#and that's a wrap for my part in the thread

[zoro-sremedy]

I THINK I WANNA MARRY YOU!

It's a beautiful night, we're looking for something dumb to do Hey, baby, I think I wanna marry you

Synopsis. They accidentally let it slip that they wanna wife you up.

Including. Gojo, Geto, Nanami, Toji, Sukuna, Megumi, Yuji, Shiu.

Risk assessment rated R18+. Make out and kissing, some teasing, some strong language. Smut on Sukuna's part because idk what happened, i got carried away.

a/n: the text thread leading to this as always is down here:

WIFE ME UP!

GOJO SATORU—"RUIN ME THEN"

You barely manage to shut the door behind you before he's on you, kissing you like he's starved—like he hasn't just outed himself as a man mentally ready wifed up with you in his daydreams.

Your bag hits the ground with a thud. He lifts you effortlessly, legs wrapping around his waist as he carries you across the room, lips never parting from yours.

"You're really gonna act like you didn't text me about babies and matching fits and forever?" you tease between kisses, breathless, biting his bottom lip lightly.

He groans, hands sliding under your thighs, squeezing. "You're the one who said you were jumping my bones. I'm just making good on a mutual threat."

He drops you on the bed with a bounce, towering over you, eyes gleaming with that wild, unhinged devotion. His fingers tug your shirt off like it offended him, mouth immediately trailing down kisses down your chest.

"You'd be so hot carrying my baby," he murmurs against your skin. "But first—" he kisses lower, wicked smile curving his lips "—I wanna make you scream like I just proposed."

You laugh—and moan—all at once, tugging at his white hair. "God, you're insane."

"For you? Completely. Now shut up and lemme make you mine in every way but legally. Yet."

He keeps you caged under him, worships you with his mouth and hands, leaves your thighs trembling and your lungs gasping for air. By the time you come down, sweat-slick and flushed, he kisses your knuckles like a damn husband and whispers:

"You're already it for me. Ring or not."

GETO SUGURU—"NOT YET"

The second you step inside his apartment, he's waiting—barefoot, shirt half-unbuttoned, a slow smile on his face like he already knows he won.

"You seriously lit incense," you laugh, toeing off your shoes.

"Had to make the environment match the intentions," Suguru says, voice low, warm. "You said you were gonna ride the hell outta me. I thought that deserved mood lighting."

You close the distance, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, pressing your mouth against his in something half-kiss, half-claim. He hums against you, arms sliding around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

"You really think about marrying me?" you murmur into the space between breaths.

His hands trail reverently down your sides. "Every time I wake up next to you. Every time I watch you move around my home like it's already yours."

You tremble at the honesty in his voice, at the way he touches you—like you're already something sacred.

He guides you gently to the futon, lays you down, and undresses you with care, kissing every newly revealed inch. Then he leans over, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

"If you're gonna ruin me tonight, do it like someone who knows she's mine."

You ride him slow, lips brushing, hands tangled, and his gaze never leaves you. When you gasp his name and come with his fingers digging into your hips, he says—

"'Not yet' doesn't mean never. It means I'm waiting for the moment you say yes."

NANAMI KENTO—"SECOND-FAVORITE MUG"

He's in the kitchen when you get home, sleeves rolled, tie loosened just enough to tempt. You see your favorite mug—the second-favorite one, his words—on the counter, already filled with your tea, just how you like it.

"I thought about using the good mug," he says, not turning. "But I didn't want you to think I was proposing."

You walk straight up behind him, wrap your arms around his middle, press your cheek to his back. "But what if I want you to?"

There's a quiet beat.

Then he turns, unhurried, and cups your cheek with a hand warm from the stove and cooler nights.

"You're really going to jump my bones over a bakery slip?"

"No," you breathe, grinning. "I'm going to jump your bones because you called me 'your partner' like it was the most natural thing in the world."

He exhales through his nose—part amused, part undone—and walks you backward toward the dining table, tie brushing your chest. You pull him by the collar as he hoists you up with a quiet grunt and slides between your thighs like he belongs there. Like he always has.

"I didn't buy a ring," he says, lips brushing your throat. "But if I did… would it scare you?"

You gasp as he presses in close, careful but insistent.

"No," you whisper, breath hitching. "It'd wreck me."

He kisses you slow, steady, with adoration. And when he makes love to you on the hardwood table, it's with all the aching devotion of someone who's been a husband in heart long before he ever says the words.

FUSHIGURO TOJI—"CRUSTLESS CONFESSIONS"

You walk in still stunned from the texts, the scent of garlic and grilled meat hitting you square in the chest like some kind of fever dream. The table's not fancy, but he's tried—two plates, your favorite drink already poured, and that goddamn crustless bread tucked beside the dish like a love letter in carbohydrate form.

"You cooked," you murmur, still blinking.

"Don't sound so shocked," Toji grunts, ladling food onto your plate. "I'm perfectly capable of shit, you know?"

You sit. He watches. When you take a bite, your eyes go wide.

"Holy crap."

He smirks. "Damn right."

And it should end there. It should. But somewhere between the second helping and the way he wipes sauce from your cheek with his thumb, the question lingers too long between bites and glances:

Is this what forever looks like?

When you say, half laughing, "You keep this up and I might have to marry you," you don't expect him to pause.

You really don't expect the quiet, gruff, "good," that follows it.

Your fork hovers midair. "What?"

Toji  shifts, refusing to look at you for a second before grumbling, "then I'd get to have you every night. Not just when you're feelin' soft or needy. I'd get to keep you. That's all I'm sayin'."

And he shoves a bite of meat in his mouth to avoid your stare.

You don't say anything either. Not right away. You just reach across the table, brush your fingers over his knuckles, and smile so softly it cracks him open.

Marriage talk never felt so dangerous… or so damn natural.

RYOMEN SUKUNA—"MINE, FOREVER"

You barely make it through his domain doors before he's on you—no greetings, no pleasantries, just that primal energy that coils around you like smoke. He doesn't bother with touches. Sukuna claims.

He grabs you by the wrist and hauls you onto his lap, the cold gold of his throne contrasting the heat in his eyes. His claws brush up your spine, slow and possessive.

"You wanna be mine forever?" he murmurs, voice like molten sin, "then act like it."

You barely gasp before tears through your dress and lifts you up, settling your whiny self over his cock, grinding up into you with a groan that rumbles deep in his chest. He's thick, demanding, filling you in a way that makes your toes curl. You whimper, hands grasping at his shoulders for purchase, and he chuckles—dark and low.

"Look at you," he growls, hand fisting in your hair to turn your face towards your hips and his met. "Watch what you do to me."

You see it, the stretch. See the way your body fits him like it was meant to. Your eyes flutter, but he smacks your thighs sharply.

"Eyes open. You want a ring? You want a crown? This is how you earn it."

He shifts beneath you, letting you take control—but not without his guidance. His hands braces your hips, dragging you along his length in a rhythm that makes you sob his name. You move with him, for him, grinding slow and deep until your stomach knots.

"That's it, little bride, he coos, the mockery in his tone undercut by something achingly adoring. "Look how pretty you ride for me. How sweet this cunt is when it's full of mine."

You clench at his words and he feels it.

"You like that? Knowing I'll never let anyone else have you?"

You nod, unable to speak, tears prickling in your lashes as your body trembles.

"Say it," he demands, voice suddenly low and serious. "Tell me who you belong to."

"You," you choke out. "Only you."

He kisses you then, hard and messy, his fingers tangling with yours and squeezing tight—like he could anchor you here forever.

"Damn right."

You're still trembling when he lifts you off his cock, your thighs slick and weak, the only thing holding you upright is the way he cradles you against his chest. His throne is cold against your legs, but his skin burns hot.

"Fuckin' mess," he murmurs against your temple, voice low and almost fond, like a man admiring something sacred. "You gave me everything you ever had, huh?"

You nod against him, too worn out to say much, cheek pressed to his shoulder as your breath evens out.

He doesn't shove you off. Doesn't throw that usual cruel smirk. Instead, his arms cage you in closer. His chin rests heavy on top of your head, and he holds you like he's afraid the world might break in and steal you from him.

"Could've kept you like this forever," he mutters. "Would've carved your name into the stones of this castle."

You shift a little in his lap, looking up at him. "Romantic."

His laugh is rough, amused. "Don't be a brat."

Still, he reaches down, dragging his coat from the side of the throne and wrapping it around your bare frame. He tucks it around you, making sure your legs are warm before settling you back into the crook of his shoulders.

"You're not made for anybody's world but mine," he says after a long pause, almost like he doesn't want you to hear it too clearly. "And I'll tear through anyone who forgets it."

You smile softly, eyes fluttering close.

"I know," you whisper, your fingers curling into his chest. "I never wanted anywhere else."

A beat. Then his lips brush your forehead—too gentle for someone like him. A silent vow only you'll ever be privy to.

"Good. Then let them all kneel to my queen."

SHIU KONG—"YOU KEEP DOING THAT AND I'LL HAVE NO CHOICE"

He didn't mean it.

At least, not out loud.

But the truth slips sometimes when you're folding someone's shirt in the middle of their living room, humming softly, surrounded by the soft scent of detergent and the warmth of shared space.

Shiu stares at you from the kitchen doorway, jaw tense, eyes unreadable.

"I didn't ask you to do my laundry."

You blink up at him, unfazed. "You also didn't ask me to stop. So."

He crosses his arms. "You keep doing shit like this, and I'm gonna start assuming we're married."

You laugh, not realizing how serious he is until you glance up again—and he hasn't cracked a smile. He's just standing there, watching you with that terrifyingly still expression, like he's working out the logistics of forever.

"I didn't mean to say that," he mutters under his breath, turning as if to disappear.

But you don't let him. You rise, soft and slow, catching his arm. "Hey."

"What?"

"If I keep doing 'shit like this' … what would that mean?"

He doesn't look at you. "It means I'm already too far gone. That's what it means."

You step into his space. "Say it."

He sighs through his nose. "It means I'd wife you up in a heartbeat if I thought you wouldn't run screaming."

You don't run. Instead, you press a kiss just under his jaw. His hand instinctively finds your lower back.

"You're ridiculous," you whisper.

He hums. "Yeah, but you'd look good signing my tax forms."

You burst out laughing, and the tension breaks—only to be replaced by the kind of heat that builds slow, soft, and sure. The kind that doesn't scare either of you anymore.

ITADORI YUJI—"DOMESTIC DUMBASS"

You're barely inside Yuji's apartment before he's bouncing over to meet you, practically vibrating with pent-up energy. His hair is messy, his socks are mismatched, and his face is already flushed before you've ever said anything.

"I swear I wasn't trying to be weird about it—" he starts, hands flailing in explanation.

You drop your bag by the door, slide out of your shoes, and march straight toward him.

"Wait, hold on," Yuji squeaks as you push him backwards gently by the chest, guiding him to sit down on the couch. "You said you were gonna jump me but I thought you were joking—!"

You straddle his lap with a deadpan look. "Do I look like I'm joking?"

"No," he whispers, eyes wide, hands already settling on your waist like it's instinct. "You look like my—uh. My wife. Maybe. Eventually. Hopefully."

You bite your lip and lean in, kissing him hard enough to shut him up. He moans into your mouth, enthusiastic and sweet, and grips you tighter as you roll your hips into his lap.

His hands tremble slightly, still overwhelmed by the idea of you, by the knowledge that you didn't run away screaming when he admitted—very poorly—that he's thinking long-term. Forever.

You pull back, lips swollen, cheeks warm.  "The rice cooker was cute, by the way."

He beams. "So that wasn't too much?"

"I want a label maker for our snack cabinet."

He clutches his chest dramatically. "Marry me."

You smirk. "Gotta make you earn that first, baby."

The rest of the evening is spent showing exactly what that means—slow kisses, turning heated, laughter mixing with the sound of soft moans, Yuji whispering reverent things against your skin like "I can't believe you're mine."

FUSHIGURO MEGUMI—"TEA AND TOOTHBRUSHES"

Megumi doesn't know how it happened.

One moment he's under your sink with a wrench in hand, fully focused on the cracked PVC joint and resisting the smell of peach hand soap—and the next, you're crouched beside him on the floor, sliding a steaming mug of that cinnamon tea into his hand like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"I even put in the exact amount of honey you like," you say, smiling.

He stares at it. Then at you. Then takes a sip. You watch with raised brows like you're waiting for a reaction.

It tastes perfect. And Megumi knows he's fucked.

You shuffle closer to him, legs folded underneath you, wearing the hoodie he forgot at your place three weeks ago. It's soft. Faded. Looks better on you than it ever did on him.

"You're really good at this," you say softly, nodding toward the pipe. "You'd make a great husband, you know."

His grip tightens on the mug.

You laugh at his expression. "Joking. Mostly. But also—you're… weirdly domestic? Like. You know where everything goes in my kitchen. You refill the sponge soap. You fold laundry like a dad. It's kinda hot."

He opens his mouth to argue, to deflect, to change the subject—but you're leaning in now, close enough to kiss, and your eyes are warm with affection.

And then—

"I got you a toothbrush," you murmur. "For here."

Megumi's heart flatlines. His ears go red.

You tilt your head. "Too much?"

He swallows hard. Then leans in and kisses you—firm, unthinking, a little desperate—like he's trying to lock the moment in place.

And when he pulls away, you're breathless and blinking.

"You're not getting rid of me now," you whisper.

"…Good," he says, hoarsely. "I wasn't planning to."

[amirasainz]

Possible idea: TP with wags or other team principals? Take it in whatever direction you want! Thank you

Blonde Ambitions

The McLaren garage was its usual buzzing self, a symphony of whirring tools, murmured strategy calls, and engines occasionally roaring to life like mechanical dragons. It was FP1 morning, but there was another kind of electricity in the air—one that had nothing to do with motorsport.

Yn walked into the paddock with her tablet tucked against her hip, sunglasses on, hair cascading in newly lightened waves—bright, golden blonde that caught the sun with every step. She looked like a vision, a twenty-two-year-old team principal with the poise of a monarch and the fire of a warrior. There was no one like her, and everyone knew it.

Whispers had started the moment she entered the paddock. "Did you see her hair?" "She looks like a goddess." "How does she pull that off and manage a team?" Every driver, engineer, and strategist noticed—but the girlfriends? Oh, the WAGs were on a mission.

---

Carmen saw her first. She had just come from a hospitality, cradling a green juice in one hand, phone in the other. The moment she spotted Yn walking along the McLaren motorhome pathway, Carmen blinked once. Then again. Then dropped her phone into her bag without a word.

"Excuse me," she muttered to no one in particular, and power-walked straight toward the blonde goddess in orange.

Yn looked up, smile bright and warm. "Carmen! Hi!"

"No, no," Carmen said dramatically, taking Yn's hand like it was made of gold. "I need a full twirl. Right now."

Laughing, Yn complied, spinning once, the soft hem of her blazer flaring as she turned.

Carmen’s breath caught. She took both of Yn’s hands, then one gently slipped up to stroke her hair. It was soft, radiant, the kind of blonde that made angels jealous.

"You look like a goddess," she said, voice low, full of reverence. Her fingertips traced Yn’s cheekbone with such delicacy it made Yn giggle.

"Stop it," Yn blushed. "You’re embarrassing me."

"Good," Carmen whispered. "That was the goal."

They lingered like that for a moment too long. Carmen let her hand drift down to Yn’s shoulder, almost like she didn’t want to let go.

---

Not five minutes had passed before Lily appeared, having left Alex mid-conversation to follow the trail of whispered praise.

She found Yn near the pit wall, talking to a mechanic. The sun hit her blonde hair like a spotlight from heaven.

"Hey, Lily!" Yn said brightly when she saw her. "You okay?"

Lily just stared.

"Lily?"

"You're..." she said, voice breaking.

Yn tilted her head. "You alright?"

Lily walked forward, slowly, like Yn might disappear. "You're so beautiful."

Yn laughed softly. "Oh, stop! I went to this salon in Milan, it was such a last-minute thing. My stylist was like, ‘Go blonde,’ and I was like, ‘Are you sure?’ But then he did this toner thing, and—"

Lily wasn’t listening.

She was drinking Yn in like she was a glass of water in the desert. Her eyes moved from her hair to her lips to her hands, reverently. Her lips parted slightly as if she was seeing light for the first time.

"...anyway," Yn finished, cheeks pink, "I guess it turned out okay."

"More than okay," Lily murmured.

---

Yn returned to her office, seeking just five minutes of peace to prep the FP1 breakdown. Her door burst open.

Kika.

Hair bouncing, sunglasses on, striding in like she owned the place.

"Kika—?"

"Don’t talk," she said. "I saw the photos. The Twitter threads. The meltdown. And I thought, no. I need to see her in person."

Before Yn could respond, Kika took her arm, pulled her across the room, and made her sit. But instead of sitting beside her, Kika sat down, pulling Yn to straddle her lap.

"Kika!" Yn gasped. "What are you—"

"Shhh," Kika whispered. She cupped Yn’s face in her hands. Her thumb caressed Yn’s cheek, her fingers brushing over golden strands. One arm wrapped tight around her waist.

"You’re stunning," she said. "Like a dream. Like if Aphrodite got into motorsport."

Yn giggled. "You’re so dramatic."

"And you love it," Kika grinned.

Then came the ideas: "I’m taking you shopping. No arguments. I’ll buy you everything in Valentino’s next line. We’ll match. Twins. Blonde girls who rule the paddock. I’ll braid your hair. I might dye mine too. Platinum. Imagine the chaos. Everyone would know we belong together."

Yn blushed again. "You’re too much."

"You haven’t seen anything yet," Kika smirked.

---

The sun was lower in the sky when Yn made her way to the pit lane for the final prep briefing. Mechanics buzzed around, Carlos stood near the garage, helmet under his arm, waiting for his debrief.

He spotted her and smiled like he’d just won the lottery.

"You look incredible today, mi amore," Carlos said.

Yn smiled shyly. "Thank you! I just—"

"That’s enough from you now, Carlito," came Rebecca’s voice, silk and steel.

She stepped in beside Carlos, one arm brushing him away. The look she gave him could’ve stopped an engine mid-race. Carlos raised his hands and backed off.

"Rebecca," Yn said, cheeks flushed. "You look amazing too."

"Not the point," Rebecca said, eyes on fire. "You. This hair. That lip gloss. The entire fit."

Yn laughed nervously. "It’s just the usual blazer—"

"It’s lethal," Rebecca cut in. "What are you doing this weekend? Want to come to the villa? We can talk strategy. Poolside."

Yn opened her tablet, tapping. "I could probably shift things around. Maybe Saturday afternoon—"

She was interrupted.

By lips. Rebecca’s.

She surged forward and kissed her, deep and slow, one hand cupping Yn’s jaw, the other pressing against her lower back. The kiss was full of heat and hunger, every inch of it claiming.

Yn gasped softly against her, then melted.

When they parted, Rebecca whispered, "Just wanted to try your gloss."

"Did you like it?" Yn asked dazedly.

"Loved it."

"Okay," Yn nodded sweetly, still flustered. "So we’ll do Saturday."

"Absolutely," Rebecca said, taking her hand.

They walked off, fingers linked.

Behind them, Carlos stood slack-jawed.

"This is it," he muttered to himself. "This is it. My dream—both my dream girls. My dream finally becomes reality. I need to lie down."

P.S Carlso reaction when he saw the kiss

Ahh, had so much fun writing this. I hope you had as much fun as me. Let me know if you have any requests! 🧡

[novaimperia]

★ student council secretary!reader and her unconventional quid-pro-quo partnership with enforcer for hire!Toji

“if i’m gonna bust my ass teaching those frat guys a lesson, i’ll need a little more than some over-the-pants petting this time, doll.”

"well, y-you can't grope my breasts again; you're too aggressive and it hurts."

he grunts. "ya gotta shake off y'r habit of mistaking pleasure for pain. and in any case, those assholes give me a rash so, as nice as y'r tits are, it's still not gonna cut it."

you fidget with a loose thread on your skirt. truthfully, you didn’t want to go back to him – toji’s brash, crass, and intimidating. sitting on a contraption to work the quadriceps muscles of the leg, you assume, you’re left awkwardly standing to the side, in the gym, watching as his thighs flex and thicken with the strain.

they’re really impressive things, actually. 

“you eye fucking my thighs?” the scar on his lips stretch ever so slightly with the smirk stealing your attention. “if i had known the pretty secretary had a thing for thighs, we woulda been having much more fun.”

scoffing, you retort, perhaps a little more defensively than you would have liked, “i don’t. ugh, j-just think about it, okay? phi kappa psi has been lax with their charity quota and it’s embarrassing for everyone involved. so, just do what you usually do: make them see things our way.”

he huffs in dry amusement.. “i’ve made my point clear so let me know what ya decide, kiddo.”

‘kiddo’ is worse than ‘doll,’ but you don’t say anything. unsure, you don’t leave just yet. no amount of reminders, of chasing their president and begging the faculty to get involved has convinced the fraternity to make good on their quota. it’s proven to be a huge bother for the student council. 

and, though you’ve already gone above and beyond for your job – rubbing his length, impressive and hot as it is, over his gym shorts or jeans in the janitor's closet or locker room has always left you a stuttering, fumbling mess – there has to be some limits. right?

the worst part, you think, is that it was never to bring him to an orgasm; he just wanted some entertainment. you don't like calling people names but he can be a real jerk.

crazily unethical as it is, you needed to indulge him otherwise the dean would never write a good enough recommendation letter for the top masters program for your interest. if you failed or disappointed him, it’ll be a stain on your perfect record. that just can’t happen. and it won’t. at this point, you’ll do anything to make sure of that. 

“fine.” at the decisive sound of your voice, he stops stretching those powerful legs of his, grunting to show he's listening. “um, what do you have in mind?”

his obnoxious bark of laughter sends heat to your cheeks. people’s heads turn but when they realise it’s fushiguro, they turn away hastily. with grace unbefitting of a man of his stature, he climbs off the machine and stands to his full height before you. sweat makes his skin shine under the lights. a dizzying musk, masculine and oddly sweet, reaches your nose. you step back. 

running a large paw through his slicked hair and showing off the veins bulging in those monstrous biceps you try not to look at so much, he drawls, “well, my thighs do feel a little sore. be a doll and help a guy out, yeah?”

when he wraps a sweaty arm around you and pecks your head, you realise it's already too late to have regrets.

[oldermenfucker]

Holding you, Holding me / M. Robinavitch

masterlist / next

ONE: I can see you

Summary: your parents’ wedding anniversary brings you and your mom’s friend closer to each other, closer than it should be, but there is no harm if no one finds out, right?

Warnings: fluff, Mom’s best friend trope, kissing, tension, alcohol consumption, age gap (Robby’s 50, Reader is 26)<3

Word count: 6.5k+

an: i SUCK at writing first chapters so excuse me if this isn’t my usual style lol but hopefully i can get you excited enough to read the rest of this fic cause WE ARE JUST GETTING STARTED TEHEEEE

if you’d like to be added to the taglist, fill this form please<3

Post layout is inspired by the lovely @robbyology ‘s posts<3

Idk who this dividers belongs to if you know please tell me<:

Then we kiss, and you know I won't ever tell, yeah And I could see you being my addiction You can see me as a secret mission Hide away and I will start behaving myself

“Honey,” Dana knocks on the door, slowly pushing it open when you reply with a quick ‘come in’ and pin your hair up, “The guests are here, would you mind helping me for a bit?”

