#it felt like RESILIENCE and SURVIVAL | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

northopalshore · 2 months ago

Text

Jupiter in the

Midheaven persona chart

Jupiter in the Midheaven persona chart tells you about what people adore & respect you for most for i.e your biggest influence in terms of your professional or public appearance. The degree or sign it's in may also tell you what about your career that is revered or celebrated. All content seen here was accumulated through my personal observation. Please do not copy my work ʕ⁠´⁠•⁠ᴥ⁠•⁠`⁠ʔฅ🔉

Masterlist| MC Persona Chart masterlist | Venus persona chart masterlist

🪷 Aries (°1,°13,°25) | 1st House

Your rough & tough personality, your no bullshit principle of life & that brazen attitude of yours is what people respect most about you. While some may sugar coat their lives and experiences to make it look pretty or more tolerant, you don't. You're loud, proud & take pride in your ways/experiences and what you've been through. People will respect your struggle and will to survive however you did. Or even just by saying or doing shit nobody else will do. You are raw & truly show yourself as is (albeit quite boldly even if sometimes you share.. too much). You are proud of yourself & do not filter your personality for anything or anyone & that's what people respect. You're a do-er, and most times actions do speak louder than words.

Ex: Cardi B has Jupiter Libra (°13 Aries) in her 4th house. I think she's a great example to give. You definitely see how her fans respect her authenticity & her flaws. Though some people see her as "loud & annoying" those that pay attention know that she's more than that. She's authentic, sweet & can call out bullshit/unfairness when she sees it. She's also vulnerable with her fans & in interviews. She's also notably a mother and has been very outward (sticking to it) on that in recent years.

🪷 Taurus (°2,°14,°26) | 2nd House

Your confidence, sense of responsibility & humility is a highlight of your public image. You may also be very vocal about self love or women's rights & people really connect with that. Your opinion is highly valued , and that groundedness you possess easily allows you to reach people. People find it easy to trust you & depend on you. People also respect you for your ability to put out the right words to move them, or even just move yourself! You are resilient and smart, especially when it comes to expressing yourself through the things you have. People with this placement also make great business owners (& may be respected for that as well). This placement is also good for writers & artists (those that are in journalism or where they speak/write about real experiences) in terms of reputation.

Ex: Namjoon is well known for being the leader of BTS. He has Jupiter (°14 Taurus) in Scorpio the 6th house. Aside from his leadership position in BTS, he is also a man with a good down to earth image. Didn't he accidentally create a "core" what was it. Namjooning? I heard that he wasn't fond of it though; because it felt like he was being commercialized for his lifestyle almost. I've seen some clips of interviews where Namjoon would always hold down the fort for the rest of the guys. He's also known for that mature sensibility he has. His thoughts are also very (aside from the freaky side of him heard through his music lol).

🪷 Gemini (°3,°15,°27) | 3rd House

People adore you for your voice or your writing. Your entertaining personality, your sense of humor and your ability to vocalize your intentions well. For that, people think you are smart and funny. You ask deeper questions, and challenge the people's thoughts/opinions. People adore how well-read & knowledgeable you are! Those with these placements usually are writers, actors or educators (or their job requires them to work with words, teaching or putting their thoughts out there). People adore the things you share or say/ write & even just how you talk in the professional world (under public perception)If you are an actor, you'll find that your lines are quotable due to the fun or catchy quality it has. While Taurus's words are based on experience & gut feeling, yours is based on intuition & research most of the time.

Ex: Marilyn Monroe has Jupiter (°22 Capricorn) in Pisces 3rd house. Though people did mistake her for being the dumb blond stereotype, she was in fact a very intelligent & progressive thinking woman. Especially considering the 50s were still extremely conservative. She has earned a lot of respect for both her beauty & brains.

🪷 Cancer (°4,°16,°28) | 4th House

People find you very emotionally intelligent, and find a lot of comfort within you. People may see you as a mother or a female figure (or just a comforting presence) in their life. They adore how despite the pain or tough experiences you've been through, you still remain kind, generous and open to other people. Being strong in your own way. People also adored your femininity, and reassuring energy. You are not afraid to be emotional, to share your feelings and that vulnerability and people respect you for that. Also, this can make people emotionally invest in you as well or connect with you emotionally. Makes people very fond of you too from what I've seen.

Ex: Markiplier has Jupiter in Cancer (°1 Aries) in the 11th house! Which explains his deep connection with his viewers and reputation for being a softie (there are lots of videos of him crying while expressing his love & gratitude for his supporters). I remember stumbling on one of his older videos in the past, I can't remember the title.. was it I believe in you? Or you can do it? Whenever he opens up, it just feels comforting. You get that intimate feel & know it's coming from the heart. Why? That Aries degree is a no bullshit degree (which also explains the big brute/act first think later tough guy part of him as well that equally adored).

🪷 Leo (°5,°17,°29) | 5th House

You are most respected & likely also adored for your endurance. Aside from your looks, aesthetics and sex appeal of course. Leo's original traits really shine with this placement, you are able to take a lot of pressure & hits and still come out stronger than ever. No matter what industry you are in or what you do for a living, people may look at you as a source of inspiration or "model worker" due to your independence, practicality & creativity. Even in the most mundane job ever, you do it best or give it your all and people can see that.

Ex: The best example I can give you for this placement is Taylor Swift. She has Jupiter in Leo (°2 Taurus) in the 11th house. Aside from her genius lyricism, you cannot deny that what she's MOSt respected & adored for is her positive, resilient nature. People used to talk a lot of shit about her in the past though she did have her own right to a couple crash outs, but in the end she always found a way to get through it & come out better than before.

Also, Christian Yu has Jupiter (°3 Gemini ) in Leo hehe~ if you're familiar with DPR, you'll know. Please look him up! This manifested a bit later for him in general, even though it was definitely there before; it's like redoing things that you've done in the past & giving it new life. Which to me explains that retrograde of his.

🪷 Virgo (°6,°18) | 6th House

Your humble personality, your regime, your hard work & long-term efforts is something that you will gain a lot of respect for. People see that you are one with the things that you do, mind body and soul. Nothing that you do is made for the sake of fun, but rather to achieve something & that is very commendable. You are a perfectionist, and often become the people's support i.e the person everyone runs to for help or advice. People respect how trustworthy & reliable you are. When your assistance is needed, you will always show up or at least show them the right way to do it. Expect to see this pop up in the charts of self made individuals, those that actually deserve their place wherever they are (& quite possibly deserve more than that too). The only downside is that you might get overworked, because you're the person everyone runs to when they need something. If people lose track of what to do, they just hand it over to you lol.

🪷 Libra (°7,°19) | 7th House

People often admire you for your charming, fair personality & looks. It's your agreeable attitude when going about life and how you carry yourself when it comes to your presence. You are the type to "do the right thing" a lot and have a good sense of morals & do not tolerate injustices. Surprisingly this shows that you are more attached to activism ( which is usually seen with Aquarius but not this time around apearantly). Your romantic nature, your love life and sensuality is something people adore or respect about you. In some way, it's your pursuit or romanticism that charms people your way. You could also be respected because of your connections with certain people; your company, business, contract, or even literally your marriage/spouse.

Ex: Prince is a prime example for this in my opinion. Jupiter (°27 Gemini ) in Libra the 4th. His rendezvous with the women he adored also contributed to this adoration as he is not shallow or artificial when it comes to love, sensuality & expression. He was a smart, man with a purpose; there was weight in the things he said & not to mention he knew/mastered how to play multiple instruments & different sounds/genres. Sometimes different genres in the same album or same song! I think he will forever remain iconic in that sense. Many people were fond of him and connected with him on both an intellectual & emotional level and that gained him a lot of respect. Purple Rain is still a sexy staple! Trust me, just watch the musical & you'll get why he's perfect for this example!!

