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thepencilnerd · 2 months ago

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Edge of the Dark

pairing: Jack Abbot x doctor!Reader summary: What starts as quiet pining after too many long shifts becomes something heavier, messier, softer—until the only place it all makes sense is in the dark. warnings: references to trauma and PTSD, mentions of deaths in hospital setting, emotionally charged scenes genre: slow burn, fluff, humor, angst, hurt/mostly comfort, soft intimacy, one (1) very touch-starved man, communication struggles, messy feelings, healing is not linear, implied but not explicit smut word count: ~13.5k (i apologize in advance ;-; pls check out ao3 if you prefer chapters) a/n: this started as a soft character exploration and very quickly became a mega-doc of deep intimacy, trauma-informed gentleness, and jack abbot being so touch-starved it hurts. dedicated to anyone who’s ever longed for someone who just gets it 💛 p.s. check out my other abbot fic if you're interested ^-^

You weren’t sure why you lingered.

Everyone had peeled off after a few beers in the park, laughter trailing behind them like fading campfire smoke. Someone had packed up the empties. Someone else made a joke about early rounds. There were half-hearted goodbyes and the sound of sneakers on gravel.

But two people hadn’t moved.

Jack Abbot was still sitting on the bench, legs stretched out in front of him, head tilted just enough that the sharp line of his jaw caught the low amber light from a distant streetlamp.

You stood a few feet away, hovering, unsure if he wanted to be alone or just didn’t know how to leave.

The countless night shifts you'd shared blurred like smeared ink, all sharp moments and dull exhaustion. You’d been colleagues long enough to know the shape of each other’s presence—Jack’s clipped tone when things were spiraling, your tendency to narrate while suturing. Passing conversations, brief exchanges in stolen moments of calm—that was the extent of it. You knew each other’s habits on shift, the shorthand of chaos, the rhythm of crisis. But outside the job, you were closer to strangers than friends. The Dr. Jack Abbot you knew began and ended in the ER.

It had always been in fragments. Glimpses across trauma rooms. A muttered "Nice work" after a tricky intubation. The occasional shared note on a chart. Maybe a nod in the break room if you happened to breathe at the same time. You knew each other's rhythms, but not the stories behind them. It was small talk in the eye of a hurricane—the kind that comes fast and leaves no room for anything deeper. The calm before the storm, never after.

“You okay?” Your voice came out soft, not wanting to startle him in case he was occupied with his thoughts.

He didn’t look at you right away. Just blinked, slow, eyes boring holes into the concrete path laid before him. "Didn’t want to go home yet." Then, after a beat, his gaze shifted to you. "You coming back in a few hours?"

You huffed a small laugh, more air than sound. "Probably. Not like I’ll get more than a couple hours of sleep anyway." The beer left a bitter aftertaste on your tongue as you took another sip.

His mouth curved—almost a smile, almost something more. "Yeah. That’s what I said to Robby."

You saw the tired warmth in his eyes. Not gone, just tucked away.

"Wasn't this supposed to be your day off?" you asked, tipping your head slightly. "You could take tomorrow off to comp."

He snorted under his breath. "I could. Probably won't."

"Of course not," you said, lips quirking. "That would be too easy."

"No sleep for the wicked," he muttered dryly, but there was no edge to it. Just familiarity settling between you like an old coat.

A quiet settled over the bench. Neither of you spoke. You breathed together, the kind of silence that asked nothing, demanded nothing. Just the hush of night stretching between two people with too much in their heads and not enough rest in their bones.

Then, unexpectedly, he asked, "Do you think squirrels ever get drunk from fermented berries?"

You blinked. "What?" It was impossible to hold back the frown of confusion that dashed across your face.

He shrugged, barely hiding a grin. "I read about it once. They get all wobbly and fall out of trees."

A laugh burst out of you—sudden, warm, real. "Dr. Abbot, are you drunk right now?"

"Little buzzed," he admitted, yet his body gave no indication that he was anything but sober. "But I stand by the question. Seems like something we should investigate. For science."

You laughed again, softer this time. The kind that lingered behind your teeth.

"Call me Jack."

When you looked up, you saw that he was still staring at you. That smile still tugged at the edge of his mouth. There was a flicker of something in his expression—a moment of uncertainty, then decision.

"You can just call me Jack," he repeated, voice quieter now. "We're off the clock."

A grin crept its way onto your face. "Jack." You said it slowly, like you were trying the word on for size. It felt strange in your mouth—new, unfamiliar—but right. The syllable rolled off your tongue and settled into the space between you like something warm.

He ducked his head slightly, like he wasn’t sure what to do with your smile.

The quiet returned, but this time it was lighter, looser. He leaned down to fasten his prosthetic back in place with practiced ease, then stood up to give his sore muscles another good stretch. When he looked over at you again, it was with a steadier kind of presence—solid, grounded.

"You want some company on the walk home?"

Warmth flooded your face. Maybe it was the alcohol hitting. Or the worry of being a burden. You hesitated, then gave him an apologetic look. "I mean—thank you, really—but you don’t have to. I live across the river, by Point State Park. It’s kind of out of the way."

Jack tipped his chin up, brows furrowing in thought. "Downtown? I'm on Fifth and Market Street. That’s like, what—two blocks over?"

"Seriously?" Jack Abbot lived a five-minute walk south from you?

The thought settled over you with a strange warmth. All this time, the space between your lives had been measured in blocks.

He nodded, stuffing his hands into his pockets and slinging on his backpack, the fabric rustling faintly. "Yeah. No bother at all, it's on my way."

You both stood there a moment longer as the wind shifted, carrying with it the distant hum of traffic from Liberty Avenue and the low splash of water against the Mon Wharf. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked once, then fell silent.

"Weird we’ve never run into each other," you murmured, more to yourself than anything. But of course, he heard you.

Jack’s gaze flicked toward you, and something like a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. "Guess we weren’t looking," he said.

The rest of the walk was quiet, but not empty. Your footsteps echoed in unison against the cracked sidewalk, and somewhere between street lamps and concrete cracks, you stopped feeling like strangers. The dim lights left long shadows that pooled around your feet, soft and flickering. Neither of you seemed in a rush to break the silence.

Maybe it was the late hour, or the leftover buzz from the beers, or maybe it was something else entirely, but the dark didn’t feel heavy the way it sometimes did—especially after shifts like this. It was a kind of refuge. A quiet shelter for two people too used to holding their breath. It felt... safe. Like a shared language being spoken in a place you both understood.

A few night shifts passed. Things had quieted down after the mass casualty event—at least by ER standards—but the chaos never really left. Working emergency meant the moments of calm were usually just precursors to the next wave. You were supposed to be off by seven, but paperwork ran long, a consult ran over, a med student went rogue with an IO drill, and before you knew it, it was 9 am.

After unpinning your badge and stuffing it into your pocket, you pushed through the main hospital doors and winced against the pale morning light. Everything felt too sharp, too loud, and the backs of your eyes throbbed from hours of fluorescent lighting. Fatigue settled deep in your muscles, a familiar dull ache that pulsed with each step. The faint scent of antiseptic clung to your scrubs, mixed with the bitter trace of stale coffee.

You were busy rubbing your eyes, trying to relieve the soreness that bloomed behind them like a dull migraine, and didn’t see the figure standing just to the side of the door.

You walked straight into him—headfirst.

“Jesus—sorry,” you muttered, taking a step back.

And there he was: Jack Abbot, leaning against the bike rack just outside the lobby entrance. His eyes tracked the sliding doors like he’d been waiting for something—or someone. In one hand, he held a steaming paper cup. Not coffee, you realized when the scent hit you, but tea. And in the other, he had a second cup tucked against his ribs.

He looked up when he saw you, and for a second, he didn’t say anything. Just smiled, small and tired and real.

"Dr. Abbot." You blinked, caught completely off guard.

"Jack," he corrected gently, with a crooked smirk that didn’t quite cover the hint of nerves underneath. "Off the clock, remember?"

A soft scoff escaped you—more acknowledgment than answer. As you shifted your weight, the soreness settled into your legs. "Wait—why are you still here? Your caseload was pretty light today. Should’ve been out hours ago."

Jack shrugged, eyes steady on yours. "Had a few things to wrap up. Figured I’d wait around. Misery loves company."

You blinked again, slower this time. That quiet, steady warmth in your chest flared—not dramatic, just there. Present. Unspoken.

He extended the cup toward you like it was no big deal. You took it, the warmth of the paper seeping into your fingers, grounding you more than you expected.

"Didn’t know how you took it," Jack said. "Figured tea was safer than coffee at this hour."

You nodded, still adjusting to the strange intimacy of being thought about. "Good guess."

He glanced at his own cup, then added with a small smirk, "The barista recommended some new hipster blend—uh, something like... lavender cloudburst? Cloud... bloom? I don't know. It sounded ridiculous, but it smelled okay, so."

You snorted into your first sip. "Lavender cloudburst? That a seasonal storm warning or a tea?"

Jack laughed under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "Honestly couldn’t tell you. I just nodded like I knew what I was doing."

And something about the way he said it—offhand, dry, and a little self-deprecating—made the morning feel a little softer. Like he wasn’t just waiting to see you. He was trying to figure out how to stay a little longer.

The first sip tasted like a warm hug. “It’s good,” you hummed. Jack would be remiss if he didn’t notice the way your cheeks flushed pink, or how you smiled to yourself.

So the two of you just started walking.

There was no plan. No particular destination in mind. Just the rhythmic scuff of your shoes on the pavement, the warm cups in hand, and the soft hum of a city waking up around you. The silence between you wasn’t awkward, just cautious—guarded, maybe, but not unwilling. As you passed by a row of restaurants, he made a quiet comment about the coffee shop that always burned their bagels. You mentioned the skeleton in OR storage someone dressed up in scrubs last Halloween, prompted by some graffiti on the brick wall of an alley. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Jack shoved one hand in his pocket, the other still cradling his now-empty cup. “I still think cloudburst sounds like a shampoo brand.”

You grinned, stealing a sideways glance at him. “I don’t know, I feel like it could also be a very niche indie band.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, the sound low and breathy. “That tracks. ‘Cloudburst’s playing the Thunderbird next weekend.’”

“Opening for Citrus Lobotomy,” you deadpanned.

Jack nearly choked on his last sip of tea.

The moment passed like that—small, stupid jokes nestled between shared exhaustion and something else neither of you were quite ready to name. But in those fragments, in those glances and tentative laughs, there was a kind of knowing. Not everything had to be said outright. Some things could just exist—quietly, gently—between the spaces of who you were behind hospital doors and who you were when the work was finally done.

The next shift came hard and fast.

A critical trauma rolled in just past midnight—a middle-aged veteran, found unconscious, head trauma, unstable vitals, military tattoo still visible on his forearm beneath the dried blood. Jack was leading the case, and even from across the trauma bay, you could see it happen—the second he recognized the tattoo, something in him shut down.

He didn’t freeze. Didn’t panic. He just... went quiet. Tighter around the eyes. Sharper, more mechanical. As if he’d stepped out of his body and left the rest behind to finish the job.

The team moved like clockwork, but the rhythm never felt right. The patient coded again. Then again. Jack ordered another round of epi, demanded more blood—his voice tight, almost brittle. That sharp clench of his jaw said everything he didn’t. He wanted this one to make it. He needed to.

Even as the monitor flatlined, its sharp tone cutting through the noise like a blade, he kept going.

“Start another line,” he said. “Hang another unit. Push another dose.”

No one moved.

You stepped in, heart sinking. “Dr. Abbot… he’s gone.”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t look at you. “One more round. Just—try again.”

The team hesitated. Eyes darted to you.

You stepped closer, voice soft but firm. “Jack—” you said his name like a lifeline, not a reprimand. “I’m so sorry.”

That stopped him. Just like that, his breath caught. Shoulders sagged. The echo of the monitor still rang behind you, constant and cold.

He finally looked at the man on the table.

“Time of death, 02:12.”

His hands didn’t shake until they were empty.

Then he peeled off his gloves and threw them hard into the garbage can, the snap of latex punctuating the silence like a slap. Without a word, he turned and stormed out of the trauma bay, footsteps clipped and angry, leaving the others standing frozen in his wake.

It wasn’t until hours later—when the adrenaline faded and the grief crawled back in like smoke under a door—that you found him again.

He was on the roof.

Just standing there.

Like the sky could carry the weight no one else could hold.

As if standing beneath that wide, empty stretch might quiet the scream still lodged in his chest. He didn’t turn around when you stepped onto the roof, but his posture shifted almost imperceptibly. He recognized your footsteps.

"What are you doing up here?"

The words came from him, low and rough, and it surprised you more than it should have.

You paused, taking careful steps toward him. Slow enough not to startle, deliberate enough to be noticed. "I should be asking you that."

He let out a soft breath that might’ve been a laugh—or maybe just exhaustion given form. For a while, neither of you spoke. The wind pulled at your scrub top, cool and insistent, but not enough to chase you back inside.

“You ever have one of those cases that just—sticks?” he asked eventually, eyes still locked on the city below.

“Most of them,” you admitted quietly. “Some louder than others.”

Jack nodded, slow. “Yeah. Thought I was past that one.”

You didn’t ask what he meant. You knew better than to press. Just like he didn’t ask why you were really up there, either.

There was a pause. Not empty—just cautious.

“I get it,” you murmured. “Some things don’t stay buried. No matter how deep you try to shove them down.”

That earned a glance from him, fleeting but sharp. “Didn’t know you had things like that.”

You shrugged, keeping your gaze steady on the skyline. “That’s the point, right?”

Another breath. A half-step toward understanding. But the walls stayed up—for now. Just not as high as they’d been.

You glanced at him, his face half in shadow. "It’s not weak to let someone stand beside you. Doesn’t make the weight go away, but it’s easier to keep moving when you’re not the only one holding it."

His shoulders twitched, just slightly. Like something in him heard you—and wanted to believe it.

You nudged the toe of your shoe against a loose bit of gravel, sensing the way Jack had pulled back into himself. The lines of his shoulders had gone stiff again, his expression harder to read. So you leaned into what you knew—a little humor, a little distance cloaked in something lighter.

“If you jump on Robby’s shift, he’ll probably make you supervise the med students who can't do proper chest compressions.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. But something close. Something that cracked the silence just enough to let the air in again. “God, I'd hate to be his patient."

Then, in one fluid motion, he swung a leg through the railing and stepped carefully onto solid ground beside you. The metal creaked beneath his weight, but he moved like he’d done it a hundred times before. That brief flicker of distance, of something fragile straining at the edges, passed between you both in silence.

Neither of you said anything more. You simply turned together, wordlessly, and started heading back inside.

A shift change here, a coffee break there—moments that lingered a little longer than they used to. Small talk slipped into quieter pauses that neither of you rushed to fill. Glances held for just a beat too long, then quickly looked away.

You noticed things. Not all at once. But enough.

Jack’s habit of reorganizing the cart after every code. The way he checked in on the new interns when he thought no one was watching. The moments he paused before signing out, like he wasn’t ready to meet daybreak.

And sometimes, you’d catch him watching you—not with intent, but with familiarity. As if the shape of you in a room had become something he expected. Something steady.

Nothing was said. Nothing had to be.

Whatever it was, it was moving. Slowly. Quietly.

The kind of shift that only feels seismic once you look back at where you started.

One morning, after another long stretch of back-to-back shifts, the two of you walked out together without planning to. No words, no coordination. Just parallel exhaustion and matching paces.

The city was waking up—soft blue sky, the whir of early buses, the smell of something vaguely sweet coming from a bakery down the block.

He rubbed at the back of his neck. “You walking all the way?”

“Figured I’d try and get some sleep,” you said, then hesitated. “Actually… there’s a diner a few blocks from here. Nothing fancy. But their pancakes don’t suck.”

He glanced over, one brow raised. “Is that your way of saying you want breakfast?”

“I’m saying I’m hungry,” you replied, a touch too casual. “And you look like you could use something that didn’t come out of a vending machine.”

Jack didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you for a long second, then nodded once.

“Alright,” he said. “Lead the way.”

And that was it.

No declarations. No turning point anyone else might notice. Just two people, shoulder to shoulder, walking in the same direction a little longer than they needed to.

The diner wasn’t much—formica tables, cracked vinyl booths, a waitress who refilled your bland coffee without asking. But it was warm, and quiet, and smelled like real butter.

You sat across from Jack in a booth near the window, elbows on the table, hands wrapped around mismatched mugs. He didn’t talk much at first, just stirred his coffee like he was waiting for it to tell him something.

Eventually, the silence gave way.

“I think I’ve eaten here twice this week,” you said, gesturing to the laminated menu. “Mostly because I don’t trust myself near a stove after night shift.”

Jack cracked a tired smile. “Last time I tried to make eggs, I nearly set off the sprinklers.”

“That would’ve been one hell of a consult excuse.”

He chuckled—quiet, genuine. The kind of laugh that felt rare on him. “Pretty sure the med students already think I live at the hospital. That would've just confirmed it.”

Conversation meandered from there. Things you both noticed. The weird habits of certain attendings. The one resident who used peanut butter as a mnemonic device. None of it deep, but all of it honest.

Somewhere between pancakes and too many refills, something eased.

Jack looked up mid-sip, met your eyes, and didn’t look away.

“You’re easy to sit with,” he said simply.

You didn’t answer right away.

Just smiled. “You are too.”

One thing about Jack was that he never shied away from eye contact. Maybe it was the military in him—or maybe it was just how he kept people honest. His gaze was steady, unwavering, and when it landed on you, it stayed.

You felt it then, like a spotlight cutting through the dim diner lighting. That intensity, paired with the softness of the moment, made your stomach dip. You ducked your head, suddenly interested in your coffee, and took a sip just to busy your hands.

Jack didn’t miss it. “You feeling okay?"

You scoffed. “It’s just warm in here.”

“Mmm,” he said, clearly unconvinced. “Must be the pancakes.”

You coughed lightly, the sound awkward and deliberate, then reached for the safety of a subject less charged. “So,” you began, “what’s the worst advice you ever got from a senior resident?”

Jack blinked, then let out a quiet laugh. “That’s easy. ‘If the family looks confused, just talk faster.’”

You winced, grinning. “Oof. Classic.”

He leaned back in the booth. “What about you?”

“Oh, mine told me to bring donuts to chart review so the attending would go easy on me.”

Jack tilted his head. “Did it work?”

“Well,” you said, “the donuts got eaten. My SOAP note still got ripped apart. So, no.”

He chuckled. “Justice, then.”

He stirred his coffee once more, then set the spoon down with more care than necessary. His voice dropped, softer, but not fragile. Testing the waters.

"You ever think about leaving it? The ER, I mean."

The question caught you off guard—not because it was heavy, but because it was him asking. You blinked at him, surprised to see something flicker behind his eyes. Not restlessness exactly. Just... ache.

"Sometimes," you admitted. "When it gets too loud. When I catch myself counting the days instead of the people."

Jack nodded, but his gaze locked on you. Steady. Intense. Like he was memorizing something. It took everything out of you not to shy away.

"I used to think if I left, everything I’d seen would catch up to me all at once. Like the noise would follow me anyway."

You let that hang in the air between you. It wasn’t a confession. But it was close.

"Maybe it would. But maybe there’d be room to breathe, too..." you trailed off, breaking eye contact.

Jack didn’t respond, didn’t look away. Simply looked into you with the hopes of finding an answer for himself.

Eventually, the food was picked at more than eaten, the check paid, and the last of the coffee drained. When you finally stepped outside, the air hit cooler than expected—brisk against your skin, a contrast to the warmth left behind in the diner. The sky had brightened while you weren’t looking, soft light catching the edges of buildings, traffic picking up in a faint buzz. It was the kind of morning that made everything feel suspended—just a little bit longer—before the real world returned.

The walk back was quieter than before. Not tense, just full. Tired footsteps on uneven sidewalks. The distant chirp of birds. Your shoulders brushing once. Maybe twice.

When you finally reached your building, you paused on the steps. Jack lingered just behind you, hands in his jacket pockets, gaze drifting toward the street.

"Thanks for breakfast," you said.

He nodded. "Yeah. Of course."

A beat passed. Then two.

You could’ve invited him up. He could’ve asked if you wanted some tea. But neither of you took the step forward, opting rather to stand still.

Not yet.

“Get some sleep,” he said, voice low.

“You too.”

And just like that, he turned and walked off into the quiet.

Another hard shift. One of those nights that stuck to your skin, bitter and unshakable. You’d both lost a patient that day. Different codes, same outcome. Same weight. Same painful echo of loss that clung to the insides of your chest like smoke. No one cried. No one yelled. But it was there—the tension around Jack’s mouth, the clenching of his jaw; the way your hands wouldn’t stop flexing, nails digging into your palms to ground yourself. In the stillness. In the quiet. In everything that hurt.

You lingered near the bike racks, not really speaking. The space between you was thick, not tense—but full. Too full.

It was late, or early, depending on how you looked at it. The kind of hour where the streets felt hollow and fluorescent light still hummed behind your eyes. No one had moved to say goodbye.

You shifted your weight, glanced at him. Jack stood a few feet away, jaw tight, eyes somewhere distant.

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

“I could make tea." Not loud. Not casual. Just—offered.

You weren’t sure what possessed you to say it. Maybe it was the way he was looking at the ground. Or the way the silence between you had started to feel like lead. Either way, the moment it left your mouth, something inside you winced.

He looked at you then. Really looked. And after a long pause, nodded. “Alright.”

So you walked the blocks together, shoulder to shoulder beneath the hum of a waking city. The stroll was quiet—neither of you said much after the offer. When you reached the front steps of your building, your fingers froze in front of the intercom box. Hovered there. Hesitated. You weren’t even sure why—he was just standing there, quiet and steady beside you—but still, something in your chest fluttered. Then you looked at him.

“The code’s 645,” you murmured, like it meant nothing. Like it hadn’t just made your stomach flip.

He didn’t say anything. Just nodded. The beeping of the box felt louder than it should’ve, too sharp against the quiet. But then the lock clicked, and the door swung open, and he followed you inside like he belonged there.

And then the two of you walked inside together.

Up the narrow staircase, your footsteps were slow, measured. The kind of tired that lived in your bones. He kept close but didn’t crowd, hand brushing the rail, eyes skimming the hallway like he didn’t quite know where to look.

When you opened the door to unit 104, you suddenly remembered what your place looked like—barebones, mostly. Lived-in, but not curated. A pair of shoes kicked off by the entryway, two mismatched mugs and a bowl in the sink, a pile of jackets strewn over the chair you'd found in a yard sale.

The floors creaked as he stepped inside. You winced, suddenly self-conscious.

"Sorry about the mess..." you muttered. You didn’t know what you expected—a judgment, maybe. A raised eyebrow. Something.

Instead, Jack looked around once, taking it in slowly. Then nodded.

“It fits.”

Something in his tone—low, sure, completely unfazed, like it was exactly what he'd imagined—made your stomach flip again. You exhaled quietly, tension easing in your shoulders.

"Make yourself at home."

Jack nodded again, then bent to untie his trainers. He stepped out of them carefully, placed them neatly by the door, and gave the space one more quiet scan before making his way to the living room.

The couch creaked softly as he sat, hands resting loosely on his knees, like he wasn’t sure whether to stay upright or lean back. From the kitchen, you stole a glance—watching him settle in, or at least try to. You didn’t want to bombard him with questions or hover like a bad host, but the quiet stretched long, and something in you itched to fill it.

You busied yourself with boiling water, fussing with mugs, tea bags, sugar that wasn’t there. Trying to make it feel like something warm was waiting in the silence. Trying to give him space, even as a dozen things bubbled just beneath your skin.

“Chamomile okay?” you finally asked, the words light but uncertain.

Jack didn’t look up. But he nodded. “Yeah. That’s good.” You turned back to the counter, heart thudding louder than the kettle.

Meanwhile, Jack sat in near silence, but his eyes moved slowly around the room. Not searching. Just... seeing.

There were paintings on the walls—mostly landscapes, one abstract piece with colors he couldn’t name. Based on the array of prints to fingerpainted masterpieces, he guessed you'd painted some of them, but they all felt chosen. Anchored. Real.

A trailing pothos hung from a shelf above the radiator, green and overgrown, even though the pot looked like it had seen better days. It was lush despite the odds—thriving in a quiet, accidental kind of way.

Outside on the balcony ledge, he spotted a few tiny trinkets: a mushroom clay figure with a lopsided smile, a second plant—shorter, spikier, the kind that probably didn’t need much water but still looked stubbornly alive. A moss green glazed pot, clearly handmade. All memories, maybe. All pieces of you he’d never seen before. Pieces of someone he was only beginning to know. He took them in slowly, carefully. Not wanting to miss a single thing.

The sound of footsteps pulled him out of his thoughts. Two mugs clinking gently. You stepped into the living room and offered him one without fanfare, just a quiet sort of steadiness that made the space feel warmer. He took the tea with a small nod, thanking you. You didn’t sit beside him. You settled on the loveseat diagonal from the couch—close, but not too close. Enough to see him without watching. Enough space to let him breathe.

He noticed.

Your fingers curled around your mug. The steam gave you something to look at. Jack’s expression didn’t shift much, but you knew he could read you like an open book. Probably already had.

“You’ve got a lovely place,” he said suddenly, eyes flicking to a print on the wall—one slightly crooked, like it had been bumped and never fixed. “Exactly how I imagined, honestly.”

You arched a brow, skeptical. “Messy and uneven?”

Jack let out a quiet laugh. “I was going to say warm. But yeah, sure. Bonus points for the haunted radiator.”

The way he said it—calm, a little awkward, like he was trying to make you feel comfortable—landed somewhere between a compliment and a peace offering.

He took another sip of tea. “It just… feels like you.”

The words startled something in you. You didn’t know what to say—not right away. Your smile came small, a little crooked, the kind you didn’t have to fake but weren’t sure how to hold for long. “Thank you,” you said softly, fingers tightening around your mug like it might keep you grounded. The heat had gone tepid, but the gesture still lingered.

Jack looked like he might say something else, then didn’t. His fingers tapped once, twice, against the side of his mug before he exhaled through his nose—a small, thoughtful sound.

“My therapist once told me that vulnerability’s like walking into a room naked and hoping someone brought a blanket,” he said, dryly. “I told him I’d rather stay in the hallway.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, surprised. “Mine said it was like standing on a beach during high tide. Sooner or later, the water reaches you—whether you're ready or not.”

Jack’s mouth quirked, amused. “That’s poetic.”

You shrugged, sipping your tea. “She’s a big fan of metaphors. And tide charts, apparently.”

He smiled into his mug. “Makes sense. You’re the kind of person who would still be standing there when it comes in.”

You tilted your head. “And you?”

He considered that. “Probably pacing the rocks. Waiting for someone to say it’s okay to sit down.”

A quiet stretched between you, but this one felt earned—less about what wasn’t said and more about what had been.