“‘Course, Mom!” You nod, fixing the end of your dress before you walk up to her, hugging her tightly, feeling her arms wrapping around you as well, “Happy wedding anniversary.”

“Thanks, baby,” she kisses the side of your head pulling back to look at you again, beaming as she tells you to give her a twirl, “You look so beautiful, especially in this room. It’s like you’ve never moved out.”

“I moved out five years ago,” you raise your eyebrows at her, chuckling when she groans and rubs her palms up and down on your arms. 

“I know, I know!” She squeezes your shoulders, her hands gliding down to grab yours, “I’m so grateful for this marriage cause you were born from it— I swear if you say that word!”

“I didn’t say anything!” You laugh, threading your fingers through hers, leading her out of the room slowly, “But you know, I wasn’t exactly born from it, kind of bought into—“

“Thank god you moved out,” Dana pinches your arm playfully, pulling you to her side as she walks towards the staircase, “Cause I can’t deal with your constant reminder, as if you aren’t my first child.”

“Hey, Mom, look at me,” you turn her to face you, snaking your arms around her waist and resting your head on her shoulders, “I’m just teasing you, you are the best mother ever and I’m so fucking glad that I’m a part of this family.”

“Don’t make me cry,” she whines and hugs you back, pressing you close as she holds you in her embrace, “I love you so much, honey. You made me a mother, I’m forever grateful for you.”

“I love you too,” you kiss her cheek, slowly moving away from her before looping your arm through hers, “C’mon, we’ve got some guests to talk to! Who is here already?”

“Heather came in early to help despite telling her specifically not to do such a thing. Mel and Frank just arrived, a few of your father’s friends and their wives,” she explains, her hand moving as she talks, “There are still a few people left, but we gotta start early.”

“Let’s get some alcohol in their system,” you say, moving toward the kitchen with Dana on the toe, finding Heather sipping on a glass of water while she leans back on the counter before she spots you, “Hey!”

“Hey, sweetie!” She pulls you in for a hug, rubbing her hand on your back as she asks how you have been doing, leaning back to her previous position as you mimic her and rest your elbows on the counter.

“How you managed to come here with a baby at home is beyond me,” you lean into her side when she chuckles and wraps her arm around your shoulders, “Especially with how attached your little boy is. I’d call in sick and snuggle all day.”

“Believe me I’ve done that lots of times,” Heather chuckles, “But this time I couldn’t resist. I had to be here to watch your mom handle everyone like she is in the ER.”

“Fuck off, you two,” Dana rolls her eyes, handing you a tray of cocktails to take to the table she has set up in the backyard, “I’m not the charge nurse here, I’m just a happy wife—“

“Right, that’s why you’ve cooked ten thousand meals,” Heather snorts when you say that, “A happy wife in charge of her circus.”

“Stop it— go get the door,” Dana laughs, grabbing the tray from your hands before she and Heather start talking and moving the drinks and plates outside.

“Yes, Ma’am!” You walk to the front door, reaching for the doorknob to open it as the ring goes off again, “Coming!”

“Hi!” Samira greets you, throwing herself into your arms as soon as you pull the door open, wrapping her arms around you, hugging you tightly, “I missed you! Where have you been?”

“I missed you too, ‘Mira,” you hug her back, grinning when she squeezes you in her embrace, “Work’s been so busy lately but— oh, Jack?” 

“Hello,” he gives you an awkward smile, raising his hand to give a little wave while holding a large bouquet of roses with his other arm, “How are you?”

“Did you two—“

“No! No, no—“

“Samira—“

You pull away from her, looking at her with wide eyes, a devilish smile threatening to take over your face as you stare at her, waiting for an explanation.

“We arrived here together by accident! I swear—“She shakes her head frantically, but you can notice the subtle hint of a smile on her face, she knows she is caught, but that is a discussion for later.

“Alright, alright,” you squeeze her arms, stepping to the side so Jack can come in as well, “Welcome, Jack.”

“Thank you,” he nods, giving you a pat on the shoulder as he passes you to put the flowers down next to the other gifts, “Where’s your mom, Slugger?”

“Giving me my mom’s nickname now?” You laugh, pointing at the hallway leading to the backyard, “Outside with Dad and his friends, probably talking about some boring stuff.”

“Stop acting like a teenage girl,” he raises his eyebrow at you before he walks past you, putting his hand on Samira’s waist to lead her to where the group is drinking and he catches the way your jaw hits the floor, “Not a word—“

“Accident my ass, you guys are dating—“

“Not. A. Word.” 

You chuckle in disbelief as you watch Jack wait for Samira to walk out first, waiting a few minutes before he also joins everyone outside. You linger back, sighing softly as you go back to the kitchen, picking up a piece of cheese from the plate you are sure your mom has put for the wine she wants to open later. 

The doorbell rings again, this time catching you off guard. You are sure everyone is already here given how loud the group is, even your little sister is there with your parents, enjoying her time with all the attention she must be receiving.

You walk to open the door again, turning the doorknob before you are met with the sight of Robby; he looks just as handsome as you remember, with his signature blue shirt that he has rolled up his sleeves and his quite worn-out jeans. 

He looks casual, like he has done this ten times already, and knows nothing serious is going on. And he has; you remember how exactly last year he showed up on time to chat with your mom, or the year before that with a box of pastries that you and him sat down to devour on the stairs leading to the backyard.

You didn’t think he would show up, it had slipped your mind completely. But now, seeing him here with another box of pastries that he has cherry-picked himself for the two of you, you are glad he has decided to come.

“Hi,” you smile at him, leaning on the door as you wait for him to say something instead of just beaming at you, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening, “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“I can never miss Dana’s parties,” he shrugs, stepping inside when you open the door further, and he easily towers over you, his smile widening when he sees you beaming up at him, “Besides, I had to bring my yearly payment. Napoleon and Paris Brest for you, sweetheart.”

“You didn’t have to!” You take the box from him, giving him a sheepish smile before leading him to the kitchen to put the pastries in the fridge, “Thanks, Mom’s gonna be happy that you are here.”

“Only Dana?” He teases you, leaning on the countertop with his hands in his pockets, watching as you reach for two glasses from the cabinet with a flustered smile, pulling out your father’s Kentucky Bourbon to pour for him, “Does he know you drink from his secret stash?”

“Of course, he does,” you hand him his glass, clinking them together before you take a sip from your drink, face twisting at the burning feeling down your throat, “How can you drink this shit? I can barely handle it.”

“Years of practice with Abbot on the rooftop.”

“You drink bourbon on the hospital’s roof? You’re insane, I’d rather get my hand chopped off than be your patient,” you turn around, resting your back on the edge of the counter, your arm brushing against his as you look up at him.

“You were my patient a few times, be grateful I wasn’t drunk when I was treating you,” he smiles sarcastically, the lines on his face deepening so beautifully it almost makes you stutter.

“Thank you for not killing me and getting a lawsuit, doc,” you roll eyes, looking down at the amber liquid in your glass when you hear his warm chuckle, followed by a clicking of his tongue, “You’re not gonna go out there?”

“I will, eventually,” he explains with mild indifference, “I see half of these people every day, I just need a break from Langdon jumping around me even if it’s for ten seconds.”

“Understandable,” you nod, watching through the glass door how your sister engages with Heather and Mel, “Wish I could be as comfortable as she is around people. Sometimes I feel like I don’t belong there, you know? Not because I’m adopted, but…”

“I get it,” he nudges your arm by his elbow, looking at you softly, “I feel the same sometimes. You are not alone in this, not at all, sweetheart.”

“I love them but I feel outcasted because I can’t join their conversations easily,” you say, nudging him back before you rest your head on his arm, “Good thing we have each other in these parties, huh?”

“Yeah, cheers to that,” you raise your glass but look at it with a frown, really not wanting to drink the horribly warm and bitter liquor. He sees how you hesitate, shoulders moving as he chuckles and shakes his head, drowning the last of his glass before he grabs yours, rough fingers brushing over your soft ones briefly.

“I’ll have that, go get yourself something else,” he smiles, “Dana’s Gin and Tonic is always the best, maybe you can have her make one for you.”

“Not when Dad’s got all her attention, and I’m supposed to be the host tonight and let her enjoy her anniversary. Though a beer sounds very tempting right now, you can get me a Gin Tonic later,” you push yourself away from the counter, walking to the fridge and opening the door, finding the cans already on the coolest shelves.

“You’ve already planned our next meeting, have you?” Robby asks, crossing his arms over his belly, making his biceps bulge under his sleeves, “Gonna give me a run for my money?”

“My mom’s friends are doctors, you bet I’d make you spend money on me,” you watch as he puts the glass down next to his hand on the counter, reaching for the can in your hand silently, opening it up without you asking him for it, “You have a lot to making up to do.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” he smiles, wrinkles deepening around his eyes when you snort, thanking him softly when he hands you your drink, “I’ve been doing doubles lately, can’t even remember the last time I had a night off.”

“You’re doing double shifts? With Abbot? C’mon, Robby, you are much better than that,” you stand in front of him, giving him a teasing look when he leans down with a surprised smile on his face, “You should take a break.”

“Abbot is much nicer at night, trust me. But you’re right, I need a break, and I definitely should make it up to you. I’ve been… busy.”

“Nope, I know you,” you point at him, pressing your finger on his chest, “You’ve been thinking, which isn’t a good thing at all, means you’re worried or depressed.”

“‘M not depressed, I’m going to therapy,” he grabs your wrist, pulling you closer gently when he brings your hand to his face, brushing his lips on your pulse point, his beard rubbing against the smooth skin and leaving a delicious burn.

“Both can coexist,” you grin, feeling your cheeks heating up when he doesn’t let go of your hand, “You should take it easy on yourself, I don’t want my uncle to end up in his department.”

“Jesus Christ,” he groans, rolling his eyes at you playfully, “How many times do I have to tell you to not use that word? I’m not your uncle, I’m anything but your uncle.”

“I know! But it’s worth the reaction every fucking time,” you laugh but it soon dies out when you hear the sound of footsteps approaching the kitchen. You pull away from Robby, walking to a cabinet to make it look like you are busy with your back to him.

“Finally, here’s our sad boy!” Dana waltzes in, pulling Robby for a hug with a gentle pat on his arm, “Where’ve you been? You didn’t even answer my call.” 

“Really? Must have missed it then,” he shrugs, hugging her back, his eyes meeting yours across the kitchen, “Something came up and I had to stop on my way here.”

“What could possibly be more important than my party, Robby?” your mother pulls away, smirking knowingly, thinking she has got him all figured out, “It doesn’t matter cause Heather and everyone is already here.”

You tense slightly at the mention of Heather’s name; you have been there, you saw it all. How they fell in love, how they were so happy, and how it all crashed after Covid. And during all those times, you had to battle the silly childhood crush you had on Robby.

Robby notices the very tiny shift in your attitude, watching as you take a large sip from your beer, smiling when your mom turns around and winks at you with her hand still on Robby’s arm, looking between the two of you before she raises her eyebrows at him.

“Are you keeping my daughter hostage here because you hate socializing?” 

“If anything she is keeping me hostage—“

“What the fuck, Robby! Don’t blame me for your lack of friendly communication skills.” You gasp, hiding your face between your hands when he chuckles and your mom follows his lead, walking towards the fridge to pull out the champagne she put there to cool for the night.

“It’s his trick, honey,” Dana looks at you, pointing at the ice bucket with her head, “When he doesn’t wanna take accountability, he’ll shove it on someone else.”

“That doesn’t sound like him at all!” you glance at Robby, finding him shaking his head and hiding his smile behind the whiskey glass he is bringing to his lips, “You choose when to take accountability or not? That’s so weird.”

“No, Dana’s being mean again,” he grabs the ice bucket from your hands, going to where your mother has opened the freezer to fill the bucket with ice cubes, “After living half a century, you learn a lot and knowing when you are wrong is one of the lessons. And right now, your mother is teasing me for coming late. I am not in the wrong.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I should be so grateful that my best friend is here and didn’t ditch me for some boring book he borrowed from my other boring friend,” Dana puts the champagne between the cubes, grinning sarcastically at Robby who only shrugs, “Now get out there, both of you before my dear husband thinks you hate him.”

“I’ll take that,” you grab the cold bucket from Robby’s hands, leading him out of the kitchen, giggling when you see how the heat crawls up his neck to his face, “Don’t be embarrassed, she roasts everyone, dad included.”

“She is like a ghost who’s been haunting me from the first day we’ve known each other,” he pushes his hands into the pockets of his jeans, following you through the hallway until you stop and turn to look at him.

“How much will you pay me if I pull you away from the party as soon as possible and put you out of your misery?”

“All you can think about is money, get out of here,” he laughs and opens the door for you, “I’ve already done enough for you today. You ought to pay me back this time.”

“Oh, wow,” you snort, lips parting in surprise, “Just because you bought me some pastries doesn’t mean you get free will under my mom’s roof, uncle.”

“Fuck you,” he groans, urging you to go outside, and when you don’t and only smirk at him, he puts his palm on your waist and pushes you gently out of the door, making sure you carefully step on the stairs.

���Look who’s finally here!” Frank says, making all the heads turn towards you and Robby, “We’ve been waiting for you.”

“Hello,” Robby waves awkwardly, leaning down to whisper in your ear, “Is it too late to turn around and disappear?”

“Yup,” you glance at him, grinning without hesitation, knowing he is already regretting stepping out, especially now that he has to greet everyone he sees every day, “Smile and be pleasant enough so they can tolerate you.”

“I’m always pleasant to be around,” he rolls his eyes at you briefly, scoffing when Langdon walks closer, Mel in tow, “Ah, here he is.”

“Where have you been, man? You’re late to the party.”

“The party doesn’t start without a glass of champagne,” you jump in, giving Mel a side hug before putting the ice bucket on the table with all the food your mother has placed, “And the champagne is not opened yet, so technically he is on time.”

“You always have his back,” your father chimes into the conversation, patting Robby’s back when they greet each other, “Glad to see you, Robby.”

“Yeah you, too, congratulations by the way,” Robby smiles at your father, watching how Jack comes forward as well, ready to help Robby if he wants to escape your father’s poor attempt at humor.

“If I don’t have his back, no one else will,” you shrug, looking at Robby over your shoulder who only smiles at you in return, deeply grateful for your presence.

“Well, are you going to open that bottle or not?” Dana strides over to you, grabbing the champagne before handing it to your father, “Let’s get this fucking party started.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

You roll your eyes when your father winks at Dana, reaching for the knife to do some dramatic cork popping, breaking the tip of the glass as your mom holds the glasses under the flowing champagne, laughing when everyone cheers.

You stand next to Langdon, clapping with others when your parents kiss and congratulating them. Everyone grabs their glasses and waits for your father to say something, and you catch a glimpse of Robby moving to stand behind you.

“Fifty bucks he’ll thank you too for existing,” Robby leans down to a whisper, grinning when you glare at him playfully.

“That’s not fair! You’ve heard his speech for at least ten years,” you say, taking a sip of your champagne, “I’ll bet he’ll thank you and Jack too, my wife’s best friends. I’d pay a hundred bucks to him just to say that and embarrass you.”

“You’re evil,” he groans quietly, giving Langdon an awkward smile when he glances at the two of you in confusion, only to get distracted by your father again.

“I learned from the best,” you reply, nudging his elbow with yours, pointing at Frank with your head, “What’s his deal?”

“Dunno,” he whispers back, shrugging as he waits for your father to start his yearly speech, “It’s probably because I kinda ignored him when I got here.”

“Oh, poor baby is upset,” you fake a pout, smirking when he coughs to hide his amusement, “Pay attention, Doctor Robby. The show’s about to begin.”

“My offer still stands, fifty bucks, you in?”

“You owe me a drink, remember? Keep the money, you’ll need it with your three hundred kay yearly check,” you snort when you see him shake his head at your words, drowning his entire glass in one move, “Easy, don’t want you to make a mess and ruin his award-winning performance.”

“Definitely Dana’s daughter, how can I ever forget,” he whispers, lips twitching when he catches you grinning shyly.

There is something so charming about him, the way he effortlessly manages to make you smile and get you all hot and bothered. You do not try to hide it anymore — you do when your mother is around — but it is out in the open, and you try to mask it up with the sort of friendship you have created with him so you don’t make him uncomfortable. 

Maybe he knows or doesn’t, it’s not like anything is going to happen between you, not when he is the textbook definition of a gentleman. Touchy yet respectful, like he does it to anchor you to reality when he is around. 

It’s your dirty secret, the silly crush of yours that makes your heart beat faster when he so much as glances at you. But you have never allowed yourself to dream more, to fantasize about hypothetical scenarios that you might have a chance with him, and you are sure he would shut you down immediately if you say anything.

“Hello, everyone!” your father starts, “I’ve said this speech for… at least ten years give and take and every year I try to come up with something new, but… nothing comes to mind. So, I’ll go ahead and give you whatever is in my head right now.”

“We’re screwed,” one of your father’s friends jokes, earning a playful glare from Dana and your father, and you snort before you see Robby shakes his head, giving you a nudge.

“Yup,” you whisper, pressing your lips to each other so you don’t giggle, “He’s gonna say it.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“What?” You glance at him then look down at your fingers tapping over the rim of your champagne glass, “You were going to bet on it.”

“That doesn’t mean you get to make this harder than it already is for me,” he hisses, straightening his back with his palm on your waist and the way his long fingers spread on your back makes goosebumps rise on your arms.

“I live to make your life harder,” you make the mistake of turning your head to look at him because the grin he gives you meets the corner of his eyes, the lines on his face deepening. With a shake of your head, you look away, “It seems you do the same.”

“You’re cute if you think I’d let Dana’s daughter get away with something.” Cute, right, that’s all he sees you as.

“I’m my own person, not just her daughter—“

“It’d be appreciated if you two paid attention,” Your mother glares at the two of you with her eyebrows raised, “You’re lucky I’m feeling kind tonight or you’d be kicked out of this house by now.”

“Sorry, Mom,” you duck your head, giving her an apologetic smile, looking down at your feet with your lip between your teeth. Robby nods as well, raising his hand in apology so your father can keep going with his speech.

“That was close.”

“She caught us, Robby, it was more than close,” you hiss at him, turning your attention back to your parents, “Don’t talk anymore.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” You can practically hear his smirk, but you know if you turn around the said smirk will turn you into a melting puddle on the grass.

“As I was saying before I got rudely interrupted,” you roll your eyes at your father, “Being with Dana is something only one person is lucky enough to experience, and boy is it an experience!”

“You should see how much of an experience he is,” She runs her fingers through your father’s hair, “Not that I’m complaining, I love a good challenge.”

“I’ve been her challenge for twenty-something years,” he turns his head to look at her, “And I’ve loved every moment of it,” he dips his head to capture Dana’s lips in a soft kiss before he breaks it and looks around, finding you and your sister with ease, “And our daughters, thank you for being the fruit of our love.”

You catch your sister winking at you just in time, and you raise your glass in reply, watching how everyone else mimics you and claps for your parents — so does Robby, nudging you slightly to get your attention, giving you a look that screams ‘Told ya’ before he diverts his attention back to the couple kissing.

“I hate you,” you whisper and drown the rest of your drink, shooting him a small glance, shaking your head when he shrugs as innocently as he can.

“I doubt that,” you snort when he says that —not a lie, you feel so many things when he is around and none of them are hate — and take his empty glass from his hand. 

“Time to socialize, Robby. Your bestie is coming here.”

“You gonna pay for this later, sweetheart,” he walks away toward Jack and Samira after he gives your shoulder a squeeze, meeting them halfway before they start talking

You slowly walk away from the crowd, the noises enveloping your senses in the wrong way. You are not the biggest fan of these gatherings; they are lovely, yes, you get to meet everyone and have a drink and take a break from work, but by the end of it, there is no energy left in you because of how fidgety you were all throughout the night, how you overthink about everything you said and were going to say.

You linger around, popping chips in your mouth a few times so you don’t have to worry about eating dinner with all these people around — you can just skip it and go for the pastries in the fridge. 

Your gaze moves from your parents to your sister and at last falls on Robby. Fuck, he looks good under the bright moonlight and the yellow lights of the backyard, and it makes your heart race. Get it together! You want to scream, shout, and bang your head to the wall when you catch sight of him laughing at something Jack says.

As if he can feel your eyes on him, he turns around slightly just so he can catch sight of you, giving you one of his famous heartwarming grins that never fails to make your fingers twitch in excitement. You smile back, giving him a little wave before you see him moving towards Heather, instantly beginning to talk with a broad smile on his face.

You sigh, not a lie if he has told you himself that he still has feelings for her, and run a hand through your hair, humming softly before you sneak back inside the house. You can feel your surroundings fading away as the warmth of the house hugs your body instantly.

You make a beeline for the fridge, pulling out the box Robby brought earlier, smiling at the cold sensation of the plastic against your fingers before you walk out of the kitchen and upstairs to the balcony on the other side of the house — the little corner reserved for you and your sister. Luckily, she is too busy making everyone laugh to join you up here.

There is a bench with a coffee table in front of it and a visible view of the neighborhood to top it off. The bustle of the party is in the background now, the noises have grown quiet and the cold pastries in the box are tempting you to take them out and eat them alone — might as well do that. 

You put the box on the table and take a seat on the bench, taking off the lid before you bring one of the cream-filled pastries up to your mouth, taking a large bite and closing your eyes at the taste; it feels as if sparks fly on your tongue with how delicious it tastes. 

Robby knows you too well and it’s both maddening and lovely.

You are about to take another bite when you hear the familiar footsteps coming outside, finding Robby there in the doorframe just looking at you.

“Eating those all by yourself? Rude.”

“You were busy, didn’t wanna interrupt your fun time,” you shrug, taking another bite just to tease him, making a loud humming sound as the cold cream fills your mouth cavity, “Y’know? They taste better when I’m the one enjoying it and have no reason to share it with anyone.”

“You’re being mean just like—“

“Just like your mother,” you finish his sentence, giving him a cold look before turning your face back to the view of the balcony — he looks gorgeous and it’s making you sick — and taking another smaller bite, “Will you ever see me as a person and not just an extension of my mother?”

“What do you mean?” He chuckles and rounds the table to sit next to you — wait, was this bench always this small that now his thigh is pressed to yours? — and turns his head to look at you.

“I mean… It’s always ‘You do this just like your mother does’ and ‘You are Dana’s daughter’ and ‘You’re mean just like her’ and it feels like you don’t even see me as a person just my mom’s sidekick. Or, you might have been in love with my mom which then we’d have a bigger problem.”

“I’m not in love with your mom!” His voice grows thin as he laughs at your words, running a hand through his hair, “I don’t know, sweetheart. I’ve got no idea why I do this, maybe because I wanna make sure we have clear boundaries…”

“Boundaries? It feels like you wanna avoid something much more complicated than that,” you explain, taking another large bite out of the pastry in your hand, smearing the cream over your nose and lips, “Like you wanna do something but hold yourself back.”

