, you exhaled deeply, pressing a hand to your chest as if to steady the wild beat of your heart. But no matter how much distance you put between you and him, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were still trapped—bound not by his hands, but by his voice, his gaze, his presence.

And the worst part? You weren’t entirely sure you wanted to escape.

______________________

Your mind drifted to Satan again, as it often did these days. His golden eyes, the low timbre of his voice, the weight of his presence—all of it lingered with you like an intoxicating haze. It was wrong to think of him this way, wasn’t it? You're the therapist. A being of ancient power. Yet his words from the last session whispered through your mind, sending a shiver down your spine: “Next week… I expect us to get much more personal.” What did he mean? The thought left you breathless, your lip caught between your teeth as you tried to push the memory away.

With a sigh, you turned your attention to the mirror, pulling yourself together. Today was a new session, and you needed to remain professional. No room for fluttering thoughts or the heat that crept up your neck every time he said your name. After all, you had a job to do, and you’d prepared exercises meant to calm, not... whatever this was. You brushed out your hair, adjusted your outfit, and gave yourself one last look. You could do this.

The drive to his mansion felt longer than usual, the limousine’s quiet luxury giving your mind too much space to wander. By the time you arrived and stepped out, your palms were clammy despite the crisp air. You gathered your supplies—a palette, brushes, a canvas—and headed to the imposing doors. They opened with a creak, and there he was, standing tall, his figure sharper than usual in a tailored outfit that clung just enough to his form to make you notice. Was he doing this on purpose? The thought made your cheeks flush.

“Satan,” you greeted, keeping your voice steady as you stepped inside.

“Y/n,” he said simply, his golden eyes locking onto yours. He always said your name like it was a secret, something sacred.

You set your supplies down, the clinking of brushes breaking the charged silence. He tilted his head, his gaze flicking over the items with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. “What is this?” he asked, his tone edged with intrigue.

“Painting,” you said, smiling softly. “It’s something that can help channel emotions. I thought it might be worth trying with you.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly, but the flicker of interest in them was unmistakable. “You think this will calm me?”

“It’s worth a shot,” you replied, your tone light. “But first, I need you to… shrink a bit. Your current size might make it tricky.”

He arched a brow but complied without argument, his towering form diminishing to something more manageable. Even so, he still loomed over you, his presence filling the room in a way that made your breath catch.

You handed him one of your favorite brushes, your fingers grazing his. The brief contact sent a spark through you that you tried to ignore. “This one’s precious to me, so don’t break it,” you said with a teasing smile.

His golden eyes darkened slightly, his gaze lingering on you. “Why would you entrust me with something so valuable?” he asked, his voice low, almost reverent.

“Because I think you’ll manage,” you said simply, turning to demonstrate. The truth was, you trusted him in a way you couldn’t explain, and the weight of his gaze as you worked was almost palpable.

You dipped your brush into the paint, your movements fluid and purposeful as you applied color to the canvas. You explained the process, your voice calm, almost hypnotic, as you encouraged him to let his emotions guide him. “It doesn’t have to be perfect,” you said, glancing at him. “Just let it flow.”

Satan watched you intently, his focus shifting between your hands and your face. There was something mesmerizing about the way you moved—graceful, confident, entirely at ease. He tried to mimic your strokes but grew frustrated when his didn’t have the same beauty. Fire flickered briefly at the corner of his mouth as his grip on the brush tightened.

“Take your time,” you said gently, your voice softening. “You’ll manage.”

Those words seemed to echo in his mind, silencing his frustration. Slowly, the tension in his shoulders eased. His golden eyes settled on you again, and this time, there was something softer in them—something that made your heart skip a beat.

“Pretty,” he murmured, the word so quiet you almost missed it.

You glanced up, assuming he meant his canvas. “It’s not bad for a first try,” you said, smiling.

But when your eyes met his, you realized he wasn’t looking at the canvas at all. He was looking at you. The intensity of his gaze made heat rise to your cheeks, and for a moment, you were lost in it.

“I… meant your canvas,” he said quickly, the faintest hint of a stammer in his voice. He turned away, focusing on his painting as if the moment hadn’t happened. “I suppose this isn’t for me,” he added, his tone returning to its usual steadiness.

You sighed softly, setting your brush down. “That’s okay. We’ll find something else to try next time.”

When it was time to leave, you gathered your supplies, his lingering gaze following you to the door. “Till next time, Y/n,” he said, his voice softer than usual.

You smiled, bidding him goodbye before stepping into the limousine. As the car pulled away, you stared out the window, your reflection blushing faintly. “Cute,” you muttered under your breath, thinking of his fleeting shyness.

And maybe, just maybe, you were starting to think of him a little differently too.