An hour passed like that. Not all silence, not all speech. Just the easy drift of soft conversation and shared space. Small talk filled the cracks when it needed to—his comment about the plant that seemed to be plotting something in the corner, your half-hearted explanation for the random stack of books next to the radiator. Every now and then, something deeper would peek through the surface.

“Ever think about just… disappearing?” you asked once, offhanded and a little too real.

Jack didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. But then I’d miss pancakes. And Mexican food.”

You laughed, and he smiled like he hadn’t meant to say something so honest.

It wasn’t much. But it was enough. A rhythm, slow and shy. Words passed like notes through a crack in the door—careful, but curious. Neither of you rushed it. Neither of you left.

And then the storm hit.

The rain droplets started slow, just a whisper on the window. But it built fast—wind shaking the glass, thunder cracking overhead like a warning. You turned toward it, heart sinking a little. Jack did too, his brow furrowed slightly.

"Jesus," you murmured, already reaching for your phone. As if by divine timing, the emergency alert confirmed it: flash flood advisory until late evening. Admin had passed coverage onto the day shift. Robby wouldn't be happy about that. You made a mental note to make fun of him about it tomorrow. "Doesn’t look like it’s letting up anytime soon..."

You glanced at Jack, who was still holding his mug like he wasn’t sure if he should move.

“You're welcome to stay—if you want,” you quickly clarified, trying to sound casual. “Only if you want to. Until it clears.”

His eyes flicked toward the window again, then to you. “You sure?”

“I mean, unless you want to risk get struck by lightning or swept into a storm drain.”

That earned the smallest laugh. “Tempting.”

You smiled, nervous. “Spare towel and blankets are in the linen closet. Couch pulls out. I think. Haven’t tried.”

Jack nodded slowly, setting his mug down. “I’m not picky.”

You busied yourself with clearing a spot, the nervous kind of motion that said you cared too much and didn’t know where to put it.

Jack watched you for a moment longer than he should’ve, then started helping—quiet, careful, hands brushing yours once as he reached for the extra pillow.

Neither of you commented on it. But your face burned.

And when the storm didn’t stop, neither of you rushed it.

Instead, the hours slipped by, slow and soft. At some point, Jack asked if he could shower—voice low, like he didn’t want to intrude. You pointed him toward the bathroom and handed him a spare towel, trying not to overthink the fact that his fingers grazed yours when he took it.

While he was in there, you busied yourself with making something passable for dinner. Rice. Egg drop soup. A couple frozen dumplings your mother had sent you dressed up with scallions and sesame oil. When Jack returned, hair damp, sleeves pushed up, you nearly dropped the plate. It wasn’t fair—how effortlessly good he looked like that. A little disheveled, a little too comfortable in a stranger’s home, and yet somehow perfectly at ease in your space. It was just a flash of thought—sharp, traitorous, warm—and then you buried it fast, turning back to the stovetop like it hadn’t happened at all.

You were still hovering by the stove, trying not to let the dumplings stick when you heard his footsteps. When he stepped beside you without a word and reached for a second plate, something in your brain short-circuited.

"Smells good," he said simply, voice low—and he somehow still smelled faintly of cologne, softened by the unmistakable citrus-floral mix of your body wash. It wasn’t fair. The scent tugged at something in your chest you didn’t want to name.

You blinked rapidly, buffering. "Thanks. Uh—it’s not much. Just... whatever I had."

He glanced at the pan, then to you. “You always downplay a five-course meal like this?”

Your mouth opened to protest, but then he smiled—quiet and warm and maybe a little teasing.

It took effort not to stare. Not to say something stupid about how stupidly good he looked. You shoved the thought down, hard, and went back to plating the food.

He helped without asking, falling into step beside you like he’d always been there. And when you both sat down at the low table, he smiled at the spread like it meant more than it should’ve.

Neither of you talked much while eating. But the air between you felt settled. Comfortable.

At some point between the second bite and the last spoonful of rice, Jack glanced up from his bowl and said, "This is good. Really good. I haven’t had a homemade meal in... a long time."

You were pleasantly surprised. And relieved. "Oh. Thanks. I’m just glad it turned out edible."

He shook his head slowly, eyes still on you. "If this were my last meal, I think I’d die happy."

Your face flooded with warmth instantly. It was stupid, really, the way a single line—soft, almost offhand—landed like that. You ducked your head, smiling into your bowl, trying to play it off.

You scoffed. "It's warm in here."

Jack tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly, amused. "You okay?"

“Mmm,” he murmured, clearly unconvinced. But he let it go.

Still, the corner of his mouth tugged upward.

You cleared your throat. "You're welcome anytime you'd like, by the way. For food. Or tea. Or... just to not be alone."

That earned a look from him—surprised, quiet, but soft in a way that made your chest ache.

And you didn’t dare look at him for a full minute after that.

When you stood to rinse your dishes, Jack took your bowl from your hands before you could protest and turned toward the sink. You opened your mouth but he was already running water, already rinsing with careful, practiced motions. So you just stood there in the soft hush of your kitchen, warmed by tea and stormlight, trying not to let your heart do anything foolish.

By the time the dishes were rinsed and left on the drying rack, the storm had only worsened—sheets of rain chasing themselves down the windows, thunder rolling deep and constant.

You found yourselves in the living room again, this time without urgency, without pretense—just quiet familiarity laced with something softer. And so, without discussing it, without making it a thing, you handed him the extra blanket and turned off all but one lamp.

Neither of you moved toward sleep just yet.

You were sitting by the balcony window, knees pulled up, mug long since emptied, staring out at the storm as it lashed the glass in sheets. The sound had become something rhythmic, almost meditative. Still, your arms were bare, and the goosebumps that peppered your forearms betrayed the chill creeping in.

Jack didn’t say anything—just stood quietly from the couch and returned with the throw blanket from your armrest. Without a word, he draped it over your shoulders.

You startled slightly, looking up at him. But he didn’t comment. Just gave you a small nod, then sat down beside you on the floor, his back against the corner of the balcony doorframe, gaze following yours out into the storm. The blanket settled around both of you like a quiet pact.

After a while, Jack’s voice cut through it, barely louder than the storm. “You afraid of the dark?”

You glanced at him. He wasn’t looking at you—just at the rain trailing down the window. “Used to be,” you said. “Not so much anymore. You?”

He was quiet for a beat.

“I used to think the dark was hiding me,” he said once. Voice quiet, like he was talking to the floor, or maybe the memory of a version of himself he didn’t recognize anymore. “But I think it’s just the only place I don’t have to pretend. Where I don’t have to act like I’m whole.”

Your heart cracked. Not from pity, but from the aching intimacy of honesty.

Then he looked at you—really looked at you. Eyes steady, searching, too much all at once. You forgot how to breathe for a second. "My therapist thinks I find comfort in the darkness."

There was something about the way he fit into the storm, the way the shadows curved around him without asking for anything back. You wondered if it was always like this for him—calmer in the chaos, more himself in the dark. Maybe that was the tradeoff.

Some people thrived in the day. Others feared being blinded by the light.

Jack, you were starting to realize, functioned best where things broke open. In the adrenaline. In the noise. Not because he liked it, necessarily—but because he knew it. He understood its language. The stillness of normalcy? That was harder. Quieter in a way that didn’t feel safe. Unstructured. Unknown.

A genius in crisis. A ghost in calm.

But you saw it.

And you said, softly, "Maybe the dark doesn’t ask us to be anything. That’s why it feels like home sometimes. You don’t have to be good. Or okay. Or whole. You just get to be." That made him look at you again—slow, like he didn’t want to miss it. Maybe no one had ever said it that way before.

The air felt different after that—still heavy, still quiet, but warmer somehow. Jack broke it with a low breath, barely a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "So... do all your philosophical monologues come with tea and thunder, or did I just get the deluxe package?"

You let out a soft laugh, the tension in your shoulders easing by degrees. "Only the Abbot special."

He bumped your knee gently with his. "Lucky me."

You didn’t say anything else, just leaned back against the wall beside him.

Eventually, you both got up. Brushed teeth side by side, a little awkward, a little shy. You both stood in front of the couch, staring at it like it had personally wronged you. You reached for the handle. Jack braced the backrest. Nothing moved.

"This can’t be that complicated," you muttered.

"Two MDs, one brain cell," Jack deadpanned, and you snorted.

It took a few grunts, an accidental elbow, and a very questionable click—but eventually, the thing unfolded.

He took the couch. You turned off the last lamp.

"Goodnight," you murmured in the dark.

"Goodnight," he echoed, softer.

And for once, the quiet didn’t press. It held.

Weeks passed. Jack came over a handful of times. He accompanied you home after work, shoulders brushing as you walked the familiar path back in comfortable quiet. You learned the rhythm of him in your space. The way he moved through your kitchen like he didn’t want to disturb it. The way he always put his shoes by the door, lined up neatly like they belonged there.

Then one day, it changed. He texted you, right before your shift ended: You free after? My place this time.

You stared at the screen longer than necessary. Then typed back: Yeah. I’d like that.

He met you outside the hospital that night, both of you bone-tired from a brutal shift, scrub jackets zipped high against the wind. You hadn’t been to Jack’s place before. Weren’t even sure what you expected. Your nerves had started bubbling to the surface the moment you saw him—automatic, familiar. Like your brain was bracing for rejection and disappointment before he even said a word.

You tried to keep it casual, but old habits died hard. Vulnerability always felt like standing on the edge of something steep, and your first instinct was to retreat. To make sure no one thought you needed anything at all. The second you saw him, the words spilled out in a rush—fast, nervous, unfiltered.

"Jack, you don’t have to...make this a thing. You don’t owe me anything just because you’ve been crashing at my place. I didn’t mean for it to feel like you had to invite me back or—"

He cut you off before you could spiral further.

“Hey.” Just that—firm but quiet. A grounding thread. His hands settled on your arms, near your elbows, steadying you with a grip that was firm but careful—like he knew exactly how to hold someone without hurting them. His fingers were warm, his palms calloused in places that told stories he’d never say out loud. His forearms, bare beneath rolled sleeves, flexed with restrained strength. And God, you hated that it made your brain short-circuit for a second.

Of course Jack Abbot would comfort you and make you feral in the same breath.

Then he looked at you—really looked. “I invited you because I wanted you there. Not because I owe you. Not because I’m keeping score. Not because I'm expecting anything from you.”

The wind pulled at your sleeves. The heat rose to your cheeks before you could stop it.

Jack softened. Offered the faintest smile. “I want you here. But only if you want to be.”

You let out a breath. “Okay,” you said. Soft. Certain, even through the nerves. You smiled, more to yourself than to him. Jack’s gaze lingered on that smile—quietly, like he was memorizing it. His shoulders loosened, just barely, like your answer had unlocked something he hadn’t realized he was holding onto.

Be vulnerable, you told yourself. Open up. Allow yourself to have this.

True to his word, it really was just two blocks from your place. His building was newer, more modern. Clean lines, soft lighting, the kind of entryway that labeled itself clearly as an apartment complex. Yours, by comparison, screamed haunted brick building with a temperamental boiler system and a very committed resident poltergeist.

You were still standing beside him when he keyed open the front door, the keypad beeping softly under his fingers.

"5050," he said.

You tipped your head, confused. "Sorry?"

He looked at you briefly, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud but didn’t take it back either. “Door code.”

Something in your chest fluttered. It echoed the first night you’d given him yours—unthinking, unfiltered, just a quiet offering. This felt the same. An unspoken invitation. You’re welcome here. Any time you want. Any time you need.

"Thanks, Jack." You could see a flicker of something behind his eyes.

The elevator up was quiet.

Jack watched the floor numbers tick by like he was counting in his head. You stared at your reflection in the brushed metal ceiling, the fluorescent lighting doing no one any favors. Totally not worried about the death trap you were currently in. Definitely not calculating which corner you'd curl into if the whole thing dropped.

When the doors opened, the hallway was mercifully empty, carpeted, quiet. You followed him down to the end, your steps softened by the hush of the building. Unit J24.

He unlocked the door, pushed it open, and stepped aside so you could walk in first.

You did—and paused.

It was... barren. Not in a sterile way, but in the sense that it looked like he’d just moved in a few days ago and hadn’t had the energy—or maybe the need—to settle. The walls were bare and painted a dark blue-grey. A matching couch and a dim floor lamp in the living room. A fridge in the kitchen humming like it was trying to fill the silence. No art. No rugs. Not a photo or magnet in sight.

And yet—somehow—it felt entirely Jack. Sparse. Quiet. Intentional. A place built for someone who didn’t like to linger but was trying to learn how. You stepped in further, slower now. A kind of reverence in your movement, even if you didn’t realize it yet.

Because even in the stillness, even in the emptiness—he’d let you in.

Jack took off his shoes and opened up a closet by the door. You mirrored his motions, suddenly aware of every move you made like a spotlight landed on you.

"Make yourself at home," he said, voice casual but low.

You walked over to the couch and sat down, your movements slow, careful. Even the cushions felt new—firm, unsunken, like no one had ever really used them. It squeaked a little beneath you, unfamiliar in its resistance.

You ran your hand lightly over the fabric, then looked around again, taking everything in. "Did you paint the walls?"

Jack gave a short huff of a laugh from the kitchen. “Had to fight tooth and nail with my landlord to get that approved. Said it was too dark. Too dramatic.”

He reappeared in the doorway with two mugs in hand. “Guess I told on myself.” He handed you the lighter green one, taking the black chipped one for himself.

You took it carefully, fingers brushing his for a moment. “Thanks.”

The warmth seeped into your palms immediately, grounding. The scent rising from the cup was oddly familiar—floral, slightly citrusy, like something soft wrapped in memory. You took a cautious sip. Your brows lifted. “Wait… is this the Lavender cloudburst... cloudbloom?”

Jack gave you a sheepish glance, rubbing the back of his neck. “It is. I picked up a bag couple of days ago. Figured if I was going to be vulnerable and dramatic, I might as well commit to the theme.”

You snorted. He smiled into his own cup, quiet.

What he didn’t say: that he’d stared at the bag in the store longer than any sane person should, wondering if buying tea with you in mind meant anything. That he bought it a while back, hoping one day he'd get to share it with you. Wondering if letting himself hope was already a mistake. But saying it felt too big. Too much.

Jack’s eyes drifted to you—not the tea, not the room, but you. The way your shoulders were ever-so-slightly raised, tension tucked beneath the soft lines of your posture. The way your eyes moved around the room, drinking in every corner, every shadow, like you were searching for something you couldn’t name.

He didn’t say anything. Just watched.

And maybe you felt it—that quiet kind of watching. The kind that wasn’t about staring, but about seeing. Really seeing.

You took another sip, slower this time. The warmth helped. So did the silence.

Small talk came easier than it had before. Not loud, not hurried. Just quiet questions and softer replies. The kind of conversation that made space instead of filling it.

Jack tilted his head slightly. “You always look at rooms like you’re cataloguing them.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Do I?”

“Yeah.” He smiled softly into his mug. “Like you’re trying to figure out what’s missing.”

You considered that for a second. “Maybe I am.”

A pause, then—“And?”

Your gaze swept the room one last time, then landed back on him. “Nothing. This apartment feels like you.”

You expected him to nod or laugh it off, maybe deflect with a joke. But instead, he just looked at you—still, soft, like your words had pressed into some quiet corner of him he didn’t know was waiting. The moment lingered.

And he gave the slightest nod, the kind that said he heard you—really heard you—even if he didn’t quite know how to respond. The ice between you didn’t crack so much as it thawed, slow and patient, like neither of you were in a rush to get to spring. But it was melting, all the same.

Jack set his mug down on the coffee table, fingertips lingering against the ceramic a second longer than necessary. “I don’t usually do this,” he said finally. “The… letting people in thing.”

His honesty caught you off guard—so sudden, so unguarded, it tugged something loose in your chest. You nodded, heart caught somewhere behind your ribs. “I know.”

He gave you a sideways glance, prompting you to continue. You sipped your tea, eyes fixed on the rim of your cup. “I see how carefully you move through the world.”

“Thank you,” you added after a beat—genuine, quiet.

He didn’t say anything back, and the two of you left it at that.

Silence again, but it felt different now. Less like distance. More like the space between two people inching closer. Jack leaned back slightly, stretching one leg out in front of him, the other bent at the knee. “You scare me a little,” he admitted.

That got a chuckle out of you.

“Not in a bad way,” he added quickly. “Just… in the way it feels when something actually matters.”

You set your mug down too, hands suddenly unsure of what to do. “You scare me too.”

Jack stared at you then—longer than he probably meant to. You felt it immediately, the heat rising in your chest under the weight of it, his gaze almost reverent, almost like he wanted to say something else but didn’t trust it to come out right.

So you cleared your throat and tried to steer the tension elsewhere. “Not as much as you scare the med students,” you quipped, lips twitching into a crooked smile.

Jack huffed out a low laugh, the edge of his mouth pulling up. “I sure as hell hope not.”

You let the moment linger for a beat longer, then glanced at the clock over his shoulder. “I should probably get back to my place,” you said gently. “Catch a couple hours of sleep before the next shift.”

Jack didn’t protest. Didn’t push. But something in his eyes softened—brief, quiet. “Thanks for the tea,” you added, standing slowly, reluctant but steady. “And for… this.”

He nodded once. “Anytime.” The way the word fell from his lips nearly made you buckle, its sincerity and weight almost begging you to stay. "Let me walk you back."

You hesitated, chewing the inside of your cheek. “You don’t have to, I don’t want to be a bother.”

Jack was already reaching for his jacket, eyes steady on you. “You’re never a bother.” His voice was quiet, but certain.

You stood there for a moment, hesitating, the edge of your nervousness still humming faintly beneath your skin. Jack grabbed his keys, adjusted his jacket, and the two of you headed downstairs. The cool air greeted you with a soft nip. Neither of you spoke at first. The afternoon light was soft and golden, stretching long shadows across the pavement. Your footsteps synced without effort, an easy rhythm between you. Shoulders brushed once. Then again. But neither of you moved away.

Not much was said on the walk back. But it didn’t need to be. When your building came into view, Jack slowed just a little, as if to make the last stretch last longer.

“See you in a few hours?” The question came out hopeful but was the only one you were ever certain about when it came to Jack.

He gave a small nod. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

The ER was humming, a low-level chaos simmering just below the surface. Pages overhead, fluorescent lights too bright, the constant shuffle of stretchers and nurses and med students trying not to get in the way.

You and Jack found yourselves working a case together. A bad one. Blunt trauma, no pulse, field intubation, half a dozen procedures already started before the gurney even made it past curtain three. But the two of you moved in sync.

Same breath. Same rhythm. You knew where he was going before he got there. He didn’t have to ask for what he needed—you were already handing it to him.

Shen and Ellis exchanged a look from across the room, like they’d noticed something neither of you had said out loud.

“You two always like this?” Ellis asked under her breath as she passed by.

Jack didn’t look up. “Like what?”

Ellis just raised a brow and kept walking.

The case stabilized. Barely. But the moment stayed with you. In the rhythm. In the way your hands brushed when you reached for the same gauze. In the silence afterward that didn’t feel like distance. Just... breath.

You didn’t say anything when Jack handed you a fresh pair of gloves with one hand and bumped your elbow with the other.

But you smiled.

Days bled into nights and nights into shifts, but something about the rhythm stuck. Not just in the trauma bay, but outside of it too. You didn’t plan it. Neither did he. But one night—after a particularly brutal Friday shift that bled well past weekend sunrise, all adrenaline and sharp edges—you both found yourselves back at your place in the evening.

You didn’t talk much. You didn’t need to.

Jack sank onto the couch with a low sigh, exhaustion settling into his bones. You brought him a blanket without asking, set a cup of tea beside him with a familiarity neither of you acknowledged aloud.

That night, he stayed. Not because he was too tired to leave. But because he didn’t want to. Because something about the quiet between you felt safer than anything waiting for him outside.

You were both sitting on the couch, talking—soft, slow, tired talk that came easier than it used to. The kind of conversation that filled the space without demanding anything. At some point, your head had tipped, resting against his shoulder mid-sentence, eyes fluttering closed with the weight of the day. Jack didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe too deep, afraid to disturb the way your warmth settled so naturally into his side.

Jack stayed beside you, feeling the soft rhythm of your breath rising and falling. His prosthetic was off, his guard lowered, and in that moment, he looked more like himself than he ever did in daylight. A part of him ached—subtle, quiet, but insistent. He hadn't realized how much he missed this. Not just touch, but presence. Yours. The kind of proximity that didn’t demand anything. The kind he didn’t have to earn.

You shifted slightly in your sleep, your arm brushing his knee. Jack froze. Then, carefully—almost reverently—he reached for the blanket draped over the back of the couch and pulled it gently over your shoulders. His fingers lingered at the edge, just for a second. Just long enough to feel the warmth of your skin through the fabric. Just long enough to remind himself this was real.

And then he leaned back, settled in again beside you.

Close. But not too close.

Present.

The morning light broke through the blinds.

You stirred.

His voice was gravel-soft. "Hey."

You blinked sleep from your eyes. Sat up. Found him still there, legs stretched out, back to the wall.

“You stayed,” you said.

He nodded.

Then, quietly, like it mattered more than anything:

“Didn’t want to be anywhere else.”

You smiled. Just a little.

He smiled back. Tired. Honest.

The first time you stayed at Jack's place was memorable for all the wrong reasons.

Everything was fine—quiet, even—until late evening. Jack had a spare room, insisted you take it. You didn’t argue. The bed was firm, the sheets clean, the door left cracked open just a little.

You don’t remember falling asleep. You only remember the panic. The way it clutched at your chest like a vice, your lungs refusing to cooperate, your limbs kicking, flailing against an invisible force. You were screaming, you think. Crying, definitely. The dream was too much. Too close. The kind that reached down your throat and stayed.

Then—hands. Shaking your shoulders. Jack’s voice.

“Hey. Hey—wake up. It’s not real. You’re okay.”

You blinked awake, heart slamming against your ribs. Jack was already on the bed with you, hair a mess, eyes wide and terrified—but only for you. His hands were still on your arms, steady but gentle. Grounding.

Then one hand rose to cradle your cheek, cool fingers brushing the heat of your skin. Your face burned hot beneath the sweat and panic, and his touch was steady, careful, as if anchoring you back to the room. He brushed your hair out of your face, strands damp and stuck to your forehead, and tucked them back behind your ear. Nothing rushed. Nothing forced. Just the quiet care of someone trying to reach you without pushing too far.

You tried to speak but couldn’t. Just choked on a sob.

“I’ve got you,” he said. “You’re here. You’re safe.”

And you believed him.

Then, without hesitation, Jack brought you into his arms—tucked you against his chest and held you tightly, like you might disappear with the breeze. There was nothing hesitant about it, no second-guessing. Just the instinctive kind of closeness that came from someone who knew what it meant to need and be needed. He held you like a lifeline, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other firm across your back, steadying you both.

Eventually, your breathing slowed. The shaking stopped. Jack stayed close, his hand brushing yours, his body warm and steady like an anchor. He didn’t leave that night. Didn’t go back to his room. Just pulled the blanket over both of you and stayed, watching the slow return of calm to your chest like it was the most important thing in the world.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered eventually, voice hoarse from the crying.

Jack’s gaze didn’t waver. He reached out, cupping your cheek again with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he said firmly. Not unkind—never unkind. Just certain, like the truth of it had been carved into him long before this moment.

Jack and Robby greeted each other on the roof, half-drained thermoses in hand. Jack looked tired, but not in the usual way. Something about the edges of him felt… softened. Less on-edge. Lighter, one might say. Robby noticed.

“You’ve been less of a bastard lately,” he said around a mouthful of protein bar.

Jack raised a brow. “That a compliment?”

Robby grinned. “An observation. Maybe both.”

Jack shook his head, amused. But Robby kept watching him. Tipped his chin slightly. “You seem happier, brother. In a weird, not-you kind of way.”

Jack huffed a breath through his nose. Didn’t respond right away.

Then, Robby’s voice dropped just enough. “You find someone?”

Jack’s grip tightened slightly around his cup. He looked down at the liquid swirling at the bottom. He didn’t smile, not fully. But his silence said enough.

Robby nodded once, then looked away. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Thought so.”

"I didn’t say anything."

Robby snorted. “You didn’t have to. You’ve got that look.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “What look?”

“The kind that says you finally let yourself come up for air.”

Jack stared at him for a second, then looked down at his cup again, lips twitching like he was fighting back a smile. Robby elbowed him lightly.

“Do I know her?” he asked, voice easy, teasing.

Jack gave a one-shouldered shrug, noncommittal. “Maybe.”

Robby narrowed his eyes. “Is it Shen?”

Jack scoffed. “Absolutely not.”

Robby laughed, loud and satisfied. “Had to check.” Then, after a beat, he said more quietly, “I’m glad, you know. That you found someone.”

Jack looked up, brows drawn. Robby shrugged, this time more sincere than teasing. “Don’t let go of it. Whatever it is. People like us... we don’t get that kind of thing often.”

Jack let the words hang in the air a moment, then gave a half-scoff, half-smile. “You getting sentimental on me, old man?”

Robby rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

But Jack’s smile faded into something gentler. Quieter. “I haven’t felt this... human in a while.”

Robby didn’t say anything to that. Just nodded, then bumped Jack’s shoulder with his own. Then he stretched his arms overhead, cracking his back with a groan. “Alright, lovebird. Let’s go pretend we’re functioning adults again.”

Jack rolled his eyes, but the smile lingered.

They turned back toward the stairwell, the sky above them soft with early light.

It all unraveled around hour 10.

A belligerent trauma case brought in after being struck by a drunk driver. Jack’s shoulders tensed when he saw the dog tags. Everyone knew vets were the ones that got to him the most. His jaw was set tight the whole time, his voice sharp, movements clipped. You’d worked with him long enough to see when he started slipping into autopilot: efficient, precise, but cold. Closed off.

He ordered a test you'd already confirmed had been done. When you gently reminded him, Jack didn’t even look at you—just waved you off with a sharp, impatient flick of his wrist. Then, louder—sharper—he snapped at Ellis. "Move faster, for fuck's sake."

His voice had that clipped edge to it now, the kind that made people tense. Made the room feel smaller. Ellis blinked but didn’t respond, just picked up the pace, brows furrowed. Shen gave you a quiet glance over the patient’s shoulder, something that looked almost like sympathy. Both of them looked to you after that—uncertain, searching for a signal or some kind of anchor. You saw it in their eyes: the silent question. What’s going on with Jack?

When you reached across the gurney to adjust the central line tubing, Jack barked, "Back off."

You froze. “Dr. Abbot,” you said, soft but firm. “It’s already in.”

His eyes snapped to yours, and for a split second, they looked wild—distant, haunted. “Then why are you still reaching for it?” he said, low and biting.