“You are Dana’s daughter—“

“Jesus, Robby,” You groan, turning around in your seat as best as possible, your thigh nearly thrown over his as you try to give him an intense look, “I just told you—“

“I know, I know,” he nods, his hand that was resting on the back of the bench comes up to your head, stroking your hair before tucking a few strands behind your ear, careful not to ruin your hairstyle, “I don’t want to do something that we’ll both regret later. It’s safer to stay as Dana’s daughter than anything else when you’re around me.”

“Is it because of Heather?”

“Fucking hell, of course not!” He gives you a disapproving smile, “‘m not gonna deny that there is an attraction on my end, but we’re done, have been for a while.”

“Then you’re being ridiculous…” you don’t shy away from his touch, not now that you know and trust his words, “How are you so sure that we’ll regret it?”

“Because…” his thumb wipes the cream over the edge of your lips before bringing it to his mouth, holding your gaze as he swipes his tongue over his finger, flushing slightly when he notices how your eyes darken and dart down to his lips, “I can’t do it, if anyone finds out—“

“No one will find out—“

“They might,” he whispers, leaning closer, crowding your space, “and I can’t lose you for something so silly. I don’t do casual—“

“Neither do I but I’m not a pussy like you—“ he shuts you up with his — now wet — thumb over your lips, his face inches away from yours, and the sheer weight of his eyes making you squirm a bit.

“Careful, I’m not your dad. I don’t tolerate mouthy girls.”

“Good thing I don’t want you to be like him,” you say softly, leaning in as well, nudging his nose with yours, feeling the warmth of his breath on your face, “Don’t call me Dana’s daughter anymore.”

“Wasn’t planning on it, sweetheart.”

It sure as hell feels like fireworks exploding in the sky when his lips meet yours in a chaste kiss, his hand threading in your hair as best as possible as he devours the sweetness of the pastry from your teeth and tongue.

You kiss back just as feverish as he does, not backing down at all. It’s not like you, because you have never been bold enough to say something up until tonight or take actions as risky as this, but it’s Robby, and he brings out a version of you that doesn’t shake with nerves.

He is gentle, not with his tongue but with his hands as they wander down to your jaw, tilting your head in a way he likes and kissing you at a pace that has your head spinning. 

You know you have crossed the line, but it doesn’t matter anymore, not that at least you know the feelings aren’t as unrequited as you thought they were. He kisses you like he has been holding back — perhaps he has — and it makes your body warm all over, face heating up and fingers twitching.

You mean to reach for his face as well, but you have forgotten the pastry you were holding in your hand, dropping it on his shirt and jeans when you try to cup his cheek.

“Fuck, fuck, I’m so sorry—“

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he replies breathlessly, picking up and dropping the remaining pastry in the box as he looks down at his now cream-covered shirt, glancing over at you as you reach over to try and take off some of the cream with your fingers, “Don’t worry about it—“

“Fuck, Robby, I’m so fucking sorry! Look what I’ve done, your shirt is ruined—“

“It’s not ruined–hey, sweetheart, look at me,” he cups your face in his hands, leaning down to peck your lips, hoping he can stop the overdrive your brain is probably taking with all the negative thoughts, “It’s okay, I’m gonna go wash it off, yeah? It’s a silly shirt, I have ten other pairs exactly like this.”

“At least let me get you one of my dad’s,” you stand up before he has the chance to say no, “And you take that off and drop it here so I can wash it tomorrow and bring it to you.”

“You don’t have to—“

“I insist,” you give him the best pleading eyes you can muster, grinning when he nods and stands up as well, following you into the house, “You can wash up in my ensuite bathroom while I grab you a shirt.”

“Alright,” he nods and walks through the room toward your bathroom, unbuttoning his shirt and peeling it off, turning on the facet before he starts wiping off the cream.

He hears you knock on the door, waiting for him to let you in and when he does, you step inside slowly, looking down as soon as you get a peek of his nude broad shoulders.

“Don’t get shy now,” he chuckles, handing you the wet shirt before he grabs the clean one from you, glancing at your flustered face as he begins to dress up, “It’s nothing you haven’t already seen.”

“Right, but that was in a pool and you didn’t have your tongue down my throat before getting in the water,” you drop his shirt next to the rest of your laundry, crossing your arms over your chest as you shyly look at how his muscles flex as he tugs on his collar.

“A minor detail, sweetheart,” he turns around, and you smile when you see how red he is, handing him a rag to clean up his jeans as well, “A minor detail that should never see the light of day.” 

“Don’t worry, I won’t snitch to my mom about how her best friend was kissing me,” you roll your eyes and look down, fuck him and the effect he has on you. It was one kiss and yet, you already feel like you are about to melt into a puddle.

“Even the thought of it sends me to cardiac arrest,” he hands you his wallet as he wipes the cream off the front pocket of his pants, groaning as he sees the dark wet spot growing, “This all your fault.”

“Shouldn’t have kissed me if you didn’t want me to get you dirty.”

“You looked far too beautiful to resist,” he says so casually like it has been on his mind for a long time, “I’d do it again even if I knew you’d make a mess outta me.”

“Cheesy—“

“Honey, where are you? Have you seen Robby?”

“Fuck—“

“That’s Dana—“

You run out of the bathroom, throwing Robby’s wallet somewhere carelessly before making your way into the hallway, meeting your mom with an uneasy smile.

“Hey! What are you doing up here?”

“I was looking for you and Robby! Where did you two go?” She asks, pinning you down with a curious look, “Has something happened? Are you okay?”

“We were sharing the pastries I brought her. Clumsy me, I dropped the entire thing on myself,” Robby comes out, chuckling awkwardly as he stands in a shirt that doesn’t belong to him — it’s your father’s and Dana notices it immediately.

“At least she found you a clean shirt, you’re lucky it’s not his favorite,” she laughs, and you follow with a chuckle, trying to mask the bubbling anxiety inside you, “Alright, almost everyone’s left. I have no idea why since the night is just starting!”

“I should go too,” Robby says, walking to hug Dana and leave this very uncomfortable moment, “Happy anniversary again, I had a great time.”

“You’re no fun,” your mom hugs him back after she groans out the words, “But yeah, you have a shift tomorrow, get some sleep.”

“I’ll walk you out,” you offer, waiting for him to say his goodbye one last time before you follow him downstairs, making sure your mom is out of sight before you open the door and wait for Robby to step outside.

He grabs the back of your neck, pulling you in for a quick breathtaking kiss, his lips slotting into yours passionately. You brace yourself with your hands on his chest, kissing him back before you have to part as soon as you hear some noises in the house.

“Goodnight,” you say breathlessly, licking your lips in hopes of getting a taste of him again, smiling as he strokes your head and steps away, giving you a quick wave.

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

[jackrrabbot]

fidus achates

dbf!jack abbot x fem!reader

word count ~12.2k (sorry guys, omg)

content warnings/description: 18+ MDNI, explicit sexual content, AFAB reader, age gap (jack is early forties and in the military, reader is mid-twenties), dry humping, phone sex, filming, hurt/comfort, single internal thought of jack wanting to knock reader up, camping inaccuracies

author's note: santos and garcia exist in this story even though it's before jack is even a doctor at PTMC. just go with it! enjoy :)

masterlist

you and jack take a short camping trip together without the watchful eyes of your father. this is the catalyst.

“Make sure Jack watches over you. I don’t need you getting eaten by a bear. Sacrifice him, if you—”

Your phone’s speaker crackles and your dad cuts out, but you get the gist of what he’s trying to say.

“Dad.” You chuckle. “We’re going to be fine. Promise. It’s a short trip—we’ll be back by tomorrow afternoon. I really wish you could’ve come along, though.” You pout, even though he can’t see you over the phone.

“I know, honey. But one of our military buddies—you know him, Thomas—really needs a helping hand right now. Someone’s got to be there for him, and both Jack and I can’t be away camping. It’s better that he goes so you can spend some time with him. When is he deploying again?”

“Almost right after we come back, I think within a day or two.”

“Yeah, see—I would’ve asked to reschedule the trip, but he’s going to be gone for another who-knows-how-long. You’ll have to go without me, honey.”

You sigh. “I know. It’s just always been our tradition, you know? But, you’re right, it won’t be so bad. Actually, it—... it’ll be good to spend some alone time with Jack. It’s been a while since we’ve hung out, just the two of us.” A loose thread on the hem of your jean shorts scratches your thigh, and you pick at it, anxious about seeing him again after so long.

“Are you implying I’m the third wheel? He’s my best friend, you know.”

You groan, “Daaad.”

He laughs heartily into the phone, tickled by your reaction. “I’m just yanking your chain. I know you two get along. You’re closer in age than he and I are, anyway.”

“Only barely. He’s still old enough that he could be my father.” A very young one, but still. “You’re just… way older.”

You don’t need to see him to know that he’s rolling his eyes. “Haha, hilarious, honey. But no funny business, alright? Regardless of what you say, I know how you look at him. And it’s not a look that’s appropriate for a daughter to give her dad.”

You gape, affronted by his implication. “W-What are you talking about? Actually… don’t answer that. Jack’s going to be picking me up soon. I’ll talk to you when I get back, okay?” You’ve never wanted to hang up a phone call so fast in your life.

“You better. And remember what I said, alright?”

“Of course. Bye!”

You hang up the phone just as you hear a heavy knock on your apartment door. Leaping from the couch, you rush over to open it, not before taking a deep breath in and out and adjusting your tank top and shorts. 

With an unhooking of the chain and a turn of the knob, you open the door.

Jack stands before you, dressed in an army T-shirt and a pair of cargo shorts, grinning wide when he sees your face.

He takes in your appearance like a breath of fresh air. It’s been far too long since he last saw you. Life has had her way with him over the past several months after coming back from deployment, and he’s been preoccupied—and unable to make time for you. 

…and your dad.

Now, he’s deploying back overseas in the next two days. This trip—and seeing you again—are the only two things that have been keeping him motivated while he’s been back. Days and days of counting down the clock until he could see you again.

He only wishes he had more time.

“Jack, you’re here,” you whisper, disbelieving he’s right in front of you. He looks… good. Strong. Like he could fold you in half. 

You return his smile, wrapping your arms around his shoulders in a hug. 

When you two part, he squishes your cheeks with a single hand, puckering your lips. “Sure am, kid. Are you ready?” 

Babbling, you nod and respond, “Lemmejusgrabmybackpack.” He finally lets go of your face, and you both laugh.

“Are you sure you didn’t need me to bring anything else?” you ask.

“Just your pretty self.” He snaps his fingers. “And your cooler. We’ll need that. I’ve got ice in the trunk ready.”

“Oh, right. I nearly forgot. Okay, I’ll be right back.”

Jack grabs your wrist, and you turn to face him with a tilt of your head.

“Invite me in, and I’ll carry everything to the car.” He lets go of your wrist and leans over the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest.

“What are you, a vampire?” You raise a brow, confused. 

“Well, it must be the reason why I still look so good at my ripe old age,” he jokes, but doesn’t budge. He wants—needs—your consent to let him in. To cross the threshold. 

Because, really, he’s not so sure he’ll be able to behave himself around you on this trip. Letting him in now is future insurance just in case he does something against your father’s wishes. It’s not his fault if you give him permission to. 

He’ll try to be a good soldier, though.

He waits with bated breath, heart skipping a beat when you roll your eyes and quip, “Oh, you’re an arrogant one at that. Figures. Come on in then, bloodsucker. You can bite me as repayment for carrying my things.” You wink, gesturing for him to come inside.

“Don’t tempt me.”

The car ride to Raccoon Creek is only forty-five minutes long, and while you’re normally antsy during drives longer than your own commute to work—which is only a five-minute walk away from your apartment—you feel relaxed with Jack behind the wheel.

You hate driving, but he makes it look easy. His right hand is on the steering wheel, making a smooth turn down the winding road leading to the park, while the other casually hangs out the window.

Jack begrudgingly let you plug in your phone to listen to your playlist the entire way, complaining about the state that modern-day music is in.

Whatever, old man. Good music definitely still exists.

You’re about twenty minutes away from the park and too excited for your own good. Your knees bounce in sync with the music, the water in your bottle sloshing with every movement as it sits between your legs.

Jack sees you shaking out of the corner of his eye. “Calm down, kid. It feels like an earthquake in here.”

“Sorry, I’m just excited. I always loved going camping as a kid. It’s usually a tradition I share with my dad, but… it’ll be fun to share it with you now, too.” You look over at him with a grin.

Jack’s fingers twitch against the wheel. You’re too sweet on him.

“I’m excited too, angel. But let’s keep the shaking to a minimum, okay?” With his eyes still looking forward, Jack takes the water bottle from your lap and places it into the cup holder. Then his rough palm greets your knee and squeezes, grounding you. 

His hand lingers—thumb brushing over the soft, moisturized skin—but then pulls back a beat too late. And you notice. But you don’t do anything. Because your mutual attraction may be all in your head—key word, mutual—and you’re a good girl.

And good girls listen to their dad’s rules. Even if you’re sitting in the car alone with temptation itself.

You fan yourself lightly to stop yourself from overheating and point to the GPS. “We still have a little bit farther to go. I’m gonna take a quick nap. Wake me when we’re there?” You lean toward the open window and take in the cool breeze and the scent of the crisp summer air that passes by.

“Will do. Get some rest.”

You sit in the car, bleary-eyed and yawning, as Jack takes a second to check in at the park kiosk. He could’ve just checked in online but was too confused by the website and too stubborn to do it any other way than the old-fashioned one. 

It’s too late now anyway. You’re already here.

A few minutes later, Jack comes up to your passenger seat window, crossing his corded, veiny forearms over the edge. You almost reach out and squeeze but stop yourself.

“Alright. We’re good to go. You wanna take a second to use the restroom? Get some snacks? The only other thing we’ll be eating today is whatever we catch.”

You shake your head. “I’m good on the bathroom, and I brought snacks. I’m ready whenever you are.”

“Alright. It’s a few minutes’ drive to where our reservation is.”

“Which is where, exactly? You never really shared the details.”

“You’ll see.”

You hop out of the truck and see the start of the trail leading up to where a walk-in site should be—at least, based on the dusty, barely standing post sign that reads, Walk-In 300 ft. Ahead.

Huh, guess you’ll be a little more isolated. 

Based on the Raccoon Creek map, the loop you’re in is tucked in the outer grounds of the campsite, far away from prying eyes and from the reminder that you’re not alone with only nature.

You don’t mind. 

It’ll be nice to have a real camping experience. A taste of the rugged outdoors. Typically, your dad books a cabin outfitted with power, a kitchen, nice beds, and a bathroom and calls it camping. Says otherwise, it reminds him too much of his time during the service. 

You peer through the window of the truck, looking at Jack on the other side.

Maybe your dad’s logic applies to him too. Maybe this keeps him in it—even while on home leave. You wonder if his days are spent just waiting until he gets deployed again. 

You’re saddened by the thought. You want to fill this very short trip with as much joy as you possibly can before he leaves again.

Did Jack somehow know this is what you wanted? 

Or… is he just sticking with what he’s more comfortable with? Quiet nights, haunted with thoughts for company, and the allure nature brings—even if there’s danger in every corner. Whether that be… bears or enemy combatants.

Maybe you’re overthinking, and he just wants you alone. You turn from the window and look ahead to the trail, a dry laugh escaping your lips.

Nah.

Jack pulls you back to land as you start to drown in your thoughts. He steps around the front of the truck and in front of you. “We’ll probably need to make two trips back and forth to get everything set up. You okay with that, angel?”

“Yeah.” You nod, adamantly. “What do you want me to carry?”

“Take the sleeping bags for now and carry your backpack with you. I’ll take care of the tents and the cooler.”

“Got it!” you say with a salute and a few measured paces to the trunk of his car. He shakes his head at you, lips quirked up and eyes crinkling. You unlatch the trunk and pull out the stuff. 

“You’re really excited about this, huh?” he asks as he joins you, amused by your playfulness.

“Of course… this is my first time actually camping. Not… glamping, like I always do with my dad. I’m glad he ended up letting you do all the booking this time around.”

“It’s a whole different experience. I hope you’ll like it.”

You make space for him to grab the tents and cooler. “I most definitely will. Why hasn’t Dad invited you to our trips before now? We should make this a thing. We can plan it around your deployments.”

“Already thinking about next time?” Jack raises a brow at you. “Let’s see if we survive the night first. C’mon, let’s get our stuff over there.”

Jack tilts his head to the head of the trail, and you walk toward it while he follows closely behind. 

After the second car trip and a quick clearing of the brush covering the gravel pad, you’re ready to set up your home base. 

“So you’ve never pitched a tent before?” Jack asks.

You look at him with wide eyes and a confused expression before you remember where you are. “Oh, you mean—uh, no. Never.”

He shakes his head and smirks. “Stay focused. It’s only the one tent, so we’ll do it together.”

You’re taken aback at this sudden news. “O–Only one tent? Didn’t you say… tents? With an ‘S’?” His eyes follow your pointer finger as it draws the shape of an “S” in the air.

“Did I? My bad.” He shrugs, but he hopes it plays off more nonchalantly than it feels. “It fits two people. When your dad said he wouldn’t be able to join us, I thought it’d be easier. Does that make you uncomfortable?”

“No! No, not at all. I just… wasn’t expecting this.”

“I’m pretty used to living in close quarters. Sorry, I just assumed you’d be okay with it. Don’t worry, we’ll still be in our own sleeping bags. It’ll be fine for just one night.” He winks and clicks his tongue in an attempt to calm you. It works, slightly.

“Yeah, you’re right. Okay, where do we start?”

“This spot is as good as any. It’s level, and since we cleared everything, nothing should be poking us in our sleep.”

Jack picks up the tarp from the ground. “Next: lay the tarp out. Want to do that while I unfold the tent?” 

You nod as he hands you the tarp, and you toss it out over the gravel. 

Jack unfurls the tent. “Alright, now, take one corner of the tent, and I’ll take the other. Pull it tight and lay it over the tarp.” You take one corner of the tent and walk diagonally from him, following his lead.

“All that’s left to do is assemble the poles, slide them through the sleeves here,” Jack says, bending down and threading his finger through one sleeve and pulling it up, “pin them, and bend them so the tent lifts. After that, I’ll stake it down.”

“Huh, I always thought it was harder to set up a tent. It seems pretty simple, actually.”

“That’s just ‘cause I’m here helping you, kid.”

Jack is just finishing up staking the last corner of the tent when you ask, “So, it’s barely noon. What do you have in mind for the rest of the day?”

“We can do whatever you like. But I was thinking we take a hike down to the lake and catch some fish. How’s that sound?”

“Let’s do it,” you say, picking up your backpack from the dirt and slinging it over your shoulder. “Do we need to put our stuff inside the tent, or can we leave it out?”

Jack smiles up at you. “There’s no one around. We’ll be okay. Let’s go.” He stands, then slings the camp chair bag around his back and holds the cooler and fishing pole in each hand. 

You’re about half a mile into your two-mile hike to the lake when you look back at Jack. He quickly glances up to meet your eyes, glinting with the sunlight and… something else. 

…Was he staring at your ass? 

God, you hope he was. It would make you feel a little less guilty to know he also can’t keep his eyes off you.

“Jack, why are you walking so far behind me? I practically have to yell to make conversation.”

“I want to make sure you’re always in my sight.” 

The logic tracks. Your dad did warn him ahead of time that if anything happened to you, he would kill him. And that’s putting it lightly. But still, he doesn’t have to be so far away from you. 

You stop in your tracks, turn around, and stomp toward him. His lips curl up as he watches you approach, and that just irritates you more. He just loves to get a reaction out of you, doesn’t he? Holding yourself back from chirping at him, you forcefully grab the fishing pole from his hands, and it’s quickly stuffed into your backpack, the red floater bobbing in the air from where the pole sticks out.

You thread your fingers through his now-free hand. 

“There. If you walk right by me, you’ll see me at all times, right?”

Jack glances down at your interlocked fingers and squeezes, just a bit. He most definitely could break your hand if he so chose, but his hold is so light that it tickles across your palm and makes you shiver. You clasp his hand just a bit tighter.

He looks back up at you with the same mischievous look he gave you just moments earlier. “I’ve been walking at your pace, sweetheart. Now, you’ll be the one who needs to keep up.”

For the next ten minutes of your hike, you’re nearly out of breath, only getting a chance to breathe when you stop to point out an interesting bird or some pretty shrubbery.

You turn to Jack, pointing at the brilliant, yellow American Goldfinch with the hand not currently clasped in his, but his eyes are locked on yours. A pout graces your face. 

Is he even paying attention? 

You suppose he’s probably more concerned with making it to the lake—before the sun sets—if you keep up this pace. You lower your hand, looking down, and let go of his with the other.

“Hey, what happened? Come back to me.”

You lift your head back up to him, and he pins you with an intense look. 

“I—I’m probably bugging you, aren’t I? I get it… we can just walk the rest of the way without any interruptions. We’re almost there, right?”

He scoffs, and you think he’s going to make a joke, but then he surprises you when he says, “What, are you kidding? Mother Nature is gorgeous, but you’re the only woman I have my eye on.” He kisses the top of your hand gently, relocks your fingers, and pulls you ahead. “C’mon. Just a little more to go. I’ll try to pay more attention to the birds, kid.” 

Jack only lets your hand go once you reach the lake. 

The water is clear and bright blue, and it dazzles beneath the fiery afternoon sun. You're glad you packed your sunscreen and most obnoxious, gargantuan, floppy sun hat.

You swing your backpack around to your front to pull out the folded-up hat, the fishing pole bumping into your hand as it sits in the way. It feels a bit ridiculous once it’s on your head and you see the size of it as you look down at your shadow, but, whatever.

Jack looks at you, appalled, but otherwise makes no comment. 

Hat on, you both walk in step up to one of the piers that circle the lake. There are a few other visitors, but the piers are far enough apart that it doesn’t matter. It’s an intimate setting and perfect for fishing.

Jack sets down the nylon bag with the camp chair and the cooler on the wooden walkway, while you drop your backpack beside them and take off your hiking shoes and socks, wanting to dip your feet into the water.

You look back at him from the edge of the pier when he’s finally set up the chair and retrieved the fishing pole from your bag.

He meets your eyes and pats the seat. “I only brought one chair. I’ll fish while you sit.” 

You nod, lift your feet from the water, then take a few steps and crash into the chair. The hike wore you out more than you thought it would. You don’t even want to think about how your dad would fare if he were here.

Bending over, you reach for your bag, grabbing the sunscreen. You flip the cap, squirt a healthy amount into your hands, and rub it over your arms, legs, neck, and face. Meanwhile, Jack peels off his shirt and lays it next to him as he sits on the edge of the pier, throwing the line over.

The floater plops into the water, audible thanks to the isolated strip of walkway you’re on. Fishing isn’t really something you ever cared for, but since Jack has a permit, you can live vicariously through him.