For that spouse or connections part (because hell no am I calling him attractive), there is no better example than Jay-Z . He has Jupiter in Libra (°26 Taurus) 2nd house. I know he's most respected for his business & brand. & ehem, he's literally married to BEYONCÉ wtf. Both of them are powerhouses and that only elevates people's adoration/respect for him. Aside from his very interesting connections (who were also, in fact influential in their own way regardless of their controversy o course). You can't deny that he is a brand that will never leave the celebrity world.

Kim Kardashian has Jupiter (°15 Gemini) in Libra in the 2nd house . Out of all the Kardashians, she has the most iconic lines in the family. She's also a proud woman, a business woman & has been studying law since 2018. Despite her controversy, she is still respected for her eye for business & her powerful connections and just her as a brand. Also, she was most noticeable as Kanye's wife (or rather ex-wife at the moment). She definitely did the right thing ngl.

Guess who also has this? Jungkook. Hah. He has Jupiter (°12 Pisces ) in Aquarius in the 7th house. He is mostly associated with BTS for a large portion of his life & that part will never leave him even if they no longer produce music together in the future. That's part of his legacy. Though, you can expect to see him with his wife in the future but working in a different way (not really leaning into how he did it before) I don't think he'll be "on stage" much after marriage but present in a different way. Side note, but I thought it was funny how both he & Cristian Ronaldo have almost the same Jupiter placement; Aquarius Jupiter (°7 Libra) in the 12th.

🪷 Scorpio (°8,°20) | 8th House

You are most adored for your powerful presence & untouchable energy. In some cases, this could be tied to rap or raw sexual charm. You have a very addictive personality and ability to make anything a "hot item". People may think that you possess a very exclusive energy as well and being able to be in your circle makes them feel lucky or better by association. This placement could mean your ability to be bold (dgaf energy), influence, rap or "control" over something often leaves people in awe of you. You are a force to be reckoned with & people know that. People with this placement change the game in any industry they are in while many others respect it, you also gain very passionate haters/jealousy as well.

Ex: Both Jennie Jupiter in Capricorn (°8 Scorpio) 12th house & Beyoncé Jupiter in Scorpio (°1 Aries ) 10th house (Beyoncés updated birth time), have Jupiter in Scorpio/Scorpio degree. Both are undoubtedly amended for their powerful stage performances and hypnotizing influence over their respective industry.

Michael Jackson & I have the same placement for Jupiter (°20 Scorpio & °8 degree respectively) in Scorpio 4th house! MJ is a power house when it comes to his career. He had the ability to make anyone & everyone obsessed with him. That power, drive & energy gained him word-wide respect. Also he is known for being a sweetheart, with an innocence rarely ever seen in the industry & always had a love for children and childlike innocence (Despite it biting him in the ass later due to controversy). People adored him for that strong stage presence and kind personality.

As for me, well. You'll see!

🪷 Sagittarius (°9,°21) | 9th House

You are most adored and respected for your diversity, your creativity in storytelling & ability to branch into a wide range of professional fields/skills. People do not only associate you with one position; as you are usually a multitasking genius! Also, people respect you for your ability & drive towards advocating rights, issues and hypocrisy. You reconceptualize what others may have misunderstood & took lightly to. Activism, speaking out against exploitation & supporting social causes. This is what people respect most about you.

Ex: Melanie Martinez has Sagittarius Jupiter (°5 Leo) in the 12th house. She is most respected for her unique artistic vision, creative control, and ability to blend music with storytelling. She thrives in tackling deep themes, builds immersive worlds (through Crybaby's perspective), and stays true to her individuality/brand/vision. In all of her songs, there is always a message intentionally made to reach out to those that need it.

🪷 Capricorn (°10,°22) | 10th House

People adore you most for your talents and dedicated attitude towards your career. Like Jupiter in Aries you do not have a single bullshit bone in your body, and people can see that. People have a lot of respect for you and how you handle yourself in the professional world. Your business and strategic planning/management is something people see and admire most about you. You just know what to do i.e what's good for your image & you are very careful with how you present yourself. In other words, you know the game & how to play it.

Ex: Megan Thee Stallion has Jupiter in Capricorn (°3 Gemini) in the 2nd house. She's funny, relatable, down to earth but still holds herself & her self worth high. She's confident & smart too people and people love how she is not a quitter. She sticks to what she says & she says what she means!

🪷 Aquarius (°11,°23) | 11th House

Your unique, genuine (true to self expression) appeal & aesthetic has a way to pique people's interests. Something about your work has that distinctive flair that people associate you with. Like if you are in the music industry , it's the blend of sound that you use. If you're an artist, it's literally your art style or the exclusive pallet that you use. You have the ability to influence trends and subcultures on the internet. People love how you act the way you want and stay true to your desires & thoughts no matter what industry you are in. You also tend to challenge the norm when it comes to how a person of your status/stature should behave. Can translate to many different scenarios, from a DMV attendant being quick with their work or an older teacher acting lively & enthusiastic even though her coworkers have all lost their spark.

Ex: The best example to give is Lana Del Rey with Jupiter in Aquarius (°10 Capricorn) in the 5th house. She inspired the Sad girl/Americana Tumblr girl aesthetic back in the 2010s and had a lot of people on a chokehold for that aesthetic. Something about that vintage cinematic charm & classic Hollywood aesthetic just bodes well with the internet. Even in recent years, she was the main influence for the "Coquette" style due to her coquette-esque music. Her music is also undeniably a stand out when compared to other musicians of the time. That juxtaposition comes from her brazen attitude (& heavy smoking) despite having such a sweet angelic or ingenuous appearance/energy in her songs.

Also, note that she has a Stellium in the 11th house in her MC PC (Venus in Cancer, Mercury in Leo & Mars in Leo) which heavily contributes to that as well.

Know who else has this placement? Jungkook. Surprised? No.

🪷 Pisces (°12,°24) | 12th House

With Jupiter in this placement, people adore your dualism & mystical appeal. No one really knows what you're up to or what your intentions are behind the personas they see, but you always have a way to make people curious about you. Your sweet, shy personality also makes people fall for your charm quite easily. Your art & aesthetic is the most "eye-catching" point of interest in your career (in whatever industry you may be in one way or another). There could be a haunting ingenuity that comes with it or Venus-like influence as well. If you are a programmer, people love the depth that your work can accomplish along with the compelling cinematography. Your career/reputation could be related to spirituality as well. This makes people feel very connected to you.

Ex: This is a pretty out of place example compared to what I usually give, but Charles Manson has Jupiter in Scorpio (° 18 Virgo) in the 12th house. He is an infamous cult leader who had a lot of charisma (which inevitably helped grow his already manipulative influence). Now, I don't think it's actually something to be "respected" but he is quite famous for that trait of his. I know some freaks look up to him for that. Which really, reaaally shouldn't be the case. That Pisces -Scorpio combination is just power given to the wrong hands.

˚₊‧꒰ა paid readings available ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

🔍 Additional note

For those of you wondering if the Midheaven persona chart works the same way as the Ascendant Persona Chart, no it does not. They are vastly different. I've explained in my Ascendant Persona Chart guide & observations post about the latter but essentially; The MC PC entails your grand scheme reputation or public image (which is often tied to your career but not limited to)

While the ASC PC concerns people's perceptions of you on a personal level. In that post I mentioned, I like to say it's how your natal placements are seen through other people's eyes.

Thank you for reading ♡ support?

@northopalshore

771 notes · View notes

superbat-love · 3 months ago

Text

Fantasy AU. “I should what?”

“Incubate the egg. I sense that this fetus has grown attached to your presence. It needs to absorb the aura of its caretaker to develop. Without it, the fetus will not survive, Batman.”

And that’s how Batman ended up being convinced into strapping a dragon egg around himself during patrols, hidden under his cape. It was not a responsibility Bruce had anticipated when the Justice League apprehended a group of alien poachers, but he couldn’t bring himself to abandon the stolen dragon egg and leave it to perish. Thankfully, the alien authorities had assured him that dragon eggs were physically resilient.