The air went still. Ellis looked up from the med tray, blinking. Shen awkwardly shifted his weight, silently assuring you that you'd done nothing wrong. The nurse closest to Jack turned her focus sharply to the vitals monitor.

You excused yourself and stepped out. Said nothing.

He didn’t notice. Or maybe he did. But he didn’t look back.

The patient coded minutes later.

And though the team moved in perfect sync—compressions, meds, lines—Jack was silent afterward, hands flexing at his sides, eyes on the floor.

You didn’t speak when the shift ended.

A few nights later, he was at your door.

You opened it only halfway, unsure what to expect. The narrow gap between the door and the frame felt like the only armor you had—an effort to shelter yourself physically from the hurt you couldn’t name.

Jack stood there, exhausted. Worn thin. Still in scrubs, jacket over one shoulder. His face was hollowed out, cheeks drawn tight, and his eyes—god, his eyes—were wide and tired in that distinct, glassy way. Like he wasn’t sure if you’d close the door or let him stay. Like he already expected you would slam it in his face and say you never wanted to see him again.

“I shouldn’t have—” he started, then stopped. Ran a hand through his hair. “I took it out on you. I’m sorry.”

You swallowed, but the words wouldn't come out. You were still upset. Still stewing. Not at the apology—never that. But at how quickly things between you could tilt. At how much it had hurt in the moment, to be dismissed like that. And how much it mattered that it was him.

His voice was quiet, but steady. “You were right. I wasn’t hearing you. And you didn’t deserve any of that.”

There was a beat of silence.

"I panicked,” he said, like it surprised even him. “Not just today. The patient—he reminded me of people I served with. The ones who didn’t make it back. The ones who did and never got better. I saw him and... I just lost it. Couldn’t separate the past from right now. And then I looked at you and—” he cut himself off, shaking his head.

“Being this close to something good... it scares the hell out of me. I don’t want to mess this up."

Your heart thudded, painful and full.

“Then talk to me,” you said, voice thick with exhaustion. The familiar ache began to flood your throat. “Tell me how you feel. Something. Anything. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s on your mind, Jack. I have my own shit to deal with, and I get it if you’re not ready to talk about it yet, but—”

Your hand came up to your face, pressing against your forehead. “Maybe we should just talk tomorrow,” you muttered, already taking a step back to close the door. It was a clear attempt at avoidance, and Jack saw right through it.

“I think about you more than I should,” he said, voice low and rough. He stepped closer. Breath shallow. His eyes searched yours—frantic, pleading, like he was trying to gather the courage to jump off something high. “When I’m running on fumes. When I’m trying not to feel anything. And then I see you and it all rushes back in like I’ve been underwater too long."

At this, you pulled the door open slightly to show that you were willing to at least listen. Jack was looking at the ground—something completely unlike him. He always met people’s eyes, always held his gaze steady. But not now. Now, he looked like he might fold in on himself if you so much as breathed wrong. He exhaled a short breath, relieved but not off the hook just yet.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he whispered. “But I know what I feel when I’m around you. And it’s the only thing that’s made me feel like myself in a long time.”

He hesitated, just for a second, searching your face like he was waiting for permission. For rejection. For anything at all. You reached out first—tentative, your fingers lifting to his cheek. Jack froze at the contact, like his body had forgotten what it meant to be touched so gently. It was instinct, habit. But then he exhaled and leaned into your hand, eyes fluttering shut, like he couldn’t bear the weight of being seen and touched at once.

You studied him for a long moment, taking him in—how hard he was trying, how raw he looked under the dim light. Your thumb brushed beneath his eye, brushing softly along the curve of his cheekbone. When you pulled your hand away, Jack caught it gently and brought it back, pressing your palm against his cheek. He squeezed his eyes shut like it hurt to be touched, like it cracked something open he wasn’t ready to see. Then—slowly—he leaned into it, like he didn’t know how to ask for comfort but couldn’t bring himself to pull away from it either.

Your breath caught. He was still holding your hand to his face like it anchored him to the ground.

You shifted slightly, unsure what to say. But you didn’t move away.

His hand slid down to catch yours fully, fingers interlacing with yours.

“I’m not good at this,” he said finally, voice rough and eyes locked onto you. “But I want to try. With you.”

You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but what came out was a jumble of word salad instead.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you said, voice trembling. “I’m not—I'm not the kind of person who’s built for this. I fuck things up. I shut down. I push people away. And you…” Your voice cracked. You turned your face slightly, not pulling away, but not quite steady either. “You deserve better than—”

Jack pulled you into a bruising hug, arms wrapping tightly around you like he could hold the pain in place. One hand rose to cradle the back of your head, pulling you into his chest.

You were shaking. Tears, uninvited, welled in your eyes and slipped down before you could stop them.

“Fuck perfect,” he whispered softly against your temple. “I need real. I need you.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hand still resting against the side of your head. His gaze was glassy but steady, breathing shallow like the weight of what he’d just said was still settling in his chest.

You blinked through your tears, mouth parted, searching his face for hesitation—but there was none.

He leaned in again, slower this time.

And then—finally—he kissed you.

It started hesitant—like he was afraid to get it wrong. Or he didn’t know if you’d still be there once he crossed that line. But when your hand gripped the front of his jacket, pulling him in closer, it changed. The kiss deepened, slow but certain. His hands framed your face. One of your hands curled into the fabric at his waist, the other resting against his chest, feeling the quickened beat beneath your palm.

You stumbled backward as you pulled him inside, refusing to let go, your mouth still pressed to his like contact alone might keep you from unraveling. Jack followed without question, stepping inside as the door clicked shut on its own. He barely had time to register the space before your back hit the door with a soft thud, his mouth still moving against yours. You reached blindly to twist the lock, and when you did, he made a low sound—relief or hunger, you couldn’t tell.

He kicked off his shoes without looking, quick and efficient, like some part of him needed to shed the outside world as fast as possible just to be here, just to feel this. You jumped. He caught you. Your legs wrapped around his waist like muscle memory, hands threading through his hair, and Jack carried you down the hall like you weighed nothing. He didn't have to ask which door. He knew.

And when he laid you down on the bed, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t careless.

It was everything that had been building—finally, finally let loose.

It was all nerves and heat and breathlessness—everything held back finally finding its release.

When you pulled away just a little, foreheads touching, neither of you said anything at first. But Jack’s hands didn’t leave your waist. He just breathed—one breath, then another—before he whispered, “Are you sure?”

You frowned.

“This,” he clarified, voice thick with emotion. “I don’t want to take advantage of you. If you’re not okay. If this is too much.”

Your hand came up again, brushing his cheek. “I’m sure.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, finally meeting them, and he asked softly, “Are you?”

You nodded, steadier this time. “Yes. Are you?”

Jack didn’t hesitate. “I’ve never been more sure about a damn thing in my life.”

And when you kissed him again, it wasn’t heat that came first—but a sense of comfort. Feeling safe.

Then came the warmth. The kind that started deep in your belly and coursed in your body and through your fingertips. Your hands slipped beneath his shirt, fingertips skating across skin like you were trying to memorize every inch. Jack's breath hitched, and he kissed you harder—desperate, aching. His hands were everywhere: your waist, your back, your jaw, grounding you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

Clothes came off in pieces, scattered in the dark. Moonlight filtered in through the blinds, painting soft stripes across the bed through the blinds. It was the first time you saw all of him—truly saw him. The curve of his back, the line of his shoulders and muscles, the scars that marked the map of his body. You’d switched spots somewhere between kisses and breathless moans—Jack now lying on the bed, you straddling his hips, hovering just above him.

You reached out without thinking, fingertips ghosting over one of the thicker ones that carved down his side. Jack stilled. When you looked up at him, his eyes on yours—soft, wary, like he didn’t quite know how to breathe through the moment.

So you made your way down, gently, and kissed the scar. Then another. And another. Reverent. Wordless. He watched you the whole time, eyes glinting in the dim light, like he couldn't believe you were real.

When your lips met a sensitive spot by his hip, Jack’s breath caught. His hand found yours again, grounding him, keeping him here. Your name on his lips wasn’t just want—it was pure devotion. Every touch was careful, every kiss threaded with something deeper than just desire. You weren’t just wanted. You were known.

He worshipped you with his hands, his mouth, his body—slow, thorough, patient. The kind of touch that asked for nothing but offered everything. His palms mapped your skin like he’d been waiting to learn it, reverent in every pass, every pause. His lips lingered over every place you sighed, every place you arched, until you forgot where his body ended and yours began. It was messy and sacred and quiet and burning all at once—like he didn’t just want you, he needed you.

And you let him. You met him there—every movement, every breath—like your bodies already knew the rhythm. When it built, when it crested, it wasn’t just release. It was recognition. A return. Home.

After the air cooled and the adrenaline had faded, he didn’t pull away. His hand stayed at your back, palm warm and steady where it pressed gently against your spine. You shifted only slightly, your leg draped over his, and your forehead found the crook of his neck. He smelled like your sheets and skin and the barest trace of sweat and his cologne.

He exhaled into the hush of the room, chest rising and falling in rhythm with yours. His fingers traced lazy, absent-minded lines along your side, like he was still trying to memorize you even now.

You were both quiet, not because there was nothing to say, but because for once, there was nothing you needed to.

He kissed your lips—soft, lingering—then trailed down to your neck, his nose brushing your skin as he breathed you in. He paused, lips resting at the hollow of your throat. Then he kissed the top of your head. Just once.

And that was enough.

The two of you stayed like that for a while, basking in the afterglow. You stared at him, letting yourself really look—at the way the moonlight softened his features, at how peaceful he looked with his eyes half-lidded and his chest rising and falling against yours. Jack couldn’t seem to help himself. His fingers played with yours—tracing the length of each one like they were new, like they were a language he was still learning. He toyed with the edge of your palm, pressed his thumb against your knuckle, curled his pinky with yours. A man starved for contact who had finally found somewhere to rest.

When he finally looked up, you met him with a smile.

"What now?" you asked softly, voice quiet in the hush between you. It wasn’t fear, not quite. Just a small seed of worry still gnawing at your ribs.

Jack studied your face like he already knew what you meant. He let out a soft breath. His hand moved carefully, brushing a stray hair from your face before cupping your cheek with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

"Now," he said, "I keep showing up. I keep choosing this. You. Every day."

Your lips pressed together in a shy smile, trying to hold back the sudden sting behind your eyes. You shook your head slowly, swallowing the emotion that threatened to rise.

He tilted his head a little, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Are you sick of me yet?"

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head. "Not even close."

His fingers tightened gently around yours.

"Good," Jack murmured. "Because I’m not letting you go."

And just like that, the quiet turned soft. For once, hope felt like something you could hold.

You fell asleep with his arm draped over your waist, your fingers still tangled in the fabric of his shirt. His breaths were deep and even, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that calmed your own. Neither of you had nightmares that night. No thrashing. No waking in a cold sweat. Just quiet. Any time you shifted, he instinctively pulled you closer. You drifted together into sleep, breaths falling in sync—slow, steady, safe.

And for the first time, the dark didn’t feel so heavy.

thank you for reading 💛

<3 - <3 - <3 - <3

#the pitt #the pitt hbo #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt imagine #the pitt x reader #jack abbot #the pitt spoilers #jack abbot imagine #jack abbot x reader #shawn hatosy #dr. abbot x reader #dr abbot #dr abbot x reader #dr abbott #jack abbott #dr. abbott

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jewishvitya · 3 days ago

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Seeing that Tucker Carlson clip going around and being reminded of conversations a year ago, so just a reminder. When Neo Nazis and White Supremacists say things that make sense politically, they're not coming at it from the same angle as you.

When David Duke expresses support for Palestine, it's not because he cares about Palestinians, it's because he hates Jews, and he wants to use Israel to harm diaspora Jews.

Neo Nazis see the justified opposition to Israel and its actions as a path into new crowds they can radicalize, or a way to launder their rhetoric and their politics.

They don't care about Iran and Iranians, they have a goal, and it's just as horrible as any White Supremacist goal. Especially when it's political figures and not some random bigot you know in your life that can be deradicalized because he's having some epiphany. To right wing figures, everything is a hunting ground.

Don't spread their words as if "even that horrible person sees how bad this is." Fascists have been stealing leftist ideas and talking points since the beginning. He doesn't suddenly care about people of color. He's seeing an opening for something and he's grabbing at it.

You have people you can platform that don't spread rhetoric that enables hate crimes on a regular basis.

#riki babbles

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dalliancekay · 5 months ago

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Aziraphale, Walking

I know we talk a lot about Crowley's saunter, but may I present:

The careful way Aziraphale walks?

The way he looks so solid and strong?

So sure?

He seems to like his body (corporation)

And that's so sexy

He appears to be always on a particular, precisely calculated path at any point

Anyway, I love the way he holds himself

And Crowley definitely appreciates that too:

Also

And especially:

And erm

youtube

#good omens #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #walk #confident aziraphale #aziraphale my beloved #it's monday morning #I'm supposed to be working #kaypost #Youtube

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astonmartinii · 6 months ago

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other side of the moon - chapter one | formula one imagine

pairing: fem retired formula one driver reader x ??? fem retired formula one driver reader x platonic!kimi antonelli

chapter one: an offer you can refuse

years of solitude has led y/n y/ln down a dark path following her career-ending injury in 2022 but one rookie seems dead set on bringing her back into the fray

MASTERLIST | TIP JAR

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“have you seen this?”

it’s too early in the day to be subjected to twitter in y/n’s opinion, but her manager - the one she’s always insisted in not needing - insists upon it. sara’s hand shakes as she hands over her phone, the video already playing loudly.

the video is a poorly clipped together compilation of kimi antonelli, for no better word, gushing about her. it’s earnest and even cute, but not cute enough. the formula one paddock was a vulture pit, one y/n had only escaped three years earlier with her life - barely.

“it’s cool. that’s all it is though,” y/n moves towards the door, picking up her coat and refusing to turn back towards sara, “i’ve told you since jenson insisted i hire you, there’s no way in hell i will ever go back to that paddock. and that’s the end of it, please. i’ll do any stupid vitamin ad or female empowerment talk if it makes you happy, but i can’t go back there.”

y/n grabbed her keys and left the apartment, leaving sara in her wake. sara reached into her pocket and pulled out a tattered letter with ‘y/n’ scrawled on the front in awful handwriting. she left it on the kitchen island and left, understanding this was likely to be her last time in this apartment - there's stupid and there's what she was doing right now, there was no way she would still be employed in the morning.

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girlsonthegrid

liked by maxverstappen1, oscarpiastri and 103,478 others

tagged: yourusername

girlsonthegrid: today we look back at the biggest what if for women in formula one - y/n y/ln. the 26-year-old drove for mclaren from 2020 to 2022 before she sustained a career-ending injury at silverstone. y/ln was the first ever female f1 race winner with her emphatic victory at monza in 2021 and the first ever female formula 2 champion with her win in 2019. her career lasted just 30 races and she hasn't been seen in the paddock or around any drivers since the crash. there have been reports that she has been approached about a mentor role but considering how fast her management rejected and shut down sky sports about a commentary role, this is also unlikely. what would you like to see from her if she ever comes out of hiding?

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user1: i mourn for her everyday

user2: the way she paved the way for so many but can't stand to be in the paddock to see what she did for the sport

user3: i really don't blame her

user4: doriane is the mercedes reserve and abbi is alpine's! her work is there even if she isn't and i know i'll always be grateful for that

user5: she's so overrated, if she didn't crash she still would've been out of formula 1 by now

user6: me when i'm the most wrong ever

user7: i can't believe there are still men to this day that think she wasn't great? literal world champions like max, lewis, fernando, seb and jenson have all said that she could've won a championship

user8: i mean no shade to lando but i think y/n would've made it 100x harder for max this season in that mclaren

user9: the way jenson tried to say that in the nicest way possible in las vegas lol

user10: and max agreed with him LOL

user11: the way it wasn't even proper lando shade or oscar shade like twitter painted it to be but like max just praising his bestie

user12: he does not play about her as he should

user13: i mean he's the only one we know y/n still actually talks to

user14: i can't wait for the tell-all biography that exposes half the grid because like how much have you must have fucked up for her to never speak to you again

user15: when twitter likes were public she was caught liking a bunch of tweets bout mick when he got his first points so like she doesn't even have hard feelings to the guy who put her in the barrier sooo

user16: it was proven it was break failure???? mick did nothing wrong that's why she still likes things praising him

user17: that crash really robbed us of the best ever f1 relationship with y/n and lando

user18: you know that's part of the reason that she doesn't speak to lando right?

user19: because she wished it was him not her?

user20: NO! because she hated that whole 'ship'

user21: and lando leaned into it way too much

user22: it made me a bit uncomfortable and i'm not even y/n

user23: AND she said on the beyond the grid podcast that she thought those rumours were really reductive and relegated her to just a love interest of her teammate rather than a race winner

user24: kimi antonelli please bring her back to us

user25: praying she'll listen to the literal child

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texts between y/n y/ln (bold) and max verstappen (italics)

did u give them my fucking address

my lawyer says to always deny everything?

i also actually have no idea what you are talking about…

i just got home and there’s a fucking letter from KIMI ANTONELLI on my kitchen counter

it’s creepy and a mad invasion of privacy

i did NOT give them your address?

i gave them sara’s contact details so they wouldn’t be able to directly get to you and i honestly thought she would be too scared to ask you

she showed me all the clips of him praising me.

it didn’t work.

it’s been three years y/n…

and it still hasn’t been long enough.

all i’m saying is read the letter, as creepy as it might be, he is just an 18 year old entering the lion’s den you could at least reply to him even if you don’t take up the offer

although i read they were going to pay you £10 million a year??? was that real?

unfortunately it is very real.

i didn’t think i was still worth that much

you are worth that and more, just give him a chance. we’ve both met him, he’s a sweet kid.

for now.

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it was cold in her apartment, y/n hadn’t shut the window from when she opened them that morning. in fact she hadn’t moved from the kitchen since she set eyes on the letter. it was bold she’d give him that.

the letter was crumpled as if it had gone through hell to get to her (it probably had) and the handwriting was a serious reminder of just how young kimi is. y/n had wondered if her maternal instincts would ever kick in like all the older women in her life insisted it would. sure she had felt intense feelings of love for her childhood cats and had cared her formula one cars (regina and heather, they were named after mean girls, because that is who they had to be on track) like they were children. but that true maternal feeling had never come to her, until now.

all y/n could think about was kimi. how young he was, how much he was set to lose. not everyone was her, the worst thing wasn’t going to happen to everyone - it just always seemed to happen to her.

her loud phone alarm jolted her out of her daydream, reminding her to take her painkillers. as she poured herself a glass of water, y/n slammed down the glass and ripped open the letter.

dear miss y/n y/ln my name is andrea kimi antonelli and i am going to be driving for mercedes amg f1 team in 2025. we met very briefly after i won all three races at mugello and lifted the italian f4 championship trophy. i know you were there on mclaren PR but for me it changed my life. you have always been my biggest inspiration alongside michael schumacher (i am italian, you must understand). it was always my dream to race alongside you and maybe even be teammates, i’d even betray toto and leave mercedes to make that happen (please don’t tell him i told you that). i know that can never happen now, but it could happen in another way? i know like me you grew up seeing niki lauda supporting and mentoring the mercedes drivers and i was wondering if you would be my mentor - who cares about george anyway. i know you’ve never come back to the paddock and are unlikely to do so for little old me. but if you could just think about it that would be great, if you don’t ask, you’ll never get! i hope this letter wasn’t horribly offensive, i mean it when i say you’re my favourite!!! love, kimi (p.s. i was at monza 2021, so you could even consider me a good luck charm) (p.p.s you won monza 2021 completely on merit but i was there) (p.p.p.s please don’t think i’m an idiot) (p.p.p.p.s i also loved interlagos 2020 that’s a super underrated drive)

with tears in her eyes, y/n placed the letter back on the counter, grabbed the glass of water and made her way to her bedroom. painkillers taken with a wince, she still hadn’t gotten used to the size of the pills even three years into taking them, y/n shuffled under the duvet.

the offer was there and it seemed sincere. her accountant would tell her that the money was worth the mental turmoil, even if she just did it for one season and returned to her little cave in west london.

there was no doubt she felt something for kimi - a kinship, a frienship or a maternal yearning - but was it worth ripping off all the bandages and opening herself back up to all the scrutiny again?

she would sleep on it.

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yourusername

liked by maxverstappen1, georgerussell63 and 10,567,388 others

yourusername: much to think about these days. like how the fuck this app works now?

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user1: first post in three years and it’s THIS?

user2: i am not complaining

user3: i am savouring every little piece in case she goes missing for another three years

mclarenf1: the queen has returned

user4: no thanks to you

user5: how about we keep my wife’s name out of your fucking mouth

user6: socials admin i know it is not you specifically but i really don’t know how you can post up here like you’re completely absolved of your involvement in this. your car had break failure that broke her fucking back - it is a miracle she is even still walking! and you still don’t accept any responsibility for it

user7: i love y/n but like how is it mclaren’s fault? break failure happens all the time?

user8: well it’s in one part the fact that they were using her as a test dummy because it was a new faulty part that mclaren was experimenting with that was on her car and NOT lando’s and the fact that to this day when they feel like it they’ll heap guilt onto mick schumacher

user9: without being disrespectful there were two formula one careers that were ended that day because mclaren have kept to the narrative that it was mick that put her into the barriers eventhough siedel admitted when he left mclaren that it was a faulty break part that caused it.

user10: clock it

user11: yes clock it but maybe on a different post because it’s y/n’s return to the internet and all yall can talk about is the most traumatic event in her life?

kimiantonelli: i also love clairo

user12: what is bro doing?

user13: be quiet he’s our best hope of y/n coming back to the paddock let him cook

user14: name three songs local

kimiantonelli: bags (live), alewife and blouse

user15: this motherfucker might just do it

maxverstappen1: i miss brando :/

yourusername: you know my address

yourusername: use it since you like to give it out so much

maxverstappen1: I DID NOT GIVE THEM YOUR ADDRESS

user16: y/lnstappen friendship is BACK

user17: it was never gone?

user18: but now we get to see it :P

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when she woke the next morning, y/n knew she had to read the letter again before jumping into anything. in her sleep she was plagued with memories of the past, but not the usual ones that haunted her in the dark. there were no flames, no hospitals, no career-ending injuries. no, this time she was transported back to 2020 and her first few races of her formula one career.

march 2020.

the paddock was much bigger in formula one than it had been in formula two with hundreds more people running around, barging through crowds, hitting y/n on the way through and not even stopping to apologise. she had thought briefly that she would be making more noise as the first female racer to take part in a race since forever - y/n even thought that she’d made a bit of a splash during preseason testing, nestled between her teammate lando and alex in the red bull in fifth.

but she was invisible. even with the garish orange path to follow to the mclaren garage, y/n struggled to get through the crowds of people brandishing their paddock passes. her trainer had gone ahead to set up her driver room which left y/n to push through and arrive to briefing ten minutes late.

“i’m so sorry, i got lost and by the time i was going in the right direction the paddock had filled up?”

y/n stammered, not quite able to make eye contact with zak brown. the american wasn’t tall in comparison to the general public but he towered over y/n and the disapproving stare didn’t do much to help.

“just make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

zak snipped, waving his hand in y/n’s direction, telling her to take a seat. y/n rushed to the nearest empty seat and looked for her teammate in the room. lando was sat just three seats to her right on a small table. y/n tried to make eye contact with lando but he avoided her gaze like it was burning him, so much for the ‘big brother’ act he had put on at the car launch.

the engineers stood in front of the screen and started their long-winded presentation about the prospects for the season ahead. y/n pulled her note book out and frantically started taking notes, she didn’t know if that was normal for formula one drivers, but knowing as much as possible couldn’t hurt.

y/n copied down the warnings about possible tyre wear in turn three when she heard some soft sniggers, like someone was trying to stifle their laughter. this drew y/n out of her focus on the presentation, looking around the meeting room to locate the perpetrator.

lando caught her eye immediately. he had a light blush across his face and his mouth was covered by his hand. he looked guilty, guiltier than the rest of the room who were listening intently to the engineers. y/n raised her eyebrow in question.

“i’m sorry are we distracting you two?”

zak interrupted the presentation, turning to look at y/n and lando.

“no, sorry sir,” y/n replied turning her chair back to face the screen. “lando?” zak pressed.

“i’m sorry zak but y/n was distracting me with her note-taking,” lando forced out between his boyish giggles. “i’ve never taken notes, i didn’t realise you would be sucking up to the engineers this early on?”

“i’ve always taken notes? is it a problem? i’m sorry if i was distracting you lando.”

“yeah we’ll see how much those notes help you on track, rookie.”

lando spat over the table. it was uncharacteristically mean for the lando she had seen in the mclaren social content and the lando she spoke with at the car launch. y/n felt tears prickle in her eyes but she swallowed them down, she couldn’t cry yet - or at least not in view of all the most important people on the team.

“right. we’ll get back to business then.”

the rest of the meeting went by in a blur for y/n, but despite the outburst from lando, she continued to take her notes, she would be damned if some comments from lando would fuck up her entire race weekend routine. y/n took her time when zak dismissed them from the meeting, not wanting to look unprofessional.

moving towards the door, y/n’s shoulder hit someone else’s. she looked up to make eye contact with lando yet again.

“you better not make a habit of making contact with me, rookie,” lando said, a slight smirk but a harsh look in his eyes.

“are you like okay?”

“why wouldn’t i be?” lando replied pushing past through the door.

“i don’t know, you’re just a little frosty this morning? did i do something?”

“why would i be thinking about you, seriously? this is my team, know your place and we’ll get on just fine”.

with that lando was gone and y/n was left puzzled. i guess PR really does work wonders, y/n thought before making her own way to her drivers room.

her trainer, luca, wasn’t there when she managed to locate the room but all of her gear was already neatly put away like they had discussed. y/n cracked open an electrolyte drink and opened her notebook to study the meeting points.

there was a loud knock at the door and before y/n could even utter a “come in”, the mystery visitor barged into the room. daniel ricciardo announced his arrival with a packet of tim tams thrown at y/n and a quick “howdy” before he started rifling through her stuff and studying her helmet.

“ah, another cool dude who has a cuddly guy on their helmet,” daniel said, picking up her helmet, pointing at the cartoon version of her childhood cat.

“oh that’s schumi, when we travelled for karting we always brought him up until he died of old age, but i still want him with me whenever i race.” y/n said, nervous that the heartfelt explanation would be deemed uncool by one of the coolest racers she had ever seen.

“oh that’s surprisingly cute, i bet schumi was a big hit in the paddock back in the day.”

“he sure was, he’s how i charmed max into not hating me after i took him out once,” y/n chuckled thinking back to the race where max stormed up to her with angry tears in his eyes until y/n practically threw schumi at him. in just five seconds, max had calmed down and schumi was happily purring in the young dutchman’s lap.