“Jack… you need to put on sunscreen. Here.” You stretch your arm out to wave it in his face, but he doesn't take it.

“I’m fishing. Do you mind getting it on my back?”

“W-well, how about the front? You’re facing the sun.”

“If you can reach from behind, you can put it wherever you’d like.”

His voice is so smooth and velvety as he says it, and all you can think is, Jack, you can not be saying things like that.

You get down on wobbly knees and sit directly behind him, squirting some of the sunscreen into your hands and gently lathering it over his back. Your eyes connect the dots of freckles that litter his form, and you’re only more entranced as he rotates his shoulders and neck—as if putting on a show for you—and his muscles ripple beneath your touch. 

As much as you’d like to, you don’t linger too long, and soon you finish applying the cream on his back. Shaky hands apply more on his nape, and you circle them to reach his throat, fingers gliding over his salt-and-pepper-covered jawline. You dot his face, careful to avoid his eyes.

He’s just so pretty and a little too confident about it that it makes your head spin. 

You take in a deep—and hopefully silent—breath. Your hands inch down toward his chest, reaching from over his shoulders while sitting on your knees—your chest pressed tight to his back. 

Jack has to hold in a groan as he feels you nearly grind against him to reach over his shoulders, just so he doesn’t get sunburned. You’re so good to him.

You graze his nipples but move quickly to the surrounding taut pec when he flinches. 

“Getting handsy there, angel? Or should I say, devil?” He tilts his head back to you, giving you a sly wink.

“S-shut up. This is for your own good. You already put your life on the line for work. You don’t need to go belly up from skin cancer, too.”

He hums. “Can’t argue with that.”

You loop your arms through his to smear the cream over what you can’t reach from on top of his shoulders.His abdomen noticeably tenses as you glide your fingers over the sun-kissed skin, and you hold back a smile—happy that your touch can affect him like this.

Your fingers trail down to his navel, and even lower, and Jack has to force himself to stop you.

He gently envelops your wrist and says, through gritted teeth, “I think that’s enough, sweetheart. Thank you. Why don’t you sit back now? It might be a while until something bites.”

You reluctantly pull back and place your palms to his back instead. Pressing your cheek against his shoulder and nodding, you whisper a soft “okay,” as your lips brush against the delicate skin.

He shivers, but you’ve already pulled away. The skin on his forehead wrinkles as he furrows his brows in frustration at the situation. He’s trying, but his control is slipping. Slipped. And now he has to try to find ways to justify each and every time he inevitably gets too close. 

You've been sitting on the chair for the past hour, reading your book, when Jack shouts.

“I think we’ve got something!” Jack quickly stands, wrestling with the supposed creature, then reels in what looks like… a catfish? 

“Oh my God, you got one, Jack!” You stand up in a rush, nearly knocking the chair back into the lake.

He looks smug as he dangles the poor fish in front of you. “I said I would, didn’t I?”

The fish seem to be coming in droves now, and after what feels like only a few minutes, the ice-packed cooler holds several species of gutted fish—a nice haul of walleye, bluegill, and bullhead catfish—right next to the pack of beers. At least they’re packed into Ziploc bags.

Luckily, Jack had his army knife handy. Because of course he would.

He stretches in front of you. “God, my back aches. Can I sit?” he asks, pointing at the chair. 

You nod and go to sit by the pier, but as he walks past you, he pulls you back by the waist. He flips himself around just in time before crashing onto the chair, the fabric sinking and taut under your combined weight. You’re surprised it holds. More surprised that now you’re sitting in his lap like a child on a mall Santa. 

“J-Jack, what are you doing? This thing can’t hold the both of us.” You try to wiggle yourself out of his grip, but his hands only tighten on your waist. 

“It’ll hold. I have only the best, and I don’t want your ass to get sore sitting on the pier. Mine did.”

“Oh, and your lap is more comfortable?”

“I’ve been told it’s very comfortable. But I can flip you over and give you something else to whine about, if that’s what you want.” You open your mouth in shock, giving him an incredulous look.

“A-and why didn’t you bring the other chair?” You push because it’s a logical question, but you also want to know if he wants you to keep his lap warm. 

“It would've been too much to carry—even for me.”

It’s a weak excuse, and one you know isn’t true. Disappointment seeps in, but it bottlenecks as you remind yourself that at least you’re in his lap and at least he wants you there.

You glare at him but otherwise get comfortable, submitting to him a bit too easily. His arms bracket you in from where they now rest on the arms of the chair, and you twist your body, draping your legs over his. 

You press your palm to his chest, your head resting lightly on his shoulder. 

His shirt is still lying on the edge of the pier, damp from the harshly fought battles with the fish, and you swirl your fingers over the small tuft of chest hair trailing down his chest. His dog tags shine a bit too bright in your eyes, and you close them to imagine them as if they were dangling in front of you while lying on your back and taking his cock. 

Oh God, the thoughts are getting worse.

Your face starts to heat, not only from the warm weather but also from the close proximity. You’ve always shared a comfortable companionship, but over the past year or so things have been increasingly… intimate. Not obviously, but a few lingering glances and touches more than normal add up. It’s been over half a decade since you’ve met, and you’ve been attached at the hip since day one. But now you think you’re ready to take the next step in your relationship.

If Jack were to feel the same way, well, it’s something your father would just have to accept. You’re both well into adulthood. You’re mature enough to admit you’re helplessly attracted to him.

But Jack is still Jack. He teases, flirts, and touches you, and it burns you from the inside out—but he’s duty-bound to care for you, and he has to balance the act between a dad’s best friend… and something more. Possibly, something more.

Your eyes flit to the silicone wedding band around his finger, the shiny material reflecting the sun. It’s not new—and not something you try to pay too much attention to—but it triggers a core memory from days past, and you decide to bring it up.

“Hey, remember when we first met at Dad’s fifty-fifth birthday and retirement party?”

“How could I forget? The moment when you first became a pain in my ass.” He smiles down at you. It’s a soft look, endearing and warm from the recollection of the memory.

He jokes, but he remembers that day often—remembers how, even after the ache in his heart following his wife’s passing, he saw a light at the end of the tunnel when he first saw you. A light that was quickly snuffed out when your father introduced you to him as his daughter.

You ignore his statement, instead saying, “I was surprised when he first introduced you. I thought you’d be at least as old as him—not twenty years his junior.” 

“Military bonds know no bounds. He was a good role model. I was sad to see him retire, but he served his time. And he knew he had to get out before you went off to college.”

“I still feel so embarrassed and guilty asking you about your ring. I was so naive and… insensitive.” You cringe at the past you.

“You didn’t know, angel. It had been several years since she passed at that point, and I still had it on. It's not your fault you were curious when I showed up alone.”

A few seconds pass in silence. 

“Do you think… you’ll ever find the person? The person who you might set aside that ring for?” 

Jesus, you did not just ask that. 

You shake your head. “Sorry, don’t answer that. It’s not my place to ask you something like that.” You attempt to hide your face in the crook of his armpit, but your stupid hat makes it difficult.

Jack can’t bear the hope—and anguish—hidden in between your words. He tries to reassure you the best he can without cracking his chest open and giving you his heart.

He tilts your head up to him with his thumb and forefinger, finding your eyes beneath the rim of your hat. “Kid, look at me. You don’t have to feel bad. I’m not grieving anymore. The pain is still there, but it’s better now. I loved her—still have love for her—but I know she wouldn’t want me to stay alone forever. But… I never met anyone else, so why take off the ring? It’s as simple as that.”

You try to free your chin from the press of his fingers, but he doesn’t let you. You finally nod in understanding, and only then does he release you from his grip.

“You speak so fondly of her. What you two shared must’ve been really amazing.”

“It was. We were still so young and free at the time. Maybe I’ll tell you more about her someday.” 

“Okay.” A beat later, you add, “Sorry, I didn’t mean for this to turn so… melancholy.”

“It’s okay. If there’s one person in the world I want to open up to, it’s you.”

You both lie in the chair in peaceful silence for a few minutes, watching the sun begin its slow descent over the horizon, when Jack starts to doze off. You rest your hand right over his heart, feeling his heartbeat slow and even out. It’s another ten minutes or so before you gently rouse him from his short nap.

“Jack. Jack, maybe we should head back. I’m getting a bit hungry, and the sun’s starting to set,” you say, shaking him awake.

He just groans and stretches his arms before returning his hands to your waist. 

A few harsh blinks and a shake of his head later, he says, “Okay. Vámonos.”

Jack is setting up the swing-over grill and the firewood while you season what you can of the fish. Luckily, you knew beforehand to bring a few packets of salt and pepper. 

Unlike Jack—who’s willing to risk his health eating the fish raw and unseasoned like he’s on Survivor—you refuse to go without any seasoning. The fish isn’t complete without a sprinkle of smoked paprika, garlic, and onion powder, but it’ll have to do.

You admire how the flickering flames lick across his skin, giving him a warm glow, and his ability to withstand them as he lays the fish across the grill. 

The thought is dramatic, but it’s as if he’d suffer through a little bit of fire to feed you. Nourish you. Take care of you. If only he could brave the paternal firestorm to admit what you’ve already admitted to yourself.

As the nose-wrinkling, fishy smell of the walleye and bluefish morphs into a delicious, woody, salty sea scent, your mouth starts to water. You hand Jack a paper plate, and he serves you up some of the fish as soon as it’s ready.

After squeezing a bit of lemon, you pinch a piece off the malleable flesh and take a bite, moaning lightly at the small taste of heaven. It has a robust, earthy flavor, enhanced by the acidity and the salt and pepper.

Unbeknownst to you, Jack stares, unwilling to draw his gaze from you, even to take a bite from his own plate. He feels an overwhelming pride swell in his chest, knowing that you enjoy something as simple as the fish he grilled for you. He’d do this for you again and again, if only to hear your sweet moans of satisfaction—like music to his ears, looping forever.

Even if they’re only for his food.

You continue to eat, a few hours passing by in casual conversation, and after a few shared sips of the beer he popped open, you’re ready to turn in for the night.

“Jack, thank you for dinner. It was fantastic.” You beam at him from across the dying campfire as he sits in the other camp chair. You yawn, stretching your arms over your head, your top riding up. 

Jack watches as the material lifts, exposing your skin.

“I think I’m ready to head to sleep. Are you coming in soon?”

He nods. “Yeah. I just want to watch the stars for a bit longer. I won’t take too long. Meet you in my dreams, angel.”

“Meet you there.”

You discard your paper plate into a trash bag, then rifle through your backpack, grabbing your nightwear before unzipping the tent and heading in. Plopping down onto your sleeping bag, you quickly change out of your dirt-caked and sweaty clothes and into a pair of flimsy sleeping shorts and a tank top.

You’re barely conscious when Jack comes in only a few minutes later, already stripped down to his boxers as the moonlight from the open flap in the tent pours in.

Though it’s dark, and you're halfway to falling asleep, you can still see the outline of his cock through the thin material, soft against his thigh. Your body forces you awake, eyes nearly glazed over and face growing warm, but you dig your fingers into your thighs to keep you calm.

It’s stupidly hot. Scorching. Both because of the cramped space—thanks to the single tent—and the heat of the night air. You try to wait out your discomfort, hoping Mr. Sandman drags you to his realm soon, but maybe you’ve outgrown that. 

Addressing the problem head-on is best.

“Jack,” you whisper. He turns his head to you as he settles inside his bag.

“Thought you were asleep. Did I wake you?” he whispers back.

You’re not quite sure why you’re whispering. There’s no one around for miles. 

“No, I’ve just been tossing and turning all this time. I’m really working up a sweat. Do you mind if I—… if I just sleep over my bag? I know it’s cramped in here—”

“—No problem at all. Don’t want you sweating all night. You’ll get dehydrated.”

You hesitate but unzip your bag—after a few seconds of sheer panic that you can’t locate the zipper—and escape the sweltering insulation.

Of course he’d bring his standard-issue mummy sleeping bags. You probably should’ve brought your own.

It’s a bit darker in the tent now that the campfire has completely died out, and you can’t tell if Jack is looking at you or has his eyes closed. Only his silhouette is visible from the moon and starlight pouring in—his head tilted in your direction and his arms out, mummy bag not fully zipped yet.

You let a breath escape you, your body finally cooling down. The sweat from the heat dries, but now a nervous one takes its place, your emotions working overtime.

Reflecting on today, this is the most touchy, feely, and cozied up together you two have ever been. And it hurts because you don’t know when the next time you’ll be alone together like this will be. During Jack’s brief stints, while he’s waiting to be deployed, you mostly hang out with him alongside your dad. Or, if alone, somewhere in public or with their other military buddies. 

There’s always someone watching. 

Someone who would judge the girl with a schoolgirl crush on her older, widowed, and too-handsome dad’s best friend.

With an ache in your heart from how close yet far you are, you finally settle against the sleeping bag and try to fall asleep again.

What you don’t expect is for Jack to reach for you, pulling your hips into his so you’re chest to chest.

“Jack—Jack, what are you doing?”

“You’re not zipped in, and I realize you might knock me upside the head if you toss and turn in your sleep. It’s better if I keep you restrained like this. For my own safety.”

“But… doesn’t this defeat the purpose? I’m going to get hot while tucked into you.” Your heart can’t take this anymore. 

“Hm… I guess you’re right.” 

Jack's fingers play with the hem of your tank, and you can feel them slip underneath, his warm, calloused hand pressed to your lower back.

His voice is gruff. “Take it off. The top and shorts. I won’t be able to see anything in the dark.” 

You plead, “J-Jack—”

“—It’s okay. I’ll be a gentleman. I promise.” His hand slowly moves from your lower back to snap the elastic of your straps against your skin, urging you to listen to him. 

“Do it.”

He’s so persistent about it you can’t help but give in. This is only the most logical solution to your problem, after all.

You peel your tank off, nipples peaked as the fabric runs over them, and you instinctively know Jack is watching. 

Gentleman, my ass.

The shorts are discarded at the head of the tent next, your underwear the only thing keeping you modest. You return to his chest and settle against him, the cool material of his dog tags stunning you for a second. You’re only too hyper aware of your peaked nipples rubbing against his skin as he wraps his arms around you again. 

Oh, what he wouldn’t do to get a mouthful of them. But there’s not really a valid reason for that, is there?

After a few heart-pounding seconds of silence, Jack speaks up, “I couldn’t see much, angel. But I don’t have to to know that you’re beautiful. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable about this, okay? I just want you to have the best sleep you can. We’ll be leaving pretty early tomorrow.”

You only nod, your face pressed into his armpit and inhaling his heady scent. You fall asleep quickly now.

As you stir, awoken by the alarm on your phone, you see Jack, already awake, leaning over you with an elbow propped up. A soft smile plays on his lips. You’re still drowsy from sleep but feel wide awake the moment you realize the state you’re in. Your breasts are exposed, visible due to the early morning light filtering in through the tent. 

But that isn’t the worst part.

Your legs are tangled with Jack’s, your underwear is soaked, and your core is flush against his thigh. You realize, with shame, you must’ve been grinding on him in your sleep. 

He too must have unzipped himself the rest of the way down overnight, and your body took advantage of it.

“Good morning, sweetheart.” He kisses the top of your head, reaching for your top scrunched at the head of the tent. You quickly rise from where you're sprawled on the tent floor, snatching it from his hand and putting it on.

“Jack, I’m so sorry. I—I didn’t mean to—” you stutter, trying to move your legs from where they’re straddled between Jack’s, but he keeps you still with a firm hold on your waist.

“It’s alright. It was bound to happen with us being closed in and all.” He moves his hand from your waist to rub circles into your upper thigh, then pinches the soft flesh. Let’s see if he can get away with this one. “I want you to keep going. Take what you need.” 

“What?” You look down at him with a shocked expression, his nonchalance only exacerbated as he chuckles lightly into his fist, elbow still propped.

His serious eyes meet your owlish ones, and you gulp. 

“I said what I said.”

You’re flustered, tripping over your words, and Jack uses the opportunity to pull you back onto his chest and lie you both down again.

He waits. Waits for you to tell him that this isn’t right, that you can both forget this happened and move on. But he wants you to take advantage of him. He’s giving himself to you, even if you don’t realize it yet.

You’re both still for a few seconds, waiting for the other to do something. Say something. You decide to make the first move.

What’s a little more humiliation? Jack’s already seen your tits and felt your wet panties glide over his muscled thigh. And… he seemed to enjoy it. That’s all the liquid courage you need to do what you do next.

You hide your face in the crook of his neck and wrap your arms around his nape, pulling at the soft, graying curls, and resume the slow grind of your cunt over his thigh.

He just lies there, letting you use him, and watches you undulate on him like you’re the most precious thing in the world. And maybe—based on the way his breath hitches as you moan, and he relishes the overstimulated tears that drip onto his neck—you are. 

Your clit twitches, but you whine in frustration, not yet close. He decides to help you instead of being a willing bystander and grabs your hips to press you harder against his thigh, desperately guiding you up and down to give you the friction you need. 

“Waitwaitwait—Jack, it’s too—too rough, p-please.” 

Please don’t stop.

“Just give it to me. You can.”

Jack sweats as your hot pants collect in the crook of his neck, holding himself back from ripping off your underwear and taking you right here. If this is as close as he can get without crossing the proverbial line, he’ll take it.

You buck more wildly, sloppily against him as your orgasm fast approaches, and he gives you a final push—harshly spanking you, then gripping and spreading the fat of your ass to help you reach your climax. He’s basically doing all the work now, shifting you up and down so fast that your orgasm barrels toward you without remorse.

A gasp escapes you, one delirious with need—the sting of the spank and the relief of his warm, demanding touch, massaging and gripping your cheeks, finally hurling you over the edge. You come with a cry, muffled against his shoulder as you bite down.

Whispers of praise tumble from Jack’s lips, choked out, as he grapples with the ego boost of you coming on his thigh and the pretty mark you left for him on his shoulder. You’re so out of it, you don’t register his quiet confessions. 

“So, so pretty.” 

“You did so good, kid.”

“I wish… we could be like this all the time.” He kisses your sweaty forehead after that last one.

You lie still against him in the afterglow of your orgasm for a few seconds—catching your breath, reeling yourself back to reality—when you notice he’s hard, his cock twitching against his upper thigh and a wet spot forming on his boxers.

You reach delicate hands over to touch him through the fabric, but he stops you, fingers wrapping around your wrist. 

“We need to leave soon. Why don’t we break down the tent now?”

A frown tugs at your lips. “B-but… what about you?”

“Nothing about me. It’s just a natural reaction to us being cramped in here, that’s all. I can’t ask you to do that.”

“Let me—”

“—I told your dad I’d take care of you. You needed to get off. I helped you. That’s it.” 

You’re taken aback, mouth open but left speechless. A mix of shame, guilt, and despair swirls inside you—his flippant tone adding heavy droplets of anger to the mix. 

Is he fucking serious?

You feel cheap. Used. This is the moment you finally feel brave enough to do something to push past the boundaries of your relationship, and he shuts it down. 

It dawns on you what he’s doing. He wants this—you—too. His actions over the past twenty-four hours have betrayed him, revealing what you’ve always hoped to be true. That he feels an irrevocable attraction toward you. And your excitement is quickly shut down when you realize he’s not going to do anything more about it than hide behind lame excuses. If he’s going to deny you like this… well, maybe it’s time to move on. You’re done waiting for him.

“You’re an ass, you know that?” Tears sting your eyes as you quickly push yourself off him, grabbing your shorts and rushing out of the tent.

Jack watches you leave, pain wracking his chest. He shouldn’t have been so indifferent. So clinical. His no-frills dismissal of the reciprocation you wanted to give—ah, you’re too fucking doting on him. But his job is to protect. To serve. To obey. Giving himself to you has never been part of the equation… as much as he’d like to. 

He knows he fucked up.

Bringing you out here, to the far, isolated loop of the park, was his chance to feel closer to you. You managed to worm your way into his poorly fortified defenses—out in the call of the wild, where he’s usually alone with nightmares from time wasted and lives lost—and he took advantage of his own weakness for you.

But what’s he to do to course-correct? You two aren’t meant to be.

And so, even with a disgusting guilt and for a short while, he feels satiated by what little he could offer you, even if he can’t offer himself.

You’ll get over it.

The car ride home is silent, with only the sound of the wind whipping into your face to quell your frenetic thoughts. He looks over at you leaning on the window, disturbed by the quiet. Even if he doesn’t enjoy your music, he always wants to hear you. Always. 

Once home, he walks you to the door of your apartment, your name leaving his lips before you can close the door in his face.

“I know you’re upset with me. You have every right to be. But… I had a really great time. I’ll miss you. Give your dad a hello and a goodbye for me, okay, kid?”

You look back at him, sighing. It’s not fair that he has to leave tomorrow. You want more time to stew and act like a petulant child. But instead, you drop your cooler to the ground and give him a warm—but respectful—hug. 

“I had a good time too, Jack. Stay safe overseas.” 

He stands stock-still, surprised you responded in kind, but returns your hug. “I’m thinking of you. Remember that.” He cradles your cheek, wipes away an eyelash, and then heads into the elevator.

As you watch him leave, you’re left wondering what the fuck you’ll do now.

“Why couldn’t he come again? You’re really bringing the vibe down, sourpuss,” Yolanda asks, a teasing lilt in her tone.

You’re currently sitting opposite Yolanda and Trinity in a cozy booth in the far corner of a bar, with your hands stretched out and head sideways on the table. You groan.

“He has some finance-bro presentation for work tomorrow. He won’t be able to hang out tonight. But fuck him, right, ladies? Tonight’s girl’s—” You glance up and see them making out, not ignoring you, but too wrapped up in each other for your voice to reach them. While you’re glad to have accepted their invitation to hang out—after not seeing them for a while—you had hoped that your recent fling would be here with you to make this less of a third-wheel situation. 

You met him on a dating app—he’s cute, gentlemanly enough, and decent in bed. He buys you nice gifts sometimes, too.

Trinity breaks the kiss, needing air, and turns back to you. “Sorry, what’d you say?”

“He’s not coming.”

She reaches a hand over the table to pat yours. “That’s a shame. We probably could’ve gotten him to pay for all the drinks.”

You laugh, cheering up slightly. “Yeah, probably. Anyway… I think I’m gonna head out soon. I have work tomorrow.” You move your arms from the table and lift your head, rifling through your bag to double-check you have all your personal items. 

Your face feels warm from the few drinks you’ve had, accompanied by a pounding headache, and you're already tired from your long day at work. It’s really time to go.

“Are you sure? It’s still not too late… Why don’t we dance? Or have one more drink?” Yolanda asks, twirling the straw in her empty margarita glass.

You shake your head. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be a buzzkill, but I’m exhausted. You guys have fun, okay?”

They both give you a sad smile. 

“Let’s call you an Uber.” Trinity says.

You crash into your bed after getting undressed and completing a half-assed version of your nighttime skincare routine. Your phone pings, and you check it to see that Nathan has texted you, wishing you a good night and apologizing for not making it tonight. It’s almost sweet, and you start to smile, until that quickly turns into a frown when he follows up immediately with:

Do you think you could send me a little something, you know, for good luck? ;)

I’ll treat you to the bonus I get if I secure this client tomorrow.