Whenever Bruce needed to attend meetings at Wayne Enterprises or charity events, he entrusted the egg to Clark, who was happy to babysit it, despite his usual wariness around magical creatures. All seemed well, until Bruce received a frantic call.

“Bruce, I-I think the egg is hatching!”

Alarmed, Bruce canceled his meeting and rushed home. There, he found Clark hunched over the egg. The egg was shaking violently, and Bruce noticed a hairline crack spreading across its shell.

“I think it’s going to—Look out!” Clark shouted suddenly, tackling Bruce to the ground.

Bruce felt a wave of heat skim his cheek. Glancing up, he spotted a scorch mark on the wall—a mark that looked suspiciously like laser heat beams.

The sound of the shell splintering drew both men’s attention back to the egg. Its top half shattered, and a small head emerged.

“That’s… a human baby,” Clark said, wide-eyed. “I thought they said it’s a dragon?”

The infant sat up, huffing icy breaths. He shook off fragments of shell clinging to his thick black hair and grumpily regarded the two men with bright blue eyes.

Across him, Bruce’s disgruntled expression mirrored the baby’s. “Dragon-shifter,” Bruce muttered.

#au #dragon baby #dc headcanon #dc fanfic #drabble #text post #dc #superbat #superman x batman #batman x superman #superman/batman #batman/superman #superman #batman #clark kent #bruce wayne

608 notes · View notes

bruhstories · 5 months ago

Text

Bet III

p.1 here & p2. here & p.4 here & p.5 here & p.6 here

summary: the game is on, but in-ho can't focus on it. he's got you on his mind pairing: hwang in-ho/the front man x civilian!reader warnings & content: age gap, afab!reader, slightly detailed descriptions of reader’s background for plot purposes, red text for in-ho, purple for reader, pre 33rd squid game, canon divergent, mentions of domestic violence, veeeery slow burn, reader is an orphan, slight voyeurism, people dying ayy yo (but if you watched squid game, this is just normal) w/c: 2.2k

a/n: if you would like to be tagged for the next part, please check this post! thank you for reading! also feel free to replace y/n's age, i just needed to put a number there lol

In-ho removed the intricately designed mask from his face and poured himself a glass of whisky, one leg crossed over the other as he sat on the leather sofa of the control room. The first game was about to begin soon — always Red Light, Green Light — and he waited for his favourite song to start — always Fly Me To The Moon. There was something so hauntingly beautiful about listening to a love song while people lost all hope, one by one falling to the ground.

It was a fantastic way to get rid of the weakest links, leaving only those resilient alive. Player 101, eliminated. Player 82, eliminated. Player 329, eliminated. Player 2, eliminated. They dropped like flies, frantically clawing at the gates in a futile attempt to escape while the soldiers shot them from above, painting the ground crimson.

Exhilarating was the only word that could describe what In-ho felt in that moment, and nothing compared to it. When happiness died along with his wife, control was the only thing that fulfilled him. He controlled who died and who lived, but he was also being fair — if participants played by the rules, they survived. It couldn’t get any simpler than that.

Obviously, they didn't have a choice, and In-ho knew that well enough. No, players only had the illusion of choice, but that mirage was what kept them in the game. Besides, they chose to come to the island. They chose to gamble their lives. They chose to be greedy. If anything, the games taught them, albeit for a short time, that actions had consequences, and In-ho was their judge, jury and executioner. It was truly thrilling. Exciting. Exhilarating.

His phone lit up with a notification from the security cameras concealed in his house. Irked by the sudden disturbance, he opened the app to check the footage. You weren't supposed to be there at that time, because you had already been at his house in the morning. In-ho watched you lock the door behind you, thinking today was the day you stole from him and proved him right. He scoffed, hoping you would last longer than one day, but to his surprise, you sat on the kitchen floor, knees to your chest, crying.

He couldn't send you a text — it would have made it obvious that he knew you were there, and his eyes lingered on his phone, forgetting about the game in front of him for a moment. In-ho watched you take out your phone and type, and not a minute later he received a text.

Good morning again! I had a bit of free time after my second job today and came to check on Eunjoo. I'll be leaving in an hour for my other job and I'm not charging for the extra visit.

In-ho stared at the big screen, completely dumbfounded and ignorant to the people dying right before his eyes. How were you working that many jobs? That was, if you were even telling the truth. But he would find out soon, because he left a stack of 2 million won on his nightstand, eagerly waiting for you to take it. You had to take it. You had to be the same as everyone else.

That's absolutely fine. If you don't mind me asking, how many jobs are you working?

He swapped back to the security cameras and watched you wipe the tears off your face with the back of your hand, smiling at his text. Did he say something funny? Why on Earth would you be smiling when a minute ago you had tears rolling down your cheeks?

Officially two, unofficially three. I teach Korean to a family of immigrants, but that's unpaid. I think of it as volunteering. They do feed me, though! My other job is a mascot at Lotte World.

In-ho shattered the empty glass in his hand while reading your text, and winced when he felt blood seeping from a fresh cut. Why, just why did you have to prove him wrong? He watched you go into his bedroom with a pile of freshly clean and dried shirts, ignoring the money. You saw the stack, he noticed you staring at it, hoping you grabbed it, but you found his ironing board and began to iron his shirts, not sparing the money another glance.

Why?

Through the camera, he saw you text back.

Why what?

"Tsk." In-ho scoffed at your question while wrapping a bandage around his palm.

Why are you working that many jobs?

Ah. My uncle has debts. Unfortunately, I had to drop out from uni to help him pay for them. It's fine though, I like what I'm doing.

How old are you?

23.

Jesus Christ, you were so young, yet life had been unfair to you. You deserved an education, a better life, and it cemented his ideal that the world needed to rid itself of the trash. He didn't know the full details, but he was sure to find out. You were unlike anyone he's met before. At least for now, at least until you proved him right.

Ding!

In-ho opened a picture from you — Eunjoo curling up on the left side of his bed, paws under her, looking like a loaf of bread, and the question 'Is that your side of the bed?' under it.

Indeed it is.

I knew it! Aww, she misses you :(

How strange it was to read those words. How strange it was to think about someone, or something missing him. To In-ho that was a foreign feeling, and he loosened his tie, swallowing the lump in his throat. He'd seen Eunjoo sleep on his side of the bed before, when he was gone, but he assumed it was just comfortable for her.

Animals truly were better than humans. If they betrayed their owners, they did it out of necessity. When humans betrayed, it was by choice.

In-ho watched you neatly adjust his ironed shirt on a coat hanger that you hung in his wardrobe, disregarding the Red Light, Green Light game that had long finished, and it hit him like a train that you reminded him of his wife. God, you were so much like his wife it infuriated him, because no one was allowed to take that place in his heart. No one was allowed to make him feel anything other than hatred.

You had to make a mistake, to prove to him that you were just like everybody else, and if money didn't make you crack, something else would. In-ho made it his purpose to unravel your darkest secrets, whether through manipulation or sheer force, but the distance between the two of you proved a greater obstacle than he thought.

He watched you finish ironing his clothes, watched you refill Eunjoo's water bowl, watched you comb your hair and put lip balm on while staring into his mirror, and it felt so wrong to study all your quirks and habits without you even knowing. It was the closest thing to having a normal life. But nothing about what he was doing was normal. Especially not watching you be so oblivious to his true self.

With a sigh, In-ho adjusted his mask left the control room to instruct his subordinates, the square-masked guards, to prepare for the next game, Neolttwigi, the soldiers to take the remaining players back to their beds, and the workers to remove the corpses. 188 players survived and more than 50% were eliminated. In-ho, in his Front Man persona, should've focused on the games, but he couldn't, for some unknown reason, shake off the image of you crying on his kitchen floor. He didn’t dare ask what happened. How could he? It would destroy all the secrecy.

It wasn't that he cared about you — he didn't. You appeared to be a positive, cheerful and talkative person, so whatever hurt your feelings must have been important. Was it your uncle? Your boyfriend? He scoffed at that thought. The mere idea of some guy breaking your heart made him irrationally angry, and In-ho was lucky that his mask concealed his frustration.