As the limousine glided down the winding road back into the city, Y/n leaned their head against the cool glass of the window. The world outside blurred into streaks of light and shadow, but their mind was too preoccupied to notice. Their chest tightened as they replayed the day's moments, each interaction with Satan etched into their memory with vivid clarity.

His golden eyes watching them, the way his brows furrowed in frustration only to soften when he heard their encouragement, and that one unguarded word he’d uttered—“pretty.” Y/n sighed and closed their eyes, the image of his intense gaze surfacing unbidden. He had said it so quietly, yet it echoed in their ears, lingering like a secret between them.

Why am I letting this get to me? Y/n thought, shaking their head. Satan was their patient. A being to be studied and guided, not… admired. And yet, there was something about him—something magnetic and impossible to ignore. His raw power was undeniable, but beneath the towering presence and occasional flashes of anger, there was a vulnerability that Y/n couldn’t help but find fascinating.

When the mansion’s doors had first opened to reveal him, standing there like some otherworldly figure carved out of the very shadows of the underworld, Y/n had been struck by how human he seemed despite his demonic origins. He was capable of humor, of curiosity, and, at times, even shyness—like when he stammered over his compliment and turned away. That brief flash of awkwardness had been disarming, endearing even, and it left a warmth in Y/n’s chest that refused to fade.

_______________

The past few weeks had been a blur of trial and error as you and Satan searched for a way to calm his tempestuous nature. Every method—meditation, physical exercises, even music—had ended in failure. Yet, with every attempt, the two of you had grown closer. Comfort had crept in between the boundaries you’d initially set, a warmth that softened the edges of your professional relationship. Perhaps it was too much comfort.

Frustrated, you ran your hands through your hair, tugging slightly as you let out a groan. “What’s left?” you muttered, mostly to yourself. You hated admitting defeat, but the lack of progress was wearing on you.

“Are you okay?” Satan’s deep voice broke through your spiraling thoughts. He leaned against the edge of his desk, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly as they scanned your face. Concern lingered in his tone, though there was something else in his expression—something darker, more intent.

You sighed, leaning back against the wall, your shoulders sagging. “Yeah, I’m just… out of ideas,” you admitted, rubbing your temples. “Nothing seems to work. Maybe you were right all along—this isn’t going to change.”

A low growl escaped him, and he moved closer, the space between you shrinking with every step. “There’s one thing we haven’t tried,” he said, his voice a seductive rumble. He reached out, his clawed fingers brushing along the curve of your neck with a gentleness that sent a shiver down your spine. The ruby necklace he’d given you weeks ago caught the light, glinting like a drop of blood between you.

You swallowed hard, your breath hitching. “I’m open,” you replied, though your voice wavered. You weren’t sure what you expected him to say, but the tension in the air was thick enough to drown in.

His lips curved into a slow, wicked smile, and his eyes seemed to glow brighter. “Let me please you,” he said, the words both a question and a command.

Your brow furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean?”

His hand slid lower, taking yours in his. His touch was firm but surprisingly warm, and you couldn’t ignore the way your pulse quickened. “For weeks, I’ve been thinking of you. Not just as a distraction from my anger, but as something—someone—I want to consume. Every thought I’ve had has been about how to lure you in, how to make you mine.”

Your heart thundered in your chest, your body tingling with the weight of his confession. He slipped a delicate, shining ring onto your finger, the smooth metal cold against your skin.

“I’ve never felt this way before,” he continued, his voice dropping to a near-growl. “I’m throbbing for you, aching to show you what it means to be claimed by me.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught in your throat as he leaned in, his breath hot against your ear. His clawed hand moved to your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.

The first touch of his tongue against your neck made you gasp, the sensation sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core. His other hand cupped your jaw, tilting your head to the side to give him better access as he traced slow, burning lines along your skin.

“Satan…” His name fell from your lips in a breathless moan as his claws found the waistband of your pants, the sharp tips grazing your skin without breaking it.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured against your throat, his voice raw with need. “Tell me you want it too.”

You didn’t trust your voice, so you nodded, your hands clutching at his shoulders as if to ground yourself. That was all the confirmation he needed.

With a growl, he lifted you effortlessly, pinning you against the wall. His lips crashed into yours, the kiss rough and demanding, leaving no room for hesitation. His sharp teeth grazed your lower lip, and the pain mingled with pleasure in a way that made your head spin. His hands roamed your body, one clawed hand tangling in your hair while the other gripped your hip, holding you firmly in place.

You gasped as he tore open your shirt, the fabric giving way like paper under his strength. His golden eyes roamed hungrily over your exposed skin, and the heat in his gaze made you shiver. “Perfect,” he growled, his lips descending to your collarbone as his claws worked your pants down, leaving you bare beneath his burning gaze.