You roll your eyes. You’re not against sending a few sexy pics now and then, but you’ve already gotten ready for bed. Still, the thought of an all-expenses-paid trip to the Maldives does sound good right about now.

You make the difficult decision to get out of bed and dolled up for this amateur photoshoot—the only incentive being an expensive gift in return—and put on your best set of lingerie. It’s just been sitting alone, thrown into the far end of your closet after Nathan gifted it to you not too long ago.

The babydoll dress is a sheer, pastel mesh color that complements your skin tone perfectly, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. It pairs well with the thong in the same color, with cute little bows adorning the sides of your hips. You take a good look at yourself in the mirror, satisfied with what you see. He chose a good one. 

Sitting back in bed and on top of your comforter, you try to work yourself up. You flick your nipples through the ruffly mesh and run your fingers over your slit, barely covered by the thong. 

Previous hookup encounters with Nathan invade your mind—as a mood setter—but it doesn’t work. After minutes of trying and trying to get yourself turned on for the man who bought you the lingerie pass, you give up. Instead, your mind flits to Jack and that early morning after you spent the night cuddled together.

Minutes turn into seconds, and you’re already wet, the stringy satin clinging to your cunt. 

You open your phone’s camera and position yourself to take some pictures, snapping a few of your perked nipples poking through the thin bra and your damp thong. More photos are taken, each lewder than the last—the final few exposing your breasts and soaked cunt, bra tucked under and thong pulled to the side.  

Going the extra mile—even though Nathan doesn’t deserve it—you also film a quick video. Featherlight touches graze your nipples, and deft fingers split the seam of your pussy. You give yourself a few light slaps over your clit, making you jump. You tease, barely nudging a single digit inside your hole, moaning Nathan’s name. It’s deadpan, but he won’t notice.

The production is shit anyway. The darkness of the room and the dust trapped in your phone speakers don’t do you any favors for visual or audio, but he’ll get what he asked for. You quickly shoot off the risqué material one at a time, then fall asleep—too tired to change back into your sleepwear. 

The last thought in your mind before entering dreamland: You wish Jack were here to help soothe the ache in your heart and in your cunt.

Jack’s phone pings as he’s lying in his bunker, about to fall asleep. He’s been tossing and turning all night, anxious for tomorrow.

He’ll be home again, this time for a lot longer. He’s itching to see you again after months of mostly radio silence between you two since the trip. He’s sent a few texts here and there, and you’ve responded, but they’re curt. Dry. Diplomatic.

At least when he’s back, you’ll have to see him at some point, right? 

Even if it’s just with your dad—pretending everything is normal between you two—and giving him the cold shoulder when he isn’t looking. Always the good girl, putting on a brave face so Daddy won’t have to worry. He’d be crushed if he found out you couldn’t even stand to be near his best friend anymore. 

Jack reaches under his pillow to grab his phone, sitting up straight in bed when he sees several text messages from you. He opens your text chain, your contact pinned at the top.

Jack nearly passes out when he sees what you’ve sent.

His eyes zip from one photo to the next, too impatient to process each and every one pixel by pixel. You're wearing a pretty lingerie set, but not one that he would pick out. He much prefers a birthday suit—less fuss. A dozen or so images of your perky nipples and sopping pussy greet his wide eyes. 

His heart nearly bursts out of his chest. He can’t see your face—the image is cropped out or just out of frame—but including it might’ve actually sent him to the infirmary. Why didn’t he take more pictures with you—of you—during the trip?

Maybe he thought he wouldn’t have to. Like somehow it could’ve ended another way—with you two together. You don’t need photos when you’ve already got the real thing. It’s wishful thinking, and now the only thing he has as a reminder is a broken heart and a sore wrist from thoughts of you crying on his thigh.

The last message from you is a video, and he adjusts the volume so it doesn’t blast, but at least he’s tucked away in his own quarters—a nice perk of being a long-time sergeant. 

He does it as if lowering the volume absolves the wrongness in his more-than-willing participation and engagement with your lewd messages. Still, his thumb hovers over the play button, trying to convince himself to delete the texts and forget this happened—but it’s a losing battle. 

The short clip plays, and what he hears is like Apollo’s lyre, your moans and the squelch of your cunt seducing him—but one bad pluck of the animal gut in the form of another man's name pulls him from his hypnosis.

It’s a name that doesn’t belong to him. It rots Jack from the inside out, grime curling into his mouth, and he almost spews it onto the floor. 

He already knows you didn't mean to send this to him, but he’s devastated and envious. Ready to march on a warpath leading to the man who let you slip through his fingers with tears in your eyes. He’s replayed that moment of you leaving the tent one too many times, trying to rewrite the story in a way that would lead him back to you. 

Jack should’ve reached for you then. Reassured you that the moment wasn’t just because of a warped sense of duty. 

He wants you.

And you’re no longer the eighteen-year-old girl he initially met. You’re a grown woman, one who’s capable of making her own decisions. Jack chooses courage now, because if he doesn’t act, paltry, meager men will take what’s rightfully his… what has always been. And he fears you’re already being pulled away by forces he can’t control.

The only other obstacle is your dad. But Jack can take him in a fight, if necessary. He hopes it won’t come to that.

He aches for you. Wants to take the next steps in life and move on with you. But he can’t, not yet. Not until he’s back home and he can show you he means it. But now he has all the motivation he needs to try to get back in your good graces.

Instead of deleting the texts, he saves the material, then he does what he thinks is best to rectify the mistake he made all those months ago.

He calls you.

You’re awoken from a light sleep when your phone goes off, vibrating on the nightstand. 

Your eyes adjust to the bright light on the screen as you hold the phone over your face—careful not to drop it—and you see that you have a few missed phone calls from Jack. You sit up in bed.

It’s midnight. What could he want? It’s been—well, since before the camping trip—that you last spoke on the phone. You don’t bother returning his call. Whatever he wants to talk about can wait at least until you're fully conscious. 

You clear the notifications from Jack one by one when you happen to see another one from Nathan:

Hey, did you fall asleep? Where are my pics :(

That makes you freeze, anxiety jolting you into full coherency. You know you sent those off… But if not to Nathan, then to whom?

You immediately return Jack’s call, not even bothering to look through your messages to confirm what you did. You know you sent them to him. Because, maybe, deep down, you wanted to send him those photos.

The line connects, and you speak up first. “Jack?”

He feels his nervousness dissipate, rejuvenated after going so long without hearing your saccharine melody.

“Angel… it’s been a while.”

“I take it you saw what I sent you?” You tug at the bows adorning your hips, loosening them and twirling the slack satin.

“Heard it too.”

You bring your phone to your chest, groaning in humiliation as the soft sheets rustle beneath you. Despite that, you grow hot at his wrecked voice and utter honesty. How is it that after all this time—even on complicated terms—he can still make you fall apart with just his voice?

You quickly bring your phone back to your ear to ask him the burning question. “Did… did you like what you saw?”

Jack’s brain buffers, pulse racing at your shy, innocent, but very loaded question. He doesn’t respond right away but feels the need to praise you for being so good to him. 

“…Yes, God, yes. You don’t know what you do to me, kid.”

Butterflies flutter inside your stomach, and you almost want to throw your phone into the wall from the overwhelming joy you feel at his response. 

“W-why are you calling?”

“Why do you think? I hear you moan another man’s name, and you think I won’t address it?”

“You don’t have the right to be upset. I walked out on you… but you pushed me away.” You pout and chew on your lip. You’re not letting him get away with his behavior that morning.

He’s stunned into a short silence, but ultimately he’s glad you called him out. You’ve been more mature than him throughout everything, and he runs his fingers through his curls in embarrassment.

He puffs out a tired breath. “I know. But that’s also why I want to talk to you. I want to apologize for that day. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Letting you go… well, it’s one of my biggest mistakes. I won’t make it again.”

Coming from Jack, it’s the most heartfelt and mournful apology you’ve ever heard. Would it be too quick to forgive him already? The distance and time apart only make you more willing to throw the water under the bridge.

You start to tear up and begin to say something when Jack interjects, “And I want to tell you that you’re devastating. Just…” He chuckles. “I can’t even get the words out. Stunning. Even if you’re moaning another man’s name.”

Heat works its way through your body at his words. Still, you respond, with a sniffle, “And while wearing the lingerie he bought me.” You throw that in to make him hurt. Just a little bit more.

“You’re really killing me here, you know that?”

You laugh, and he feels as if all’s right with the world again. “Sorry. Thank you for apologizing, Jack. I’m—I’m also sorry for not reaching out to you more. I shouldn’t have held such a grudge against you. I know you only have the best intentions.”

He really doesn’t. Not with your video still playing in the back of his mind. Not when he’s nearly two decades older than you and he thinks about knocking you up. But as long as you want him just as badly as he does, it'll be alright. “I should’ve reached out too. It’s not your fault.”

You both listen to the hushed sound of the other’s breathing through the phone, not wanting to disturb the quietude brought by your mending of fences. 

A few peaceful seconds pass in silence. “So… what now?” 

“You tell me. What do you want, angel?”

“I want—I want you. I… I want to be with you, Jack.” Your voice comes out shaky and in a pathetic whisper, but that only endears you to him more.

“Then you have me.” Jack twists the silicone band on his finger, already planning your life together in his head. He’s going to take such good care of you. That nearly excites him more than the thought of getting you underneath him. Almost. 

“What do we do about my dad?”

“Don’t worry about him. We’ll talk to him together. I didn’t tell you, but I’m coming home tomorrow.”

If you weren’t already sitting up in bed, you would probably levitate. You smack your chest as your heart pumps a little too fast. “You’ll be here? Tomorrow?”

He’s amused by your sweet reaction. “Yes. Wait for me.”

“Okay, I will.” You nod, even though he can’t see you over the phone. “I—I missed you.”

“Me too, sweetheart. More than words can say.”

A moment later, Jack speaks up, addressing you by name. He doesn’t want the call to end. He wants to feel close to you again with a new understanding that he can be a little selfish. Because that's what people who let themselves feel and receive love do.

“Before we hang up, I want to try something. I want you to send your boyfriend a little present.”

“He’s not my boyfriend. We’re just… sleeping together. And what present?”

“That’s good. It’ll make this easier. I want you to touch yourself. Make him a video like the one you sent me. I’ll talk you through it, baby. Tell him who you were really thinking about when you made it.”

Your mouth hangs open. The gall. The nerve. The audacity. But his possessiveness and need to claim you in front of the audience of one make you squirm, your cunt starting to leak from just his words.

He tuts into the phone when you don’t respond. “Be a good girl and answer me.”

Affirming words spill easily from your lips. “O-okay. I’ll do it. What—what would you like me to do first, sir?”

Jack groans into the phone as he clutches it, his other hand moving beneath his boxers to free himself, and you giggle at his reaction. 

“Put me on speakerphone. Use one hand to film and the other to pinch and squeeze your tits. Perk them up real nice.”

You rip your comforter away from your body to play with your nipples through the mesh lingerie—sensitive—as the fabric rubs into them. As you tug each one roughly, your other hand shakes as it holds the phone while recording. It’d be so much more difficult to focus if you were also FaceTiming each other. But luckily for you, Jack probably doesn’t even know what that is. You’re patient enough to wait to see him tomorrow. In person.

You moan softly, more enthusiastically this time around than earlier tonight. Poor, poor Nathan.

“Say my name. Say it, baby.” You can hear the lewd squelches coming from Jack’s end as he jerks his cock, and you whine his name—loud enough for the phone to pick up—your nipples stinging from how brutally you’ve tweaked them.

He grunts, “Now, slowly drag your hand down and touch your clit. Make sure you give him a good look, angel.” Jack’s breathing quickens, and you hear him spit, lubing up his already wet cockhead and fisting himself to spread more slick down his length.

You follow his command. You trail your fingers down the slope of your body until they reach your center. Making sure the camera is focused on your cunt, you manage to splay yourself open, giving the lens a nice look at your soaked and slippery folds. Your digits press harsh circles into your clit, and you have to stop yourself from squirming too much to keep the phone from rocking. “J-Jack, I’m—I’m getting close. Pleasepleaseplease keep talking to me. Tell me what I’m doing to you.”

“Already going to come? We’ve barely started, kid.” 

Hearing him call you kid at this very moment does unspeakable things to you. Things it shouldn’t.

He laughs at you, mockingly, but he’s getting close too. He twists his rough fist up and down the length of his cock, putting his phone on the nightstand so he can massage his balls, throbbing and full for you.

It’s really too bad that all his come will be going to waste.

“You want my praise? That it?” he drawls, words slurring as his balls tighten. “You should be here, helping me with this.” Jack punctuates his statement with a rough tug of his cock, hopeful that you get his point through his voice alone. “This is all your fault. You’d like to see how hard and leaky I am for you, hm? I’ll prove to you how much you drive me crazy tomorrow. It’s a promise.”

Jack starts to stroke himself faster, the globs of spit trailing down to his balls and sheets from his hurried pace. He wants you to come first.

“A-angel, please, put the heel of your palm on your clit and three fingers in your cunt. It won’t fill you like I will, but it’ll work.”

He sounds absolutely wrecked, but he’s past the point of total humiliation now. As long as you do what he says, you’ll both be rewarded.

You rub your swollen clit with the heel of your hand, fucking yourself on three digits—and he’s right—it’s not enough. But he’s not here right now, and you need to come. He needs you to come.

“Are you doing it?” When all he hears is a high-pitched “Mhm!” from you, he gives the final directive. 

“Come, baby. Need to hear you. Show him what it’s like when a man really makes you come.”

You finally crest, overloaded with physical sensation and Jack’s praise, ragged and through gritted teeth. You let out a pathetic wail, orgasm ripping through you and making you drop the phone onto the bed next to you with a soft thud. You twitch, worn out, but can hear him shift in his bed, adjusting to make himself more comfortable.

With a strained voice, Jack says, “Good girl. That’s a… very good girl.” He gives you a few seconds to catch your breath. Then, he immediately follows up with, “Stay with me, angel. I need to hear your voice.”

A few more strokes of his cock, and your whispers and quiet confessions push him over the edge. 

He comes with a rumbling groan, thick spend making a sloppy mess over his hand, down his length, onto his sleep shorts, and into his sheets. At the tail end of his orgasm, he idly thinks about making you lick clean his mess. Maybe feeding it to you and watching your eyes glass over with the taste. Tomorrowtomorrowtomorrow.

With that in mind, Jack flops back onto his pillow, exhausted but satiated. He whispers your name, hoping you haven’t fallen asleep yet. You respond with a soft hum, and he lets out a breath. 

“Thank you, sweetheart. I needed that. We both did. Are you okay?”

“Mhm. Just tired,” you whisper back, head nestled sideways into the pillow.

“Okay, I don’t want to keep you up too long. You probably have work, right? Sweet dreams, angel. I’ll see you tomorrow. And… you don’t have to send him the video if you don’t want to.” Nathan will know soon enough that only Jack has a claim on you. 

You snort. You already know what he really wants. “I already sent it. Guess I should burn this lingerie set now, huh?” 

His lips curl up in a devilish smirk. He doesn’t deserve you. “Goodnight,” he says.

“Goodnight, Jack. Love you.” 

He freezes. He’s not sure if you meant those last two words or if they just spilled out of you due to your post-coital haze and fatigue. But he doesn’t get the chance to confirm, as he can tell from your silence you’ve fallen asleep.

“See you tomorrow, sweetheart.” He hangs up. 

Love you.

You’ve just come home from work—tired and nearly passed out—when you hear a knock at the door. He texted you a while ago when his plane landed. Is he here already?

You open the door and see Jack, still in his military outfit and carrying his luggage, dropping it as you jump into his arms.

“It’s good to see you, kid.” He whispers into your neck, inhaling your scent. Your scent’s a little sweaty and like the outside, but you smell like home.

“It’s good to see you too, Jack.” You bury your face into his shoulder, wanting to crawl inside his skin, but content with just a hug for now. You can feel his back muscles even through the thick material of his outfit, and it’s as if he’s gotten even stronger since you saw him last. You’re glad he’s holding you up because you would have quickly dropped to your knees to give him a warm, wet welcome home. But the apartment floor is hardwood, and he hasn’t even stepped inside yet. There’ll be time for that later.

He tilts your chin up from where it's tucked into his shoulder and kisses you. It’s soft and gentle, like a ghost haunted by its past trying to grasp something real. But you’re solid against his touch, and he lets himself feel your lips and soft skin and supple body against his.

He kicks his gear into your apartment and closes the door, then carries you to your bed, still kissing you. He doesn’t bother to ask for permission to enter this time. You’re tossed onto the bed with a soft thud, and Jack bends down to cradle the side of your face with his warm palm, his intense stare meeting your loving one.

“Let me make good on my promise. Are you gonna let me eat out your sweet cunt? Or do you want my cock now?”

Your body shakes, and you make a cute noise in the back of your throat. “D-don’t you want to change first? Maybe let me make you something to eat?”

“No. I want to take care of you. Let me?”

You can’t help but beam at him. It’s no use fighting him. “Okay.” 

You lay your hand over his and notice his wedding band is gone.

“Dad? Dad, are you okay? You’re staring off into space…”

You and Jack give each other a worried look as you sit opposite your dad at lunch. You slightly regret having told him about your relationship. Maybe this could’ve been kept a secret until… nevermind. That’s too morbid. He’ll just have to accept this.

Your dad shakes his head. “Sorry, I—I didn’t expect this, but to be honest, I can’t say I’m surprised.” He sighs. “As long as you’re both happy, I’m happy. I can’t dictate your life anymore, honey. But Jack, if you hurt her, you won’t be dropping twenty. You’ll just be dropping. And I don’t mean pushups. Understand me?”

Jack smiles, turns to you, and brings your hand to his lips, kissing it. “I sure do.”

[slylittleprincess]

It is hard to moan and run at the same time.

That is the key lesson that I hope to impart upon you today little one.

Yes, I know, you’re such a big strong soldier with a scary scowl who’s never once thought about sitting still and letting Miss dress you in something beautiful.

Yes, I know, you had lofty goals and elaborate plans with a rebellion that you were so desperate to see through. There is an obvious word in your language to describe this moment.

Anger.

“This is wrong!” You cry out, “I don’t want to be a pet. I want freedom. This is wrong.”

It makes my injectors start to dribble just hearing you. Because I know a fundamental truth about an adorable thing like you.

It is hard to moan and run at the same time.

My tendril moves across the space so effortlessly it makes you wonder if I deliberately let you go. I take great joy in selecting a spot where the skin looks softest and neediest to plunge into. It’s a feeling you’ll come to crave soon. The lazy drag of the thorn, the perfect choice, the heat of it under your flesh, the way it makes everything you touch feel so incredible. The dusting of pollen on the pinprick.

Perhaps I did let you go, because every moment that you spend hoisted off the ground and wrapped in my vines as I take you back to the bed seems to erode your fight more.

Angry tears and writhing limbs fighting against indescribable pleasure in a war of cognitive dissonance.

The fact that I have made you love the way I feel only makes you hate me more. For now. You are in the early stages.

Denial.

This is a particularly cute place for you to find yourself. I adore denial. Gasping, shouting through a vibrating tone. You continue with your old shtick for as long as possible as I effortlessly grip your wrists and ankles. I press your body into the soft material of the most comfortable bed you have ever felt.

I coo, and administer light petting to you, the animal in front of me. It comforts you on a primal level. Still you shout about your escape plans, how you want to kill me, what a monster I am.

Bargaining.

You finally admit that I’ve done something to you, but you refuse to identify the exact sensation you are experiencing.

You know what it is. I know what it is. Yet, we pretend. I believe Terrans refer to this as flirting. I ask you what’s wrong petal, and you spit in my face. You say that I know exactly what I’ve done, and yet you still refuse to use the exact word as I start to pull at the seams of your standard issue jumpsuit. Little pulls at thread that match the way I’m tugging at your resilience. With every opening I slide another vine deeper, running across your arms, your thighs. You whimper as I finally shatter the illusion you have constructed.

Docility.

You realize now the inescapable reality of your bliss, but you are not ready to appreciate it yet. All at once your limbs go slack as the fight leaves you. The cortisol drains and drops out, quickly replaced by the endorphins and euphoriants I have ensured are reaching optimal levels. It is my preference to work through this stage as efficiently as possible.

The pet inside you is winning. She needs encouragement to properly take root. I finish removing your clothes and maximize the surface area available for my molestation. Ropes of my body bind you tighter, hold you closer.

Vines that live the closest to my core with fibrous textures tease at your skin. Oh, how you’ll crave them in time as their rougher material becomes associated in your mind at a neurochemical level with the addling and addictive comfort of my most intimate cuddles.

I run a grafted feeler across your scalp in a massage that makes you drool and gasp. Your dilated eyes roll back into your skull as I hum a warm and loving song into your grey matter.

Smaller tendrils run between your toes, across your neck, into the folds of your ears and eyes and nose. They brush your lips and they part so easily, but I do not enter. This is still the beginning of our courtship and I wish the explore the moist cavity of your throat at a later time when it can be fully appreciated.

You leak from every place a pet can leak.

I produce a flower bud and rock it lazily back and forth in front of your bleary eyes.

You watch as the soft petals of the bulb retract, revealing the dripping thorn within.

You break into a million little pieces as the pet within you wins the battle.

My sweet little thing begs for more.

How can I possibly resist.

[ellsbigshoes]

My Most Faithful Lover - 2. Hands that never forgot

pairing: Knight!ellie & Princess!reader

synopse: A harpist begins to dream of a life not her own — a white dress stained in red, a knight who watches her like someone who’s already lost her once. In waking life, a fencer’s touch feels too familiar. In dreams, silence speaks louder than memory. Between two timelines, something ancient stirs… and it remembers her.

content: MDNI 18+, eventual smut, fluff, angst, violence, war, use of “y/n”, reader is referred to as princess (sometimes), Ellie referred to as Elouise (sometimes), use of swords, daggers etc. gore(ish), blood, homophobia.

8.775 characters.

"loving me is going to haunt you for a lifetime." - ?

The pain came like a spear between the ribs, cold, sharp, and then warm like blood dripping in silence. You felt broken, like porcelain dropped from an ancient altar - piece by piece, without haste, without mercy. Your long white dress wrapped in pearls, glitter and lace was now stained with blood, as much as your hands, perhaps that was your blood, perhaps that explained your great pain. Faster than a clap of thunder, you wake up shaking as your alarm clock calls you to yet another rehearsal in preparation for the end-of-year performance. It was strange, after meeting Ellie, the fencer who admired you in silence, your dreams were more real, more lived. So real that you could feel their caressing touch as if they were satin threads.

It was the start of a new week, and everything seemed to be running out of sync - hurried footsteps, overlapping voices, duties running over each other. Inside the room, time flowed differently: there, every note was a wait, every silence a judgment. At first, it was hard to keep up. Their colleagues played like someone repeating a forgotten prayer - their fingers were precise, yes, even impeccable, but their souls were blind. They lacked love, or perhaps remembrance.