He decided to pay the remaining players a visit, accompanied by eight armed guards, and, just like last year, and the year before, and the year before that, there was always a woman who dropped to her knees, begging to be spared and allowed to go home. Another one followed, and even men asked for forgiveness, but they just couldn't get it through their thick skulls that they chose to be there. They chose to gamble their lives away, they chose to borrow money and end up with debts they could never afford to repay. No one forced them to play the games.

When the room was filled with echoing cries and hysterical sobs, In-ho fired a single shot in the air, shutting everyone up. They all looked at him with fear in their eyes like pigs in a slaughterhouse waiting to be gutted, and he lowered the gun, standing firm on his feet.

"You must be mistaken. You are not here to be punished, you are all here because of the choices you made." In-ho simply said, his voice distorted by the mask.

He took notice of teams already being formed, of those who were willing to step on corpses just to get the big prize and those who would rather sacrifice themselves, because there were always people who wanted to play the hero. He studied them all before they got recruited, and knew 456 secrets, 456 names, 456 lives. Well, only 188 survived.

"We came here to win money, not to fucking die!" Player 072 shouted from the back of the room. "And if I'm correct, we can vote to go back home."

Ah, yet another one who thought they could outsmart In-ho. He's been there before. He walked that path before, and it taught him that people don't change. Ever. Even if they voted to leave, they always came back.

"Of course, clause three of the consent form. If the majority decides to go home, you are free to do so. We don't hold anyone against their will." In-ho nodded. "But before you make your choice, allow me to tell you the current accumulated prize."

He pressed a button on a small, black remote and a large glass piggy bank was lowered from the ceiling as the lights in the room dimmed down. Stacks upon stacks of money piled up in the piggy bank, and the screen counted the current prize — 26.8 billion won. In-ho watched how their faces lit up at the amount of money accumulated, but also how the penny dropped for most of them — the more people died, the more money the survivors got.

"If you choose to leave, the money will be distributed amongst the deceased players' families. It’s only fair." He said, and left the room so that the soldiers could prepare for the democratic vote.

"You're manipulating us!" In-ho heard a player shout, and maybe he did. Maybe he was chipping away at their humanity to bring out the worst in them, but it was for the best. At least by dying they served a purpose.

It was no surprise that the majority voted to stay, 95 to 93. Good — he didn't have to go through the trouble of sending them home. The soldiers and workers brought food for the players, and In-ho checked his phone in the safety of his room. There was no text from you, and it was almost time for you to check on Eunjoo, but when it hit 9 and you weren't in his house, he felt a knot in his stomach, an uneasy feeling. Was he worried? Of course he was, for his cat, not for you.

Ding!

The sound of his phone caught him off guard, almost startling him, almost making him feel relieved when he saw it was you, and In-ho read the text.

Evening! Traffic was baaad this evening but I'm nearly at the penthouse. Will Eunjoo ever forgive me? :(

The stupid sad face you sent made the image of you pouting pop up in his head and he wondered why. There wasn't a good enough reason for you to be haunting him like a phantom. You were a nobody to him.

Eunjoo might, but I won't.

In-ho immediately regretted pressing send. It was unprofessional and stupid of him to text such a reply, because you weren't friends. He had no friends.

I'm so sorry, but I promise I'll make it up to you, Mr. Hwang! I really need to get you a gift for letting me use your shower anyway.

A relieved sigh escaped his lips when you didn't take his message the wrong way, but part of him was hoping you would try to flirt with him, seduce him, do anything to prove him right. And yet again, you remained true to yourself.

He watched you on the cameras again, how you invaded his home, his life, how you fed Eunjoo and munched on prawn crackers again, disappointed that you, for the second day in a row, refused to use anything in his house for yourself except for the shower and the TV.

There was still time to win the bet, and he never lost.

tagging: @ri1liane @anmert1 @syraxnyra @frshluvcats @lanyia @mettreads @nightdark-dreamdark @bridge-always @lovekm @audrey223 @ririgy @starkeyszn @hobiesbrownsgf @thoughtfulbelieverstrawberry @maria-trisha @akiqvq @10hrs26mn @tenzko @okaycharr @politicstanner @moonxknightx @googie-jeon @swthrtbyeol @mariiestfu @ratsnestinmyhair @missroro @talia-the-gemini @fortluocha @true-queen-of-mischief @ssa-callahan @bibliophile-yomna @wwastro @heartsforseo @marymun @glads-stuff @starryeddie @kisses2kanao @gagaga167 @l4venderia @scryi @lelisae @twicelover2 @ashtrosstuff @cruel-affair @cdej6 @veragrhm

please keep in mind that if i didn't tag you it's because i either missed it, or i couldn't find your age on your blog. there will be smut.

742 notes · View notes

aninipanin1 · 4 months ago

Text

MY BUMBLEBEE

Notes: Nothing just pure fluff and a lil jealousy, This is Miss Manager Junior btw:> And I got this idea from MemeSuga01's book titler "Blue Lock Specials" Special 18 in Wattpad! Please check out their books and account. They make really good stories!

"Bachira-san-"

"Y/N!!!!"

You were tackled with a hug that almost knocked the wind out of you. There were times like these where you remembered that Bachira was like the rest of the players in the facility, absolutely tall and built.

"Um...hi, how may I help you..?"

"Nothing! I just wanted to hug you!! You don't visit our stratum much anymore hmp!!"

He pouted, arms still around your neck as he happily cheered and tattled whatever was in his mind away. Seeing the excited look in Bachira's eyes made you quite happy and a bit guilty if you were to interrupt with whatever he was saying, so you nodded your head at whatever he was saying, even if it does not make sense at times.

As he talked, arms still around you, you started to let your eyes wonder about his features. You never noticed it, but the yellow in his hair was really bright and matched his pretty eyes. You think deep down that everyone has really pretty eyes, but the ones in the Blue Lock's facility take the cake, the variety of colors are all comparable to literal gems.

Bachira's looked like one of an amber, one preserved after so many years because of its shine and beauty. But it's not just beautiful but resilient as well, surviving whatever weather, temperature or disaster may occur around it. And it's not that far from Bachira's own story.

As you thought deeper, you then noticed how the black part of his hair mixed well with his yellow hair and eyes. He looks like a honeybee! Or even a-

"Bumblebee..." You ditzily whispered, not knowing you said it outloud, and unfortunately for you, Bachira heard it too.

"Eh? What did you say, Y/n-chan?" He tilted his head, his arms loosening a bit around your neck. Your ears and cheeks immediately flushed in embarrassment thay you said something so embarrassing out loud without a thought.

'Stupid Y/n...'

"Aww cmon Y/n-chan! What was it?"

"I..I said...you looked like a honeybee...I mean...I think you look closer to a bumblebee because of your personality! And because bumblebees are so chubby and cute and-" you covered your mouth, catching yourself talking too much again. There were moments like these where you would forget that you were talking to someone and you needed to filter out your words, and would instead talk their ears off with your unfiltered thoughts.

But, instead of being mad like you thought, Bachira's cheeks turned really pink before he hugged you even tighter than before.

"Aww Y/n-chan!! You're so cuteeee!! I like that nickname so much! I like it!" He cheered, jumping around as his arms were still around you making you a bit dizzy, before blinking at his words.

"Really? You don't mind I called you bumblebee?"

"Nope! I like it! Say, say, do you have nicknames like that for the others?" He asked, his smile still wide and the same but his eyes held some sort of hidden agenda. And he desperately wished that you only had a nickname for him and no one else.

"Uh nope! It just came out of me...!"

With that answer, his eyes became even brighter. He felt really special that you called him that, especially since bumblebee sounded so cute in his ears, giving him tingles on his heart.

"Sooo can you start calling me Bumblebee instead of Bachira-san?" He said excitedly, and you, being so oblivious at his hidden agenda immediately nodded at the idea. After all, you liked cute things and cute nicknames to your friends made you so happy and satisfied.