He pressed his body against yours, his skin hot like fire but not unbearable. The sensation was intoxicating, his power and desire radiating off him in waves that left you trembling. His mouth found your chest, his tongue and teeth teasing sensitive skin until you were writhing beneath him, your nails digging into his shoulders as you fought to keep some semblance of control.

But control was the last thing Satan allowed. “Let go,” he commanded, his voice a low snarl as his hand slipped between your thighs. His touch was rough but precise, drawing sounds from you that you’d never made before. He smirked against your skin, clearly pleased with the effect he had on you.

You couldn’t hold back anymore. Your hands roamed over his chest, tracing the hard lines of his muscles, the heat of his body searing into your palms. His growls deepened as you touched him, and when you whispered his name again, it seemed to drive him over the edge.

He latched onto your nipple, his hot, eager tongue swirling around the sensitive peak as though it held the key to quenching a deep, unrelenting hunger. The heat of his mouth sent a surge of pleasure coursing through you, your back arching instinctively to press closer to him. Each flick and tug of his tongue was deliberate, rough yet skilled, and it drove you wild with every second.

Your hands found his horns, gripping tightly as a loud, unrestrained moan tore from your lips. The sensation of his horns beneath your fingers—solid, commanding, and so uniquely him—only heightened the intensity of the moment. He groaned in response, the vibration of it against your skin adding a tantalizing edge to the pleasure.

As you opened your mouth to say something—perhaps to beg, perhaps to curse his name—his massive hand moved swiftly, covering your mouth and silencing you with an almost possessive dominance. His palm was warm, his claws just barely grazing your jawline, a silent reminder of his power.

“Shh,” he growled against your skin, his voice thick with desire and control. “No words. Just feel.”

The command sent a shiver down your spine, your muffled protests turning into needy whimpers against his hand. His golden eyes flicked up to meet yours, the intensity in them making your pulse race. He didn’t need to say more; the look alone spoke volumes. You’re mine, and I’m going to show you exactly what that means.

His free hand trailed down your side, the sharp edge of his claws leaving ghostly trails that tingled with a mix of anticipation and pleasure. He shifted slightly, his lips abandoning one nipple to lavish attention on the other, his teeth grazing it just enough to make you gasp against his palm.

“Such sweet sounds,” he murmured between kisses, his voice a deep, sinful growl that left you trembling. “I want to hear every single one.”

He claimed you fully then, his movements powerful and relentless as he pushed you to your limits and beyond. The roughness of his touch, the possessiveness in every kiss and thrust, sent you spiraling into a state of pure bliss. He was consuming, overwhelming, but it was everything you hadn’t known you needed.

When it was over, you were both breathing heavily, your bodies tangled together on the floor. His claws traced lazy circles on your skin, the sharp tips surprisingly gentle now.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, his golden eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that left no room for argument.

You smiled, brushing a hand through his tousled hair. “Yours,” you whispered, and for the first time in weeks, you felt completely at peace.

“I need to take you fully,” he growled, his voice rough with restraint, though his burning gaze made it clear his control was hanging by a thread. His golden eyes bore into yours, aflame with desire and something deeper—possessiveness, perhaps, or the primal need to claim you completely. His hot breath fanned across your face, each exhale like a spark threatening to ignite you from within.

You swallowed hard, your body trembling beneath him as you nodded, unable to form words. He stood, towering over you even in his "smallest" form, and the sound of his belt buckle clicking open made your heart skip. His hand gripped the base of his shaft, his claws brushing lightly against his skin as he stroked himself. His movements were deliberate, slow, as he smeared the slick arousal you’d already left on him along his length. The sight of it was utterly mesmerizing.

“Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, his voice a rumble of raw need. His eyes darted to your smaller frame beneath him, the contrast between your softness and his powerful figure making his jaw tighten. Your body trembled under his intense scrutiny, and the way you shuddered only seemed to spur him on.

“You’ll take all of me,” he promised darkly, his lips pulling into a feral smirk before he positioned himself at your entrance. Slowly, he began to press in, the stretch almost overwhelming as he filled you inch by inch. The thickness of him made your breath hitch, your fingers clutching at his shoulders as your body struggled to accommodate him.

When he was fully seated inside you, he let out a guttural groan, his head falling forward as if savoring the way your body gripped him so tightly. “Perfect,” he muttered, his voice laced with awe and lust. “You were made for this. Made for me.”

He started to move, his thrusts deliberate and forceful, his pace building with every stroke. The wet, sinful sounds of your body meeting his filled the den, mingling with the guttural sounds he made as he lost himself in the rhythm. Each thrust sent shockwaves of pleasure coursing through you, his rough movements perfectly hitting every sensitive spot.

“Look at you,” he growled, his voice thick with pride as he watched your body arch beneath him, your moans spilling out freely. “Taking me so well—every inch of me.”