“that sounds like max. but speaking of the other young whippersnappers in the paddock, how is our lando treating you? i bet zak and that can’t keep up with you two…” daniel asked, slumping to the floor, taking one of her drinks from the mini fridge.

“oh. i am getting used to him, we’ll put it that way?”

“he’s not being rude is he?”

“no! well. he insists on calling me rookie and keeps making comments about me crashing into him and made fun of me taking notes in briefing but i’m sure that such the british banter.”

“you’re british?”

“well. um. yeah, you got me there.”

daniel grabbed her hands, forcing y/n to look him in the eyes rather than her very interesting shoes.

“i know lando is like some media darling, but so are you. don’t let him push you around, he may have been in this team a while but you’re just as good as him if not better. you’re here to prove yourself, not to play second fiddle, okay?”

it was the first time someone had actually tried to talk to her properly since getting to the paddock. again, tears climbed to her eyes, but this time she let one creep out. daniel wiped it away.

“we made the mistake of isolating max when he was young and new, we won’t make the same mistake - we can’t have two of you running rampant around here,” y/n let out a wet laugh which daniel returned, “just come to renault if you need anything from me. max will be there for you, you know, and seb, kimi, fernando and all the old men will listen to you. don’t rot in your drivers room or hotel suite and think you’re not wanted here.”

y/n nodded, feeling some butterflies in her stomach. she was actually here - a formula one driver. a seven-time race winner wants her here, world champions want her here. a private-school fuckboy wasn’t going to ruin her first ever race weeekend.

“thank you daniel.”

“i have to dash, but i’m serious, we’re here for you. and i would be honoured to kick that little shit’s ass for you, okay?”

the australian left in just as loud fashion as he came, but in the remaining silence, y/n finally felt some peace. this was her chance, and she wasn’t going to mess it up.

present.

y/n couldn’t let that happen to kimi. the young italian was just so unbelievably earnest in his letter that y/n couldn��t bear the thought of his kindness being taken advantage of. george russell had never been outwardly callous but with his attack on max late last season and his complete radio silence with y/n since her crash made her suspicious.

as she prepared to ask max for kimi’s number, sara (who did actually still have a job) sent her a link.

sara: zak brown believes mclaren has the strongest pairing on the grid with no more childish recklessness like in the early 2020s

sara: do you want us to put out a statement or ignore as usual?

y/n clicked on the link, even though she knew it would just annoy her to the point that her phone might become closely acquainted with the thames.

as the formula one world gears up for the 2025 season, zak brown has already stated his confidence for mclaren this season. the papaya team will be coming into the 2025 season as reigning constructors champions and lando norris and oscar piastri will be aiming to add the world drivers championship to that as well.

when zak brown sat down with us earlier this week, the mclaren ceo did not beat around the bush, stating that mclaren have the strongest pairing on the grid. with red bull promoting liam lawson in a test and, mercedes putting unproven kimi antonelli next to george russell and ferrari gambling with charles leclerc and lewis hamilton, brown might just be right.

in their journey to constructors champions, brown recognised that as a team they had straightened out all of their ‘growing pains’. this is exemplified in oscar piastri completing all laps in the 2024 season.

like they usually do, y/n y/ln’s particularly rabid twitter fans will probably detect some ‘shade’ towards the former driver. brown did touch on the prior mclaren drivers during his reign as ceo, saying that the team had some childish recklessness, but now they have a team that all know their place.

y/n y/ln hasn’t spoken about anything formula one related since her retirement, even forgoing the opportunity to congratulate the team that took the chance on her for winning the championship - something brown did not mince his words on off camera. brown lamented about y/ln’s silence, labelling her a brat and ungrateful for not still thanking him for allowing a woman to compete in formula one.

will mclaren make it back-to-back constructors championships? and will they sweep both championships this season?

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

she needed that loud-mouthed american’s head on a silver platter. the letter had almost sucked her back into the world of formula one, only for the man who discarded her like a broken toy when his car had malfunctioned and smashed her and her career into a concrete wall to call her an ungrateful brat.

fuck him. fuck mclaren. and fuck that dumbass reporter for giving him the time of day.

y/n didn’t throw her phone from her balcony but pulled up her texts with max.

texts between y/n y/ln (bold) and max verstappen (italic)

have you read this absolute hogwash

zak brown believes mclaren has the strongest pairing on the grid with no more childish recklessness like in the early 2020s

i 100% get why you wanted to put him in a wall last season

you watched last season?

shut up not the time

did you text me just to call your old tyrannical boss a fraud?

i was going to ask for kimi’s number but now i’m back at square one

noooooooo

i want to be there for him, the way no one was for us.

but this is the bs they write about me when i haven’t been seen or heard from in three years, imagine the shite they come up with when i’m the paddock every weekend

WHEN?

no no no

i’ll give you kimi’s number

contact: kimi antonelli (mercedes)

you decide what you want to do

as much as i would kill to have you around the paddock again… even in the vicinity of george

i want you to do what you are comfortable with

thanks max

i’m not giving you a yes but i’m definitely thinking about it

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

fin.

note: omg that's part one??????? i had this idea and have been planning and adding to it for a couple days. no spoilers but there will be multiple love interests, backstabbing and all that lovely stuff - i just love the drama !!! (yes i will finish guilty as sin at some point as well). i hope you enjoy the prose as well - first time writing that way on here lol ?! let me know if you liked it, who you'd like to see her with and what you'd like to see happen!

#f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 instagram au #f1 x you #f1 #f1 social media au #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #other side of the moon #astonmartinii

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lisatgilliam · 2 years ago

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deusfoundry · 6 months ago

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in retrospect, there's really no other way this night could've possibly ended.

zayne likes to think that he tried. that he had exercised as much restraint as he could. that the only reason he's got his lips on your skin, planting wet kisses that trails along the path of your collarbone, is because truly, he's been pushed to the brink of his self control.

but is he really to blame when you looked absolutely divine in that dress?

"z-zayne, we have to go ..."

your words fail to register in his mind, anything and everything but the tiny sounds you make enters one ear and slides right out the other. he almost feels bad now, the memory of how ecstatic you were when he'd invited you as his plus one to a banquet hosted by akso hospital three weeks ago flashes before him. how that excitement grew tenfold when you told him about the dress you'd bought to surprise him with.

and he certainly was surprised, pleasantly so, when the sight of your bare back greeted him as he entered his bedroom.

zayne stops in his tracks, feet feeling like they've been permanently rooted to the carpeted floor of his bedroom.

you're seated in front of the vanity table he'd put together for you. the size of it is nothing like the one you have at your apartment, but it shares a similar design, the same wooden accents. it's enough that you can get ready for anything without having to make a stop at your place. he'd bought it when you first began to spend the night at his apartment.

lately though, you've been spending the better part of each week in his place. zayne's been reminding himself to build up the courage to ask you to move in with him.

he's supposed to be used to this. to your back facing him. to your eyes lighting up when you catch sight of his figure through the reflection of your vanity mirror. to you pausing in the middle of your routine to turn around, greet him with that smile of yours that sends an ache in his heart.

but this damned dress.

he forces his feet off the floor to move towards you, his heavy footsteps catching your attention. you flash him a sheepish smile, your eyes flitting towards the jacket of his dress suit draped on his arm.

"have i been taking too long?" you ask, hurriedly dragging the tip of your eyeliner to your lids.

"no," zayne stalks close enough to place his hands on the back of your chair. he drinks you in, eyes casting downwards to the fabric pooling at your lower back. your hair is pulled up to a loose bun, fastened with a clip shaped into a snowflake, leaving your bare shoulders to view. he takes the thin strap of your dress betwixt thumb and forefinger, fighting the immense urge to pull the flimsy fabric off.

it's a losing battle, and zayne succumbs to his desires in a matter of seconds. he leans down, planting one tender kiss on the base of your neck.

he holds your gaze through the mirror as he releases his hold on the strap, letting it fall just above your elbow. he uses the same fingers to map out the scars littered on your back.

"no, you're alright."

"i'm-" your words get caught in a choke. "i'm almost done. why don't you wait for me here?"

"of course." zayne kisses your cheek before taking a seat on the edge of his bed. his eyes bore into you with an intensity that you can feel, enough to induce a tremble in your hands as you add the finishing touches to your make up.

"done!" you begin tidying up your table, placing the brushes back to their compartments. "just need to put my heels on."

"allow me." zayne very nearly bolts from the bed. he takes your heels by the straps from their place beside your vanity.

slowly, zayne kneels before you.

it's then that zayne notices another ... feature of your dress, discovering a slit that goes right up to your thigh. he freezes, hands ghosting your ankle, a field of smooth skin staring at him. possibly taunting him. definitely not helping his pants that seem to be growing tighter by the minute.

"love? are you okay?"

and you had the nerve to ask. surely, you must be aware of your effect on him by now?

"yes." he breathes out an apology, sucking the air through his nose as he slides your feet into the shoe. his fingers find the straps, wrapping them around and working up your leg the way he's watched you do so countless times before. he moves closer, reaching behind your leg to tie the straps together into what he hopes is a neat bow over your calf.

zayne repeats the process with your other shoe, but this time, he lets himself linger. lets his fingers run past your leg, over your knee, until they land on your thigh. lets them prod lightly at the flesh, encasing the muscle with his palm. lets himself lean down, low enough that from your point of view, it looks he's bowing to you.

he places a kiss, first over the strap of your heels that he's just worked on, the material an odd intrusion to his moisturized lips. then another, on your knee. and finally, his lips replace the palm on your thigh.

you shiver at the sudden loss of warmth, but you find soon enough that zayne never intended on keeping his hands away from you for long.

his hand glides further up, slipping beneath the fabric of your dress where it finds itself a home there.

zayne is too caught up in you, plush skin, enchanting perfume, this godforsaken dress, to hear your voice. he's only knocked out of his trance when he feels your hand cup his cheek.

"zayne?" he looks up, chin resting on your thigh. there's a flush to your cheeks, an obvious difficulty in the way you breathe. "we're going to be late."

he nods, pushing himself off the floor. he holds his hand out for you take and gladly, you slip your hand into his with a smile, using him as leverage to stand up.

zayne makes it about halfway through the living room before something in him snaps. he strides across his apartment, footsteps quick and erratic, almost tripping over his own feet.

you hear him from where you stood before his front door, turning around with the knob between your hand to ask him if he's okay. you get barely a word out of your mouth when zayne crashes his lips onto yours.

and that's how you find yourself now, pinned against the door of his apartment, clinging to his shoulders as your legs begin to go limp.

zayne kisses you everywhere, frenzied lips travelling from your neck, the exposed skin of your cleavage. he gives you not even a second to breathe before he's back on your lips. his hands behave similarly, squeezing at every inch of skin his fingers come across.

"i'm sorry." he sends a stream of warm air to your neck, nipping lightly at the skin. "it's just- you look so- god, it's this dress."

"the event-!" zayne cuts you off by sucking at your neck hard enough that it's bound to leave a mark.

"to hell with it."

you yelp when he cradles the back of your thighs to lift you up with ease. instinctively, you wrap your legs around his lower back, bringing him close enough that you can feel the bulge poking through his pants.

"the things you do to me..." zayne whispers over your lips. he eases your entire body into just one of hands, the other moving up to your face, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "god, you have no idea."

except, you think you know exactly what you do to him, when he starts making his way back to the bedroom, lips eternally attached to yours.

#im sorry this was supposed to be as long as it ended up being 😭#zayne x reader #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace #zayne love and deepspace #zayne smut #love and deepspace smut

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solecize · 2 months ago

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── ☆ ｡°⛧ mnemonic 　⠀⠀　　⠀　　⠀⠀　　⠀⠀ [m.list]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀　　⠀　　⠀　　⠀　　⠀⠀　　⠀　　⠀⠀　　⠀　　⠀　　⠀　　⠀　 *ੈ ✩ ‧ ₊ ˚ .ೃ

⇢ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: swimmer!jk x female reader, college au, slow burn friends to lovers to ??, fluff, angst, slice of life, coming of age

⇢ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut, substance use, college party and hookup culture, mentions of greek life hazing, characters experiencing just about every feeling a lost college student goes through, depictions of and discussions surrounding mental health (depression, anxiety, substance abuse), disgusting amounts of yearning and clueless pining, yes he's her tutor at one point, yes they're in denial, also features other third gen idols, dare i say found family, there is a beach episode and a fireworks festival too lol

in which a little box of memories tells the story of how you and jeon jungkook slowly, but surely, fell in love against the backdrop of the growing pains of your college years. jungkook presents this box to you as a final gift at graduation and each item in the box is a snapshot frozen in time, capturing the forces that brought the two of you from strangers to friends to more.

⇢ 𝐰𝐜: 50k+

⇢ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐱: masterlist. / prologue. / the loyalty points card from the campus coffee shop. / ticket to the haunted horrors house (admission for two). / a worn out deck of cards. /handwritten no-bake cheesecake recipe. / cd soundtrack for stand by me (1986). / travel brochure to derry beach. / a clipping from the school newspaper. / pieces of confetti. / one empty tequila shooter. / epilogue & the final item.

⇢ 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: i fear that THIS is actually what that one part in party 4 u feels like.

prologue. 　　⠀　── jungkook disappears during your graduation ceremony and gives you an unexpected gift that forces you to confront the realities of finally saying goodbye to college.

a loyalty points card from the campus coffee shop. 　　⠀　── on your first ever day of classes, you meet a boy with an eyebrow piercing and settle into your new life after leaving behind the ghosts of your hometown. and then, amidst making new friends and trying to fit in, you somehow meet again and again.

ticket to the haunted horrors house (admission for two). 　　⠀　── freshman year halloween night plays on an endless loop and ends with an almost kiss that reinforces your ability to never get your hopes up with these stupid college boys.

a worn out deck of cards. 　　⠀　── your new friends create sacred traditions that only the six of you can understand.

handwritten no-bake cheesecake recipe. 　　⠀　── amidst finals season, jungkook proves once again that he can see right through you and you take in that it's something that you've been missing all your life. he learns about ceramics and you learn about desserts.

cd soundtrack for stand by me (1986).　　⠀　── by sophomore year, you make it your mission to be jungkook's biggest supporter, whether it's cheering him on in the stands or staying by his side when it's just the two of you.

travel brochure to derry beach.　　⠀　── it's spring break and the tension between you and jungkook finally melts away, leaving your feelings out in the open.

a clipping from the school newspaper. 　　⠀　── a scary accident brings you and jungkook together after things nearly get ruined forever. following this, you leave for a summer exchange program abroad and come back as a better version of yourself. you refuse to really believe that you've turned things around, but jungkook brings you comfort at your lowest during thanksgiving break of junior year and reminds you of who you are.

pieces of confetti. 　　⠀　── a new year comes with new confessions and new promises. you look back on you and your friends' uncanny abilities to find a celebration in even the littlest of things.

one empty tequila shooter. 　　⠀　── at the welcome back bonfire, everyone discusses the uncertainties about the individual paths they'll soon take and realize the implications of senior year - the new beginnings to come, the inevitable farewells, and the fleeting moments in between.

the final item & epilogue. 　　⠀　── there's just one last thing to add to the memory box, added by you and all of your past selves.

extra. 　　⠀　── pinterest board.

#*** / mnemonic #jungkook x reader #jungkook fanfic #jungkook scenarios #jungkook imagines #bts fanfic #jungkook x you #jungkook smut #bts scenario #bts series #bts imagines #bts au #jungkook fluff #kpop fanfic #bts smut

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junojoel · 12 days ago

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Woman Inherits the Earth

Ellie Williams x fem!Reader, 6.6k

Summary: You came to Jurassic World for industry connections, a killer CV, and maybe a LinkedIn flex. You didn’t expect to fall for the raptor girl.

Warnings: dinosaurs (scary (not really)) and fluff

this came to me in a fucking vision. i love jurassic park so much and i love a nerdy dinosaur girl even more. HAPPY FUCKING PRIDE MONTH.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

You’d never seen trees this green.

Even from the window of the ferry, long before the first monorail glided into view, Isla Nublar looked like it had been pulled from a storybook. Unreal and mythical, lush in a way that didn’t seem modern. Like you’d time-travelled, or stepped into a planet no one had touched yet.

But of course, they had touched it. Touched, branded, monetised.

The first thing you saw when you stepped off the dock was a smile. Big, toothy, perfect. The kind that came with corporate training and a contract. The greeter handed you a cold drink and a pamphlet with a map of the island, the Jurassic World logo shimmered in glossy blue foil.

“Welcome to paradise,” they chirped.

You smiled back, polite, but your fingers clenched just a little too tight around the strap of your bag.

This wasn’t what you’d imagined when you applied for the communications internship. You thought you’d be documenting field conservation work. Real science. Camera in one hand, clipboard in the other, boots deep in the mud beside palaeobotanists and wildlife biologists.

Instead, it came with air conditioning, swipe access, and a smoothie bar. Your badge still felt surreal in your hand, no matter how many times you’d read the word COMMUNICATIONS next to your name.

You slung your bag over your shoulder and headed toward the staff gate, trying not to feel like an imposter. A monorail train whirred overhead, casting a brief shadow across the sun-bleached pavement. In the distance, a long-necked sauropod lifted its head above the treetops, and a group of tourists shrieked in delight.

It felt like a zoo.

“You lost?” came a voice from behind you, dry and amused. You turned. She stood with one hip cocked and a clipboard tucked under her arm, chewing the end of a pen which was leaving ink on her lip. Her uniform shirt was rumpled, sleeves rolled up, collar open like it’d been yanked loose. Her name badge was clipped to a carabiner on her belt, hanging with a mix of keys and decorative chains.

ELLIE WILLIAMS RAPTORS

A velociraptor had been doodled beside her name, the first you’d ever seen with sunglasses on. You glanced up at her, blinking once. “Uh, yeah,” you admitted. “Trying to find Admin.”

“Figures.” She jerked her chin toward the path curving behind the guest welcome pavilion. “You’re going the wrong way. That’s the tourist route and you want the staff tram.”

You followed her gesture. “Thanks.”

Ellie took a few steps down the path, then paused and turned to look over her shoulder. “You coming or what?”

You scrambled to follow her, jogging a few steps to catch up.

It was quieter here, just beyond the sound radius of the tour groups and audio guides. Jungle air hung thick and damp, fragrant with wildflowers. You could hear insects buzzing, cicadas thrumming like a heartbeat.

“Comms intern?” she asked eventually, as you both ducked under a low branch.

“Yeah, PR.”

Ellie snorted. “That’s cute.”

You looked at her, frowning. “You think that’s funny?”

“I think cloning ancient apex predators to entertain tourists and using PR to make it seem ethical is kind of hilarious.”

You narrowed your eyes. “So why do you work here?”

She stopped walking to turn to face you.

“Because they’re not monsters,” she said simply. “And someone needs to be here who sees them that way.”

Her voice changed when she said it. You saw the passion then—not just behind her eyes, but in the way she spoke. Devout, almost. She didn’t talk about dinosaurs like exhibits, she talked about them like people talked about art, or music, or something ancient and breathtaking and alive. She started walking again, but slower this time, allowing you to catch up.

“I’ve been obsessed with them since I was eight,” she said, almost absently. “Used to sleep with an encyclopaedia under my pillow. Drew feathers on every T Rex I saw in books and got in trouble in school for correcting my science teacher.”

You laughed. “Sounds familiar. I had an entire binder dedicated to Stegosaurus migration.”

Ellie looked at you sidelong. “You know they’re not actually that dumb, right? Their brain-to-body ratio is small, yeah, but that doesn’t mean they were stupid.”

“You’re preaching to the choir.”

Her smile—just for a second—was radiant.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

The staff dorms were nestled behind a canopy of flowering trees, shaded and still. Just far enough from the bustle of the park to feel like their own little ecosystem. Your room was on the top floor of Dorm C, down a quiet corridor that smelled like lemon cleaner and warm pine. No roommates, just you and the view—a forest stretching endlessly beyond your window. Ellie had walked you there herself your first afternoon, pointing out the vending machine that never worked and the communal washer that always overflowed. She stood in the doorway while you unlocked the door, arms crossed, a little smirk on her face when you looked around and said, “Not bad.”

She’d only said, “You’ll get sick of the crickets,” and then wandered off.

That next morning, you reported to the marketing branch’s main office. The main conference room was glass-walled and aggressively minimalist. Every surface gleamed and succulents lined the windowsill in matching white marble pots.

Inside, women in sleek neutrals sat around a long matte-black table, each one with a tablet or stylus in hand. No one looked particularly stressed. They didn’t speak much, just tapped and swiped in perfect silence, like synchronised swimmers in Lululemon. Their hair was glossy, their nails minimalist. Someone sipped a matcha from a branded Jurassic World cup that probably cost more than your entire lunch budget for the week.

You lingered just outside the doorway, unsure if knocking was too formal or if speaking would ruin the mood. You opted for clearing your throat lightly.

“Hi,” you offered. “Marketing intern. Here for assignment placement?”

A woman near the head of the table looked up. She wore a navy linen suit that probably had a brand name you hadn’t heard of and her gold-rimmed glasses caught the overhead light. Her name badge said AUBREY in minimalist font, with the word STRATEGY underneath it. No drawings like Ellie’s.

“Oh, right,” she said, her voice creamy like the oat milk in her latte. “You’re the PR girl?”

You nodded, already regretting whatever energy you were bringing into this room. You felt too loud.

“Well,” Aubrey said, turning her tablet with a soft tap of manicured nails, “good news and bad news.”

You resisted the urge to sigh. Of course there was bad news. There was always bad news.

“The bad news is: you’re not in this building often.”

Of course not. You didn’t fit in here anyway. These women looked like they did Pilates before and after work. Like they carried moon water in their tote bags and gave each other skincare advice. You doubted any of them had ever gotten dirt under their nails, much less had a real conversation with a field biologist.

Aubrey gave a pleasant, symmetrical smile. “The good news is: you’ve been assigned to our highest-profile initiative.” A few swipes, and your personnel card floated across the screen like she manifested it. Your photo was awkward.

“We’re launching a new engagement campaign—Humans of Jurassic World. Emotional branding with candid moments with our top experts.”

You tried to picture the slide deck that had birthed that phrase. Probably beige, with animated transitions from Canva. You imagined the words relatability and authenticity in bold, overlaid on a stock photo of a tranquil-looking intern smiling at a stegosaurus.

“We want content that connects,” Aubrey continued. “Emotion-forward, but not messy.”

God forbid it ever be messy.

She tapped your card into a new category. “You’ll be shadowing Ellie Williams.”

Your mouth opened before you could catch it. “The… raptor girl?”

Aubrey blinked, her expression unchanged but visibly cooling by half a degree. “She prefers animal behaviourist,” she said. “And I’d watch your tone.”

You nodded, swallowing the embarrassment. Noted. No jokes. No personality, either, apparently. Not here.

“She’s a little...feisty and... temperamental,” Aubrey added, delicately. “But she’s one of our key experts. The higher-ups want her front and centre.”

You couldn’t tell if that was a compliment or a warning.

So, the highest-profile assignment on the island… and they were sending you into a paddock where you might get bitten. And there’ll be raptors there, too.

You gave a polite smile, even as your stomach folded itself neatly in half.

“Great,” you said.

Because what else could you say?

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

That afternoon, Ellie knocked and let herself into your dorm room like it was nothing.

“Hey,” she said, stepping inside without waiting. “I was… in the area.”

You turned from your half-folded laundry on the bed, one eyebrow raised. “This area?”

She leaned in the doorway, grinning like a cat in a sunbeam. “Okay, fine. I came to see if you had a clean towel. Mine’s still soaked from yesterday, and I figured you’re probably the organised type. Please, I need to dry my hair.”

“You could’ve asked literally anyone else on the floor.”

“Yeah,” Ellie said, shrugging. “But I didn’t want to.”

Your stomach fluttered. Weird. Probably nervous that she’d found out you were assigned to her and she’d come to bite your head off about it. Temperamental, remember.

You wordlessly walked to your wardrobe and tossed her one of the folded ones from the top shelf. She caught it with both hands, smiling with her eyes more than her mouth.

“Smells like citrus,” she said, lifting it to her face.

“Laundry sheet. Sorry if it’s too floral for your whole field-biology aesthetic.”

Ellie chuckled and stepped further inside, this time with purpose. “Please, I’ve smelled worse.”

You laughed and turned back to your laundry, only half paying attention as you folded a clean shirt, but you were acutely aware of the sound of boots thudding to the floor, of fabric rustling behind you. When you finally looked again, Ellie had stripped off her overshirt, now dressed in just a black tank that clung to the water she was unable to dry off. You noticed a patch of silvery scar tissue near her shoulder blade, like something long and narrow had raked across her.

You caught yourself looking too long and turned quickly back to your duffel bag.

Ellie noticed. Of course she did.

“They’re not from the raptors,” she said casually. “One’s from a thorn bush. The other one’s from a juvenile ankylosaur who didn’t like being sedated.”

You turned back, smiling faintly. “Is that better or worse?”

“Depends on your insurance.”

Her right forearm bore a black fern, curling in a slow spiral up her skin. A small moth nestled in the roots, wings outstretched like it had just landed to rest there. The lines were fresh, almost glossy in the dorm light.

Her other tattoo sat high on her left arm, above the curve of her bicep. It was older, slightly faded, but still striking: a raptor skull, drawn in precise anatomical detail, the kind you’d see in a museum display. Ferns and bones looped around it in a circular crown, delicate and wild at once.

“The moth one’s new.”

You cleared your throat. “Yeah?”

“Got it after I transferred out here. It’s a death’s-head. Some cultures say it’s bad luck.”

“Do you believe that?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I like it. That’s enough, right?”

You nodded, then gestured toward her shoulder. “What about that one?”

Ellie looked down at the raptor skull, smiling like it was an inside joke. “I got it when I was sixteen. Had to lie about my age.”

You laughed, but the sound caught in your throat. She was still close—too close, maybe—and the way she stood, so casual and self-assured, made something twist in your chest.

You smiled faintly, folding another shirt. “Hey,” you said after a moment, trying to keep your voice even. “I, uh—found out where I’m placed today.”

Ellie paused, mid-pat of her face with the towel. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” You swallowed. “Marketing’s doing some new campaign—Humans of Jurassic World or whatever. They’re assigning interns to departments for storytelling and engagement.”

Ellie raised a brow, sceptical. “Sounds fake.”

“It does,” you agreed. “But apparently I’m shadowing someone from the Raptor Program.”

Ellie blinked, then narrowed her eyes a little. “Wait. Me?”

“Yeah. Aubrey said you’re temperamental,” you added, smirking.

Ellie grinned, a little wild. “Temperamental’s just code for doesn’t suffer fools.”

You laughed. “Guess I’m in trouble.”

She studied you for a moment. “Nah. You look like you might surprise me.”