"Okay! You're my bumblebee from now on, Bachira-san!"

"Yay! I'm your bumblebee!!"

What you did not expect however was the reaction that the supposed innocent and cute nickname you gave the yellow and brown-haired striker.

You currently joined the boys in eating their lunch. Every Sunday, all the boys would share a cafeteria to eat lunch together for the sanitization of the other's they use everyday and for better bonding moments too (althoug Ego hides the latter reason). Picking your food tray, you tried to find a good spot to sit and enjoy your food. As always most of the tables had a vacant seat (which most would leave open in hopes you'd choose their table and sit with them).

But, before you can find a seat, you found Bachira entering the cafeteria and him being him, immediately ran to you and greeted you. He looked to be happier than he usually is, and he was. Deep down, Bachira was quite happy and flustered at the nickname you gave him. Even if a few hours had passed and training had done and went, he still could not keep it off his mind.

He really liked the way your tongue said his name, but the tone, the sheepish mutter of the word "bumblebee," calling to him and him alone made him feel so jittery and excited in a different way that he ever felt before.

"Hi Y/n-chan!!"

"Hi Bachira-san! Are you going to eat yet?"

"Awww...why did you call me that?"

He pouted at you, a little disappointed that you did not call him the nickname you gave him. Mostly because he really did like it and wanted you to call him that always, but also because he knew that the rest of the boys were listening and wanted you to call him thay in front of them to indirectly tell them that he was really special to you.

Tilting your head, you were a little confused as to what he was talking about until you remembered the conversation you had with him earlier. Your eyes brightened at the memory and looked a bit apologetic for forgeting.

"Oh, I forgot...'m so sorry, Bachira-san- I mean, my bumblebee!"

Crickets and silence.

That was all that was heard in the cafeteria the moment you called Bachira the nickname. The conviction and softness in your voice when you called him along with the sweet meaning that the nickname held, with the addition of the 'my' in the beginning made it feel so personal and possessive.

It can even be a nickname one gives to their significant other. And that did not sit right with them.

"Eh..? Did I say something wrong?" You wondered as you sat beside Bachira in the large table most of your friends sat in, yes even people like Rin, Barou and Kunigami who didn't think they were 'friends.'

"No fair, why does he get a nickname, while I don't Y/n-chan?" Nagi said from the other side of your chair as he rested his head on your shoulder, looking up at you with his sleepy eyes that held some sort of hidden conviction and annoyance.

"Yeah, Nagi's right, Y/n-chan! I want a nickname too!" Hiori raised his hand.

"Me too! Me too!" Kurona pitched softly.

"When did you even start calling Bachira that, Y/n-chan?" Isagi asked, feeling the familiar green face of jealousy. The question made you smile softly, because you thought that the nickname was just for friends, finding it absolutely adorable.

"I was talking with Bachira-san earlier this morning, and I kinda uttered how he looked like a bumblebee because bumblebees are so cute, fuzzy and chubby and his personality feels like one! So we agreed his nickname from me will be bumblebee from now on. Isn't it cute?" The happy and satisfied look in your face lessened the annoyance they felt to the brunette striker who just ate happily beside you.

"Yeah, cute." Rin said, his tone hid a sassy and annoyed tone.

"Can I still get a nickname, Y/n-chan?" Nagi asked, his stubbornness shining through at such a trivial thing. But to him, it was less than trivial. He wanted a personalize nickname from you, one that felt special to him especially because it was coming from you.

"Eh really? Um okay...uh you can be Ice Bear from We Bare Bears! You remind me of him, Nagi-san!" You offered with a bright smile. Finding his snow white hair, tall build and lazy personality mirroring the cute bear character.

Nagi seemee satisfied enough with the nickname, finding it endearing, but most especially because it came from you.

"Yay...I'm your Ice Bear."

Everyone else frowned at that, even Bachira who wanted to be the only one who had a nickname. But, hey he was not selfish like thay so he just continued eating.

And with that, the rest of the guys on the table started to ask you for nicknames too. But instead of feeling overwhelmed, you felt so happy and excited in giving them the silliest and cutest nicknames your mind can think of. You feel like your inner kid (that you lack) was brought out by the moment, and well, you loved your friends so you were more than happy to give each of them a nickname!

"Um...Rin-san can be Keroppi...!"

The rest of the boys laughed at the comparison between Keroppi and Rin.

"Rin-chan is not cute at all like Keroppi!" Bachira laughed as the rest agreed, pissing Rin off.

"Hmm, I don't know why I called Rin-san Keroppi, but it just sounds right to me! My Keroppi!" At the final sentence, Rin's full cheeks from his food turned red in a snap, almost choking on his food due to being so flustered and shocked at the nickname.

"Um, and this is ashi which means leg!"

You were currently holding a newspaper that Loki tried reading and explained what some of the worrd meant, since he was curious. But to your suprise, all the foreign players crowded next to you to listen to the explanation. Sure, they were not really thay ready to learn another language altogether, but they were curious and spending time with you at the same time was not exactly a bad combo.

On the field sat Lorenzo, Ness, Charles, Loki and Kaiser around you as you pointed at the words that was foreign to all of them as you slowly explained each of the symbol and what it meant. They were listening, well until Rin entered the field to look for you. And well, you made a mistake in acknowledging him in the new nickname you gave to them infront of the foreign players.

"Oh um sorry, my Keroppi! I'll start doing the laundry later!" As if clockwork anytime you used that word, Rin turned a bright red before leaving the field to try and cool off and try to find a way to not get flustered like a damn fuse everytime you use that nickname.

But, the rest of the players noticed the rather cute nickname and well, they were less than pleased and more envious.

"Ehhh why does Rin-Rin have a cute nickname from you but I don't? Y/n-chaaannn please give me one too!!" Charles said as he clung to your arm.

"Eh..?"

"I agree with the kid, Y/n." Michael said with a smirk. You felt like a trapped mouse under the expecting gaze of the players. Loki noticed this and sighed before hitting Charles's head which made the midfielder let out an 'ow.'

"Don't harass her, you fools. If she wants, she'll give us one. Geez."

"Uh thank you, Loki-san. But it's really fine! I'll give you guys nicknames too!" You started to think for one as they all watched you, then you looked at Charles and fangs when a genius strike hit your head.

"Charles-san can be Meowth from Pokemon!"

"Yey! I'm fine with that! Thank you, Y/n-chan!"

He said as he hugged you even tighter which just made you smile, but when you turned to Kaiser, you remembered a memory about the time Isagi was ranting to you about Kaiser.

"Yeah, and he even has that annoying rat-hair! I hate him SO much, Y/n-chan!"

The word rat repeated in your head, and a character appeared in your head, but before you can filter your thoughts into words, you said what you thought out loud.

"Jaq-jaq from Cinderella."

And well, the entire field ended up in laughter. Loud and hard laughter. Even Ness could not help the chuckle that left his mouth, remembering the familiar mouse character.

And well, that pissed Kaiser a bit. Which made you panic a bit.

"Oh, I'm so sorry Kaiser-san! I just remember Isagi-san calling you a rat and well...it ran in my mind..."

"HAHAHHAA IT FITS! HOLY SHIT IT FITS!" Lorenzo laughed and hugged his stomach which made Kaiser even angrier.

"Shut up! You are more of a rat than I am!"

"I'm sorry! Pfftt-" Loki said as he continued laughing, meanwhile Charles had tears in his eyes from laughter. Was it just from the nickname? Or even from the way you said it with such seriousness and conviction that made them laugh?

"Ehhh 'm so sorry, Kaiser-san..." you said, animated tears running down your face because, well an angry Kaiser was a scary Kaiser.

"Its fine, dear...but if just some of you will shut up!" He said with pointed looks at Lorenzo and Charles.

In the end, you settled with Kaiser being Cinnamoroll in your eyes. Finding his aesthetic and his hair color similar to the color scheme of the cute character.

ADDITIONAL TIME!