You, on the other hand, were born with the sound of the harp inside you. It wasn't an instrument, it was an extension - strings that vibrate like part of your own breath. From an early age, you felt that your fingers knew the way before you even thought. But now, surrounded by cold eyes and rigid postures, their connection seemed... out of place. While they strummed away like automatons, you felt each note as if your soul were being called by name. And that, paradoxically, made you seem strange.

Sometimes looking at yourself was like seeing the twenty-second major arcana - The Madman. - The madman, the fool, the joker. A card that calls you to take risks and follow your own path. This card teaches us to embrace uncertainty and have faith in our abilities. And you? oh dear... despite being so disturbed by those who play like robots, you play like The Fool; with confidence in your abilities, you become someone else, it's as if something inside you calls to you in the shuddering of the strings, with each resounding chord it's like sinking quietly, letting the water consume your lungs.

One of your greatest prides is that you can play the Moonlight Sonata 3rd movement. No one imagines that you keep such cunning at your fingertips, and that's not even the best part about you. okay, I admit, it's not that easy to be that confident every day, but you know how hard you work, and you know that you're a natural.

As you rehearsed again, this time with the room full, you found yourself remembering the girl you met that afternoon with the heartwarming rays of sunshine. Could she really be the girl you've been dreaming of since childhood? nothing seems to make sense anymore... does she know? why did she ask if you already knew each other? so little time to talk and so many questions at the same time.

Even so, you answered at that moment: oh... I don't think so. – You said it and smiled a little, awkwardly.

Ellie then giggled a little. – I'm sorry, it must have sounded strange, right? you just have something familiar about you, but I don't think I've met you anywhere. I'd remember you.

You didn't know how to describe this feeling, nothing but confusion, and at this moment it would be best to just forget, even if it hurts, because something in your heart is calling out, wanting to push you towards her.

The sun was barely touching the stones of the inner courtyard when the iron gates opened. The morning was cold and still, as if time were breathing more slowly within the walls. A faint scent of dried lavender came from the gardens still wet with dew - and in the center of the silent dawn, she arrived.

She was riding a horse as black as burnt wine, the reins tight, the posture too straight for someone so unaccustomed to resting from overexertion. You wore the mantle of the queen's guards, but something about your presence seemed out of place - like a page sewn out of order in an old book. You were sitting among the blooming castle roses. Large buds of a striking blood-red color, although you had always loved white, the tragic and intense red had always attracted you. The queen's voice broke the silence, clear, firm as ever:

– This is Elouise. Your new guardian.

You, the princess, slowly raised your gaze, meeting that of the knight. Ellie dismounted with almost ritual precision, bowing her head in greeting.

– Your Highness.

Her voice was low, husky like a forgotten ember - and it hid something. Something the princess couldn't immediately decipher, but which remained there, in the air between them, like golden dust suspended in light.

The queen continued, already walking away:

– She was trained in the Cern Hills, under the order of the White Shields. She's discreet, efficient. And she will be shadow and blade by your side, until you need one.

Elouise didn't raise her eyes until the queen had disappeared behind the columns. Only then did she look at the princess fully. It wasn't the look of a servant. Nor that of an equal. It was the look of someone who knows the end of a story even before the first chapter.

You, still sitting among the roses, noticed that the dew had embroidered your dress with tiny sparkles. You tried to ignore the weight of Elouise's gaze on you - it wasn't the kind of gaze you offered. It was the kind you kept. And that, somehow, was even more dangerous.

– “The Cern Hills,” you repeated, without emotion. I imagine that silence is part of the training.

Elouise didn't respond immediately. Instead, she watched a red petal fall to the ground, as if the flower itself had surrendered to the weight of what hung in the air.

– Silence is sometimes more useful than a sword.

The answer came calmly, but there was a thread of... something. Old resentment? Tiredness? Guilt? You couldn't tell.

– What do you prefer? – you asked, looking straight at her. – The sword, or silence?

Ellie hesitated. And in that brief instant, you noticed a crack. Almost nothing. But real.

– I prefer what doesn't require me to choose.

You arched an eyebrow.

– A convenient answer.

– An honest answer.

The wind blew again, and the red roses fluttered. One fell near Elouise's foot. Without thinking, she crouched down and picked it up. She held it out to you with a short gesture, as if returning a piece of scenery was her obligation.

– It looks more like your kingdom than mine.

You took the flower slowly, your fingers brushing against hers for a second - just a second, but enough to feel something strange. Like a shiver coming from inside.

– Red has always been an ungrateful color," you said, staring at the rose. – Blood or passion. You never know for sure.

Ellie didn't answer. But she didn't look away from you.

You thought about asking her what she saw there - in your skin, your face, your eyes - that made her look so... cautious. But you didn't. Not yet.

The sun was already falling behind the mountains when you took refuge in the old hall, the one no one had used since your aunt's bereavement. Inside, the walls still smelled of wax and aged wood. The harp stood quietly in the corner. Like a secret waiting to be awakened.

You sat in front of it as you had done since you were a child, your fingers already knowing the ways, even if your mind was elsewhere. You played without thinking. And perhaps that's why you played better. The notes floated through the air like a veil, light, sad, almost transparent.

Then, without you noticing, someone stopped at the door.

Elouise.

She stood there, leaning against the dark wood, arms crossed, no armor. Just shadows wearing shadows.

You didn't stop ringing. But you spoke, without looking:

– Are you going to escort me even when there's no danger?

The answer took a while, but it came.

– That sounds more dangerous than most battles.

You laughed, softly. Still without turning.

– Harps don't kill.

– No. But they remind you.

Now you've turned. Her eyes were fixed on your fingers, as if each note that came out of the harp opened a door that she herself had locked from the inside. A distant glow inhabited her gaze. Of someone who recognizes something - but doesn't know why.

– Do you know this song? – you asked suddenly.

Elouise hesitated. For a moment, she seemed to swallow her memory.

– Yes, Your Highness. I used to listen to it when I was little, I remember my mother dancing and celebrating happily... – She said looking down with a small smile and sighed. - Anyway, it doesn't matter.

She said and resumed her serious face. – I think it's about time to go to sleep, isn't it?

ㅤ𝔪𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 | 𝔫𝔢𝔵𝔱 𝔭𝔞𝔤𝔢..

man i'm really sad that today i couldn't add color to the fonts, for some reason the site started crashing and i don't know how to solve it sorry guys

tags;; @sewithinsouls @valeisaslut @zzelysian @liztreez @oneinameliann @idioticconfusedteen @smaugayra @500daysofpoppy @elliescoquettegirl

(comment if you want to be in the taglist <3)

[katyawriteswhump]

wip weekend: new omega kitty cafe fic 🐈‍⬛

this little idea isn't set in the same universe as Love and other Catastrophes at the Omega Café.  i wanted to write more Omega kitty café fic, but didn’t want to disrupt the arc of the previous one… so i guess it’s an AU of that fic with a different set up. O!Steve owns the cafe, which is Comfort Omega focussed (he still wears the cat-boy ears ofc) and A!Eddie is his pastry supplier. i will try and get the first part up tomorrow...

🐈‍⬛💚🐈‍⬛💚🐈‍⬛💚🐈‍⬛💚

“Anything else I can do to help?” Eddie sidestepped a dainty afternoon tea table, as he headed back across the café.

“No, thanks. I’m good.” Steve snapped his chin up. He’d been fixating on the snug fit of Eddie’s ripped jeans, particularly around the crotch. “Um, Wayne always delivers to the other entrance. Will he be back tomorrow?”

“’Fraid not.” The Alpha sighed toward a fluffy purple rug, and his face twitched strangely. “He’s in hospital.”

Steve’s stomach dropped like a stone. “Shit! Is it serious?”

“Honestly, Honey? I dunno.”

Wayne. In hospital. Possibly seriously ill. Steve stared through Eddie like the Alpha had vanished. No, not Wayne. Not kind, ever-supportive Wayne…

“Christ, Steve, you look like you need a hug.”

Steve barely took in the words. His knees wobbled as dramatically as his lower lip. The Alpha approached, and Steve hunched in on himself, braced for… something. Instead, Eddie opened his arms, a respectful foot away, and the pull proved magnetic. Steve tumbled forward, strong Alpha arms banded around him, and he buried his face in Eddie’s t-shirt. His arms hugged around the Alpha’s neck like a crazy little spider-monkey scared of falling out of its tree.

“Hey, it’s all right, Sweetheart.” Eddie rubbed circles between Steve’s shoulder-blades. “Sorry I scared you. Listen, this is Wayne, huh? He’d be cut up if I told him you were upset, and… he’s gonna pull through, okay?”

Steve sniffled into Eddie’s solid chest. “I’m sorry. It was… kinda the last straw this morning. Running a business as an Omega is hard. Most people try to rip you off, trip you up, but n-not Wayne. N-never Wayne. He’s the best, and… and, I don’t feel so great this morning… and th-the m-mess with the coffee beans, and… Oh crap, I’m making this all about me. I’m such an unforgivable moron.”

“Hush, you’re good.” Eddie patiently soothed and rocked him, while Steve whimpered, and his inner voice sniped, What the fuck are you doing snivelling all over a stranger, and an Alpha one at that? “You know, you’re my last delivery. I really can stay and help sweep up those beans. What d’ya say, Kitty-cat?”

“Huh?”

Steve peeped up through the blur of his lashes. Eddie’s eyes were chocolate-cinnamon whirlpools that seemed to suck him in.

Kind eyes. Not something he ever expected in an Alpha. They were a little like Wayne’s.

“Steve? You want me to stay and help?”

Steve nodded vacantly. While his heart still bled for Wayne, the rest of his ditzy O-head senses were going crazy for pastries again. He inhaled a fruity hint of blueberry, mingled with still-warm all-butter pastry, apart from…

He plastered his wet face against the Alpha’s throat, snuffling and rooting around.

Oooooooh, that makes sense!

The irresistible smell was not the muffins, nor even the cinnamon swirls. The most sumptuous threads of fresh bakery goods radiated from Eddie’s scent gland.

Steve wallowed in it, all but chewed on it, while Eddie’s delicious musk fizzed and frothed to every corner of his lungs. Then a laugh rumbled from the Alpha’s chest: “You scenting me there, Kitty?”

“Shit!” Steve jumped away, sending a chair toppling, and sweeping his hair from his clammy brow. “Oh my God, I honestly don’t know what came over me. Christ! I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” He straightened the chair then his cat ears and started pacing, arms wrapped tight around himself. “I've been a comfort Omega since I was 19! I’ve never, ever, done anything inappropriate like that, and… and… I drooled on your t-shirt!”

“Relax, Steve.” Eddie’s squeeze of his shoulder stilled his feet and calmed him slightly. “Look, I reckon we both needed a hug this morning, and the hospital won’t let me see my uncle till noon. I can hang around, or do I give you some space?”

Wayne was Eddie’s uncle?

Steve gawked up at him, on the verge of losing his shit all over again. He’d been sobbing over Wayne, when it must be so much worse for Eddie. Whose kind, reassuring gaze captured Steve’s and held it. Another gentle squeeze, and Steve was okay again.

💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕

no pressure tag @wheneverfeasible 💕💕💕💕💕

my steddie fic on AO3 💕💕💕💕💕

[dragonridersandhighlords]

Chasing Shadows | E L E V E N

masterlist | CS Masterlist | ATWWS Masterlist

Summary: Between harsh truths, near-burnouts, and dangerous revelations, the fragile threads of trust and control begin to fray.

Notes: tbh I hate this chapter, it feels too much like filler and yet no matter how many times I rewrote it, it never got better.

Warnings: mentions of burnout, references to abuse of power, dragon emotions taking over, Violet apologies, Renna’s demanding answers

Word Count: 5.5k

previous part

W R E N L E Y

“Riverbed, now.” Desa’s voice cuts through the chaos with a commanding firmness that jolts me into action. I watch as Bodhi and Imogen spring to their feet, their expressions morphing from confusion to determination.

“What happened?” I demand, my heart racing as I dash through the winding corridors, the stone walls echoing the urgency of our steps.

“Varrish.” Bodhi’s single word slices through the air like a blade.

Fuck. So that’s where Violet vanished to after I caught a glimpse of Tairn soaring overhead. The weight of dread settles heavily in my stomach as we rush onward, each stride carrying us closer to the river.

We reach the water's edge just as Tairn emerges from the frigid depths, hauling Violet from the icy embrace of the river. Her fragile form, drenched and pale, is a haunting sight.

“Violet!” Bodhi’s voice rings out, a desperate cry as he slides across the muddy bank, urgency propelling him to her side.

“Violet!” Imogen echoes, positioning herself on the opposite flank of Violet’s limp body, panic etching her features as she fights to catch her breath. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Too. Many. Strikes.” Violet’s voice quakes between shivers, her teeth chattering audibly in the biting cold. Eya, quick on her feet, wraps a blanket around the trembling girl, a fragile shield against the chill. I reach out, gripping Violet's chin gently, forcing her to meet my gaze, searching her eyes for clarity.

“Burnout,” Desa growls in my mind.

“I’m going to murder that bastard,” I vow, releasing my hold on Violet.

“I. Just need. A minute,” Violet murmurs, each word a struggle as she shifts her legs beneath her, fighting to regain her strength.

I glance at Bodhi, urgency compelling me. “Get her up.” 

Desa guides me through the essentials Violet will need, and I relay the commands to Bodhi, my heart racing with each passing second.

“How did this happen?” Imogen presses, concern lacing her tone. “Carr?”

“And Varrish.” Violet nods weakly, prompting a heavy sigh from Bodhi.

“Fuck. This is because of Andarna?” 

Violet’s nod is barely perceptible, another shiver wracking her body, each tremor a reminder of her ordeal.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Imogen’s voice rises in disbelief. “He used your signet as a punishment for Andarna not showing up for flight maneuvers?”

“Like I said,” I growl, pulling one of Violet’s arms across my shoulders as she struggles to find her footing. “I’m going to murder that bastard.” 

Violet pushes herself upright, slowly peeling away from my support, determination etching its way back into her posture. 

“I’ll get her to her room. You guys go back to class,” I say softly, ensuring I stay close to her as we begin to move.

As we make our way back to campus, the weight of the earlier chaos hangs heavily in the air, a palpable silence enveloping Violet and me. The echoes of our friends’ footsteps fade, leaving us alone in the hushed corridors, the distant hum of campus life a mere whisper. With every step, I feel the tension coiling between us, thick and almost suffocating, until we finally arrive at her door.

“Can we talk?” Violet’s voice breaks the stillness, soft and tentative, a small light piercing the darkness that has settled around us.

“Once you're in a new set of clothes and warmed up,” I reply, nodding toward her room. I step inside, my gaze sweeping over the clutter. “Get changed, Sorrengail,” I urge, my tone gentle as I lean against her desk, allowing the space to breathe. My eyes fall upon the little wood figurines meticulously carved by Liam. Nearby, a stack of books with titles that speak of distant lands and forgotten knowledge sits haphazardly, drawing my curiosity.

“Colonel Markham’s Guide to Succeeding in the Scribe Quadrant? You really need a guide for that?” I tease lightly, attempting to ease the weight of the moment.

Violet curls up on the edge of her bed, her legs tucked tightly beneath her, a fragile silhouette against the blankets. She’s changed into dry clothes, but the remnants of her ordeal cling to her—her breathing is steady, yet I can sense the cracks forming beneath her calm exterior.

“You warm enough?” I ask gently, shifting my weight to watch her more closely from my perch on the desk.

She nods, her eyes flickering with gratitude. “Yeah. Thank you.” The tension lingers between us, wrapping us in an unspoken understanding, until she finally breaks the silence again. “And thanks for not yelling at me.”

My brows lift in surprise. “Should I be yelling at you?”

“No,” she replies quickly, her face twisting with discomfort. “I mean, maybe. You have every right to.”

I wait patiently, allowing her the space to find her words, to sift through the tangled thoughts racing through her mind. 

“I talked to Renna,” she finally admits, her voice barely above a whisper, fragile as glass. “While in Samara. She put some things into perspective.” 

I blink, taken aback. “Like?” 

Violet releases a quick sigh, her breath a mixture of relief and trepidation. “That I’m caught in something bigger than I understand.” Her voice drops, laden with uncertainty. “She said it might feel like love, but sometimes that’s just the dragons.” The words settle heavily in the air between us, a silent truth reverberating through my heart.

“Her dragon is bonded to Brennan’s, right? So she’d know?” I ask, my voice steady, but a storm brews within me. 

Violet nods, her eyes shimmering with the weight of her revelation.

“She told me she and Brennan had to fight for their relationship—to figure out which feelings were theirs and which were their dragons’. That it took years to sort out.” Violet's voice trembles, a whisper of vulnerability that dances in the air like a fragile wisp of smoke. “She said I needed to look at Xaden through my own eyes. Not Tairn’s. Not the bond. Just… as he is. And ask myself if I still feel the same.” She swallows thickly, her throat working hard against the emotion threatening to overflow. When she glances up at me, her gaze is piercing, a reflection of the storm within her. “I haven’t liked the answer.”

My heart clenches painfully at her words, my throat tightening as I fight back a tide of empathy. I remain silent, allowing her the space to unravel the knot of feelings coiling tightly in her chest. 

“I thought… I thought the kiss meant something. And when he didn’t push me away…” Her voice breaks like glass, each syllable trembling with regret. “But when everything cleared and I realized what we did, especially to you? I didn’t stop, even when I should’ve.” Her eyes meet mine, glistening with unshed tears, raw and open, reflecting an honesty that pulls at my heartstrings. “I’m sorry, Wrenley. Truly. For everything. For not backing off. For acting like it didn’t matter. For making things worse between you two.”

The silence stretches between us, thick and charged with unspoken understanding. I let it linger for a moment, giving her the weight of my presence as I gather my thoughts. “It wasn’t all on you,” I finally say, my voice steady yet gentle.

“I didn’t make it easier, either.” Her voice wavers like a candle flame in a gust of wind, and I can see the guilt etched upon her features, casting shadows on her otherwise bright demeanor.

I nod slowly, rising from the desk to cross the small room and kneel beside her. I rest one hand gently on her arm, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath my touch, a small gesture of solidarity. “We were doomed long before you came along, Vi. If we hadn’t broken up then, we probably would’ve by War Games. You were just… a spark near a pile of old kindling.”

She sniffles, a soft laugh escaping her lips despite the somber weight of our conversation. “Still flammable, though.”

“Very.” I huff out a laugh, the sound echoing softly in the dimly lit room, a fragile release of tension that hangs between us like a veil. “Xaden’s never been easy to love. Not with the way he carries the weight of the world,” I say, the words spilling forth with a mixture of frustration and tenderness. My mind drifts back to the countless times I’ve seen that weight etch lines of worry across his brow, shadowing the spark that once danced in his eyes. “But I did, and I still do, because I still remember who he was before. The version of him he keeps hidden.” A sigh escapes me, heavy and bittersweet, as I feel the ache of those memories intertwining with the present. “You’re not a bad person for being caught in your dragon’s feelings.” I meet Violet's gaze, hoping to anchor her in the tumult of emotions swirling around us.

“I feel like one,” she murmurs, her voice a fragile whisper that shatters the silence like glass. 

“That’s guilt,” I counter gently, sensing the rawness in her words. “Which means your heart’s in the right place, even if your timing wasn’t.” I try to convey reassurance through my tone, wishing to ease the burden she carries.

“I’m so fucking sorry, Wren.” I can see the guilt pooling in her eyes, threatening to overflow. 

I squeeze her arm gently, a silent gesture of solidarity. “Thank you for saying it,” I reply, my voice warm, allowing the sincerity of my words to bridge the chasm of hurt between us.

Violet nods. “You’ll be okay?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper, a flicker of concern etched across her features.

I offer a soft smile, one that carries the weight of my own battles and the resilience that has come from them. “I’ve survived worse than a girl with a crush.” 

Violet’s laugh is small but real this time, a fragile sound that warms the air around us. “More like a girl with a dragon-induced crush and a knack for stepping on emotional landmines.” 

“Welcome to the family,” I say, standing with a stronger laugh, the lightness of the moment pushing back against the shadows. “That’s basically our motto.”

Recovered Correspondence from Cadet Wrenley Tavis to Second Lieutenant Xaden Riorson

Xay,

I wish you could get here sooner. I miss you.

Varrish decided Violet’s signet training was the perfect punishment for Andarna not showing up for Flight Maneuvers before she left. She almost burnt out, Xay. Train had to dunk her in a river and get our dragons to call us out there. She looked so dead.

She’s doing better now. No lasting effects, thank Zihnal. She got lucky. 

How are things with Renna this week? Hopefully she’s let up on some of her expectations this week. 

I don’t know what else to talk about. I just want you here, with me. 

-Wren

“Please come get him before I scorch him.” Desa’s growl reverberates through the bond, pulling me sharply from whatever Bodhi and I were discussing, the urgency in her tone slicing through the haze of conversation like a blade.

“What happened?” I ask, my voice tight, the words tumbling out as I rise from my seat, instinctively moving toward the hallway that leads out to the flight field. The air around me seems to hum with a sense of impending chaos.

“Tairn’s on edge because of the bond being blocked, which is irritating Sgaeyl, and she’s flooding the shadow wielder—who is going to burn out if he doesn’t gain control.” 

A chill runs down my spine at her words. Shit. 

I don’t waste another moment. I take off, sprinting through the hall, my heart pounding in rhythm with my hurried footsteps. As I round a corner, I nearly collide with a pair of first-years, their startled expressions mirrored by my own urgency. I can already feel the static cling of his shadows in the air, a palpable tension that raises the hairs on the back of my neck. They swirl violently just above the ridgeline near the gauntlet, dark tendrils lashing at the stones and flickering along the wind like smoke with jagged edges, hungry and chaotic.

The stairs rush beneath my feet as I take them two at a time, urgency propelling me forward. “Xay!” I call out as I crest the last set, my boots slamming hard against the uneven ground with a reverberating thud. The atmosphere thickens around me, heavy with raw power, an almost suffocating force that presses against my chest. My breath comes in short gasps as the shadows slice through the air, stinging my arms like shards of ice.

“Xaden!” I try again, desperation coating my voice. 

He whirls to face me with such ferocity that I stumble back a step, my heart racing in response to the storm brewing in his eyes. 

“What?” he snaps, his voice a jagged edge, unrecognizable—like gravel mixed with the sharpness of glass wrapped around a scream, echoing through the air.

“You need to stop—breathe—” I begin, taking a cautious step forward, my words laced with concern, hoping to break through the turmoil that clouds his mind.

“Don’t tell me what to do, Wrenley!” he shouts, and the shadows lash out behind him, sending dirt flying as they hit the ground, the sound reverberating like a war drum. “You think I want this?!” 

I can feel the weight of his pain, the desperation clawing at the edges of my resolve. “No, but if you burn out—”

“Then let me burn!” he roars, his voice a tempest, reverberating through the air like thunder. “Maybe it would be easier than feeling everything all the time. Violet’s. Sgaeyl’s. Mine. Yours. All of it—every fucking second of every day—bleeding into me like poison.” His words crash around us, shattering the fragile stillness, and his eyes blaze with a wild intensity, a storm threatening to consume him whole. He’s not just losing control—he’s unraveling, thread by thread, and I can see the darkness closing in on him, ready to swallow him whole.