Your fingers brushed a fold in the laundry you weren’t folding anymore. “You could’ve just said you wanted to hang out.”

She tilted her head, voice low. “Would that’ve worked?”

“Maybe,” you said. “Next time, try it and see.”

Ellie stepped back toward the door but didn’t open it right away. She lingered, fingers brushing the frame.

“I like your room,” she said. “It suits you.”

“Is that your way of asking if you can come by again?”

“Not asking,” she said, grinning as she slipped out. “Just warning you.”

And with that, she was gone.

But your room still smelled faintly of sun and citrus and Ellie.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

You woke to the sound of your alarm playing the Jurassic World theme in low-fi synth—a joke you’d set up on your first night, which now felt vaguely threatening at 5:45 a.m.

Through the open window, the jungle was still waking up. The air was thick with dew, soft birdsong trilled between branches, and far off in the distance, something massive made a low groaning sound— Good Morning.

Your hands moved through routine before your brain caught up: quick shower, camera bag over your shoulder, badge clipped, shoes already damp from the dew on the steps as you headed out into the humidity of early morning.

Ellie had said to meet her at the raptor supply shed by 6:30. You arrived at 6:25 and she was already there, sitting cross-legged on top of a crate, sipping coffee from a dented thermos and picking grass off of her cargo pants. Her hair was tied back in a loose knot, her boots unlaced. Her face lit up when she saw you, and your stomach betrayed you with a little flip.

“You’re late,” she teased, hopping down.

You raised a brow. “I’m early.”

“I know,” she said, grinning as she handed you a cup. “But I wanted to say it. I was here at 5:45.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep. Also, the system flagged a motion trip around four. False alarm. Bird or something.”

You took a sip—strong, a little burnt. “God bless you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Ellie said, hopping off the crate. “You’re on raptor duty today.”

You blinked. “I thought I was just filming?”

“You are,” she said, already walking toward the gate. “You’re filming me and I’m working, so raptor duty.”

The raptor enclosure was larger than it looked on the map. Part jungle, part reinforced paddock, part bunker. The outer gate opened into a winding path lined with reinforced steel and topped with electric fencing.

Ellie moved through it like she was part of it—radio clipped to her belt, keys jangling from a carabiner, hands already gloved as she scanned a tablet for sensor data.

"You’re not gonna see this on the tours,” she said. “These girls don’t perform.”

Three of them, each moving with uncanny precision as they darted between the trees. One lifted her head, her gold eyes scanning the tree line. The other two circled near a feeding station. You felt a pulse of adrenaline as one of them lifted its snout and made direct eye contact.

“They’re watching us,” you whispered.

“They always are,” Ellie said.

The outer gate hissed open with a groan. Another handler pushed a steel cart in—two heavy haunches of meat, marked and logged. The scent hit immediately, the girls went still.

“That’s Jinx,” Ellie said. “Leader.”

“She doesn’t look aggressive.”

“She’s not. She’s calculating.”

You watched Jinx tilt her head, just slightly, then the others followed. Ellie nodded once, like she understood something no one else could hear.

“She knows you,” you said quietly.

Ellie’s mouth curved.

You blinked. “Imprint?”

“She was too old to imprint properly. But yeah. Something like that.”

“Is that… safe?”

Ellie shrugged. “Nothing here’s really safe.”

Then she glanced sideways. “But she’s never come for me. Not once.”

The cart was wheeled back out. The gates hissed closed behind the handler. The girls returned to the trees slowly.

“They’re amazing,” you breathed.

“They’re misunderstood,” Ellie said. “Everyone thinks they’re monsters.”

You turned to her. “Why do you think that is?”

She paused. “Because they’re smart. People don’t like being outsmarted, especially if who they’re being outsmarted by isn’t human.”

There was a long moment of silence between you, broken only by the whir of a distant drone circling above the canopy. Ellie leaned her weight on one hip, glancing down at her arm where her raptor skull tattoo peeked out from under her tank top.

Unfortunately, Ellie’s morning raptor routine was not fit for public consumption.

She barked into radios, swore when a feeding gate jammed, wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her glove. She talked to the raptors and they responded in a way with soft huffs and curious clicks.

You’d filmed interviews before. Sat through seminars, cut and edited dozens of high-gloss campaign reels for campus groups and charity drives. But this wasn’t that. Ellie Williams didn’t have a camera version of herself. There was just Ellie.

That meant she also had no interest in being directed.

“I don’t want to do the influencer crap,” she had said. “No offense.”

“Some offense taken.” You said, crouched beside a control panel, adjusting your camera. “Let’s try something for TikTok. Just, like, say your name and job? Maybe give a fun fact about the raptors?”

Ellie squinted at the lens like it had personally offended her. “Why would I do that?”

You blinked. “Because it’s part of the job?”

She turned toward the paddock instead, shielding her eyes to scan the treeline. “Fun fact: their eye sockets are larger than yours. Next question.”

You huffed. “Ellie.”

She glanced back over her shoulder. “What?”

“You’re making this hard.”

Her mouth quirked. “I thought you PR types liked a challenge.”

You pointed the lens at her anyway, just to spite her. “Fine. I’ll work with what I’ve got.”

“If I catch you filming my ass without permission, I will feed you to them.”

Later, when she took a break in the shade of the fence wall, you passed her the water bottle from your bag.

“Don’t say I never give you anything,” you said.

She took it, eyeing you with mock suspicion. “You poison it?”

“Tempting.”

She drank anyway.

You sat beside her, back against the warm concrete. The raptor sounds faded behind you.

“Hey,” you said. “You’re really good with them.”

Ellie looked away, squinting at the sun breaking through the canopy.

“They’re predictable,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“They don’t lie. They don’t fake anything. If they like you, they show you. If they don’t… well. You find out fast.”

You nodded slowly. “Sounds refreshing.”

“People,” Ellie said, almost absently, “aren’t like that.”

You studied her profile—sharp jaw, sunburnt nose.

“No,” you said softly. “They’re not.”

For a moment, she looked at you like she wanted to say something else. Instead, she stood.

“Come on,” she said. “We’re not done.”

The juveniles—the babies, as she called them—were only slightly less terrifying than the adults. Half-sized, sleek, wicked fast. Ellie led you into a smaller enclosure for behavioural training.

“You can film,” she said. “Just don’t run.”

“Why not?”

“They chase.”

You laughed nervously. “Oh.”

One of them, a smoky blue female with a slitted golden eye, approached Ellie and bumped her thigh with its snout like a puppy.

She crouched, whispering something you couldn’t catch. The raptor tilted its head, then chirped. A moment later, it lay down and rolled onto its back, exposing its belly.

You caught the whole thing. Ellie laughing, hand buried in feathers, dirt smeared on her cheek, her whole face lit up.

That night, back in your dorm, you sat at your desk with the lights off, your laptop glowing.

You edited late into the night—cutting through shaky footage, filtering the sun just right, lining the audio to a soft indie track. You saved the file, but you didn’t upload it. Tomorrow, you’d show her first, just in case she wanted to see herself the way you saw her.

Before the rest of the world did.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

The fluorescent light flickered above your desk like it, too, was tired of this job. Half your shift had been spent hunched over your laptop, headphones in, sorting through footage from the Raptor Paddock. You didn’t really mind.

The head of PR wanted more behind-the-scenes enrichment content for the park’s YouTube channel—playful but grounded, edgy but safe, and most of all, viral. Their emails used a lot of adjectives.

Your headset buzzed.

Minor incident, that’s how they phrased it.

“Minor,” in Jurassic World terms, meant no deaths, no lawyers yet.

You sat up straight.

A group of influencers had been taken too close to the Raptor Paddock. Someone thought it would be great content and someone else ignored the guest photography guidelines.

The raptor who lunged wasn’t Jinx. Thank god. It was Roo, the most skittish of the three. The flash went off and she reacted on instinct—leapt toward the fence, jaws wide, a blur of feathers and teeth. Now it was online.

Your screen lit up with hashtags you didn’t want to see. #DinoDanger, #SheAlmostDied. You stopped the autoplay, but the thumbnail was enough— Roo mid-snarl, one girl halfway into a dramatic faint. Her friend laughing, shakily.

You forwarded the footage to the Comms lead. A response came ten seconds later.

Get a statement from a trusted handler. Soften this. Now.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

You found Ellie behind the garage near the paddock gate, sitting on an overturned crate with a can of iced coffee sweating in her hand. She was coated in dust and grease, like she’d crawled straight out of a ventilation shaft. Which, knowing her, wasn’t impossible.

She looked up, one eyebrow raised. “Don’t you have press releases to copy and paste?”

You gestured toward her with your tablet. “Don’t you have raptors to whisper to?”

Ellie grinned, tired and amused. “Touché.”

You sat across from her on a cooler. She didn’t offer the coffee, you didn’t ask.

“I need a quote,” you said.

Her smile vanished. “About what?”

“The influencer thing,” you admitted.

She exhaled through her nose and rubbed the back of her neck. Grease smeared higher across her cheek.

“I told them,” she muttered. “Told them not to bring cameras near Roo. She doesn’t like flashing lights. Makes her nervous.”

You stayed quiet. Not the time to turn on a camera.

“They had a whole goddamn ring light,” Ellie said, voice low. “Pointed straight at her. The guests got scared, so did she. Then security panics and sets off the siren. Good job, everyone.”

Eventually, she stood.

“You want a soundbite?” she asked, brushing her hands off on her cargo pants.

You waited.

She looked down at you.

“Tell them this isn’t a petting zoo,” she said. “These animals aren’t props. They’re thinking, breathing creatures. If you poked a bear in the woods with a selfie stick, whose fault would that be?”

You swallowed. “That’s not exactly... soft.”

Ellie tilted her head. “You want me to lie?”

“No,” you said, softer. “I want you to keep your job.”

That got her. A flicker of something passed through her eyes—surprise maybe. She stepped closer and dropped her voice.

“Okay. Try this: ‘The handlers at Jurassic World prioritise the mental health of every creature in our care. Safety and respect come first—on both sides of the fence.’”

You typed as fast as you could.

Ellie leaned over, tapped your screen with a single finger.

“Then add: ‘Some animals, like Delta, are sensitive to sudden light. We ask all guests to follow our guidelines to protect both themselves and the dinosaurs they came to see.’”

You looked up at her. “That was... actually perfect.”

She smirked. “I can do optics. Doesn’t mean I like it.”

Later, you sat alone on the roof of Dorm C, tablet balanced on your knees, watching the video you shot yesterday before uploading.

In the final cut, you watched a shot of Ellie walking alongside the paddock fence with the sun burning gold behind her.

You clicked publish.

The video went live at 6:49 pm, by 7:03 it was trending and the comments poured in.

Hear me out, She’s so serious I love her, and Mother.

You didn’t tell Ellie, but you saved the top comment anyway.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

Every now and then, the schedule lined up just right. Two staff members off-duty. No emergency drills. No PR fires to put out. A window. A breath.

And Ellie took it.

You didn’t take one of the trams. Ellie drove you out herself—an old off-roader that smelled like engine oil, tires kicking up trails of red dust as she pulled away from the paved park roads and into the island’s interior. The farther you went, the more the sounds of the resort faded—until there was only jungle. It wasn’t on any map they gave guests, no visitor trails or attractions.

“You’re not gonna murder me out here, are you?” you joked, peering through the trees.

Ellie grinned. “Not unless you start talking about CGI inaccuracies again.”

She parked at the edge of a ridge overlooking a narrow river. The canopy opened above you into streaks of blue and gold. A breeze moved through the high branches, the air wet and fresh, bird calls echoed through the valley.

Ellie plopped down in the dirt like she’d been here a hundred times before. “This was all here before the board meetings, before the fences, before the holograms. And it’ll all still be here when the last attraction breaks down.”

You sat beside her. The earth was warm under your palms.

“You ever think about what you’d be doing if you hadn’t come here?”

You nodded. “All the time.”

“And?”

You shrugged. “Maybe still in PR. Just… for a less cursed brand.”

Ellie smirked. “Like cereal.”

You laughed. “Exactly. Something safe. Something where the biggest crisis is oat milk backlash.”

She picked up a stick and started absentmindedly dragging it through the dirt—first a spiral, then something more detailed: the suggestion of a raptor skull, curved and sharp and familiar. She was quiet for a while, drawing.

Then she said, “You know what I wanted to be when I was a kid?”

You shook your head.

“Astronaut.”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

Ellie smirked. “Yeah. Had the poster on my wall. Memorised the Apollo missions. Wrote a letter to NASA when I was nine asking if they’d let me bring my best friend.”

You laughed softly. “What’d they say?”

“They didn’t write back.” She gave a one-shouldered shrug, casual on the surface but threaded with something more tender. “I kept dreaming about it anyway. Floating above Earth. Being the first person to touch something that hadn’t been touched.” She paused. “Guess I still got that last part.”

You looked over at her. “What changed?”

Ellie pressed the stick into the soil. “I hit high school, and science was harder. Math was never fun. Biology clicked, and space didn’t.”

There was something in her voice that made your chest ache. Not regret, exactly. Just the trace of a fork in the road, a fig that hadn’t been taken from the tree. The version of her who might have gone up instead of underground.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

The dorms weren’t glamorous.

Faux-wood floors, standard-issue twin bed, metal desk with drawers that stuck, a narrow kitchenette with two mugs that were never clean at the same time, one window that opened exactly three inches. Jurassic World spared no expense for the dinosaurs, but the interns? You learned quickly how to make do.

Somehow, though, the place felt luxurious when Ellie was in it.

She kept leaving things behind: a thermos, a hoodie, the Jurassic World issue of National Geographic with her notes scribbled in the margins. She always ended up back here, always found her way to your side of the compound when shifts ended and the park dimmed for the night.

Lunch wasn’t a planned thing.

It started after a meeting, both of you too tired to go back to work, the cafeteria mostly empty. Ellie dragged her tray to your table without asking, dropped into the seat across from you like she’d been doing it forever. She had her sleeves rolled up and a smudge of something dark under her cheekbone, like she’d leaned against the wall of the paddock and forgot about it.

She looked exhausted.

You slid your extra protein bar across the table without a word. She didn’t say thank you, just peeled it open and ate half in two bites.

“A trainer tried to feed Scylla a banana.”

You blinked. “Why?”

“She said she read somewhere that primates liked them and thought maybe—” Ellie cut herself off, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I can’t keep having these conversations.”

You bit your lip to hide your laugh. “Did Scylla eat it?”

“She spat it out!”

You pushed your tray closer to hers. Shared space, shared air. When she picked at the lettuce on your plate without asking, you didn’t stop her.

That afternoon, back in your dorm, Ellie dozed on your bed with one foot still on the ground. You sat at your desk, typing half-heartedly, sneaking glances every few lines.

Her breathing slowed. Softened.

You turned down the brightness on your screen and let yourself stare. There was something vulnerable about her when she was asleep. Less fire, less focus.

Her arm shifted, and her fingers brushed your pillow like she was reaching in her sleep.

Your heart jumped.

You turned away, flustered. Pretended to read a park protocol memo. Didn’t take in a word of it.

That evening, she cooked.

Not well or efficiently, but she refused any help. You offered, but she waved you off and handed you a drink instead. “This is a one-woman show. Sit and be amazed.”

She stood barefoot, chopping onions with the dullest knife in the drawer and humming something under her breath, maybe Fleetwood Mac or something from her endless playlist of 70s deep cuts, you weren’t sure. She burned the first round of garlic toast. She swore loudly. You laughed so hard your stomach hurt.

Dinner turned out… edible. You both sat cross-legged on the floor, plates in laps, knees bumping.

“This is terrible,” you said around a mouthful.

“Shut up,” she said, grinning. “You’re eating it.”

“Only out of fear.”

She nudged your knee. “Coward.”

You leaned back on your palms, looked at her.

“I like this,” you said.

Her smile faltered slightly, became something smaller. “What?”

“This. You. Here.”

Ellie looked at you for a long moment, unreadable.

Then she reached for your plate and took the last piece of toast.

“Me too,” she said.

Later, when the lights were off and the window cracked open to let in island air, she curled up behind you without asking, one arm slung loosely around your waist. Her breath warmed the back of your neck.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

The week hit like a monsoon, you barely had time to breathe. You fielded incident reports, coordinated guest services, drafted press responses in thirty-second bursts. You worked through lunch. You took dinner at your desk. You fell asleep in a chair two nights in a row.

And through it all, there was Ellie.

Sort of.

You saw her once—midweek. Briefly.

She caught you outside the main building, a clipboard tucked under one arm, sunglasses perched on her head. She looked flushed and windblown, like she’d just come from the raptor paddock. Her shirt stuck to her back. Her hands were dusty.

“Hey,” she said, jogging to catch up. “I was hoping I’d run into you.”

You were already walking.

“Sorry,” you said quickly. “I’m heading to the office—there was a perimeter breach yesterday, and apparently that means communications has to rewrite the entire emergency script again because no one in legal can do their fucking jobs.”

She fell into step beside you, smile dipping a little. “Right. Yeah. No worries.”

You didn’t notice the shift in her tone. Or if you did, you ignored it.

Ellie gave a short nod, one hand hovering awkwardly like she’d meant to reach for your arm.

Then she said, “Don’t work yourself to death, okay?”

But the door had already closed behind you.

She didn’t come by that night, or the next.

You told yourself it didn’t matter, that she was busy too. If she needed you, she’d say so.

But every time you opened your dorm door and saw that she hadn’t left anything behind—no hoodie, no coffee cup, no scrawled note—something in you pinched.

The silence wasn’t cruel. It was worse than that.

It was polite.

By Friday, you were frayed at the edges. The comms team cleared out early. Some kind of mixer for the PR interns, catered with branded cupcakes and a weirdly peppy playlist of noughties throwbacks. You told them you had emails to finish, but you lingered in the empty office, lights half-dimmed, hands idle.

And finally, when you couldn’t stand it anymore, you grabbed your badge and left.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

The raptor paddock was quiet at this hour.

The jungle edge glowed gold. You leaned against the low fence, heartbeat a little louder than it needed to be.

You weren’t even sure why you’d come.

But then—you heard her voice.

“Good. Good, Jinx, yeah, that’s it—move slow.”

You turned just in time to see Ellie moving through the inner track. She had one hand raised towards Jinx, her movements fluid, confident. She was in her element, every line of her body relaxed but alert. The trainers nearby deferred to her, stepping back when she approached.

She was magnetic.

You suddenly felt like a ghost.

You waited until Jinx was redirected, until Ellie handed off her radio to another staff member, until she peeled off her gloves and stepped toward the break area alone.

You followed.

“Hey,” you said.

She looked up.

The smile she gave you was faint. Careful. “Hey.”

“I—uh, I didn’t mean to blow you off the other day,” you started. “It’s just been… a lot.”

Ellie nodded. “I figured.”

You hated how neutral her voice sounded. Like she’d coached it into steadiness.

“I missed you,” you said, softer.

Ellie didn’t look at you right away. She stared out toward the trees, jaw tight.

“I didn’t want to make it weird,” she said finally.

You stepped closer. “It’s not weird.”

“It felt weird,” she replied, still not looking at you. “Like maybe I imagined more than what this is. Or was. I don’t even know if you even like— Forget it.”

The words hit harder than they should’ve.

“You didn’t imagine it.”

She looked at you then, maybe a little hurt.

“I’m bad at balance,” you said, a little broken. “I pour into the job until I forget there’s a me underneath it.”

Ellie’s shoulders eased slightly. “Yeah. I know that feeling.”

“I didn’t mean to make you doubt.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

She gave a small smile. “But I’m not going to chase you through it. I care about you. Enough to give you space. Just… don’t wait too long to come back.”

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

You stood outside her door for what felt like a full minute.

It was too quiet. The usual hum of the compound felt distant here, muffled behind thick walls and late-night haze. You could hear your own heartbeat in your ears.

One knock, that’s all it took.

When the door opened, Ellie was standing there barefoot, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends. She wore an oversized grey shirt that hung off one shoulder and loose black shorts that looked like she’d had them since high school. Her eyes were tired, like she hadn’t been sleeping.

You stepped inside.

Her dorm was nothing like yours. The lighting was dim—one warm bulb over the bed, the rest off. The smell was a mix of sandalwood and cedar that clung to her clothes. A raptor plush sat on the windowsill next to a sun-bleached paperback copy of The Lost World and a tin of black guitar picks. Her desk was half-covered in field notes, fossil diagrams, and a mug full of broken pencils. There were stars painted on her ceiling—tiny, glow-in-the-dark ones, peeling at the corners. A few had drifted down to the floor.

And in the far corner, propped against the wall next to a stack of old music magazines, was a handmade guitar, a moth delicately carved to match her arm. The strings were a little loose. One of them looked like it had been replaced with fishing wire.

She noticed you looking. “My dad made it.”

“Seriously?” You approached it gently, like it might crumble if you touched it wrong. “It’s beautiful.”

“Sounds like shit if it’s not tuned,” she said with a smile. “But yeah. It’s mine.”

There was a long pause.

Then, from her spot by the door, Ellie asked, “Did you come here to say something?”

You hesitated. “No. I just wanted to be near you.”

Her expression didn’t change. But something behind her eyes softened. “Are you sure?”

You nodded. “I missed you.”

Ellie broke.

She reached for your face, and her touch was both careful and hungry. Her fingers brushed your jaw, your cheek, and then she kissed you.

And god, did she kiss you.

You melted into it, into her, into the way her lips moved slow and certain over yours, into the warmth of her hands sliding behind your neck. She tasted like mint, like she’d just brushed her teeth, ready for bed. The bed— you backed her towards it without even realising it, one hand tangled in the hem of her shirt, the other gripping her waist. She gasped when her knees hit the mattress, and then you were climbing into her lap, half-straddling her, mouths still locked together.

Ellie pulled back just long enough to breathe, her forehead pressed to yours. “I’ve wanted this,” she murmured.

You kissed her again, deeper this time, slower. Your hands roamed over her hips, the curve of her back. She made a sound in the back of her throat when your lips grazed the corner of her jaw, then her throat, then just below her ear.

“You smell like rain,” you whispered, lips brushing her skin.

“I have showered,” she said, voice shaky but smiling.

“Didn’t say it was a bad thing.”

She shifted, pressing up into you, hands now sliding under your shirt, palms splayed warm across your spine. Her touch was reverent, exploratory, like she couldn’t believe you were really here.

You pulled away just enough to look at her.

Her cheeks were flushed, lips swollen, eyes wide and glassy like you were something she was still trying to process.

“You okay?” you asked softly.

“More than,” she whispered.

#ellie williams x reader #ellie williams #ellie x reader #ellie tlou #ellie williams x you #ellie williams fluff #ellie williams fanfic

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mxrcurysb1tch · 3 months ago

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⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ 💌 Venus through the signs pt. 11 💌 ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅

☽｡⋆ Thank you guys sm for the support on the first one, here is part 2! Also thank you guys sm for almost 600 followers?? That’s crazy! As always, take what resonates and leave the rest! xo

☽｡⋆ Libra Venus- Often thought of as superficial but this is nothing more than a generalisation. Charming and full of social graces, this venus knows how to make people feel loved. Detached enough to not feel the sting of unrequited love too deeply but also extremely committed and willing to completely merge lives, that is the somewhat dual nature of Libra. Just don’t ask them to plan the wedding because no decisions are getting made! They are happy to let you take the lead in love and if they trust you they are easygoing and see the good side of every one they meet. You can always count on a Libra Venus to make you feel special and cared about. They’re infinitely sweet and calming to be around.

☽｡⋆ Scorpio Venus- You belong to me. Passion is the game here. Scorpio Venus does not want partners who are only in it for a fling. They want to merge souls. I know it’s a cliche but they want depth and unwavering commitment. Sometimes it can border on control and jealousy if they aren’t careful. They are incredibly discrete lovers and will never cause a public scene or be one for PDA but they are extremely intense and passionate. If you are looking for somebody who can see into your soul and explore your inner depths with you, look no further. They’re super observant too, and will likely go above and beyond to please and win the affections of the one that has their heart because truly once you’ve captivated them, you’re not going to shrug them off all that easily.

☽｡⋆ Sagittarius Venus- A love that acts as a safe landing and allows them to explore is what they desire. This does not mean that they’re disloyal, simply that they are in love with all of the journeys and opportunities that life has to offer them. They won’t be comfortable with a partner who wants to clip their wings and offer them nothing except routine and practicality. The ideal partner for a sag Venus is someone who wants to grow with them and inspire them on their various life paths. They want to be with someone interesting, fun and idealistic like them. The issue here may be their reluctance to discuss anything tangible and permanent. They can be rather slippery and hard to pin down, and they will be the first to run away when things get too real! All in all though they’re incredibly upbeat and exciting lovers and they can seriously broaden your horizons.

☽｡⋆ Capricorn Venus- This Venus has a certain sweetness to it. Maybe they don’t get carried away with romantic fantasies or delusions (at least not outwardly) but they would do anything for their loved ones. They offer such a stable, practical love that is hard to not appreciate. They might know exactly what it is you need and get it for you without so much as a fuss. They also aren’t scared of playing the long game as they know what they want and know that good things take time. That is what makes Capricorn Venus so romantic, their dedication and their quiet love. Their thoughtful gestures will make you glow warm inside. Once this Venus has decided what they want there is no match to their loyalty and commitment.

☽｡⋆ Aquarius Venus- This venus is not a romantic in the traditional sense. Out of all the Venus signs this is the one that is most likely to be uninterested in monogamy. They may have many friends and are extremely kind and supportive towards the people in their life. However, their one true love is their restless pursuit of knowledge and change. This may just prevent them from wanting to be tied down by the shackles of a relationship. Should they decide they are interested in commitment though, it will be with someone who can respect their lofty goals and idealistic visions. Love won’t be at the forefront of their agenda and they will need somebody who can understand that. Love is something that is uplifting to them but not life changing, they know that love and romance won’t save them. They can be very inspiring and interesting partners.

☽｡⋆ Pisces Venus- oh sweet Pisces Venus. There’s a reason that this Venus is exalted. Extremely artistic and caring, they pour all of their emotions into love. There are no boundaries or restrictions here, they will give their all in relationships. Their ability to romanticise their partners might rival even cancer Venus. Unfortunately for them though they might get taken advantage of by those that want to corrupt their innocence and purity. They’re not all naive though, they just want to make the best out of what life has handed them and that is an admirable thing. They just have to be careful not to linger around too long when things are sour because they are chasing a dream. They are insanely sweet people though and this is shown through in all of their close relationships.

#astroblr #astrology #astrology signs #astrology community #astrology observations #astro placements #astro observations

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sunseed-fandump · 4 months ago

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Jailhouse Rock

The kids make a new (and very questionable) friend.

AU: Bad Batch Word Count: 3,281

Well, it was official, this was the most awkward moment of Gingerbrave’s life.