BLUE LOCK TV COMMENT SECTION:

User01: Awww but Kaiser fits the first nickname better🥺

Reply:

-> user02: right?! My favourite part of today's episode AHAHHAHA

User03: I want more behind the scenes moment wth?! Cmon editors and directors! I wanna see more of these moments lmao

User04: I don't think the Blue Lockers themselves, the directors and even the editors can deny that theyre all whipped for Miss Manager

-> User06: I super agree! Like, anyone with eyes can see that Miss Manager built herself a reverse harem in that place

User05: Nagi as Ice Bear is actually a really good nickname for him, but the Keroppi with Rin took me out for a bit LMAO maybe his behind the scenes personality is a bit more different to be guaranteed that nickname?

LMAO THIS ONE TOOK ME OUT but like help me out here, I wanna use these nicknames in the futhre so please do comment what you think the nicknames for the other Blue Lock players can be because I legit ran out of brainjuice just to think about it. But also, in the future Additional times I wiuld be putting the Blue Lock TV commment section buuut as a twist, I would be using some of my followers' username (if thats fine with you guys huhu) as the usernames, it would be used as some sort of shoutout and all, but also as a small thank you for all of you!

Blue Lock is WRITTEN by Kaneshiro Muneyuki and ILLUSTRATED by Nomura Yusuke. All credits to the both of them.

594 notes · View notes

fruitbasketball · 2 months ago

Text

sorry y’all. this is going to be a little emotional.

when i was 4 years old, i went to my first ever nba basketball game. i don’t remember it at all, honestly. i know kobe was playing, but all i have is a picture of me on my dad’s shoulders in a lakers hat and the definitive notion that i wanted to go back.

i fell in love with basketball that day. i’ve stayed in love ever since.

when i was 10, i heard about a team that had just gone back to back in the tournament, and on the women’s side. i decided i would watch a few games. i fell in love all over again.

when i was 12 years old, i watched the university of connecticut do the unthinkable. 4 straight championships, 2 perfect seasons, absolute dominance.

i thought to myself: in everything i do, for the rest of my life, that is what i am striving for: perfection.

that same year, i watched one of my idols, kobe bryant, retire.

when i was 15, i got concussed. it was a regular volleyball practice, and i didn’t expect it at all. but i had a sport i loved taken away from me, because the risk of damaging my academic future was just too great.

i fell out of love with sports, for a little bit. it sucked watching athletes do what i used to love doing; competing, being a teammate, winning.

later that year, i clicked on a youtube highlight reel. i don’t remember if it was overtime, or bleacher report, or house of hoops - and that’s honestly not important. but there was this blonde girl from minnesota, a couple years older than me, and she was hooping out of her fucking mind.

and just like that, i fell back in love.

i saw tidbits of all my favorite players - a midrange shot and mentality that resembled kobe’s, a cockiness that reminded me of dee, a 3 ball so smooth i could only think of steph, and a pass first mentality that made me feel like i was watching sue play.

slam said she was electrifying - that didn’t even begin to describe it.

i watched her commit to uconn.

kobe would die her freshman year. i would feel the loss like no other.

i watched this girl - saw her cry when she won national player of the year (the first freshman ever to do it), saw her lose in the final four, watched her get up in front of the entire country at 19 years old and tell them black women mattered.

and then i watched her get hurt.

and even though it wasn’t the same at all, it reminded me of my own injury. the player whose game i had fallen in love with - more and more with every play and every game - understood what i had felt on a fundamental level.

i watched her lose the championship that year. i wondered how someone could go through so much and God still couldn’t reward her.

when i was 18, i cried when i found out she had torn her acl.

my health went to shit that year. i was pushing myself too hard, striving for perfection. i landed myself in the er more than a few times. i was in and out of the hospital for months. i was sidelined from everything i loved.

i watched her talk about God and resilience and i was shocked at how it was possible to maintain so much positivity and faith when it feels like everything is against you. like life is happening to you and it feels like you’re just surviving instead of living.

i watched her come back from that injury, watched her struggle to carry a team that was far too depleted, watched someone i idolized struggle for another year.

i listened to her cite kobe, the man whose numbers i have tattooed on my back. the man who was everything to me growing up.

and it was the same for her. God. faith. determination.

so that’s what it was for me.

God. faith. determination.

yesterday, paige bueckers became a national champion with God, faith, and determination.

that means something to me.

it means something to a lot of fucking people - and that’s what makes her so great. it’s not the trophies or the awards or even the national championship net she won’t fucking take off. it’s her - it’s who she is as a person, who she’s always been, and who she’s grown to be.

i can’t think of a single person more deserving of God’s grace, not one person more resilient and faithful and not one person i look up to more.

thank you for a spectacular five years, paige.

thank you for being a role model to me when i needed it most.

thank you for bringing your talent to the game i fell in love with at 4 years old.

the rest of the legend is still waiting to be written.

i can’t wait to read it.

#wbb #wcbb #uconn wbb #uconn #uconn huskies #paige bueckers #kobe bryant #basketball #thank you thank you thank you

312 notes · View notes

thewalkingdilf · 5 months ago

Text

tough

daryl dixon x reader

cw: 18+ mdni, poorly written smut, sub daryl, oral (both receiving), unprotected p-in-v, praise, fem!reader, other standard smut cws

when you first arrived in alexandria with daryl and the rest of your group, it took a bit for everyone to adjust. slowly but surely, everyone eventually settled in and began to get along, befriending each other as your original group had done. they actually began to feel a bit like family too. however, daryl never got the same sense of community from them as the rest of the group did; they almost seemed scared of him. they saw his rough exterior, his quietness, the darkness and pain behind his eyes, and his sole focus on survival. he wasn’t there to make friends, his behavior made that clear.

the comforts of the new-found community— the housing, abundance of food, running water— it felt foreign to him; it was too hard for him to adjust, and others noticed. how could a man who’s had to fight his way through life, who has had absolutely nothing handed to him, be seemingly so willing to turn down this great opportunity? to everyone else in your group, this felt like a saving grace, a gift from god. he was tough, stubborn, and gruff— a man of few words for sure. nonetheless, he still tried his best to help out where he could. he was a hard worker, determined and resilient. not to mention he was extremely skilled at what he did. he brought things to the table that no other alexandrian could; they couldn’t deny that.

you walked around with him everywhere, attached at the hip, and it always seemed to turn heads and raise questions—you were so bright and bubbly; you radiated a warmth and a sense of comfort for the community. always so positive in such hard times. so caring, so sweet, so delicate. what were you doing with a man like him? a man that was clearly so opposite of you?

you didn’t understand why they thought of him in that way. they just didn’t understand him. they didn’t get to see the daryl that you got to see behind closed doors. the daryl that would do anything you asked without hesitation, the one who would risk his life for you in any situation, the daryl that would grab things during supply runs that you didn’t even actually need, just on the off chance that you may like it so he could see your contagious smile. the daryl that practically worshipped the ground you walked on.

the alexandrians were scared of him because they’d never seen the soft spot that the grumpy older man had for you, and only you. the way his cold blue eyes softened when he looked at you. they’d never seen those same eyes when they were all glossy with unshed tears that were threatening to fall down the aged skin of his cheeks because he couldn’t handle how good you were making him feel. the strong, broad man crumbling into nothing but a mess in front of you as you gave his cock slow, teasing kitten licks while he’s begging you to take more of him. voice cracking and face flush with a deep red color.

they’d never seen how small he actually looks when he’s on his knees for you, posture softened, broad shoulders slumped, looking up at you with pleading eyes. nothing but the sounds of his soft whimpering while his face is in your core, eating you out so messily, so desperately, searching for every little drop of your wetness because you just taste so damn good. you grip his hair gently, delicate fingers tangling themselves in his long locks, cooing at him for how good he’s being just for you, how perfect he is, how amazing his tongue feels on you. they’d never seen how his body shudders. you watch his cock twitch from the praise; his weeping tip leaking so much you wouldn’t be surprised if he came without you even touching him. he lived and breathed to please you.

and they’d definitely never seen the intimidating, unyielding, tough-guy facade melt right off of his face when you finally sink yourself down onto his painfully hard cock; you’re gripping him so tightly he’s seeing stars. they’ve never heard how sinful the noises he lets out are, raw and desperate, almost a cry, a plea for more, begging you for god knows what. he’s so overwhelmed, his senses utterly consumed by you, your touch, your smell, your taste. you’re bouncing up and down, rising and falling on him so effortlessly he wonders how you even have the stamina for it. you’re so warm and wet and you feel so velvety around him he thought he may cum right then and there.

you can’t help but revel in the sight of him like this.