His hands gripped your hips tightly, claws digging in just enough to leave marks as he pulled you into each thrust. His pace quickened, his breathing harsh and uneven, a symphony of raw need that filled the space around you.

Your moans turned into cries of ecstasy as he pounded into you harder, the force of it making your head spin. The pressure building inside you was unbearable, each stroke bringing you closer to the edge. He growled your name, the sound reverberating through the air as he leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear.

“You’re mine,” he rasped, his voice breaking slightly as he thrust even harder, his control finally snapping. “Say it.”

“Yours,” you gasped, your voice trembling with pleasure and submission. “I’m yours.”

The words seemed to ignite something in him, his movements becoming even more relentless. His growls deepened, and the way he pounded into you left you utterly breathless. Every nerve in your body was aflame, and as you reached your peak, the intensity of it shattered you completely, your cries echoing through the den.

Moments later, he followed, his movements faltering as he let out a deep, primal groan. You felt him shudder above you, his body rigid as he spilled into you, marking you in a way that felt both physical and otherworldly.

For a moment, the only sounds were the two of you catching your breath, the heat of his body still pressed against yours. He leaned down, brushing a surprisingly tender kiss against your forehead, a stark contrast to the ferocity he’d shown moments before.

“You’re mine,” he repeated softly, almost as if reassuring himself.

And as you lay there in his arms, thoroughly claimed and utterly sated, you knew he was right. You were his. And you didn’t want it any other way.

Saw no one making shit about him so here I am your savior. Damn y'all.

💫

Masterlist

[lyrablack1883]

Children of The River - frames and thoughts

This one has a really messy thought process.

Jiang Cheng’s mourning clothes were intentional. The siege happened only three months after Yanli’s death—not even a hundred days had passed. He was still in mourning. No guan, no Zidian. Just Sandu and his clarity bell.

I wanted, later on to portray that one moment in battle where Jiang Cheng’s figure would mirror Yanli’s. Just for a second. Despite all their differences. The song was picked entirely for the line ‘I’m the river’s daughter’. It ties back to their childhood—the three of them children of Yunmeng Jiang. ‘Jiang’ means river, so it felt fitting. Too fitting, honestly.

⸻

When I drew their expressions, there was one emotion I wanted to show most. Most depictions of the siege go straight into revenge, fury, rage. But for these two? I didn’t want anger to be the main thing. I wanted to show grief.

That kind of hollowing, simmering grief that sits in your chest and never leaves. Especially with Wei Wuxian—it’s complicated. You can feel how hard he’s trying to keep it together. To stay calm. To control it. And then you see it—red bleeding into his eyes. For Jiang cheng, There’s that one line where Wei wuxian describes Jiang Cheng’s face as full of hostility… but also incredibly gloomy. I just went on with it.

⸻

The blindfolded panel was very much on purpose—a way to show how both of them were just pieces in someone else’s game. A center piece of this animatic, you could say. One small detail is I made Jiang Cheng’s sword point toward his own neck. Just a hint. A quiet suggestion. That start with one truth —Jiang Cheng could never have won against Wei Wuxian. And at the same time, Wei Wuxian could never let Jiang Cheng die.

To be blunt, Yunmeng Jiang was weak at that point. They were barely standing. The sect had been rebuilt, yes, but it hadn’t even been five years. They’d lost so much. You can see it in how little they received after the Wen war—basically scraps. Their strength was gone. What kind of people were crazy enough to follow Yunmeng Jiang back then— to stand behind a leader who held a single flag alone in the middle of a war?

Probably the kind who had nothing left.

The kind who’d already lost the same.

Calling them a major force was more of a political statement than reality. they were made into a shield. Something to take the hit. Something to use.

⸻

Why make Yunmeng Jiang the main force in the first place?

A sect barely standing, rebuilt on ashes, carrying grief like second skin.

They didn’t have the numbers. They didn’t have the strength.

But they had Jiang Cheng.

And that was enough.

Not because he could win—but because he was the one Wei Wuxian couldn’t kill.

That was the play. That was the advantage.

They made him a commander, not out of honor—but because he was the only sword that could get close without being struck down.

The only one who could hold that line while the rest moved in for the kill.

They handed him the siege—

because they knew he’d walk straight into the fire, and Wei Wuxian would flinch.

⸻

The cultivation world had witness something. They saw what happened in Nightless City. They saw the two of them face each other—and how Wei Wuxian let Jiang Cheng live. And they made their bet.

Not just on strength or strategy. They bet on history. On loyalty. On love—if you want to call it that. Not romantic, but something deeper. Something messy. The love that comes from being raised together, losing the same people, breaking and still somehow holding on.

That’s why Jiang Cheng made the perfect shield. Maybe even the perfect knife.

They weren’t just betting on power.

They were betting on love.

And they bet right.