The jail cell was a cramped little thing, definitely not something built with the idea of containing more than one prisoner, just like the jailhouse itself didn’t seem to be built with that many criminals in mind, as there was only one cell. He supposed it made sense that a small town in the middle of the desert wouldn’t expect too many criminals stopping by, let alone having the misfortune of all of them being caught at the same time. Yet here they were.

It wasn’t like they had wanted to get caught. This was actually one of the few times they had bothered to keep a low profile. They had stopped into town for supplies on their trip down the Pilgrim’s Path, and figured it would be best for their long journey to conserve their energy. Just get in, grab the stuff, toss the money on the counter, get out. Simple.

Then things got decidedly less simple when a couple of bounty hunters recognized the kids from their wanted posters. (When did those get printed? They looked so cool! Gingerbrave hoped he got to take one home to put up on his bedroom wall.) The scuffle resulted in a lot of property damage, Wizard getting a minor concussion, and all three kids getting hit with tranquilizer darts. Who the hell carries those around? Well, those guys, apparently.

An hour later found the trio waking up disoriented, disarmed, and awaiting transfer to the nearest Kingdom for processing. Oh, and they had a cellmate. A cellmate who seemingly hated their guts if the way she scowled at them from the other side of the tiny cell was any indication.

Resulting in the awkward stare-down that was currently happening. On his right, Wild Strawberry seemingly lost interest and started fidgeting with the drawstrings on her hood. Meanwhile to his left, Wizard had begun muttering something to himself. (A quick glance to the clock on the wall beyond the bars told Gingerbrave they probably had about an hour or two before Wizard started going off the deep-end due to withdrawal from his stupid staff. Gingerbrave couldn’t stand that parasite…)

Luckily, since he was undead, Gingerbrave didn’t have to blink, which meant he could literally stare at this weird angry lady all day if he wanted. He didn’t want to, though, so instead he tried to strike up a conversation.

“So, uh…” He scratched at the stitches on his neck. “What are you in for?”

The cookie’s scowl deepened. She was a spicy cookie if the red hair and strong scent was any indication. Her hair was done up in a ponytail and she had a scar on her forehead. She was dressed in the traditional black-and-white striped outfit one typically associated with criminals. Gingerbrave wondered, when the sheriff came back, if they would be expected to get changed into something similar.

At the cookie’s lack of a response and neither of his friends lending him a hand, Gingerbrave decided to keep talking.

“Right. Anyway, I’m Gingerbrave, and these are my friends Wizard and Wild Strawberry—“ He was cut off by the other cookie’s very clipped response.

“I know who you are.” She crossed her arms and leaned back against the wall. It seemed that was all she felt like saying though as any attempt to talk to her earned the boy the cold shoulder.

Gingerbrave eventually figured she was a lost cause, and judging by Wizard starting to rock back and forth from where he was seated, he was beginning to head into the first stages. So it was time to get going.

“Alright, we’re gonna leave now.” Gingerbrave said with a shrug before getting up from his seat and heading over to the front of the cell. He pressed his face up against the bars to get a better view of the hallway. He could just barely make out the sheriff’s office at the end of the hall. No doubt, that’s probably where their stuff was. Judging by how quiet it was, the sheriff was still out doing whatever it was that sheriffs did, which meant Gingerbrave had to be quick.

The boy tested the bars. Solid as a rock and he had neglected to bring any of his stronger arms with him. Unfortunate, but he’d have to work with it.

“Hey, Wizard,” Gingerbrave looked over to the shorter boy, who seemed to briefly snap out of whatever daze he had slipped into. “If I can get you your staff, could you get us out of here?”

“Yes!” He replied way too quickly, before shaking his head and rubbing at his temples. The migraine must have been setting in. “Yes, get me my staff and I can teleport us.”

“Sounds like a plan!” And without any hesitation Gingerbrave grabbed at his forearm just under the stitches on his left elbow, and snapped it off.

“WHAT THE HELL?!” The spicy cookie jumped back, clearly startled; all the color had drained from her face in an instant. All the kids laughed a little at her expense. (Even Strawberry, with a barely restrained ‘pfft!’)

“It’s fine! See?” The severed hand waved at her like nothing was wrong. “Watch this!” He gently set it down to the floor where, with a bit of awkward finagling he got it balanced on its fingers like a spider. He walked his hand out of the cell, slipping it between the bars, and all the cookies watched as it scuttled down the hall towards the office. Gingerbrave scrunched up his face in concentration, leaning the stub of his left arm out of the cell as far as it could go to help keep his hand within range. His spirit could stretch pretty far, but not forever, and he wanted to make sure he had full reign of the office.

Okay, that felt like the office chair. There’s the desk. He poked around a little to the right and hit a wall so maybe if he…

“Does that hurt…?” The spicy cookie’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts briefly and the boy looked over his shoulder at her. Huh, that usually wasn’t the first reaction he got when severing his parts in front of new cookies. Usually it was fear, panic, and accusations of being a dough-eating monster, but this cookie’s initial surprise had melted into an emotion Gingerbrave wasn’t quite familiar with.

“Nah, they were made to come off.” Gingerbrave said with a shrug before turning his attention back to feeling around the distant room. What was that? A bookshelf? Maybe he should try a few paces to the left.

The spicy cookie gave him an assessing look before turning her attention to the other two, specifically Wizard who was looking a little more harrowed than usual. “Yo, shortstack, you good?”

Gingerbrave snorted at the nickname. Oh! That felt like a chest! Maybe their stuff was in there but… it was locked. Rats. Then again, maybe the staff couldn’t fit? Probably best to be thorough.

“I’ll be fine once Gingerbrave gets my staff back.” Wizard said with a harrumph and a mutter of “I’m not short…”

“What’s the hold up? Any longer and Wizard is gonna start getting all freaky.” Strawberry asked, to which Gingerbrave huffed.

“I’m trying!! This would’ve been a lot easier if I was awake when we were brought in. Wizard, tell your stupid staff to be less stupid—!”

‘BANG!’

A screech ripped itself out of Gingerbrave when pain shot through his hand. He flung himself back from the bars, hitting the opposite wall and clutching at his stubby arm as if it would stop the pain. He heard a few exclamations of surprise from the cookies around him along with a horrified scream from down the hall followed by two more gunshots that (thankfully) missed their mark.

The sheriff was back and he just shot Gingerbrave in the hand.

His hand scuttled wildly around the office, blindly bumping into everything in an attempt to get to some kind of cover. Wild Strawberry had gotten up and put a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

“He shot me…!” Gingerbrave bit out between clenched teeth just as a few more shots rang out, one of them glancing the boy’s dough.

“Screw this.” The spicy cookie flung herself at the cell door and after a few moments it popped open…

Wait, what?

“You could’ve done that this whole time?!” Strawberry voiced what Gingerbrave was in too much pain to say.

“Shut up and move!” Replied the other cookie who sprung out of the cell and down the hall. Wizard was right on her heels, no doubt seeing the opportunity to get his staff and not at all caring about the actively shooting lawman. Wild Strawberry called out to him, cursed under her breath when she was ignored, then grabbed Gingerbrave and hauled him out of the cell to give chase.

They arrived just in time to watch the spicy cookie deliver a round-house kick to the sheriff’s face, sending him flying back and hitting his head on the corner of the bookshelf, knocking him out cold.

“How could a cookie that moves so slow become sheriff? Can’t believe I let myself get caught by this moron…” she tsked and checked his pockets.

“There you are!” Wizard exclaimed happily before flinging himself at his staff that was propped up in an umbrella stand for some weird reason. He scooped it up into his hands, the tension practically melted from his body as he felt the staff’s familiar magic settle once more within his dough. “That fool didn’t shoot you, did he…? No?” He sighed in relief.

Gingerbrave looked at the scene with a small frown, but held his tongue. Instead he focused on trying to find his hand. He experimentally tapped his fingers against the nearest hard surface and cringed at the pain blossoming from his fresh wounds.

Wild Strawberry Cookie got down on her knees and checked under the desk when she heard tapping, sure enough, there was Gingerbrave’s hand with a bullet wound in it. “Got it.” She pulled it out and held it up for her friend to take, who cradled it close to his chest. “I’ll get the extra icing stitches from my backpack and we can stitch everything up.”

“No time.” Wild Strawberry jumped when her backpack and lollipop were shoved into her arms by the spicy cookie. She had picked the sheriff’s pockets clean, gotten the keys to the chest in the corner, and cleaned that out too. She strapped a belt around her waste and clipped two daggers to her side. “All that ruckus is gonna have the whole town coming down on top of us. Pointy hat, if you got magic I suggest you start using it!”

“My name is Wizard–!” The small boy’s correction was cut off by the glass of the window shattering in front of him.

“GET DOWN!” She grabbed Gingerbrave and Strawberry and pulled them behind the desk. Wizard, who had been a bit further away, joined them shortly after just as a hail of bullets poured in through both windows and the open front door. “Unless you wanna have more holes than swiss cheese then I suggest you get us out of here!!”

Wizard growled, but instead of snapping at her, he focused on the vocal components of a well-practiced spell. A magic circle appeared beneath the group of cookies and in a flash they were gone. One moment they were hiding under a desk, the next they were on top of a bluff overlooking the town. The gunshots, once deafening, were nothing but an echo on the rocks at this distance.

The spicy cookie stumbled, not used to the sensation of being teleported around, caught herself, and then let out a huge ‘WOO!’

“Wow! What a day!” She exclaimed with a sigh of relief.

“Tell me about it…” Wild Strawberry muttered as she dug into her backpack and pulled out the icing stitches. “Yo, Gingerbrave, let’s get your arm back on.”

“Y-Yeah…” The other boy hissed, allowing himself to be guided over to a rock and took a seat.

“That was some nice quick-casting there, pointy hat!” The spicy cookie went to pat Wizard on the back, but paused. “Oh, right, I’m supposed to be mad at you guys…” She pondered this for a moment before shaking her head with a laugh and then patting him anyway. “Ah, but it’s hard to stay mad after such a fun jailbreak! Definitely one of my favorite ones yet!”

“Who even are you?” Wizard Cookie turned on her, giving her an absolutely baffled look as he adjusted his hat.

“And, uh, why are you mad at us?” Gingerbrave called over, trying to remain as still as possible while Strawberry worked. It wasn’t like they weren’t used to being scorned by most, if not all, of Crispia, but this strange cookie’s anger seemed rather out of left field. The spicy cookie reared back, as if offended by this line of questioning.

“You mean you guys don’t recognize me?! Seriously? And here I thought you were supposed to be big shots…” She reached into her pocket and produced a rolled up piece of paper which was quickly revealed to be a wanted poster that she unraveled with a proud flourish. “The name’s Chili Pepper Cookie and I’m the best thief in the world! There’s nothing on Earthbread I can’t steal.”

“Whoa! Look at that bounty!” Gingerbrave gasped at the sight of all the zeroes. “But… Uh… What does that have to do with being mad at us?”

“Because!” She rolled the paper back up and jabbed a finger at the trio. “Your collective bounties are higher than MINE! How am I supposed to go down in history if I’m being outclassed by a bunch of twerps?!”

Wizard Cookie sputtered indignantly at this revelation. Wild Strawberry stared at her, thoroughly unimpressed. Gingerbrave, however, burst into laughter.

“That’s what all of this was about!?” He cackled a few moments, clutching his aching gut, before settling down and saying breathily, “You’re a weird cookie. I like you!”

“If you want our bounties, you can have them! They’re what got us into trouble in the first place!” Wizard huffed.

Chili Pepper tilted her head, fixing them with a weird look. “Wait, you mean to tell me you aren’t in this for the infamy? Guess that’s why I haven’t seen you around the usual haunts rubbing your status in everyone's faces. You’re totally out of the loop!” She brightened, as if this revelation was both a massive relief and a big joke at the same time.

“Yeah we’re… not really interested in whatever weird crime competition this is.” Wild Strawberry Cookie shook her head as she finished up Gingerbrave’s stitches and stashed the spool into her bag. “If anything those bounties make reaching our goal harder…”

Chili Pepper Cookie looked at her as if she had grown a second head. “What could a group of kids like you want so badly you land bounties that put you in the criminal elite?”

“We’re going to steal the Soul Jam to free the world!” Gingerbrave proudly announced, jumping to his feet, he was already feeling a lot better now that his wounds were stitched up.

“A world without judgement!” Wizard added with a nod.

“And lawlessness…” Wild Strawberry muttered.

Chili Pepper Cookie gave the three children a thoughtful expression, putting a hand to her chin with a little ‘huh…’ before shooting a wide grin at the kids. “Well, I’m not sure about half of that, but I can definitely get behind the stealing and lawlessness parts! Are those Soul Jam things shiny?”

“They are incredibly powerful magical artifacts that have the capability of changing the world as we know it!” Wizard rattled off. When Chili Pepper gave him a blank look, he sighed and said, “And they’re shiny, yes.”

“Hey, I have an idea,” Gingerbrave cut in with a wide smile. “Chili Pepper Cookie, why don’t you come with us?” He got a mixed reaction of surprise and confusion from the cookies around him. Wizard Cookie and Wild Strawberry Cookie knew that Gingerbrave didn’t just extend offers like this to just anyone. He might have been the more chipper and outgoing of their group, but he didn’t trust others so easily. He must have really liked something Chili Pepper did or said to even think about such a proposal.

“You want me to come with you? Why?” Chili Pepper was just as confused as Gingerbrave’s friends. She couldn’t imagine them wanting her around after she gave them the silent treatment back in the jail cell.

“You seem fun.” Was Gingerbrave’s simple reply. “You helped us get out of that jail cell when you really didn’t have to. Plus, if you travel with us, I’m sure your bounty will sky rocket! And we could use the world’s greatest thief on our team!”

Chili Pepper Cookie seriously considered his proposal for a minute. When she had first heard about them and their rapid climbing of the leaderboard, she had thought they were nothing but a bunch of punk kids who wanted to be rowdy and cause trouble. Now she could see though, they had bigger plans than just topping the charts of the Underworld. She could appreciate such a large ambition.

Besides they didn’t seem to be jamthirsty monsters like all the rumors said they were. They were just… weird. The criminal underworld had plenty of downright monstrous folks who Chili Pepper tried not to associate with, but she could tell, these kids didn’t seem heartless. Mischievous, yes. Troubled? Absolutely. But not heartless.

“You know what?” Chili Pepper grinned. “I’ll think about it. But for right now, I got a job I need to finish.”

“A job?” Wild Strawberry asked just as Chili Pepper turned to walk towards the cliff that overlooked the town.

“Yeah? Do you think the greatest thief in the world would screw up and get arrested in a nothing town like this?” She gestured to the settlement below. “I let myself get caught! The train they were gonna put us on has a massive safe full of gems. I was gonna bust out of my cuffs mid-transfer and clean it out! But now I guess I gotta do it the good old fashioned way…”

Gingerbrave once again laughed, giving Chili Pepper a sharp grin. “Well, if you decide you wanna join up, head to the Bear Jelly Village in the Land of Little Big Dreams! There’s a cookie there who’ll point you in the right direction.” With that he raised a hand in farewell. “Good luck, Chili Pepper Cookie!”

Chili Pepper gave the kids a mock salute. “See you around, stitches! Make sure you stay out of any more jail cells, punks!” With that she jumped over the side as nimble as an acrobat, and out of sight.

“Well, that was certainly… interesting.” Wizard sighed, before clutching his stomach. “But we failed to get any supplies, and teleporting us this far has made me famished…”

“Right… I forgot about that…” Gingerbrave’s brow furrowed. Should they try heading back into town and risking getting arrested again? Did they push forward and hoped they reach the next town before they starved? He didn’t really know much about hunting or foraging, but he doubted they’d be able to sustain themselves with much in this sugar-free wasteland.

“Hey, look!” Wild Strawberry pointed further up the main road where the kids could see a huge cloud of dust being kicked up. “I think that’s a caravan.”

All three kids stared at it for a long moment.

“Welp!” Gingerbrave clapped his hands together. “Fellas, it’s time to commit robbery!”

“YEAH!!” Strawberry and Wizard raised their respective weapons into the air, excited at the prospect of getting some food in their stomachs. With that, the trio ran off to intercept those travelers.

From the bottom of the cliff, Chili Pepper watched the kids disappear. She lingered for a moment, deep in thought…

‘CHOO CHOOOOOOO!’

The thief turned on her heel and raced towards the tracks. Their paths would cross again someday, but for now, she has a train to catch.

#bad batch #my art #chili pepper cookie #gingerbrave #wizard cookie #strawberry cookie #crk au #cookie run fanfic #cr fanfic #cookie run #cookie run kingdom

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magnagaruzenmon · 3 months ago

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The Trader

I had Dio help me write this first person story inspired by @lustspren’s flashing light stories

It always surprised me where my business would take me. One day, I was sipping champagne on a yacht in international waters, watching kings and criminals swap secrets. Today, it was somewhere quieter—but no less dangerous.

I pulled into the parking lot of a glitzy, low-lit establishment, the kind that smelled like money, sex, and expensive regret. Stepping out of my car, I barely had time to straighten my jacket before a mountain of a man blocked my path. Tattoos snaked up his arms, and his expression could have made a brick wall flinch.

“You better have good reason for being here,” he said, his English clipped but clear.

I raised my hands, keeping my tone light.

“I do.” I flipped through my notes, just for show. “I’m here to meet Daisuke and Takuya.”

He squinted, suspicious.

“You an American?”

I nodded, smiling easy.

“Born and raised. I specialize in moving rare, exotic, and priceless goods between parties—without involving U.S. dollars. Discreetly.”

He stepped closer, the air thickening between us—until a smooth, commanding voice slid in.

“Leave him alone, Takashi.”

The man stiffened, turning, and I took the opportunity to step around him. That’s when I saw her.

A young woman with striking silver hair and a figure that could make priests reconsider their vows strolled toward me. Her hips swayed lazily, her eyes full of trouble—and the kind of heat you don’t walk away from unscathed.

“You’re not from around here,” she teased, stopping close enough that I caught a hint of vanilla and danger on her skin.

I nodded, my gaze shameless.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” I said, not even trying to filter myself.

She smiled, slow and pleased, before turning to Takashi.

“I’ll watch him. Go stand guard for the bosses’ boyfriend,” she said, her tone dripping with amusement. Takashi grumbled under his breath but obeyed, casting one last warning look my way.

Without missing a beat, the woman grabbed my wrist—her touch light but deliberate—and pulled me toward the door.

“Name’s Sana,” she said, glancing at me from under thick lashes. “And you, stranger, owe me one.”

Still dazed from the way her hand fit against mine, I managed,

“Danzaborou… but call me Danzo.”

She laughed, a soft, wicked sound that curled around me like smoke.

“Danzo, huh? Cute.” She smiles as she guides me but my eyes are glued to her vile waist and ass. Sana purrs saying,” Take a picture—it’ll last longer,” she teased, catching me staring.

Feeling bolder, I let my gaze sweep her figure again—slow, deliberate.

“What if I want more than a picture?” I said, my voice low. “What’s your price?”

Sana stopped abruptly, forcing me to stop too. She turned, dragging her fingers lightly down my chest, the touch leaving a trail of fire.

“You couldn’t afford me,” she said, voice dropping to a whisper that brushed against my lips.

I leaned in just a little closer, smirking.

“I deal in rare treasures,” I murmured. “I pay well.”

She chuckled darkly, her fingers still lingering on me.

“Oh? In what currency?” she teased, tilting her head. “Dollars? Diamonds? Or maybe something a little more… intimate?”

I arched a brow, loving how she played the game.

“I’m fluent in several forms of payment,” I said, letting my voice dip low. “You just have to name your price.”

Sana laughed, a sound so rich it sent shivers down my spine. She leaned in, her lips a breath away from mine.

“Maybe I’ll let you make me an offer later,” she whispered. “If you impress me.”

She pulled back, her fingers sliding away from my chest way too slowly, before adding with a smirk,

“Finish your business first, Danzo… then meet me upstairs. Second floor. I’ll be waiting.”

She gave me one last, lingering look—like she was already imagining how I might pay up—then turned and disappeared into the dark velvet interior of the club, leaving my pulse hammering in my ears.

Yeah. Business could wait. Sana had just made sure of that.

I nodded as Sana glided away, unable to stop my eyes from following the hypnotic sway of her hips as she ascended the stairs. Her body moved with the kind of effortless confidence that could start wars. Halfway up, she glanced back over her shoulder, locking eyes with me. A slow, knowing smile curved her lips, and with a playful flick of her fingers, she gave a little shooing motion.

It snapped me out of my trance, reluctantly reminding me I still had business to handle.

The Weeknd’s “Cry for Me” pulsed through the speakers, the heavy beat thudding in time with my racing pulse as I made my way deeper into the club. The atmosphere inside was thick—dim lights, velvet booths, the faint haze of expensive cigars. Even as I moved toward my goal, I couldn’t help but glance up to the second floor every few steps, where Sana had disappeared like a forbidden promise.

Focus, Danzo. Business first.

I found Takuya and Daisuke posted up at the bar, laughing and sloppily clinking glasses. They looked a few drinks past sober, deep in the kind of rich-boy debauchery only people with too much money and too little responsibility could pull off.

Behind the bar, I spotted someone I hadn’t seen in years—Aeri Uchinaga, though everyone here seemed to know her better as Giselle. She hadn’t changed much: same mischievous eyes, same quick smile. Her gaze landed on me, widening in surprise.

“Danzo?” she gasped, blinking like she wasn’t sure she was seeing right. She leaned over the bar slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “What the hell are you doing here?”

I jerked a thumb toward the two businessmen, grinning.

“Work,” I said simply.

Takuya and Daisuke finally noticed me standing there. They spun around on their stools, half-sloshing their drinks.

“Ah, Danzo-san!” Takuya slurred happily, clapping me hard on the back. “Did you bring the item?”

I nodded and reached into my jacket, pulling out a sleek, heavily padded case. I cracked it open just enough for them to see inside.

“Ancient Trojan wine,” I said, my voice low and smooth. “Cultivated and sealed hundreds of years ago. Still fresh. Still potent.”

The two men let out twin shouts of celebration, practically falling over each other in excitement. Their eyes gleamed with the greedy thrill of the rare and forbidden.

Without much ceremony, Daisuke handed me a slim, black leather case in return. I accepted it carefully, my fingers itching with anticipation.

I popped the clasps and opened it just a fraction—enough to see the gleam of the blade inside.

“The Dragon Scale Dagger,” I murmured, awe creeping into my tone. The craftsmanship was exquisite—myth made real.

I tucked the case securely under my arm and gave the men a respectful nod.

“Pleasure doing business.”

Takuya and Daisuke barely acknowledged me, already turning their attention back to Giselle and her co-bartender, hurling slurred pickup lines in broken English and even worse Japanese. Giselle shot me a helpless look over their heads, half-laughing, half-pleading for rescue.

I chuckled under my breath. Some things never changed.

Sliding away from the chaos, I spared one last glance at the dagger case—and then my gaze drifted back up to the second floor.

Sana was waiting.

The thought alone tightened something low in my gut as I crossed the floor toward the stairs. I barely made it halfway before I felt hands—small, sure, and electric—wrap around my waist from behind. Her scent hit me next: warm, sweet, and faintly dangerous. Vanilla and something sharper, like adrenaline.

“Not so fast,” Sana whispered against my ear, her breath a tantalizing brush against my skin. “Let’s take this to the dance floor first.”

Before I could respond, she slid her hand down to my wrist, fingers looping around it with a featherlight grip that somehow felt like a leash. With a playful tug, she pulled me off course, weaving us through the crowd.

The music shifted into something darker, heavier. The bassline thrummed through the floor and straight into my bloodstream.

Sana didn’t give me a chance to find my footing. She spun into me, her back pressing flush against my chest. Without missing a beat, she guided my hands to her hips, her touch lingering on mine, her body molding against me like we’d done this a hundred times before.

Her hips started to move, slow and hypnotic, rolling in time with the music. I felt every curve, every subtle shift of her body, and it took everything I had not to lose myself right then and there. She leaned her head back against my shoulder, her hair brushing my jawline, her fingers trailing up my arms with agonizing slowness.

“You’re tense,” she murmured, voice a velvet tease.

I chuckled low in my throat, tightening my grip on her hips just a little.

“Can you blame me?” I said, my lips dangerously close to the shell of her ear.

She laughed, the sound sending a jolt of heat straight through me. Slowly, she turned in my arms to face me, her body never breaking rhythm. Her hands slid up my chest, fingers tracing the edges of my jacket, before slipping behind my neck and pulling me even closer.

Our bodies moved together, perfectly synced—her curves pressing into every line of me, her mouth hovering just a breath away from mine. It was a dance, but it felt like a negotiation. A dare.

Her eyes, dark and glittering, locked onto mine as she dragged her fingertips lightly along my jaw, a teasing ghost of a touch that made my skin burn.

“You’re good at following instructions,” she said, smirking.

I smirked back, my hands roaming up from her hips to the small of her back, pressing her even closer.

“I’m better at giving them,” I murmured.

For a moment, the air between us crackled—pure, raw tension. I was sure she could feel the heat rolling off me, just like I could feel her heart pounding against my chest.

Then Sana smiled, slow and wicked. She pushed up onto her toes, her lips brushing the corner of my mouth in a kiss that wasn’t really a kiss—just a taste. A threat. A promise.

“Come find me when you’re ready to stop playing,” she whispered.

With that, she slipped away from my grasp, vanishing into the crowd like smoke, leaving me standing there, heart hammering, body burning for more.

And I knew one thing for certain.

I wasn’t leaving this place without her.

⸻

I followed the scent of vanilla and danger, weaving through the pulse of the club. The crowd shifted around me like smoke, neon lights slicing the air in hypnotic flashes.

As I moved, the Kehlani remix by Joran Adentunji spilled from the speakers, setting a thick, sensual tone. My focus narrowed, instincts pulling me forward, until I spotted her again.

When I finally closed the distance, Future’s Brazzier was booming through the speakers, vibrating through the floor. Sana was perched on a plush booth seat, flanked by two other women—both jaw-dropping in their own right. If beauty was currency, they were billionaires.

I couldn’t help but chuckle as I approached, hands slipping casually into my pockets.

“Is it something in the water that makes you all gorgeous?” I teased.

Sana and the longer-haired girl exchanged a look, grinning mischievously. Then they said something in rapid-fire Japanese, probably assuming I wouldn’t understand. But I caught it easily.

“See, boss? He’s a charmer.”

The third woman, shorter hair framing her sharp, playful smile, leaned in with a glint in her eye.

“Let’s see if he can cash the check his mouth is writing.”

I smirked, playing along.

“That depends on the price… and what I get in return.”

All three women looked momentarily surprised, except for the short-haired one who just smiled wider, clearly intrigued.

“You’re interesting,” she said, tilting her head as if evaluating a prize.

I shrugged, nonchalant.