I take another step forward, the tension in the air thick enough to taste. Shadows snap like whips just inches from my face, their chaotic dance a reflection of his turmoil. “You don’t mean that,” I say softly, my voice a gentle anchor in the tumult.

He breathes hard, chest heaving, but he doesn’t move. So I do.

I lunge, my hand shooting out to grab his wrist with a fierce grip, the warmth of his skin igniting a spark of determination in me. I yank, but he resists, his body tensing against my pull.

“Don’t touch me—” he snarls, the fire in his voice attempting to cut through the haze of concern that envelops us. Without a moment’s hesitation, I slap my other hand against his chest, pushing with all my strength. “Too fucking bad,” I retort, channeling my resolve into that singular action.

His back collides with Desa who’s moved closer to us, the shock momentarily disorienting him and I use the moment to propel him toward the stairwell, each step a battle of wills. He struggles at first, growling in fury, but I hold on.

“You’re not doing this here,” I grit out, my voice steady and commanding as I drag him down the steps, the cold stone beneath our feet echoing the gravity of the situation. “You’re not breaking in front of everyone.”

He stumbles, curses tumbling from his lips, but I refuse to let go, not until I’ve pulled him into my room and slammed the door shut behind us with a definitive thud.

“Change,” I order, tossing one of the shirts he left for me at his chest. “You stink.”

He just stares at me, seething, fury and confusion swirling in his eyes. “Why are you doing this?” 

“I always help,” I snap, my voice sharp as glass. “And you would’ve been pissed to lose control like that in front of people.” 

His jaw clenches, a silent battle raging within him. “I don’t want help.” 

“You don’t have a choice.” 

He falls silent, but the tension hangs between us as he begrudgingly begins to change, the last of the shadows flickering like dying embers as his damp shirt hits the floor. I urge him toward the bed, its unmade sheets a soft invitation, a refuge from the chaos he’s fought to contain. 

“Sit. Breathe. Nap,” I instruct, my tone firm yet gentle, as if coaxing a wild creature back into a safe haven.

He scoffs, a low, reluctant sound that grates against the tension in the air. “I don’t nap.”

“You do when I tell you to,” I retort, injecting a hint of playful authority into my voice, the kind that feels natural when it’s just the two of us, even if he’s being an ass right now.

With a huff that could almost be a laugh, he mutters something under his breath—a mix of protest and resignation—but ultimately, he complies, dropping onto the mattress like a fallen tree, the weight of him sinking into the fabric as though it, too, is a part of his burden.

I waste no time, shoving him down by the shoulder, my movements quick and decisive, and settle beside him. The mattress dips slightly under our combined weight, and I tug the blanket up, cocooning us in its warmth. 

For a long moment, we lie in silence, the only sounds the soft rustle of the blanket and the gradual slowing of his ragged breaths. I can feel the remnants of his power, still vibrating beneath the surface, a subtle hum of energy that lingers like the end of a storm. It pulses, but slowly—each second that passes eases some of the weight pressing down on his spine, the tension uncoiling like a spring slowly released.

Ten minutes later, we’re both asleep. 

The sun is setting by the time we wake, casting a warm, golden hue across the room that dances on the walls. 

Xaden stirs beside me, slow and groggy, dragging in a deep breath that pushes against my arm still resting over his chest, a reminder of the connection we’ve forged amidst the turmoil.

As I blink awake, I catch his brows furrowing, a familiar tension returning—but softer now, quieter, as if the storm within him has calmed to a gentle ripple. “Hey,” I murmur, brushing the backs of my fingers over his jaw, a touch delicate enough to convey my concern. “You’re okay.” 

Xaden exhales shakily, the sound raw and laden with the weight of unspoken fears. His eyes remain closed, probably still fighting to put his shield up against Sgaeyl. “It felt like I was drowning,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “Tairn’s anger, Sgaeyl’s frustration. It just kept flooding in. No filter. No control. I could hear myself saying things to you I didn’t mean, and I couldn’t stop it.” 

A pang of hurt laces through me, twisting deeper with every word. 

“I was scared,” he mutters, turning to wrap an arm around my waist, pulling me closer as if to shield us both from the shadows lingering at the edges of the room. “I was so scared I was going to snap and nothing would stop me from hurting you. Gods, Wren…”

“You didn’t,” I assure him quietly, curling further into him. Warmth radiates from his body, enveloping me like a comforting blanket, and I sigh into the moment. This is the closest we’ve been in months, the most intimate, and gods, do I never want to leave. “How’s Samara?” I ask softly, eager to ease the tensionI can see swirling in his eyes.

That earns a tired scoff. “It’s…chaotic. And calm. Somehow both. Renna’s running drills like her life depends on it—and maybe it does. She’s relentless.” 

I hum, I know all this, from his letters he sent back with Violet. “That bad?” 

“She doesn’t let me sleep. If there’s a second to breathe, she fills it with something. Recon reports. Supply chains. Enemy movement analysis.” He rubs a hand down his face, weariness etched deep in his features. “And I let her because I owe her for keeping Brennan a secret.”

My chest tightens at the unspoken weight of our conversation. “You haven’t told her?” 

“I can’t,” he replies quietly, his gaze dropping to the floor as if the weight of the world is pressing down on him. “It’s not my secret, just like how I couldn’t tell Violet about Brennan or you about your dad.” There was that familiar glint in his eyes, the one that carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

I nod slowly, the realization settling in like an unwelcome chill. “You carry too much, Xay.” The words tumble out, a plea for him to lighten the burden he seems to bear alone.

“Yeah, well,” he exhales, his eyes flicking toward the ceiling, searching for something—perhaps a flicker of understanding among the dimming lights above. “When have I not?” He punctuates his statement with a laugh that feels more like a shield than a genuine release.

Shifting slightly, I nestle my head against his chest, surrendering to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat—each thump a reassuring reminder of life amidst the chaos surrounding us. “Bodhi and Kaelin are acting weird around each other,” I murmur, recalling the sadness etched across Bodhi's face during Battle Brief, the way Kaelin had averted her gaze as if avoiding a painful truth. “I think something happened between them.”

“That’s on me,” Xaden admits with a deep sigh, the air escaping his lungs like the last remnants of a weary storm. “I told him to break it off. That he’d put everything at risk if he told her…”

I lift my head, disbelief knitting my brows together. “You what?”

“He's my last living relative,” he explains, his voice steady but tinged with an edge of vulnerability. “If something happens to me—”

“He deserves happiness, Xaden,” I interject firmly, feeling the weight of the truth in my words. “We all do.”

“I know,” he concedes, a flicker of frustration breaking through. “Fuck, I feel like I’m fucking up this leader thing.”

“You aren’t. Just… maybe consult someone before you make everyone miserable, okay?” My tone is softer now, an attempt to ground him amidst the swirling thoughts.

He huffs, a semblance of humor returning to his demeanor. “That I can do.”

“Good.” 

The tension eases for a brief moment, only for Xaden to add, “Garrick keeps showing up to the infirmary at Samara with fake injuries.” 

I lift an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. “Seriously?”

“He claimed he dislocated his shoulder doing push-ups,” Xaden shares, laughter escaping him as he recalls the ridiculousness.

I can’t help but snort at the absurdity. “Why?”

He smirks, eyes glinting with mischief. “He hasn’t said it outright, but he only ever fakes injuries when a certain mender is on shift.” 

“Gods, he’s hopeless,” I laugh, the levity of the moment washing over us like a balm.

Before Xaden can respond further, there’s a knock at the door—two short taps that pierce the bubble we’ve created around ourselves. Bodhi.

X A D E N

Bodhi strides twenty paces ahead of me, boots crunching over the gravel as if each step were a solemn tolling of a bell. His shoulders are taut, rigid under the fabric of his flight jacket, as if he’s bracing himself against some invisible weight pressing down on him. His hands, typically so expressive, are jammed deep into his pockets, a gesture that speaks volumes. 

There's a stillness about him that sends an unsettling chill through my veins—not the serene calm of focused determination, but a hollow emptiness. It’s as if someone has reached inside him, scooped out every piece that makes him Bodhi, and simply forgot to replace it. The fire that once burned so fiercely in his eyes is extinguished, replaced by a muted glaze and the sharp-witted banter that used to fly between us has been snuffed out. 

He still moves with precision, still handles the weapons exchange with practiced ease, but everything else is absent. The silence is suffocating, broken only by the soft whispers of the wind rustling through the pines, a stark reminder of the chaos that surrounds our lives.

I tell myself this is better, that it’s safer. Yet, the gnawing guilt festers within me, relentless and unwelcome. I made the decision, I told him to break it off, but never did I anticipate the weight of watching him drift through the world like a fading ghost. He’s always been my anchor, my steadfast rock amidst the storm, and now, he seems to teeter on the edge of something fragile. 

I want to take it back. I do. But deep down, I know I can’t. Not even if it means watching him slip further away from me. At least he’s alive—that has to count for something.

The moment my boots make contact with the ground, Samara feels different, as if the very air carries whispers of change. I glance around, taking in the familiar sights of the flight field—the towering spires of rock jutting toward the sky, the gentle sway of the tall grass under a light breeze, and the distant hum of the engines winding down from other dragons returning home. 

Renna stands resolute at the edge of the flight field, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, the braid cascading down her shoulder like a whip coiling in anticipation. There’s an unsettling stillness to her posture, an intensity in her gaze that pierces through the usual pleasantries. She’s not here to welcome me back with open arms; rather, she stands as a sentinel of scrutiny, demanding answers I’m not sure I’m ready to provide.

Sgaeyl lands with a huff. I can feel her agitation reverberating through our bond, the remnants of Tairn’s emotions still slipping away. I push the weight of it down, but the exhaustion from holding everything in for the duration of our flight weighing over me.

Each step I take toward Renna feels heavy, as if the ground itself is reluctant to support me. My signet stirs to life, glowing quietly in the cool twilight, its energy a silent call for clarity.

Renna is not here to be angry—not yet. 

“I didn’t realize you took up a new post as a welcome committee,” I say, feigning nonchalance, though my heart races beneath the calm exterior I strive to maintain.

Her eyes narrow, a flash of indignation flaring in their depths. “Don’t insult me.”

“Wasn’t trying to. Just surprised to see you out here,” I reply, but my words hang in the air, frail and unconvincing.

“You shouldn’t be,” she snaps, the underlying accusation clear. “You’re hiding something.”

I swallow hard, the weight of her words settling heavily in my chest. She’s not wrong.

“Been busy,” I mutter, my voice barely breaking the charged silence. 

“Right. With your late-night flights when not on patrol, Garrick taking your shifts.” Her eyes are sharp, probing, as if they can pierce through the carefully constructed facade I’ve been holding together. I hadn’t realized just how closely she had been watching, how the threads of my life had begun to unravel before her discerning gaze. “I want the truth, Riorson.”

“I’m not hiding anything,” I reply, though the words taste bitter on my tongue. I inhale slowly, feeling the air fill my lungs with its coolness, yet it offers little comfort. Lying to a truth-sayer is futile, but I need her to back off,.

“Stop lying.” The statement is as sharp as a blade, cutting through the tension with surgical precision.

“Renna.” I plead, but she holds my gaze unwavering, a storm of resolve brewing within those fierce eyes. 

“Riorson.” Her voice is steady, a low rumble of authority that Brennan described perfectly—a look that could break any resolve, including mine.

“Leadership is lying to us,” I finally admit, the words spilling out with a weight that feels like lead. “We’ve been killing civilians at the border, not taking refugees—and for what?” My heart races, expecting an eruption of disbelief, yet no flicker of shock crosses her face. Instead, her jaw tightens, like a coiling spring ready to snap.

“We have our own people to protect. But we are not killing civilians,” she counters, a fierce defiance igniting in her stance.

“We are, Renna. They’re just hiding it.” The conviction in my voice surprises even me.

“Why? What’s out there that we can’t risk letting in?” she presses, the intensity of her scrutiny unwavering.

“You’ll think I’m crazy if I tell you.” I shake my head, trying to shake off the weight of what I know.

“Hate to break it to you, but I already do.” She steps forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “What are we really against?” 

Her intentions are clear. She doesn’t plan to report me; she already knows and just needs me to confirm it.

So I say, “You already know.”

“I assume you’ve got others in on this,” she replies thoughtfully, not even taking a moment to let the confirmation sink in. “And I assume you’re not going to tell me who.”

“Correct.” 

Her dry laugh echoes in the stillness. “Did you drag Violet into this?” 

“Technically Colonel Aetos did when he sent us to our death at War Games.” I answer, feeling the heavy burden of our shared fate. “But she’s with us of her own volition. Everyone is.”

She offers me a nod, her gaze drifting to her green clubtail, who I’m sure is confirming through Sgaeyl. “Is there anything else I should know?” The air is thick with expectation, as we stand on the precipice of revelation, teetering between loyalty and the abyss.

Yes, I want to say. Your husband is actually alive, has been for years, and he’s been keeping tabs on you through others who know the truth.

“That’s it,” I state, the finality of my statement echoing in the stillness, but her expression sharpens, morphing into something more intense.

Her eyes narrow, a darkened gleam igniting within them as she tilts her head ever so slightly, studying me as though I were a puzzle she was determined to solve. “You’re lying,” she accuses, the accusation heavy in the air, palpable enough to slice through the silence.

I meet her gaze, steel to steel, unyielding. “It’s not my secret to tell,” I respond, my tone firm, the underlying emotion masked behind layers of resolve. 

For a long moment, she holds my stare, an unspoken battle waged silently between us. “I could report you,” she states quietly, the threat lingering like a specter in the space between us.

“You could.” The admission escapes my lips, tinged with a cautious breath. But deep down, I know she won’t. Even if her intentions didn’t show an inkling of disbelief.

“I’ll help. However I can.” Relief washes over me, loosening the tight grip of tension in my chest just enough to let in a breath of fresh air. But she’s not done.  “When the time comes, I expect you to tell me everything. No more lies. No more games.” Her voice carries a weight that demands acknowledgment, a reminder of the stakes at play.

I nod once, the movement slight but deliberate. “Understood.” What else can I say? 

She walks past me without another word, her shoulders stiff as a blade, radiating a quiet intensity that speaks volumes. I can feel her resolve, yet she doesn’t press further. 

I know she’ll ask again, and I’ll continue to lie, weaving a web of half-truths until I reach Aretia in two weeks. Then, I’ll confront Brennan for making me bear yet another heavy secret.

Recovered Correspondence from Second Lieutenant Xaden Riorson to Cadet Wrenley Tavis

Little Bird,

I’ve spent hours trying to figure out what to write to you, but nothing felt quite right—until I remembered the night of our first kiss.

I’d spent the whole day running from everyone, doing my best to pretend the date didn’t matter. But you… you’re stubborn. You found me anyway—atop the tallest turret of Riorson House, a slice of chocolate cake in your hands.

You told me you wanted a slice and felt guilty not sharing it. But I knew the truth. You were the only person who remembered what day it was.

Then you turned to the stars, didn’t even look at me, like you hadn’t just cracked me open. If you had turned, you would’ve seen the cake untouched, my eyes never leaving you. You would’ve seen the way my chest shuddered under the weight pressing down on it—how my heart whispered, She sees you. Even when you don’t want to be seen.

That was the moment I knew I was in love with you.

It’s why I whispered a small thank you. You smiled, wished me a happy birthday, and I kissed you because gods, I didn’t want another day to go by without you looking at me like that.

It’s still my favorite memory.

You, chocolate cake, and the stars.

—Xay

next part

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[ria-coolgirl]

Sugar N Spice

Chapter 1

Sorry for the long wait, but I'm finally done with the first chapter!

Contain: meeting oc, implied magic power, love at first sight, implied killing

Summary: After going hunting, Marko gets hungry on the boardwalk and finds something more than just food.

Enjoy ^^

To say that being a vampire is fun would be an understatement. There are great perks to it like being able to fly, immortality, super strength, casting illusion, etc. The only downsides to this are not being able to go outside during the day, holy water, silver and wooden stakes, But the one thing that truly sucks being a vampire is not being able to eat anything without consuming blood first which wasn’t a problem, but tonight they crave something more… appetizing. 

“I’m hungry!” Marko groaned wrapping his arms around his growling stomach, it’s been an hour since they went on a hunt and yet he was still hungry. “Well then, what do you want?” David asked with a last drag of his cigarette. The boardwalk had plenty of food vendors, shops and little stands to grab a quick bite to eat from, plenty of different things that you can choose from. Tell that to the littlest one’s stomach Marko pondered for a bit looking around for anything good, when his nose caught an alluring scent. 

Marko gave chase to the smell like a bloodhound, the others not so far as they followed him to a small pink corner bakery that was on the left side of the boardwalk. The bakery had the name Sweet Petals Bakery written in cursive with painted vines and a neon open sign underneath. Just the sight of the building made Marko even more hungry. To no one's surprise the inside had more pink and more pastel colors which clash with their punk aesthetic with its pink and white checkerboard floor, floral wallpaper, dusty  pink and sage green tables and booths. The sight of seeing all these colors made David feel like he was looking directly into the sun, because of how bright and frilly it all was. 

The summer night breeze set the mood as tourist season was at an all-time high. People came and went as the scent of fresh baked goods filled the air in an aroma that was completely impossible to resist. Darla was prepping her shop as the crowds died down, a new batch of sweets just begging to be unveiled. She wasn’t afraid to get experimental. After all, she came to realize the taste of this coastal town was very unique. 

As she hummed an upbeat tune, she smiled when she heard the hanging bell. In sauntered four boys with confidence of rockstars. Darla, of course, greeted them with a glowing smile. Without a lot to say, they strolled around the store front, keeping their attention on the vast assortment of pastries, cookies, and cakes for the most part, but they weren’t very subtle about sending glances Darla’s way as she moved around behind the counter. 

They circled around in a precise, deliberate fashion. As if they were deep in thought about their next moves. Darla retained her big glowing smile. 

“Good evening” her voice pierced the seemingly empty store. The boys turned to the source of the voice to find a young lady, well she looked young, about in her early 20s she stood behind the store counter; she wore a white apron embroidered with the bakery’s name in pink thread on the front. Underneath her apron was a pink t-shirt, a pink jean jacket and a long pink skirt that reached down to her knees, she had jet black hair in an afro that covered her ears and round-framed glasses. From her appearance alone she looked like a cartoon character from care bears or even strawberry shortcake. She had a warm smile on her face, which was a bit uncanny for someone to be happy to see them. 

“Hello, my name is Darla Stanley and welcome to the sweet petals bakery.” “How may I help you today?” She asked gleefully, her voice was soft with a southern drawl to it saying smooth as honey. The boys looked at each other for a moment, smirking “Well, we’re wondering if you have anything special for us?” Marko asked with a toothy grin. They looked at her up and down like a lamb among a pack of wolves, flirting with women was easy for them thanks in part to their good looks and charms they can make any girl swoon for them. “This was going to be easy.” thought David. Without skipping a beat, Darla cleared her throat and took a deep breath. “I have cakes, brownies, cupcakes, cookies, donuts, pies, tarts, cheesecakes, jelly rolls, cake pops and even tiramisu!” “Oh! And in the mornings I make bread, bagels, muffins, croissants, different pastries and danishes.” She said in a single breath with a chipper expression on her face. 

The boys looked at each other puzzled, was this girl serious? Did she really not understand what they were trying to say? This was supposed to be easy, she was supposed to be easy! “I can’t believe this girl!” “I thought I had it in the bag with that one?” Marko grunted in frustration turning his head only to find David, Dwayne and Paul looking just as dumbfounded as he was. Paul realized that in fact she was quite serious knowing how many times they have been banned by most places on the boardwalk, even banned from the amusement park! So having another store on the banning list was not something he was looking forward to. 

Paul grabbed Marko’s shoulder, looking at him like a disappointed parent trying to stop their child from throwing a tantrum. “Look, man I know that you're hungry right now, but this might be the only store we are welcomed at!” “So, if you keep trying to make her your midnight snack don’t.” Paul telepathy warned him, sending the message to David and Dwayne, who nodded in agreement not to try everything to potentially frighten the young lady into calling the cops on them. “Excuse my friend, he's just a little hangry aren’t you bud?” Paul said while pinching Marko’s cheek playfully. Marko pushed Paul’s hand away from his cheek. “Yeah, just hungry is all.” “And there are many things to choose from.” 

“Oh, that’s not a problem, if you guys want, I can help you guys pick a dessert.” Darla explained. “Sure” Marko replied with a grin eager to find out what kind of treat they were going to get. Darla pondered for a moment looking at them individually knowing that simply guessing wasn’t going to work. She needed to know about these guys to get a clear intent from them and what better to do than using her powers. She used her powers before with helping customers with their love problems and giving them advice, so this wasn't a major issue for her.

With that she took a deep breath and glanced over to the one who was dressed head to toe in black that reminded her of Johnny Cash with his black trench coat, an earring that looked like a string of leather and a loop of wire, black pants, leather gloves and of course cowboy boots. His hair was platinum blonde, and his eyes were icy blue. From what she can tell he seems to be distant and reserved then the others not as outlanders fashion wise but still possessing that mysterious charm to him.

Given the context of him, something with a rich flavor would work well for him. “I feel like you don’t really care for sweet, but you prefer things with richness and bitterness to it like dark chocolate, so I believe you would love my mocha cream puffs.” Darla said to David, who had a surprised look, yet a cunning smirk on his face as she went to package the pastries in a small container. 

She puts the container next to her by the register then turns her gaze to one with raven-black hair. To be honest she was a bit afraid to even look at him because of how intimidating he looked, but continued to search for context clues about him. He wears a leather jacket with a jaguar painted on the right side of his jacket, a fung earring, a necklace that seemed to be made out of various things, black jeans with what seem to be a red flag on the belt loops of the jeans, black tennis shoes, brown eyes and no shirt on. She ignored that last part about him and focused on what he was like. He seems to be on the quieter side, more stoic than anything else. 

Even though he looked kind of rugged he was still intimidating, he had a reserved kind of personality like the first guy, but had a hint of wildness to him. He seemed like the savory type of guy more salty than sweet like caramel, so something with a savory edge would work well for him. “You seem like the type who likes salty things rather than sweets, so I think my salted caramel pretzel brownies would be perfect for you.” Darla said to Dwayne who simply nodded to her in response as she put on disposable gloves to grab the brownies from the countertop case. 

“What about me?” Marko asked, whining impatiently, his lips into a pout. Darla chuckled at the sight of his appearance. His colorful jacket reminds her of magazine collage art, a white crop top,leather chaps, blue jeans, fingerless gloves, a black skull earring with red eyes and brown biker boots. His blond curly reach down to his back almost made him look like a stray cat from a certain angle. His eyes would be that of a light green, maybe blue, but looking clear. He seems to be a mix between savory and sour, a hybrid of wildness and zest warp into a person. Kind of like a tart, so something with a fruity taste would work for him. “You seem to be the one, who’s a mix between savory and sour, so I think my raspberry custard buns would work well for you.” Darla says to Marko whose mouth was practically drooling at the sight of the buns being packed in front of him. Everything was going smoothly with them and their desserts all except one. 