“fuck,” you gasp softly, a smug smile tugging at the corners of your lips, “such a good boy… such a shame no one else gets to see you like this. this is all just for me, hm?” the filthy words drip from your tongue like the sweetest honey—the taunt flowing from your lips, smooth and natural. you feel him twitch inside of you, you know he’s getting close. “you close? gonna cum for me pretty boy?”

the only sign of strength that remains in his body is the way he grips your thighs hard enough to leave bruises, bracing himself against you. his eyes are clenched shut, and his jaw slack as he pants needily, “p-please, fuck, can i? can i cum?”

fuck, he’s practically whining. you actually find it cute how after all this time, he still begs and asks you permission. of course, you let him, and he’s quickly spilling into you, blabbering out incoherent “thank you’s,” his legs trembling by the time you’re finished with him, but nobody else would know that.

by the time he goes out the next morning, he’s once again the big, strong, tough man that everyone knows. it’s the only way they’ve seen him, and the only way they ever will. they don’t know your daryl.

709 notes · View notes

yazzwrites6962 · 5 months ago

Note

please write more of your niragi fanfic!! i really loved it and im addicted to your writing!! 💗💗

Redemption ♡ Suguru Niragi ♡ Part Three

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Suguru Niragi x Fem!Reader ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Part Two: Here

Part Four: Here

Author's Note: UNEDITED! Not much Niragi is mentioned in this chapter. It's mostly you, Chishiya, and Kuina bonding! I know this chapter is pretty short. I promise I'm working on more! I should have the next chapter for this out pretty soon. I don't own any characters or images!

Genre: A little angsty

Summary: After your last game, you're left swirling with the pain of betrayal. Luckily, you have Kuina and Chishiya to help you recover.

Word Count: 2029

Warnings: OOC Chishiya and Niragi, talk of injury, blood, and betrayal

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Trust and loyalty. The two most difficult things to find in the Borderlands. In a world overwhelmed by betrayal and death, rarely anyone was stupid enough to whole-heartedly believe in the goodwill of another person.

Except, you did.

You trusted Niragi, for some silly reason. Despite all the warnings, you had faith in him. You truly believed he was just misunderstood. When you called out to him for help, you believed he would he there to give it to you.

Then you watched him walk away. As your blood ran down your arms and you were so close to making it out, you watched him turn his back on you. It was only a matter of seconds now before death would find you. It was sickening. The pit in your stomach felt bottomless.

You wanted to wait. See what kind of unfunny prank this was and scold him for joking with you at a time like this, but you couldn't afford such a blunder. You couldn't afford to waste valuable seconds waiting for a man to rescue you.

No, not a man.

A beast.

That's what he is.

You couldn't just wait to die. You had to endure. You were so close, even without Niragi's help. Maybe you could still make it. Maybe you could still get out alive and hate Niragi for the rest of your life for this. You pushed yourself further, the barbs on your rope digging into your soft flesh as you reached for safety.

You couldn't see. You couldn't breathe. There was only pain. The sting of betrayal made it no easier to endure, but somehow, you endured. You clawed your way to the top, finally completing the deathly challenge, without the help of the man you thought was your friend.

Resilient. You'd learned to be resilient.

You hazily found your key and pushed through your door. Your mind was foggy, and you couldn't remember much. You were surviving on pure impulse. You could only hear the sound of your heart beating in your ears.

The heart. Such a silly thing. A symbol for all sorts of a range of emotion. So complex, but so simple. Its only job to pump blood through a vessel of flesh. Your heart. How badly you wished you could tear it out, to rid yourself of the rhythmic thumping deception in your skull.

Then, your vision went black. Yet, your heartbeat endured.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

You felt your soft sheets beneath you as an echo of hushed voices surrounded you. Your body ached, and your head felt heavier than usual. Your eyes peeked open, and you were thankful to find yourself in your room with Chishiya and Kuina by your sides.

"Y/N!" Kuina cried, seeing your eyes open a crack. You attempt to sit up, putting pressure on your injured palm. The pain is excruciating, and you fall onto your back once more. Kuina gingerly helps you sit up, positioning you against the headboard.

You're covered in bandages. Around your chest, neck, arms, and legs. You feel almost like a mummy, wrapped and restrained in horrible memories. Memories? Memories! Memories come flooding back to you. Hazy, but painful memories.

"Shinji! Did he make it out?" You suddenly recall the young boy who you had grown fond of during your game. Kuina and Chishiya give you a confused look, as if not really knowing who you're referring to. Of course, they wouldn't know. The Beach is filled with hundreds of people.

"What happened during your game?" Chishiya inquired calmly. "You lost far too much blood for a person of your stature. Luckily your injuries were nowhere near fatal."

"Did you patch me up?" You study the wrappings around your body. They look clean. Professionally done. Chishiya shrugged, as if not really wanting to answer your question. "My game... It had three stages. I got these from the last one. I had to... I had to climb a rope that resembled barbed wire. I tried to wrap up my hands, but it didn't work exactly."

"I'm just glad you made it out." Kuina sighed. How did you make it out? You don't remember much. Only the pain and frustration you felt as you hoisted yourself up the rope. You vaguely recall the key, and your bloody fumbling hands pushing through your door seconds before the game was over.

"Niragi. He made it out, right?" You ask, your voice sounding weak. He left you there, struggling. Why? Why would he betray you like that? Just when you'd thought you were getting through to a softer side of him.

"He's the one who brought you back." Chishiya spoke up. "He carried you back to your room while you were unconscious." Kuina nodded, leaning forward to add on to Chishiya's statements.

"Chishiya and I noticed him hauling you up the stairs. We followed you guys all the way back here. We thought maybe he was going to... Do something to you, but no. He just left you here with us."

You hum, not revealing what had happened between you and Niragi during the game. Silence filled the room as your mind raced. Chishiya stared at you quizzically.

"Are you hungry?" Kuina stood, picking up a plate from the table in the corner of your room. "You missed breakfast, and lunch. We didn't want to wake you, but we brought you food."

"Thanks." You muttered softly, taking the plate from her. The food was cold, but you didn't have much of an appetite anyway. "You guys are great friends. I appreciate you." Kuina uncomfortably shifted, glancing at Chishiya. He stood; his hands hidden in his pockets as usual.

"We will give you space to rest." He said, removing a hand from his pocket to wave Kuina towards the door. "Should you need anything, you know where to find us."

With that, the pair exit your room. You're alone, with a pile of cold food and a sore body. You now understand that you can't fully trust Niragi, as much as you wanted to.

Yet, you would've never guessed the conversation going on right outside your door.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

"Chishiya..." Kuina whined as your door shut. She didn't need to elaborate further on her thoughts. Chishiya already knew what she was going to say.

Betrayal. Every relationship you had made in the Borderlands thus far was built a foundation for betrayal, and you were entirely unaware of it all.

"We do not need to discuss this here." He began walking down the hallway, Kuina trailing behind him. She twiddled with her fingers nervously.

"She's nice. She's a good person. We can find someone else. Anyone else. You pick anyone else, and I promise I'll just go along with it." She pleaded.

"Kuina." Chishiya scolded, glaring at her. "We can explore your proposition. Just not here." Kuina's face lit up, now knowing that Chishiya was considering using someone else for the plan.