“So… what’s the price?”

The short-haired woman straightened her posture, her tone slipping into something more formal.

“I’m Momo,” she said smoothly. “Sana here pulls in roughly 2.5 million a year. If you can give us 5.7 million, she’s yours.”

The number might have staggered a lesser man. And while I had been a little drunk off Sana’s attention, business always had a way of clearing my head like a slap of cold water.

I raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“I’m not in the market to buy her,” I said, voice cool, measured. “I don’t traffic people. I just want access to her time—and maybe some help on jobs. Besides…” I added, giving Sana a look that made her cheeks tint slightly, “you’re definitely lowballing her value. But I digress.”

I slipped a small notepad out of my jacket and scribbled something on it with a flourish. Then I tore the page clean and laid it on the table in front of Momo.

“If you’re serious about doing business,” I said, tapping the address and time I’d written, “meet me there. A week from today. We’ll talk like professionals.”

Momo leaned back, studying me. Then she smiled, slow and shark-like.

“Wait,” she said. “As a token of goodwill… take Sana with you tonight.”

I narrowed my eyes, immediately suspicious.

“What’s the catch?”

The longer-haired girl, her beauty a little more ethereal, leaned forward and rested her chin in her palm. Her smile was pure mischief.

“There’s no catch,” she purred. “Think of Sana as collateral. If we show up at the meeting, negotiations start. If we don’t… she’s yours. Permanently.”

My instincts screamed at me to look deeper, to find the trap hidden under all those sweet smiles. But all I saw were those same knowing, predatory grins.

Still… it wasn’t every day the devil handed you an angel on a silver platter.

I gave a slow, cautious nod.

“Okay.”

Absolutely! Here’s the continuation, with that extra layer of tension you wanted:

⸻

Before I could rethink it, Sana sprang to her feet, her face lighting up like a kid promised candy. She skipped over to me, a little too happy for someone supposedly being handed off like a poker chip.

She looped her arm through mine, her body heat seeping into me, and looked up with a sly smile.

“Looks like you’re stuck with me, Danzo.”

I smirked, steadying my heartbeat as she tugged me toward the exit.

As we turned to leave, I caught a flash of movement from the corner of my eye. Momo leaned over to the longer-haired woman—Mina, if my memory served right—and whispered something, just low enough they probably thought I couldn’t hear.

“Let’s see if he passes his test, Mina.”

“Well,” Mina murmured back, amusement lacing her voice, “he’s the first one that Sana brought to us not to kick out… so we’ll see.”

Their laughter was soft, but razor-sharp. They weren’t just handing Sana off to me—they were watching.

The back of my neck prickled. This was a setup. A test, a trap, a game… maybe all three. And the prize? Sana, who was now humming under her breath and pressing her body closer as we pushed through the thick crowd.

Outside, the air was cool and heavy with the scent of rain. The flashing lights of the club faded into a murmur behind us. For a second, it was just the two of us, under the buzzing glow of a streetlamp.

Sana tugged me to a stop and looked up at me, eyes glinting wickedly.

“So… where are you taking me, Mr. Exotic Goods?” she teased, voice low and inviting.

I smiled, slow and dangerous, feeling the weight of invisible eyes still lingering on my back.

“Somewhere we can talk without an audience,” I said, thumbing the keys to my car.

Sana bit her lip, clearly enjoying the game, as she followed me. As we walked, her fingers brushed against my hand—soft, deliberate touches that sparked fire up my arm.

I could tell she was still testing me too.

The real question wasn’t if I passed.

It was how hard they were going to make me fight to win.

I drove us to the villa I was staying at, tucked away in the hills—a quiet place far from the noise of the city. As I parked, Sana stayed close, her presence a constant hum in my senses. Even when I couldn’t see her, the scent of vanilla and danger clung to the air around me like smoke.

“Is this place yours?” she asked, her voice curious but still edged with that ever-present flirtation.

I nodded, unlocking the door. She stepped inside and twirled slowly, taking in the rustic, warm interior—soft leather furniture, wood accents, and a fire quietly crackling in the hearth.

“Huh. Cozy. Warm.” She grinned. “Not what I usually expect from someone who does… whatever it is you do. Business tycoons usually go for cold, sterile, and soulless.”

I turned to her, amused.

“I’m not a business tycoon.”

That’s when I registered her outfit—and damn near forgot what I was saying.

At some point, she had changed. Now she wore a fiery red crop top that hugged her like a second skin and black pants that clung lovingly to every curve. She caught me staring and smiled, slow and wicked.

“Oh, I know you’re not a business tycoon.” She sauntered closer, hips swaying in a lazy, devastating rhythm. “You’re way more interesting. So, tell me, Mr. Mystery—what’s your story?”

Without waiting for an invitation, she straddled my lap, settling in like she belonged there. Her body was a delicious heat against mine, and her gaze pinned me down harder than any weight could.

I cleared my throat, forcing my brain to function.

“I was a stock trader once. Made a killing, lost a fortune when the market crashed. Got disillusioned. Switched to museum curation for a while… which led to my first few ‘trades.’” I smiled at the memory. “A T. rex skull here for a priceless painting there. Found out I was good at moving rare things. Better than sitting behind a desk, anyway. So I quit, and here we are.”

Sana’s fingers found mine, her hands small but strong as she laced them together.

“So you’re simple after all,” she said with a soft, approving smile. “I like simple.”

Her thumb brushed over my knuckles—barely a touch, but it shot straight to my gut.

“Tell me,” she purred, voice turning to silk, “what’s the craziest trade you’ve ever made?”

I laughed, feeling the tension between us thicken.

“Traded a Bad Dragon toy for an A-5 bull and cow.”

Sana’s eyes widened, then a deep, smoky laugh slipped from her throat.

“Well… that’s certainly a trade.” Her voice dropped an octave, thick with seduction now, every syllable wrapping around me like velvet.

Her gaze flicked up to meet mine, smoldering, daring me.

“So out of the whole club… why me?”

She leaned in, so close I could feel her breath ghosting across my lips. Her eyes burned with a heat that could’ve melted steel beams.

I didn’t hesitate.

“I like pretty things. And you, darling…” I trailed my fingers up her arm slowly, savoring the way her skin shivered under my touch. “You’re a very, very pretty thing.”

For a moment, her expression cracked—something sweet flickered in her smile. She slipped off my lap with a graceful twirl, laughing, the sound light and melodic, teasing but not cruel.

“You’re sweet,” she said, licking her bottom lip playfully. “I wonder if you taste just as sweet.”

Before I could react, she began to dance. No music yet—just the sound of the fire and the steady thud of my heart. She moved with practiced grace, every sway of her hips and tilt of her head a deliberate temptation.

“Put on your sexiest playlist,” she called over her shoulder, tossing me a mischievous glance.

I shrugged, playing along, and cued it up.

The first few notes of Bandit by Don Toliver drifted through the villa’s sound system. The beat was slow, hypnotic, predatory.

Sana swayed to the rhythm like it lived in her bloodstream, her movements a dangerous cocktail of raw sensuality and teasing playfulness. Her fingers trailed along the hem of her crop top, flashing slivers of skin. Her eyes stayed locked on mine, daring me to move, to break, to do anything but sit and watch.

And God, did I want to do more than watch.

She was the most intoxicating thing I had ever seen—and the most dangerous.

She smiled as she neared me. “I’m yours for the next few days what do you want to do with me?”

I groan as she straddles me and I say, “I want to kiss you, I want to fuck you. Damn it I want all of you,”

Sana smiled as she finally said, “then take me. I groan with unbearable arousal as she kisses me. She tastes sweet as she grinds her hips into my surging cock. It strains against my pants as Sana slides up and down my length whispering sweet nothings into my ear.

“I can’t fuck you yet but I can still give you some relief. Sana says as she moves down. She opens my pants slowly tortuously so she smiles as she lifts her top over her head and shoulders. She smiles seductively as her bare breasts bounce freely. She leans in close before giving my cock several slow arousing and tortuous kisses. I groan as she kisses all over my length. Her breath hot and so sexy. As she takes a break from kissing she smiles as she looks up at me,

“Did you fall in love with me yet,” she asks innocently as she her seductive side takes a back seat to her bubbly side. It’s then I notice her big brown eyes staring at me with the an innocent look of intrigue like she wasn’t gonna make me blow any second, without a word she starts stroking me while looking up at me expectantly,

“Are you gonna answer,” she asks and before can think my cock explodes all over her face. She giggles happily as my balls expel themselves all over her face and chest. The vixen returns as she says, “guess I got my answer.” Before leaving to go shower.

Despite the small respite I’m still hard for her. I now know I need her more than ever. So I make some calls.

After Sana’s shower The villa was quiet, save for the occasional crackle from the fireplace. Outside, the world had gone still, the ocean waves a distant hum against the night air. Inside, the atmosphere was soft, warm—almost too perfect for two people who were supposed to be on opposite sides of a deal.

Sana sat curled up on the couch, her legs tucked underneath her, nursing a mug of hot cocoa I had thrown together from whatever the villa’s kitchen had. She wore one of my old shirts, slightly too big on her—it was grey with a familiar, bold print across the chest. A silver wolf’s head gleamed against the fabric.

I smirked as I settled into the armchair across from her.

“You know that’s a Gaosilver shirt, right?” I teased.

She looked down at herself, then back at me with a sheepish little grin.

“Yeah,” she said casually, but I could see the slight blush creeping into her cheeks. “I kinda…borrowed it. It’s comfy.”

I chuckled and shook my head.

“Figures you’d steal that one.”

Sana sipped her cocoa, then tucked the mug against her chest, clearly debating something. After a long moment, she gave a little shrug and said, almost too quickly,

“I used to love Super Sentai as a kid.”

I blinked, surprised—and then grinned wide.

“Oh, now you have to elaborate,” I said, leaning forward, absolutely delighted.

She pouted dramatically, hiding her face behind the mug.

“Nooo, you’ll make fun of me.”

“Too late for that,” I said, laughing. “Come on, spill it.”

She sighed in defeat, her cheeks turning pinker.

“Fine. When I was little, I used to do all the poses. Like… religiously. I even made my own team. I was always the silver ranger. Obviously.”

I couldn’t help it—I burst out laughing, the image of a tiny, fierce Sana striking Super Sentai poses way too much for me.

“You’re killing me,” I said between laughs. “You? Little Sana doing ‘heroic poses’ in the mirror?”

She grinned, unabashed now.

“Yeah. Full commitment, too. Like, shouting the names and everything. ‘Silver Breaker Attack!’” she said, striking a very dramatic pose from the couch.

I clutched my sides.

“That’s amazing. God, I thought I was the only one still into that stuff.”

She perked up instantly, her bubbly side shining through even more.

“Wait, you still like Super Sentai?”

“Of course I do,” I said, grinning. “GaoSilver was the coolest. Stoic loner with a wolf spirit? Peak character design.”

Sana laughed brightly, wiggling her fingers at the logo on her shirt.

“Guess fate decided I was destined to wear this then.”

The moment felt easy, natural. Like two old friends swapping memories instead of two strangers who met only a night ago.

Eventually, Sana stretched her arms above her head, the shirt riding up slightly, revealing just a hint of skin before she let out a long, satisfied sigh.

“This has been…nice,” she said softly.

“Yeah,” I agreed, voice low. “It really has.”

She looked over at me with a lazy, warm smile, the firelight making her eyes shimmer. Then, without a word, she scooted closer and curled up against the armrest of the couch, hugging one of the throw pillows to her chest.

I got up and fetched a blanket, tossing it over her gently. She murmured a sleepy thanks, already half-dozing, her hair fanning out like a halo against the pillow.

I paused, watching her for a moment. It was strange seeing her like this—unguarded, relaxed, vulnerable.

Bubbly, bright, real.

I quietly turned off the last of the lights, leaving only the soft flicker of the fire, and headed to my own room. As I closed the door behind me, I couldn’t wipe the grin off my face.

Later, lying in bed, I stared up at the ceiling, the room dim and quiet except for the faint crackle of the fire still going in the living room.

I tried to close my eyes, tried to think about my upcoming trip, the negotiations, the deal I’d set up with Momo and Mina—but instead, all I could see was Sana on the couch, grinning like a kid, striking that ridiculously adorable “Silver Breaker Attack” pose.

I huffed out a quiet laugh, running a hand over my face.

God, she’s dangerous in more ways than one.

It wasn’t just her looks or her charm—it was this side of her too. The real side. The side she probably didn’t show often, if ever.

I turned onto my side, burying my face in the pillow. The scent of vanilla and something a little wilder lingered faintly in the air, wrapping around me like a memory.

Silver Breaker Attack, I thought again, and smiled before finally letting sleep pull me under.

Somehow, I had a feeling the morning was going to be just as interesting.

The smell of sizzling eggs and toasted bread filled the kitchen. Morning sunlight spilled lazily through the villa’s windows, casting long, golden beams across the counter where I worked. Sana sat at the island, her hair tousled from sleep, wearing one of my shirts that hung loose on her small frame.

She watched me with half-lidded eyes, legs swinging lazily as she leaned her chin in her hands, the very picture of casual, adorable mischief.

“You’re full of surprises, Danzo,” she said, smiling as she absently traced circles on the marble countertop. “Didn’t peg you for the domestic type.”

I smirked over my shoulder.

“Everyone’s gotta eat.”

I slid two plates onto the counter—eggs, bacon, and buttered toast. Simple, hearty. Sana immediately perked up, scooting closer with a small, eager hum that made her sound less like a dangerous siren and more like a happy kitten.

She wasted no time digging in, taking a bite of toast and letting out a small, satisfied moan.

“Oh my god, this is so good,” she said between bites, her eyes lighting up. “Where have you been hiding these skills, Danzo?”

I just shrugged, grabbing my own plate and leaning against the counter.

As she picked at her eggs, Sana looked up at me with a mischievous glint.

“So… how much would it cost to make you my house husband?”

I almost dropped my fork. I shot her a smirk and fired back without missing a beat,

“You couldn’t afford me.”

Sana burst out laughing, a bright, melodic sound that filled the entire room and made the morning feel even lighter. She covered her mouth, still giggling, her eyes crinkling with genuine joy.

“Cocky and a good cook,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re dangerous, Danzo.”

“You’re one to talk,” I said, grinning.

After a few more bites, Sana leaned back, clearly enjoying the moment. The way she looked at me now—comfortable, warm—was different than last night’s teasing seductress. She looked like a real person, someone who felt at ease, someone who trusted me, even if just a little.

Then, as if remembering something, she set her fork down and asked casually,

“So… why’d you really want the Dragon Scale Dagger?”

I wiped my mouth with a napkin, then leaned back against the counter.

“It’s not for me. A martial arts teacher named Mikoto wants it. He made it the price of admission, so to speak.”

Sana tilted her head, curious.

“Admission?”

I nodded.

“He created a martial art called Abare—it’s an offshoot of Muay Thai that is almost all offensive. No blocks, no evasion. All momentum, all instinct. He said if I brought him the Dragon Scale Dagger, he’d train me. No dagger, no lessons.”

Sana’s fork paused halfway to her mouth as the pieces clicked into place.

“Ohhh,” she said slowly, a sly little grin creeping across her face. “And you’re flying back to Japan in a few days…”

She tapped her chin thoughtfully, then grinned even wider.

“Which means… you’ll do my trade the day before you go meet your scary martial arts sensei.”

I chuckled, setting my plate down.

“That’s the plan.”

Satisfied, Sana leaned back in her chair again, the soft, bubbly side of her coming out even more. She kicked her legs lightly, humming a little tune as she finished off her eggs, clearly savoring both the food and the easy, peaceful morning.

Curious, I leaned in and asked,

“So how does someone like you end up dancing for Mina’s club anyway?”

Sana blinked, then grinned, setting her fork down with a little clink.

“That obvious, huh?”

I raised an eyebrow.

“You’re too… dangerous to be a regular employee.”

She laughed softly, the sound bright and genuine.

“Well, Mina found me first. I used to dance just for fun—street shows, little performances. I loved the way it made me feel. Free, powerful, seen. Mina saw one of my shows, liked my style, and offered me a job. Said I could make real money doing what I already loved.”

She shrugged, a soft, almost wistful look passing over her face.

“At first, I said no. I thought clubs were just… sketchy. But Mina’s different. She and Momo run the place tight. Safe, classy, exclusive. No creeps. No chaos. They needed someone who could dance and handle herself if things ever got ugly. So they trained me.”

I nodded slowly, watching her. It made sense now. The way she moved—like a weapon disguised as a work of art.

Sana tilted her head at me, playful again.

“And now? I get to dance, be free, and sometimes… test people like you.”

I smirked.

“Lucky me.”

She giggled again, and this time it was even softer, sweeter. She leaned her cheek into her palm, watching me with a sleepy, content smile.

“Very lucky,” she murmured. “And you make a mean breakfast too. Guess I’m keeping you.”

“Again—” I pointed at her with my fork—“you can’t afford me.”

Another peal of laughter escaped her, and for a second the whole villa felt lighter, more alive.

We spent the rest of the day curled up together, switching between different anime: Spy x Family, Oresuki, and a little bit of Bleach. It was easy. Peaceful in a way I hadn’t realized I needed.

It also made me painfully aware of how lonely I’d been.

Sana, when she wasn’t lust and temptation personified, was sweet. Genuinely sweet—with a wicked, playful sense of humor that could leave me laughing until my stomach hurt.

I found myself shocked at how naturally time slipped by with her. So naturally that somewhere between Anya’s antics and Sakurako’s schemes, I caught myself daydreaming: Me, her, a little house, a couple of kids. Me cooking breakfast in an apron while she worked as a model or something equally glamorous.

It was a dangerous thought. But it also felt… oddly comforting.

Eventually, somewhere deep into the Bleach rewatch, Sana flopped onto her side with a dramatic groan.

“Okay, I’m bored of Ichigo and his never-ending yelling,” she said. “Do you have any Sentai stuff?”

I raised an eyebrow, grinning. “Nope. All my weeb hoard is at my Japan house. But we could watch Red Ranger Is an Adventurer in Another World if you want.”

Sana lit up immediately. “Wait, you have a house in Japan? How’d you swing that?”

I chuckled and stretched my arms behind my head. “An older ‘retired’ Yakuza boss wanted a rare, ridiculously expensive doll for his daughter. I got it for him. In return, he found me a fixer-upper house for my troubles. After i got the keys I found a few talented contractors who needed the experience, and since then I’ve sent them enough referrals to pay them back fifteen times over.”

Sana blinked at me, a slow smile forming. “All that interaction… and yet you seem like such an introvert.”

She leaned in, brushing her fingers against my cheek.

It wasn’t a seductive touch—it was yearning, almost reverent—and it made my chest tighten painfully.

I swallowed. “I am an introvert,” I said, voice a little rough. “But I’ve made connections by liking pretty things… and getting pretty things for others.”

Our faces were close now. Too close. Our foreheads brushed, and I found myself drowning in her warm, dark eyes.

For once, she wasn’t teasing or trying to seduce me. She was just Sana—young, vulnerable, and heartbreakingly sincere.

“I think I like you,” she whispered, her breath ghosting over my lips.

I chuckled lowly, heart thundering. “I think I like you more.”

Sana’s blush deepened, but she smiled—a soft, real smile that made my stomach flip.

Then, with a mischievous twinkle, she pulled back just slightly and said, “Okay, you passed my test. Now I’m gonna give you the cheat sheet for Momo’s and Mina’s.”

The tender moment shifted into something lighter, safer—but the feeling lingered, sinking hooks deeper into my ribs.

And somehow, I didn’t mind at all.

I slipped my phone back into my pocket and walked back into the living room, where Sana was waiting on the couch. She had her arms crossed, a playful little smile tugging at her lips.

“You’re lucky you’re cute, you know that?” she teased as I sat back down beside her.

I raised an eyebrow. “You overheard?”

Sana nodded, looking way too proud of herself. “Maybe a little. Silver kitsune, huh?”

I smiled, not even bothering to deny it. “Maybe.”

Sana’s cheeks flushed the lightest pink, her eyes shining as she scooted closer to me, tucking her legs under herself like a content cat. She leaned her head against my shoulder, comfortable and warm.

“You’re gonna pass the test, you know,” she said softly, her voice almost giddy. “Momo and Mina are gonna be so annoyed that they actually like you.”

I chuckled, wrapping an arm loosely around her. “Good. I like being liked.”

We sat there for a moment, just enjoying the quiet. Then, almost shyly, Sana said, “You know… we’re probably only even considering your offer because things have been changing lately.”

I looked down at her, curious. “What do you mean?”

Sana sighed and picked at the hem of the silver Gaosilver shirt she was still wearing—my shirt—before answering.

“A lot of the old clientele—the ones who used to fall head over heels for me, Momo, and Mina—they’re moving on. Getting older, finding wives, starting families… And the new crowd wants younger girls. Fresh faces. It’s just business but…” She trailed off and gave a small shrug. “It’s the only reason Momo and Mina are even willing to talk about deals like yours.”

I snorted and shook my head. “IDanzots.”

Sana blinked, caught off guard. “Huh?”

I leaned in, tapping her lightly on the nose. “They’re undervaluing you. Badly.”

She blinked again, looking genuinely surprised, like no one had ever said that to her before.

“You’re not just pretty,” I said. “You’re smart, you’re funny, you’re sharper than half the people in any room you walk into. You have a smile that could stop a war, a brain that could run a kingdom, and a heart big enough to scare most people. You’re priceless, Sana. And if they can’t see that, that’s their loss.”

For a moment she just stared at me, her mouth slightly open in shock. Then slowly, ever so slowly, the brightest, most radiant smile spread across her face. She lit up like a sunrise, cheeks going pink and eyes sparkling.

Without warning, she practically launched herself at me, wrapping her arms around my neck and burying her face in my chest.

“You’re mean,” she mumbled into my shirt, voice muffled but giddy.

I laughed and hugged her back, feeling her shake with barely suppressed giggles.

“Mean?” I teased. “I just told you the truth.”

“You’re not allowed to make me this happy this fast!” she said, pulling back just enough to glare at me, her eyes still laughing. “It’s cheating!”

I grinned, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “Get used to it.”

Sana’s lips curled into a wickedly sweet smile. “Fine. But if you’re gonna spoil me, I’m gonna be very demanding.”

“Looking forward to it,” I said, meaning every word.

She beamed and snuggled back against me, more comfortable and herself than I’d ever seen her.

It was dangerously easy to imagine doing this every day—and honestly, I wouldn’t mind at all.

Later that night, after Sana had finally drifted off during another episode of Red Ranger Is an Adventurer in Another World, I gently carried her to the guest room. I tucked her in, making sure she was comfortable before heading to my own room.

I lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, feeling the kind of contentment I hadn’t known in years. Sleep came slowly, but when it did, it was deep and dreamless… until a soft knock tapped against my door.

I blinked awake, groggy.

“Danzo?” came Sana’s voice, barely louder than a whisper.

I sat up, concerned. “Come in.”

The door creaked open and Sana stood there in one of my oversized T-shirts, looking small and vulnerable in the low light. Her silver hair was a little messy, and she was hugging a pillow to her chest like a shield.

“Can I sleep with you?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly. “I… had a nightmare.”

Without hesitating, I pulled back the covers and motioned for her to come in. She padded over quickly and climbed into the bed, curling up beside me like she belonged there. I draped an arm around her shoulders, and she let out a breath, some of the tension leaving her body as she tucked herself against me.

We lay there for a while in comfortable silence, the quiet hum of the night wrapping around us. Just as I was about to drift off again, Sana’s voice, soft and serious, broke through the dark.

“Danzo… would you be willing to spend the rest of your life with me?” she whispered, almost as if she was scared of the answer.

I didn’t answer immediately. Instead, I shifted so I could see her better, even in the dim light. Her eyes were wide and vulnerable, searching mine for something—hope, maybe.

I smiled faintly and answered her question with one of my own, my voice low and steady.

“Would you be willing to spend the rest of your life with me?”

Sana’s eyes glistened, and she gave a small, almost shy nod. A genuine, beautiful smile blossomed across her face, and she whispered back, “Yeah… I think I would.”

I leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, feeling her melt against me.

“Then it’s a deal,” I murmured.

She gave a sleepy giggle and snuggled even closer, her breathing evening out as she finally began to relax. I held her close, the warmth of her presence lulling me into the kind of peaceful sleep I hadn’t known in a very, very long time. I didn’t dream of anything else but her.

The morning sun streamed through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room. I stirred awake to the feeling of something warm and soft pressed against me. Opening my eyes, I found Sana tangled up with me, her leg thrown over my waist, her head tucked beneath my chin.

For a moment, I just lay there, feeling her breathing slowly against my chest. It was almost too perfect. I shifted slightly, and Sana let out a sleepy noise, tightening her hold on me like a stubborn cat.

I chuckled softly, brushing a few strands of hair out of her face.

“Morning,” I murmured.

“Five more minutes,” Sana mumbled, refusing to let go.

I smiled, indulging her, and we stayed like that a little longer before finally untangling ourselves and getting up. The morning was lazy and sweet, filled with easy smiles and stolen touches. It felt natural, like we had done it a thousand times before.

A few hours later, we boarded a sleek private jet that gleamed under the morning sun. As we ascended into the clouds, Sana marveled at the luxury around her.

“This is… really nice,” she said, settling into a plush leather seat.

I nodded and smiled. “Courtesy of Sal.”

Sana blinked. “Who’s Sal?”

“One of my old contacts,” I explained. “He used to run logistics before things got bad in his country. I helped smuggle his family out when the fighting started. In return, he told me that anytime I needed travel, he’d take care of it. He keeps his word.”

Sana turned toward me fully, curiosity lighting up her face. “Okay, I have to ask… how old are you?”

I smirked slightly, stretching my legs out. “I’m a year and two months younger than you.”

Sana stared at me like I had grown a second head. “How the hell have you lived this crazy life already?!”

I laughed, leaning back in my seat. “Let’s just say life gave me a fast track. I got tossed into a lot of dangerous places early… but I learned how to survive and make it work. Made a few friends, a few enemies… and somehow, I’m still standing.”

Sana shook her head in disbelief but smiled warmly. “You’re something else, Danzo.”

The hum of the plane was soothing, and after a while, the adrenaline of the past few days finally caught up with me. My eyelids grew heavy, and before I knew it, I had slumped sideways onto Sana.

She let out a soft surprised sound but quickly adjusted, letting my head rest in her lap. She brushed her fingers gently through my hair, careful not to wake me as I drifted off.

As I fell deeper into sleep, barely conscious, I heard her whisper,

“Rest well, Danzo.”

There was a tenderness in her voice that wrapped around me like a warm blanket, pulling me into dreams filled not with chaos or deals gone wrong—but with silver-haired girls laughing in the sunlight.