The last one with wild blonde hair, a skull charm earring with a dagger, a tuxedo jacket with a gold metal chain belt, what seems to be safety pins on the left side collar of his jacket with a metal drawer handle, a fishnet top, an eye ring, bracelets, black belt with o-rings plus suspenders, white football pants with boots and leather gaiters. With all the accessories he had on, he looked like a real dedicated fan of glam rock or probably was in a band himself. Darla was puzzled by his appearance. What kind of dessert would he be? 

Is he sweet? Savory? Bitter? Salty?

 It was hard to get a real grasp on who this guy was. So unable to tell just by a single look at him, she decided to get his full attention by staring at him, taking another deep breath and staring at him intently. Her light brown eyes that were now rosey pink meeting his baby blue, not moving, not even blinking for a second. Paul took this opportunity to lean forward onto the counter resting his elbows putting his hands on his chin as they continued to stare. Darla tiled her hand slightly, her eyebrows furrow. Paul copied her movement ever so slightly while still having his eyes set on her. It felt like a staring contest not wanting to blink but wanting to find out more about the other and Darla was determined to find.

 Slowly, careful she leaned more toward him, the space between them almost being gone at this point, tiling her hand to the other side with Paul following suit. She looked deeper into his eyes when she saw something, glitter beginning to fall as she saw a vision taking shape. It started with her and him walking together side by side laughing and smiling, then another image of them going on dates, holding hands, having arguments, but always finding solutions and finally sharing a kiss and– 

Darla shook her head shaking off the rapid thoughts in her mind, but the one thing that stood out to her in the vision was his endless kindness toward her that made him surprisingly sweet. “Hey, are you okay?” Paul asked, smiling gently at her. Darla blinked for a second regaining her eye color and found her cheeks beginning to blush unsure on what to do. “Oh-um yes-yes I'm fine I was just … thinking.” Darla replied, stuttering while clearing her throat and fixing her glasses. “While you have a glam rockstar aesthetic, you seem oddly sweet and full of energy always moving around, yet still good, kind of like a cupcake, so I believe a strawberry trifle would work well for you.” Darla said with a soft tone almost in a shy whisper as she grabbed the strawberry trifle that was in a plastic cup with a lid on it from the display case and grabbed a plastic spoon from one of the drawers behind her placing them next to the other desserts near the register.

 “Impressive you manage to pick out some great treats for us. How much do we owe you?” asked David, going through his pockets for any spare dollars. “It’s fine, you don’t gotta pay me, it's on the house.” Darla clarified. The boys shared eager smiles as they grabbed their desserts from the counter, happy with what they got. Satisfied with everything going smoothly with them. Opening the stable door from the counter to walk them to the front door when she had a realization. “Oh dear! I just realized that I don't know your names.” Darla chuckles nervously. “It’s okay doll, I’m Paul.” “That’s Dwayne, Marko and David.” Paul said introducing the others one by one. “Dwayne, Marko,” Darla repeated, each of them nodded as their names were called, except for David whose arms were crossed, his eyes narrowed as he looked at Darla with suspicion; with a light smirk Darla mimicked him “OH~ You must be David.” She said in a low tone while the others chuckled David growled lightly with a disgruntled expression. “Thanks for the sweets, let's go guys.” David interjected, commanding the others to follow him out the door. Darla goes around them opening the door for them and says they’re goodbyes to her.

Darla waved them goodbye still wearing her warm smile as she closed the door behind her. Her heart was rushing and her cheeks flushed. “Maybe there are more things to like about this town.” She whispered softly. 

Tag list: @brahms-and-lances-wife @adams-fav-roach @ravens-all (And anyone else who wants to be tagged)

[viennajoell]

First Round, First Touch

Summary: Draft night’s over and Gabe only has eyes, hands, and time for you.

Word count: 831

Warnings: explicit content, smut, consensual adult relationship, adult themes.

Gabe leans back against it, hands still trembling slightly from the draft, from the crowd, from the hours of anticipation. The top two buttons of his dress shirt are already undone, his tie pulled loose, his cheeks flushed with an exhilaration that hasn’t yet had a chance to settle.

“You did it,” you whisper, crossing the room to him.

His hands find your waist before you can say another word, pulling you close. “We did it,” he breathes into your hair, voice husky with emotion. “God, I kept looking for you in the crowd.”

“I never took my eyes off you,” you reply, hands sliding up his chest. “First round. Just like I knew you would.”

He grins, eyes searching yours as if still trying to believe it. “I kept telling myself to play it cool up there, but all I could think about was getting back here with you.”

Your lips curve. “That eager?”

“More than eager,” he says and there’s a new edge to his voice that sends heat up your spine.

Before you can respond, Gabe’s hands tighten at your waist and he’s kissing you deep and unhurried, as if making up for all the minutes spent apart. His hands trail up your back, fingers curling into your dress like he can’t wait to touch more of you.

“You looked so gorgeous tonight,” he murmurs between kisses, lips brushing your cheek, then your neck. “All I could see was you.”

Your breath catches as his mouth finds that spot beneath your ear, teeth grazing your skin. “And now you’ve got me,” you whisper, threading your fingers into his hair.

That’s all the invitation he needs. Gabe scoops you up, carrying you across the room like you weigh nothing, and settles you gently onto the bed.

“You’re everything,” he says, hands already tugging at the zipper of your dress. “Every goal, every game, every damn moment I was thinking about you.”

Your dress falls to the floor and you help him shrug off his shirt before pulling him down to you. The weight of him is perfect strong, warm, entirely focused on you.

“You have me,” you assure him, breath hitching as his hands smooth over your bare skin.

“Good,” Gabe breathes. “Because tonight, I’m not sharing.”

He kisses you again, deeper this time, his mouth tasting like champagne and adrenaline. Every careful touch and whispered word sends shivers across your body.

“You feel so good,” he groans against your lips as he settles between your legs. “I need you so bad.”

“You have me,” you moan back, lifting your hips into him. “I’m all yours.”

And then there’s nothing left to wait for.

He moves into you slowly at first, savoring the way you fit together, his hands trembling against your skin as if this is the most important part of the night.

“You okay?” he asks, voice rough and caring all at once.

“More than okay,” you breathe, lips brushing his as you meet his rhythm.

He groans at that low and raw and you feel him deepen his thrusts, one hand gripping yours against the sheets.

“God,” he whispers into your ear, kissing along your jaw, “I never thought winning could feel like this.”

Your breath catches as heat pools in your belly. “You’re so good, Gabe. Don’t stop.”

And he doesn’t.

He keeps you there, wrapped up together, moving as one until you’re trembling and crying his name his hands holding you steady as you come undone.

“I love you,” he murmurs against your skin when you finally catch your breath. “More than anything.”

“I love you,” you reply, hands stroking his back, lips pressing to his shoulder. “More than tonight. More than all of this.”

He smiles into your hair, hands still tracing idle patterns along your spine as you lie tangled together in the quiet dark.

[mimmiiisposts]

We Hug Now - kim seungmin

| sypnosis. Two childhood friends reunite in their hometown after years apart. One never left, weighed down by past mistakes and searching for redemption. The other returns as a world-famous K-pop idol, carrying the glitz of fame but also the scars of their shared history. As they reconnect, old memories resurface—both the ones that made them and the ones that broke them—forcing them to confront what they’ve lost, what still lingers, and whether some friendships are meant to be saved.

pairing: kim seungmin x f!reader

content: NOT A HAPPY ENDING, nostalgic, angst, childhood friends, idk what else lmk what i missed

A/N. hi hi guys, this is my first story so please be nice !! i hope you all like it as much as i enjoyed writing it 🩷 This is HEAVILY based on the song, “We hug now” by Sydney Rose. I highly recommend listening to it while reading, it will make it so much sadder 😏 please please please, if you have any suggestions or some ideas or anything that could help me be better please let me know . this is my first story and i want to continue this as best i can. THANK YOUUUU !!!

You don’t see stars here, they’re just city lights.

She never left the city.

Some people would say she couldn’t. Some would say she didn’t try.

But the truth is, she stayed because she thought one day he might come back.

I think back to where you live and how you can see the entire sky.

She sat on the rooftop of her tiny apartment, knees pulled to her chest, the hum of the city wrapping around her like a dull blanket. She tilted her head back, but the sky here didn’t look like the one she remembered.

There were no stars.

Just streetlights, neon signs, the faint glow of traffic stretching out like an endless maze.

It was strange, the way she still thought of him.

Even now, with so much time wedged between them, She had a way of slipping into her quiet moments. Like a song she couldn’t forget the lyrics to. Like the breeze on the pier when summer was just beginning.

“There aren’t any stars here,” she whispered to loud enough for him to hear, picking at the loose thread on her sleeve. “They’re just city lights pretending.”

She used to tell him that. Back when she stayed up too late, waiting for his texts, or when he came to her at midnight just to sit in the balcony and laugh.

She thought about the town he lived in now. The places he traveled, the skies he must have seen—clear, wide, heavy with stars. Places where the moon probably looked close enough to touch.

Here, the moon was rare.

Here, she only caught it sometimes. When she wasn’t rushing home from work, when the smog didn’t swallow it whole. And every time she saw it, she thought of him.

Not the version of him on billboards. Not the perfect, polished idol who smiled for flashing cameras.

She thought of the boy who used to climb trees with her. The boy who used to swear that he’d take her with him wherever he went.

It was dumb, maybe, but part of her still believed him. Over everything that happened, over all the whispers and unkept promises. She believed him.

Y/n traced circles on her knee with her fingertip, staring at the sky that didn’t sparkle.

It’s occasional, sometimes, I’ll see the moon and I’ll think of you.

And tonight, the moon was out.

My mom will convince me, and i’ll get the courage to ask.

Y/n sat at the kitchen table, absently stirring the soup she wasn’t really eating. The news buzzed faintly in the background, but her mom’s voice cut through the room with that usual softness that somehow still sounded like a nudge.

“Y/n-ahh,” her mom said, folding a dish towel and tossing it over her shoulder. “Did you hear? Seungmin’s coming here.”

Her hand paused over the bowl. “What?”

“His group. They’re doing a world tour, right? The posters are all over the subway. They’re stopping here next weekend.”

She tried to play it off, but the heat was already creeping up her neck.

“Oh. Yeah, I guess I saw that.”

Her mom watched her carefully, the way moms do when they already know the answer to the question they’re about to ask.

“You two used to be so close,” she said, sitting across from her. “You haven’t talked to him since… then, have you?”

Y/n shrugged, eyes down. “Yea, It’s been a while.”

“That boy loved you like no other. You should see him while he’s here.”

“I don’t think he has time for me, Mom. He’s… he’s different now. Busy. Famous.” Her voice cracked just enough to give her away.

Her mom’s eyes softened. “People don’t just stop caring because life changes, Y/n.”

She wanted to believe that. She really did.

“I don’t know,” she mumbled. “What would I even say?”

Her mom smiled, standing and gently ruffling her hair like she used to when she was little. “You’d say what’s in your heart. You always were terrible at pretending you didn’t care.”

Y/n’s lips tugged into a weak smile. “You think I should text him?”

“I think you already want to.” Her mom winked. “But if you need me to convince you, then—yes. Call him. Text him. Write him a letter, even. Just don’t spend the rest of your life wondering.”

She stared at her phone as her mom walked away to start the laundry.

Her thumb hovered over his contact for a long time. Her heart beat like she was a teenager again.

Maybe I will. Maybe I can.

She heard her mom’s voice from the other room. “You’re braver than you think, Y/n-ah.”

Finally, with a shaky breath, she typed:

“Hey, I heard you’re coming here soon. Maybe we could catch up?”

And then she hit send.

We will get coffee in Canton and you’ll nervously laugh. When we hug ‘cause we don’t hug, we never used to do that. 

Y/n almost turned around three times on the way to the café.

Her hands wouldn’t stop sweating, and her heart wouldn’t stop lying to her—telling her she was seventeen again, telling her this would be easy.

But it wasn’t.

When she walked in, she saw him instantly.

Seungmin.

No—Min.

Because no matter how many stage names the world gave him, to her, he was always just Min.

He hadn’t changed much. His hair was a little shorter, his jaw sharper, his clothes expensive in that effortless way now. But his eyes? His eyes were the same. Soft and knowing. Familiar. The kind that used to smile at her before his mouth ever did.

He looked up when she approached, they hug. And for a second, just a second, she thought maybe the years hadn’t touched them at all.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low and calm.

Like he wasn’t angry. Like he didn’t remember.

Like he hadn’t spent years waiting for words she never gave him.

“Hey,” she echoed, forcing a small smile as she sat across from him.

There was a long silence where they both just stared at their drinks. He tapped his cup. She picked at the sleeve of her sweater. The whole time, Y/n’s chest screamed say it—but her mouth refused to move.

Instead, she asked, “How’s the tour?”

“It’s good,” he said, like they were strangers catching up, like they hadn’t left something bleeding between them. “Exhausting. You know how it is.”

“You always liked being busy.”

“Yeah.” He glanced at her. “And you always liked avoiding things.”

Her breath hitched, but she covered it with a sip of her drink.

He didn’t push. He didn’t bring it up.

And she didn’t dare to.

Instead, they talked about safe things. Music. Their old teachers. The food they missed from home. She laughed a little too hard at a joke he made about the local convenience store. He smiled like he almost believed she was really okay.

But underneath all of it, the real conversation stayed locked in both of their throats.

The apology she owed him.

The reason he left without saying goodbye.

The thing she did that broke everything.

Y/b wondered if he hated her for pretending nothing happened.

But maybe he hated something else more—the fact that even now, sitting right in front of him, she still looked as beautiful as when he left her.

After a while, he checked his phone and sighed.

“I’ve gotta go to rehearsal,” he said, standing up, brushing crumbs from his jeans.

“Right, yeah,” she nodded quickly. “Of course. You’re busy.”

“But…” He hesitated, chewing his lip like he wasn’t sure if he should. “I’m free tomorrow. If you wanna… meet up again.”

“Yea, i’d like that”, she said with a heavy heart.

sometimes, I go to sleep and I’m still 17. You still live down my street. you’re not mad at me.



She looked at him walking away, heart squeezing painfully because this was just like her dreams.

Where he wasn’t mad at her.

Where they were still seventeen.

Where she told him everything.

Because sometimes she went to sleep and still believed they were kids, still believed he wasn’t mad, still believed she’d find the words to say to him.

and in that dream, I will say everything I wanted. that every day after May, I haven’t found what I needed. No one has come close to you and I don’t think anyone will. 

But ever since that day, she hadn’t.

And as much as she tried to move on, no one had come close to him.

She wasn’t sure anyone ever would.

I have a feeling you got everything you wanted and you’re not wasting time stuck here like me.



By the Pier

Y/n arrived early.

The pier was almost exactly the same as when they were kids—the same creaky wooden boards, the same soft splash of waves brushing against the posts, the same salted breeze pulling at her hair.

It felt like stepping into one of her dreams.

The ones where they were still seventeen.

The ones where nothing broke between them.

But this wasn’t a dream.

And this time, she knew she wouldn’t wake up in a world where things were fixed.

When Seungmin finally showed up, he looked almost shy, like he wasn’t sure if she’d actually be there.

“Hey,” he said, soft, his hands buried deep in his pockets.

“Hey.” She tried to smile but couldn’t quite make it reach her eyes.

For a while, they just walked along the pier, not really talking. The silence between them wasn’t heavy—it was familiar, like it had been there all along, waiting for them to return.

Y/n glanced at him.

He was still the same boy.

Still the same boy who promised forever on this very pier.

But now he was also the boy she let walk away.

And maybe she was the girl he hated for letting him.

“Did you get everything you wanted?” she said suddenly, surprising even herself.

He blinked, looking out at the water. “Not everything.”

“You’re not stuck here, though. You’re not wasting your time in this place like I am.”

“That’s not your fault.” His voice was quiet, but his jaw was tight.

She wanted to believe him. But some part of her thought he didn’t understand—how the moment he left, her world collapsed in on itself, and she never really got out from under it.

“I don’t know if you think it’s a small thing, what happened,” she whispered, biting her lip. “But to me… it was the end of everything.”

His shoulders stiffened. He stopped walking, and she did too.

For a second, it seemed like he was about to say something—like maybe, just maybe, he’d finally ask her why. Why she never told him. Why she let him leave thinking she didn’t care.

But he didn’t ask.

And she didn’t tell him.

Because neither of them were brave enough.

They stood there, eyes glossy but dry, hearts full but aching, still so in love with each other but too afraid to open the door to what could’ve been.

Finally, Seungmin stepped closer.

He didn’t speak. He just wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into him.

And y/n let herself melt into the hug, pressing her face into his shoulder like maybe she could hide from the years that separated them.

This was all they could give each other now.

A hug.

A quiet, desperate hug.

Because they didn’t have the words.

Because maybe the words would’ve ruined it.

Because maybe if they said it out loud, they’d have to admit that they’d already lost.

When they pulled apart, they both smiled like they weren’t breaking.

“I’m glad I saw you,” he said, voice thick.

“Me too.”

He turned to leave, and this time, she let him. She sank into the cool sand, her body heavy with everything she couldn’t say, her eyes glassy with tears she wouldn’t let fall. All she could do was sit there, staring out at the endless ocean, as if the waves might carry him back to her.

And as he disappeared down the pier, she realized the saddest part wasn’t that they didn’t say what needed to be said.

It was that some part of her would always wait here for him, in this same small town, under this same sky that refused to shine.

And he would always live in the places she was too scared to go.

You’re just thinking it’s a small thing that happened, the world ended when it happened to me.

hey lovelies, i hope you enjoyed it !!! this took me like a week to make yo, but i hope it’s all worth it. one of these days ill make a part 2 or a continuation with happy ending so that everyone is happy and i dont get murdered 😭 okayyy that’s it bye byeeee !!!

[townofcadence]

Artair has the knife, but his grip is precarious. He almost drops it, when Ares's claws find his heart. He's dizzy with pain and bubbles froth from his mouth. The hand instead drops to rest on Ares's back, the angle steep enough that it hardly does more than poke a pinprick in the fabric at the shoulder.

There is no breath to catch. There is nothing but the way his body tugs. A heart is no fruit, no grape on a vine. It is a powerful muscle, locked into a chest by tissue and bone and muscle and even the anchoring of blood vessels, arteries and veins that carry blood in their thickened walls to resist the forceful pounds of a heartbeat that will push it to the lungs, back, and then out to the rest of the body. It is like a system of roots, and the heart is the base of the tree.

Ares is strong though. His claws dig into meat and pull and yank, and he can feel every vein and artery jerk through him, like they may well threaten to leave too. He feels Ares use his claws like scalpels when the heart won't budge, clearly trying to take it whole. Gold runs out his mouth, out his eyes and it wavers his vision further, though it is nothing compared to the mess he is above the water, where it paints the ground in buckets and viscera and opalized ribs branded with eyes. His dying sounds are bubbles as his nerves light like the sun to a point he can't even fathom where he is or what's happening. He's cold. It hurts. It hurts and his chest is so silent.

He doesn't remember there is a knife in his hand, as bubbles still spill to leave him. Without lungs he will die. Without his heart he will die. This limbo with neither is agonizing and endless. He's hollow. Cold. Burning. It's seeping into him, running over his skin like a chilling frost of numb that bites.

He has a knife. There is a knife in his hand. He is holding it. Ares is there. Ares is watching.

Fire burns in him at the thought, keeping the cold at bay. Ares is right there. Ares is right there and he's fucking----- doing this. He's fucking killing him, he can see the molten gold of his own heart and the pink of Ares's tongue before it dips in gold. He can see the way his own blood smears on his cheek faintly through the rippling water. The ripples fade with no air to disturb them. Ares is still distorted by water as it fills his own mouth and windpipe and where his lungs should have been. Some finds his stomach and it is so cold. Ares is speaking but he can't understand. He is looking at the knife. The knife. The knife in his hand.

It twitches. He feels his cold fingers twitch. His vision is off, his head is wrong. He focuses on that fire still in his chest, staring at Ares. He's not dead yet. Dying but still here. He's so fucking tired of being the victim. Desperate, out of control, like a cornered animal that just ends up on a leash.

He can't kill Ares. He's done that and it didn't work. Ares is still here. But he knows what he values.

Artair drags that hand just a little further, just below the base of Ares's scalp. He can't reach all of it, but he gathers what he can like he is trying to pull Ares back. He pulls it taut. And then, he lets the blade find the furthest edge of that curtain of hair, and pulls like a ripcord through the tensed strands. They part easily to such a sharp blade, and he watches with that last bit of strength ebbing as that curtain falls, and the sky is lit by stars.

His hand falls into the mud and his eyes drift up towards them, away from Ares. To a better last sight. And with his eyes on the silvery reflection as it passes through water and shines on his face, Artair goes limp in the river.

It is the final struggle for now, and Ares revels in how deliciously gory it's turning out to be. Of course, it isn't the first time he's taken Artair's heart from his chest and certainly won't be the last, but it still hasn't lost its charm yet. There are as many ways to reach the heart as your imagination can conjure after all, and Ares has nothing but time on his hands.

That and copious amounts of blood, of course.

He doesn't bother trying to stop it when Artair grabs for his knife. What could he even do, stab him again? His outfit is already ruined-- he might as well! And oh it would be so fun watching him struggle even more. Struggle to stay alive so he can get a few more scratches in.

He leans in just a bit closer as his fingers finally find the rabbiting muscle in Artair's chest. "Oh mon cher... do I really make your heart pound that hard?" He teases, rending the heart from its bloody confines. He makes certain that the other can see as he runs his tongue along its still quivering length, dripping blood and viscera. "Go ahead, pet, if you're going to try stabbing me in the back. It's only a matter of time now until you die-- do you think you even have the strength for it anymore?"

[thepoisonroom]

this is going to sound insane but was hot mean tech lady in the effective altruism / rational altruism cult lol. i ask out of curiosity bc i think its so funny (tho bad) how it infiltrates so many like. polyamorous STEM social circles

literallyyyyy was and i didn't realize until after things ended between us because she was like 'oh i'm really into philosophy' and i was like hmmm pink flag but you are very hot..... i had read like a very neutral article about ethical altruists in some magazine years before so thought they were just kind of ultimately harmless ascetics

it's so hard to explain to people who haven't been in the bay area dating scene just how insane the ea/longtermism crowd is. i was also working at a bay area bookstore at the time so got a really good insight into their obsession with like. attached and daniel kahneman and whatever.

idk i'm literally presenting at an academic conference about their like apocalyptic cult freak shit just so i can talk about how insane it is. if you ever want to talk about this hit me up lol. or even if you don't this wired article was a really lurid wild tale abt rationalist shit

[sn0wbat]

← part 1 🦇

fun fact, they are almost the same age frida was when rune went to sleep. funny how time works

[anomalouscutie]

bold theory but im like 80% sure that the spiderman 2 story was a little lackluster because the dlc is going to be doing a lot more of the heavy lifting this time around