⸻

I woke up groggy, feeling the plane wheels bump against the tarmac. We had landed in Japan. It was a crisp spring morning, but there was still a lingering winter chill in the air. As we stepped off the jet, I noticed Sana shivering in her hoodie and sweats. Without a word, I shrugged off my Gosei 13 jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders.

She blinked up at me, surprised but smiling warmly as she pulled the oversized jacket tighter around herself.

“Thanks, Danzo,” she said softly, her voice muffled against the collar.

We headed toward the taxi queue, the cold biting through even my clothes. As we approached the cab, I turned to Sana and asked casually, “Hey, mind covering the fare? I’ll pay you back once we get to my place.”

Sana shot me a look, raising a playful eyebrow. “How do you survive without carrying cash? You don’t even use it at all, do you?”

I chuckled. “I have my ways.”

Sana smirked but didn’t press further. She handed the driver the yen and slipped into the cab, punching in my address.

Settling into the backseat, she turned to me, grinning mischievously. “Okay then. Actually, I want a really nice dinner later.”

I glanced at her, surprised. “Is that a trade?”

Sana smiled sweetly. “I’ve been watching you. Bartering is really cool.”

I couldn’t help but laugh at that, and the ride to my house passed easily, full of teasing comments and soft touches.

When we finally arrived at my place—a renovated modern home tucked in a quiet neighborhood—we crashed again, both of us knocked out from the travel. A few hours later, as I stretched and sat up, I nudged her gently.

“Alright. We need to get my girl some proper clothes.”

Sana opened one eye, smirking. “Excuse me? ‘My girl?’” she teased.

I sighed, realizing what I had said. “Freudian slip. My apologies.”

Sana, still half-asleep, just laughed and linked her fingers with mine. “Too late. I am your girl now,” she said, a playful but serious note in her voice.

Grinning, I pulled her to her feet and grabbed the keys to my car—a sleek, customized Nissan Skyline. A trade deal from a Nissan executive and collector: I had gotten him a rare Lamborghini in exchange for this beauty. That Lamborghini? I got it by trading half of a meteorite I had found years ago. A story for another time.

We drove through the narrow streets of the city until we reached a stylish boutique tucked between a coffee shop and a bookstore. The sign read Izumi Atelier in crisp silver letters.

As we entered, a small bell jingled, and a sharp-looking woman in her early thirties looked up from her sketchpad. Izumi wore a tailored vest over a flowing blouse, her sharp bob haircut giving her a chic edge.

“Danzooo~,” she called out, standing up. “And this must be the girl you finally decided was worth introducing to me?”

Sana blushed a little as Izumi walked over, her professional gaze immediately scanning Sana up and down.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Izumi said brightly, taking Sana’s hand. “Let’s get you measured up properly.” She shot Danzo a wink over her shoulder. “It’s about time he brought someone into my shop. He must really like you.”

Sana giggled as she was led into the back, but they didn’t bother keeping their voices down. I leaned against a wall near the entrance, pretending not to listen… and failing.

“You know,” Izumi said to Sana as she pulled out a measuring tape, “Danzo’s the reason I’m even still here. Before he helped me, I was struggling to find clients. Thanks to him, my shop is thriving. I get steady work designing for Black Japanese and foreign clients who can’t find clothes that fit properly.”

“Seriously?” Sana asked, clearly impressed.

“Mmhmm,” Izumi confirmed. “He’s a troublemaker, but he’s also the most loyal guy you’ll ever meet. You found a good one, Sana-chan.”

I heard Sana laugh, a warm, musical sound that filled the shop.

After taking her measurements, Izumi emerged with an armful of outfits, all featuring silver in some way—subtle trims, statement accessories, and some full pieces that shimmered with understated elegance. Sana tried on a few, each one fitting her like a dream.

Finally, Izumi pulled out something special: a stunning silver jacket embroidered with a delicate kitsune motif along the back, the fox’s tails swirling in silver threads.

Sana gasped softly at the sight, reaching out to trace the embroidery with her fingers.

Izumi smiled mischievously, leaning in to whisper something to Sana that I couldn’t quite hear from where I stood. Sana nodded seriously, then looked back at me, her cheeks flushed with excitement and maybe a little shyness.

I raised an eyebrow at them, but Izumi just smirked and Sana quickly hid the jacket behind her back like a kid hiding a birthday present. Izumi sighed and responded

“It’s not finished yet Sana-Chan,” Sana blinked then giggled before handing Izumi the jacket back then getting changed into a silver sweater

After a few hours of shopping and exploring, Sana and I finally headed back home, bags of new clothes in tow. Izumi had insisted on bundling Sana up with more outfits than we planned, muttering something about “not letting a precious fox go unadorned.”

As I unlocked the front door, my phone buzzed. I glanced at the screen and saw Sakura calling. I answered immediately.

“Yo, Danzo-kun!” Sakura’s cheerful voice rang out. “You back in Japan?”

“Yeah, just got in,” I replied, setting the bags down.

“Perfect. I’m hosting a countryside dinner tonight. Very small, private. You and your girl should come. I want you to meet some of my new stars.”

I chuckled. “Hard to say no when you’re offering food.”

“Good. I’ll text you the address. See you tonight!” She hung up before I could respond.

I turned to Sana, who was pulling a new silver-accented hoodie from one of the bags. “Change of plans. Dinner invitation. One of my friends owns a club like Momo and Mina’s.”

Sana’s eyes lit up with curiosity. “Another club? Sounds fun.”

“Different vibe, though. Sakura’s place is more countryside lounge than city high-life.”

Later that evening, we drove out of the city, the high-rises giving way to rolling fields and traditional-style homes. The countryside was peaceful, the air crisp and clean compared to Tokyo’s heavy buzz.

We arrived at a large, modernized country house where Sakura’s dinner party was already underway. Inside, everything was warm wood, cozy lighting, and the hum of soft jazz. The smell of freshly cooked food filled the air.

Sakura, dressed in a flowy white dress with gold jewelry, greeted us at the door, pulling me into a quick hug before turning to Sana.

“So you’re the girl Danzo finally brought home,” Sakura teased, grinning. “You’re even cuter than he said.”

Sana blushed, ducking her head shyly.

“Come on in. There’s some people you need to meet.”

She led us into a sitting area where two young women sat laughing over glasses of wine.

“This is Tsuki,” Sakura said, nodding to a petite girl with sharp features, silvery-purple hair, and an infectious smile. “And Sullyoon,” she added, indicating the other girl, tall, graceful, with warm hazel eyes and long flowing hair.

Sana’s face lit up immediately when she heard Tsuki’s accent as the girl chirped, “It’s been forever since I’ve heard someone speak real Kansai-ben!”

“Osaka?” Sana asked, smiling.

Tsuki nodded, and just like that, the two girls clicked. Sana quickly pulled Sullyoon into the conversation too, naturally bridging any gaps between them.

Before long, the three of them were talking animatedly, and Sana had taken it upon herself to start teaching them tricks of the trade. I leaned back, sipping a drink as I watched her slip easily into a teacher’s role, laughing and teasing.

“You have to learn how to spot the salacious ones,” Sana said, grinning devilishly. “Young business guys? Easy money. You act impressed by the watch, compliment the suit, and make them feel invincible without actually committing to anything. Always just out of reach.”

Tsuki and Sullyoon leaned in, hanging onto her every word.

I couldn’t help but laugh and called over, “Is that how you saw me, Sana? Just another scrappy businessman to fleece?”

Sana turned, smirking. “You’re not a business tycoon, so no.”

The room laughed, but I caught the flicker of realization in her eyes. She glanced at me more carefully now, seeing not just the man she teased but something else. Her voice trailed off a bit as she looked back at Tsuki and Sullyoon.

That moment hung heavy for a beat before she returned her focus to the girls. But I saw it—the way her fingers fidgeted slightly, the way she avoided my gaze for just a second longer than normal.

Later, as the girls got up to grab dessert, Sana moved closer to me. Her voice was soft, almost incredulous.

“You were never here just to trade favors, were you?” she murmured, mostly to herself.

I said nothing, letting the silence fill the space between us.

“You were planning to facilitate the trade… the building of both clubs. That was going to be your payment for me, wasn’t it?”

I still said nothing, just watching her.

Her breath hitched slightly, not in fear but in awe. She laughed quietly, shaking her head.

“You’re not like the businessmen I’ve danced for, seduced, or conned,” she said, voice low. “You’re not loud or greedy or arrogant. You’re… subtle. Dangerous.”

I leaned in, my smile easy. “Takes one to know one.”

Sana shivered—not from fear, but from something far more thrilling—and slipped her hand into mine, squeezing it tightly.

She wasn’t scared. She was excited.

⸻

As the night carried on, more of Sakura’s friends and staff trickled into the gathering, making the cozy countryside house feel alive. Laughter and conversation flowed easily.

At some point, I felt a gentle tug on my jacket. It was Rei, an old contact of mine, who ran one of the most beautiful plant nurseries on the outskirts of Kyoto.

“Danzo,” Rei said warmly, her hands still dusted with soil. “You still looking for a bonsai? I finally got four rare ones in stock. They’re perfect specimens.”

My eyes lit up. “You’re kidding. I’ve been waiting for you to find the right ones for months.”

“I know, I know.” Rei smiled, brushing her hair back. “They’re worth the wait. Thought I’d offer them to you first before listing them for the public.”

Before I could respond, Sana, who had wandered over beside me, piped up. “Mina and Momo have actually been looking for bonsai trees for the club. They think it’ll class up the VIP sections.”

I gave her a sideways glance, impressed. Always thinking ahead.

I turned back to Rei. “Mind setting two aside for me?”

Rei grinned. “Anything for you, Danzo. I’ll mark them as reserved.” She gave Sana a little wink. “You’ve got a good one here, by the way. Rare species, like my bonsai.”

Sana blushed, hiding her smile behind her sleeve.

⸻

After dinner, while Tsuki and Sullyoon were still hanging off Sana’s every word, trying to absorb all the tricks and tips she was giving them about working the floor, I slipped away with Sakura to the back porch for a quick breather.

The night air was cool and smelled faintly of pine. Sakura handed me a drink and leaned against the railing, watching the scene inside through the window.

“You’re so smitten, it’s disgusting,” Sakura teased, nudging me with her elbow.

I snorted. “Says the woman who cried over her last bartender.”

“That was different. He was perfect.” She waved it off dramatically before turning back to me, grinning slyly. “But seriously… you’ve never brought a girl into my world before. Not to Rei, not to Izumi, not here.”

I shrugged, pretending to be casual. “She fits.”

Sakura’s grin widened. “She fits, huh? Man, you’re already done for.”

I didn’t argue. Inside, I watched as Sana—her face animated, her hands moving as she demonstrated some cheeky trick to Tsuki and Sullyoon—seamlessly blended into the room like she belonged there.

“She’s training half my staff already, you realize,” Sakura said, amused. “At this rate, she’s gonna be running the place next time you visit.”

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing,” I said easily.

Sakura shook her head, laughing under her breath. “Dangerous woman for a dangerous man. You better be ready, Danzo-kun.”

I just smiled, taking a slow sip of my drink as I watched Sana toss her head back in laughter, shining like silver under the warm lights.

Maybe I was done for. And maybe, for once, I didn’t mind at all.

Later that evening, after the dinner had settled into a quieter lull, I leaned back on the couch, watching Sana from across the room. She was laughing with Tsuki and Sullyoon, completely at ease, her face glowing with that infectious warmth she had.

It wasn’t long before Sullyoon, with her soft features and quiet demeanor, approached me with Tsuki, who was the more energetic of the two. They stood there, eyes flickering between each other before Tsuki spoke up.

“Danzo,” she said hesitantly, her voice a little shy. “We were wondering… What does Sana like? You know, for a gift.”

Sullyoon bounced on her heels, her expression eager. “Yeah! She’s been amazing with helping us out tonight, and we want to do something nice for her. Maybe we can get her something that she really wants?”

I raised an eyebrow, a smirk curling at the corner of my lips. “You two planning to surprise her?”

Tsuki nodded, her cheeks turning a light pink. “She’s so kind to us, and we thought it would be good to show our appreciation.”

I leaned forward, tapping my fingers against the armrest thoughtfully. “Well, she’s a woman of subtle tastes,” I said with a grin. “But she likes things with a little bit of flair. Jewelry, shiny things—she’s got this thing for silver, actually.”

Sullyoon’s eyes lit up, and she clapped her hands excitedly. “Ooh, silver! We can work with that!” She turned to Tsuki, who was already mentally running through a list of places.

“But there’s something else,” I added. “She appreciates meaningful gifts, things that feel personal. Something that reminds her of her roots… maybe something with a bit of story behind it.”

Tsuki’s eyes softened as she nodded. “That’s perfect. Thank you, Danzo.”

Sullyoon gave me a playful look. “You know, I think it’s really cute how protective you are of her.”

I shrugged, not about to show too much. “She’s… worth protecting.”

Sullyoon giggled, nudging Tsuki. “Aw, look at you. A little love-struck, huh?”

I shot them a look, and they both giggled, rushing back to their seats before they could get me to say anything else.

Sana was still in the middle of a conversation, but I caught her eye. She smiled at me, and I smiled back

After Dinner we headed back to my place where Sana changed my Gao silver shirt again,

“I’m not getting that back am I?” I asked hopeful. Sana smiled cutely and said

“Not a chance,”

“Oh surely you must have a price,” Sana chuckled and said,

“You can’t afford it,”

The next day, Momo and Mina arrived at Sakura’s club, and we all gathered around a sleek, polished table in the VIP section. Sana had stayed at my place since I couldn’t afford distractions, especially with the stakes as high as they were.

Momo and Mina settled into the plush chairs, their eyes flicking curiously toward me. The tension in the air was palpable, but I couldn’t hide the grin on my face. I was excited. This was my kind of business deal, and I had an ace up my sleeve.

“So, how was your time with Sana?” Mina asked, her voice casual, but there was an underlying edge to her words.

I couldn’t help it. I smiled like a kid in a candy store, a sense of genuine satisfaction radiating from me. “I loved it,” I said, leaning back comfortably in my chair. “We watched anime, had a lovely dinner, and she was fantastic company. But here’s the deal— I need her. I’m willing to offer you two full gold coins worth 6 million in total, or I can sweeten the deal with a proposal. Business done the way I do business.”

I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out two shiny, gleaming gold coins, letting them land with a satisfying clink on the table. The room fell silent, everyone eyeing the gold.

Momo was the first to speak, her voice sharp. “What’s the other offer?”

I leaned forward, my tone dropping into something more serious. “I’ve heard whispers from a little fox about something interesting. You two have been seeing a decline in sales recently, right? As hard as it is to believe, I get it. Attractive young women are a hot commodity, but they don’t stay young forever. Here’s my proposal: This place”—I gestured to Sakura’s club, with its sleek design and upscale clientele—“this place is very similar to your own club, but struggling for different reasons. In fact, Kura, why don’t you tell Momo and Mina about the challenges you’ve been facing?”

Kura, a tall and elegant woman with jet-black hair and sharp eyes, sighed, rubbing her temples. “Oh, where do I even start?” She laughed bitterly. “My two best performers, Tsuki and Sullyoon, are the only ones making enough to support this place. All my other performers are pretty, sure, but they just don’t know how to really work a crowd. They don’t have the experience to get the kind of money we need. Honestly, I have the capital, but I don’t have the knowledge.”

Mina and Momo exchanged a look, brows furrowing, before they turned back to Sakura.

“Can we see your girls?” Momo asked, her voice filled with both skepticism and curiosity.

Sakura smiled, snapping her fingers. In an instant, a group of fifteen beautiful women in their early twenties—mostly Japanese and a few Korean—entered the room. Their outfits were stunning, each one tailored to perfection, but they lacked the certain charisma that could really drive the room wild. Momo and Mina’s eyes widened as they scanned the women, but their expressions remained carefully neutral.

Momo looked back at me and said, “What’s stopping us from just taking Sakura’s contact info and the gold coins and walking out?”

Sakura’s voice rang out, clear and strong, stopping them in their tracks. “Let me make this clear,” she said firmly, her gaze locking onto Mina and Momo. “Danzaborou has been immensely helpful to me in making this club work. I’d never go behind his back. I’d rather buy you outright than do that. And giving him Sana, that way, would never cross my mind.”

Momo and Mina exchanged glances, now visibly unsure. Mina finally spoke, a hint of suspicion in her voice. “Is this a hostile takeover?”

I shook my head, the smile never leaving my face. “I’m not a hostile kind of guy. Think of this as a trade. You teach these girls to be exceptional hostesses—help them learn what you know, and you get a steady supply of fresh talent. The girls come back to Sakura’s club, where she can focus on her strengths—talent scouting and financial stability. Everyone wins.”

Mina and Momo exchanged thoughtful glances, as if weighing their options. The tension hung in the air for a beat, but I could see their minds working. Then, Mina’s eyes landed on one of the women—tall, lean, and graceful—her movements suggesting she might be a dancer.

Mina approached her with a smile, her voice gentle. “What’s your name?”

“Kazuha Nakamura,” the girl answered quietly, her voice soft yet confident.

Mina’s eyes lit up. “I like this one. She has the build of a ballerina.”

Sakura’s smile grew. “She was a ballerina, actually. Her ballet house closed down two years ago.”

Mina blinked, surprised. “Which house?”

Kazuha responded with the name of a prestigious ballet company—one that held historical significance in Japan, though the translation was a bit lost in English.

Mina’s eyes widened. “That house?”

Kazuha nodded. “Yes, I trained there until it closed.”

Mina turned to Momo, a smile tugging at her lips. “So, what’s the plan?”

Momo leaned back in her chair, and her gaze shifted to me, a playful gleam in her eye. “Danuki,” she said, causing the entire room—especially the Japanese women—to burst into laughter. I raised an eyebrow, confused.

“What?” I asked, completely unaware of the joke.

Sakura leaned in with a sly grin. “Ask Sana later, and you’ll understand.”

Momo followed up, her smile widening. “We’ll take your secondary offer.”

“Great,” I said, glad they’d come to an agreement. “I’ll leave you two to handle the logistics. And as the cherry on top…” I handed Mina and Momo Rei’s contact information. “You’ll want to get in touch with her about the two bonsais.”

Momo and Mina looked at the card, then back at me, nodding their approval.

“Thanks, Danuki-kun,” they said in unison, and the laughter erupted once more. I sighed then headed out.

⸻

I ended up back at my place not long after the meeting.

The familiar smell of jasmine and sandalwood hit me the moment I opened the door. Inside, Sana was curled up on the couch, still wearing my oversized GaoSilver shirt, the old Gaoranger series playing quietly in the background. She glanced up the second she heard me, her whole face lighting up like I’d just walked in with a winning lottery ticket.

“How did it go?” she asked eagerly, practically bouncing to her feet. Her big brown eyes locked onto mine, bright and hopeful, but underneath that excitement, I could sense a ripple of anxiety. She wanted to believe everything would be okay—but she’d learned better than to hope blindly.

For a moment, I thought about teasing her, playing it close to the chest like I usually did. Maybe make her squirm a little. But seeing her standing there, all vulnerable and radiant, I just didn’t have it in me.

“They took the deal,” I said simply.

Sana let out a small gasp of joy, like a kid on Christmas morning. She rushed across the room and threw her arms around me, squeezing tight. I caught her easily, breathing in the faint scent of her shampoo—sweet and clean, like peaches and soap.

“So what now?” she asked, her voice slightly muffled against my chest.

I hesitated, brushing a hand lightly down her back. “You’re a grown woman, Sana. You can make your own decisions. What do you want to do?”

And just like that, it was like a switch flipped inside her.

She pulled back from the hug slowly, tilting her head up to look at me through her lashes, her entire posture shifting. Gone was the excited girl; in her place stood the woman—confident, knowing, dangerously inviting. Her lips curved into a sultry smile.

“I think…” she said, voice low and honey-sweet, “it’s finally good to be alone with you.”

The way she said it made it clear she wasn’t talking about catching up on Gaoranger.

I felt the familiar tension coil low in my gut, but forced myself to stay steady, not giving her the satisfaction of seeing how easily she could rattle me.

Sana leaned in closer, her breath warm against my neck, her fingers lightly toying with the collar of my jacket as she added in a teasing whisper, “Danuki-kun.”

I stiffened slightly, frowning down at her. “Danuki again? What is with you people calling me that?”

Sana giggled, and her hands started moving—light and playful—poking at my chest, tugging at my sleeves, pawing at me like a mischievous cat.

“You really don’t know?” she asked, tilting her head, her fingers trailing up my arm slowly, almost absentmindedly. “In Japanese folklore, tanuki—or ‘danuki’ when people are teasing—are these sneaky little shapeshifters. They look cute, harmless even… but they’re masters of illusion. Tricksters. They make you see whatever they want you to see.”

Her fingers brushed against the side of my neck, soft and lingering.

“You’re like that,” she murmured. “You play innocent. You smile. You act all casual. But you’re always three steps ahead, moving pieces where nobody can see.”

I raised an eyebrow, smirking. “So, I’m some kind of magical raccoon-dog?”

Sana laughed, the sound bright and warm. She pressed closer, her palms flat against my chest, feeling the steady thrum of my heartbeat beneath her hands.

“Not some kind,” she said, voice dropping lower. “The best kind.”

I caught one of her wandering hands and leaned down until our faces were just a breath apart. “If I’m a danuki,” I murmured, “then what does that make you?”

She blinked up at me, feigning innocence.

“A kitsune,” I answered for her, tapping her lightly on the nose. “A fox. Beautiful, sly, dangerous… and way too good at getting what she wants.”

Sana gave a mock gasp and pawed at my chest again. “Are you accusing me of being a trickster, Danzaborou?”

“Accusing?” I chuckled low in my throat. “I’m confirming.”

She grinned wickedly and leaned in, brushing her lips across my jawline in a teasing, featherlight kiss.

“Well then,” she whispered, her voice a purr, “I guess it’s only fair… a kitsune and a danuki. A perfect pair of troublemakers.”

I laughed and wrapped my arms around her, pulling her fully into my lap. “Trouble’s my middle name, sweetheart.”

Sana nuzzled her nose against mine, smiling like she’d just stolen something precious and gotten away with it.

“Good,” she said, eyes sparkling, “because you’re stuck with me now, Danuki-kun.”

I kissed her forehead, holding her there as the Gaoranger theme song played softly in the background, the two of us cocooned in the quiet warmth of a trickster’s den.

“Bedroom now,” she said dragging me to my bedroom. As she did she fished out my dick and began palming it slowly,

“I want everyone to know you’re mine. I want to take you to sakura’s club and fuck in front of them. Hell I just might. Just so Tsuki doesn’t get any ideas,”

Confused i asked what she meant,

“Tsuki told me she had a crush on you yesterday. Said you give off “daddy” vibes, but I know you’re not it’s just the beard and height, Sana says as she uses her hand to fuck me.its overwhelming as her hand goes faster my mind blanks from the pleasure. I watch as Sana smiles watching me cum undone and I explode in her hands. She smiles and says,

“Is that it?” As if stirred by magic my cock rises again for her. Sana smiles as I impale her with my shaft. She moans in pleasure.

Her walls are velvety smooth as I fuck into her. Her eyes roll to the back of her head as she says,

“Fuck! Fuck! fuck! I’m gonna cum!” She says as she explodes. I smile as she unravels around me elated. But as she unravels she begs me to stop due to how sensitive she is. I do and we lay in bed before falling asleep

The morning light was soft and cool, filtering through the windows in long slats. Sana and I lay tangled together under the covers, the world outside still quiet and slow.

She was curled up against me, her head resting on my chest, one of her legs thrown possessively over mine. I ran my fingers absentmindedly through her hair, feeling the steady rhythm of her breathing.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

Then Sana tilted her head up to look at me, her brown eyes serious in a way that caught me a little off guard.

“So…” she started, her voice quiet but certain, “what happens now?”

I raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to continue.

“I mean… you and me.” Her fingers traced light patterns across my chest, like she was thinking through each word carefully. “We’re both tricksters. Both stubborn. Both… dangerous in our own way. How are we gonna make this work, Danuki?”

I smiled lazily at the nickname but didn’t answer right away. I could feel the tension under her casual touch—Sana wasn’t used to wanting something she couldn’t control. Neither was I.

“I guess we just do it the way we do everything else,” I said finally. “We watch. We learn. We adapt.”

She made a small noise, not quite a laugh. “No tricks?”

I smirked. “Only good ones.”

She lifted her head fully now, propping herself up on one elbow to look at me properly. “Promise?”

I caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her fingertips. “Promise.”

Sana’s lips curved into a mischievous smile. “You know what they say about promises from a trickster, right?”

“They’re only binding if you want them to be,” I murmured back.

She laughed then, the sound soft and real, and lowered herself back down, tucking her head under my chin again.

“We’ll make it work,” she whispered. “I’ll make it work. Because you’re mine now, Danuki.”

“And you’re mine, Kitsune,” I said, closing my eyes, letting the moment settle deep in my bones.

For a while, we just lay there, breathing each other in, the world outside completely forgotten.

A little later, I moved quietly around the room, getting dressed. Sana was sprawled lazily across the bed, tangled in the sheets…

Later that morning, after the heat of the night had cooled into something softer and sleepier, I moved quietly around the room, getting dressed.

Sana was sprawled lazily across the bed, tangled in the sheets, her hair a wild, golden halo against the pillows. She watched me with half-lidded eyes, a lazy little smile tugging at her lips.

I was almost fully dressed—shirt buttoned, jacket slung over my shoulder, boots pulled on—when she stretched with feline grace, arching her back in a way that made the sheet slip dangerously low on her body. The morning sun kissed every curve, every line of her bare skin.

She was trying to kill me, that much was obvious.

“Back to work, Danuki?” she purred, her voice still thick with sleep and something sweeter.

Her hand drifted along her waist, drawing attention—very deliberately—to every perfect curve she had on display, as if daring me to ditch responsibility and crawl back into bed with her.

For a second, I almost gave in. Almost.

But I caught myself, smirking as I rolled my shoulders and slung my jacket fully on.

“Tempting,” I said, my voice low and rough from sleep, “but I’ve got a trade to finish with Mikoto.”

Sana let out a long, exaggerated sigh and flopped dramatically back against the pillows, pouting like a spoiled fox who didn’t get her way.

“You’re no fun,” she mumbled, the sheet slipping even lower.

I laughed under my breath, stepping closer for just a second to brush a strand of hair out of her face. “I’ll be back before you know it,” I promised, letting my fingers trail lightly along her jawline. “Then you can do your worst, kitsune-chan.”

She caught my hand briefly, pressing a kiss to my palm before releasing me with a sly grin. “You better hurry back, Danuki-kun. I get very lonely when I’m left all alone…”

I gave her a wink, opened the door, and stepped out—feeling her gaze like a brand on my back the entire way.

Duty called.

But so did she.

And soon enough, I’d be answering both.

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