"Thank you." She sighed with relief, recalling your limp, fragile body being carried back to your room. She simply couldn't betray your trust like that.

"I don't consider it for your sake." Chishiya replied shortly. Kuina's better judgement told her not to question what this meant.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

It felt like you'd been couped up in your room for an eternity. Kuina would bring you meals, and Chishiya often checked on your bandages. Fortunately, he claimed you were "healing nicely". All you had to pass the time were a couple of books and a sketchpad.

"I'm bored." You complained while shoveling food into your mouth. "I feel fine enough to walk and all. Can't I just go out and enjoy the sun by the pool?"

"Swallow your food before you begin speaking." Chishiya rolled his eyes. "Your wounds aren't entirely healed. While you are making good progress, it could still get infected. Imagine that disgusting pool water making its way into your bandages."

"The things people do in that pool are disgusting." Kuina sticks her tongue out, slumping beside you on the bed. "I can't even imagine what kind of germs are in that water. Does anyone even clean the pool?"

"Tatta does." Chishiya adds. In the past few days, he has grown slightly more talkative than usual. You find it pleasant to see Chishiya opening up more.

"I don't have to go by the pool. Just on a walk, or something." You finally swallow your mouthful of food. "I promise I'll be careful, and I won't run into any trouble."

"Why do you try to appeal to us?" Chishiya raises an eyebrow. "I'm not your keeper. I only advise that you remain here and rest. Yet, you are an adult who can make her own decisions."

"I don't know." You giggle, shifting yourself so your legs hang off the edge of the bed. "I guess you two are kind of like... Parents? Mama y Papa, y'know?" Chishiya and Kuina flash disgusted looks at one another.

"Okay, Y/N. Maybe you do need some fresh air. You're losing it in here." Kuina chuckles, helping you out of bed. Had they not found painkillers for you, you would be in agony.

Chishiya left the room as Kuina helped you get dressed. As much as you tried to hide it under your cardigan, your bandages still showed through your bathing suit.

"You still look beautiful." Kuina smiled, giving you a gentle hug and trying to be mindful of your injuries. "Now c'mon. We'll accompany you on your little outing."

"We will?" Chishiya groaned from outside the door. You laugh as you turn the knob, coming face to face with the blonde. He looks as though he would rather be anywhere, but out on a walk with you and Kuina.

"We will." Kuina huffed, interlocking her arm with yours carefully. "Don't be such a party pooper. Y/N is still hurt. Besides, it'll probably do you some good too."

Chishiya shrugs, shifting his hands comfortably in his pockets, before following you and Kuina down the hall. The stairs were a bit tricky, but you felt incredibly accomplished making your way all the way down to the ground floor.

As you make it through the doors of the building, you took a deep breath. The windows in your room didn't really open, so it was nice to feel fresh air filling your lungs.

You and Kuina dominated the conversation, chatting about life as the three of you walked through the front garden. Chishiya listened and followed along from behind.

"I'm still worried." You say, watching people pass you by. "I haven't seen Shinji at all. You know, the boy from my game?" Your eyes drop to the ground as you continue. "I... I don't think he had the time to make it. He was so... Young?"

"I'm sorry, Y/N." Kuina comforts. "It's cruel. What happens in these games... It's not fair. It's like all the best people are getting hurt and killed."

"I was unconscious the whole way back here. I don't know what happened. I don't know if he made it back to the car or anything." You sigh, carefully rotating your body as you and Kuina turn a corner.

"Ask." Chishiya finally spoke for the first time during the walk. Both you and Kuina turn your head to face him, questioningly. "Ask if he made it back to the car, if it's weighing so heavy on you."

"Who would I even ask?" You scoff. Your mind wandered back to who was in the car with you. The only person you really knew was Niragi, and you were terrified at the thought of facing him again.

"Him?" Chishiya motioned to somewhere ahead of you. You turned your head forward again, facing the direction he was pointing your attention towards.

Several meters away, stood Niragi. The one person you didn't want to see. His gun was slung over his shoulder, and he stared directly back at you.

Did he remember how he watched you struggle? Did he see the blood running down your arms as you reached to him for help? What was he thinking when he turned away from you?

And what was he thinking as he began to walk towards you now?

420 notes · View notes

lauraneedstochill · 1 day ago

Text

silence my storm

pairing: Jack Abbot x resident!reader summary: Abbot falls harder for you without even noticing, but he struggles to apologize for what he said. He might lose you before he finds the right words. part 2 of Can’t pretend

warnings: rivals to <friends> to lovers, slow burn, implied age gap (you can ignore it) / descriptions of war; mentions of dr*gs, horrible parenting and losing loved ones, dealing with PTSD and panic attacks / PITTFEST (mass shooting, blood and injuries), ANGST. but there’s a silver lining! ♡ / words: 9.5K / author’s note: I imagine Danny Glover as Donny because that man would def talk some sense into Jack ♡ this part is intense so buckle up! / {you also can read it on AO3}

As long as Abbot can remember, he always managed to stand out. He was unruly as a kid, flouting authority and speaking out against injustice. He got teased for his skin sprinkled with freckles, for curls that turned auburn in the sun; he was hated for his inability to yield. The same attitude got him into the army, the same relentlessness helped him push through the combat training — in ten weeks some men were broken and remolded to fit in; but not Jack. He was resilient and fast and competent — with first aid, hand grenades, and rifles, during the obstacle course and field exercises; he joked that it felt like a summer camp. It also felt like the perfect place for him, and the medic training only strengthened his resolve. He didn’t seek attention but he attracted people with his biting humour and his never-fading perseverance. And he believed he could withstand it all.

Then he got deployed to hotspots, to places where the earth under his feet was scorched by blasts, heat dizzying, pulse throbbing in his head. And he watched as the villages were flattened to the ground, vehicles made of steel reduced to wrecks, and half of the things he’d learned before were proven useless. It left him hardened but it didn’t break him. Because somehow Jack always knew the way and the right words, because if he could save a life a day, it was all worth it.

But then came the war zones, and those weren’t about saving as much as they were about survival: on battlefields, in trenches, on desert wastelands that stretched on for miles, sand swirling in the air, legs heavy with fatigue, skin slick with sweat. And death tore people limb from limb, never a negotiator but a butcher, only allowing Jack to dig more graves. Those years flayed him of his assurance and his ardor, and he was knocked down, beaten, maimed, his body scarred and heart shattered, the damage that seemed irreparable, pain that left so many soldiers hopeless. But Jack got right back up.

And he got rougher at the edges and he talked less, but he decided to give life another chance. Jack studied with the same diligence and he threw himself into his work, as persevering as before, as tough as ever. The patients found his stoic demeanor calming, and other doctors respected him for cutting to the chase and thinking quickly. And undeniably, there is some comfort in being the one people can rely on, a beacon that guides through the darkest nights.

But you make Jack feel like he is invisible. And that’s a first.

It would make sense for you to glare in his direction, to let hostility cut through your tone when he’s around. You do none of that. On Monday, when Robby finally comes back — sunglasses tucked in his hoodie pocket, a giant cup of coffee in his hand, a smile so big his cheeks must hurt — you rush in barely a minute after and greet him, quite warmly. You say nothing to Jack although he’s standing right there next to him. Jack stops himself from following you with his gaze and listens to your retreating footsteps. It’s Dana who is glaring at him.

Robby is yet to notice it, his eyes on the board. “I see, the house is packed as always. How’s everyone been doing?”

“Peachy,” Dana deadpans, then moves a medical tablet to him with one hand. “Enjoy.”

His smile wavers at her tone, his gaze darting from her to Jack. “And how is our new senior resident?”

Abbot doesn’t meet his eyes. “Good.”

“Okay, what’s with the one-word answers?”

Princess rolls her chair closer with a smirk: “She’s very good.” Robby groans and she huffs. “What? It was more than one word! Everyone’s so cranky post-COVID.”

“First of all, my test came back negative so it was not COVID. And I do not appreciate you guys trying to ruin my mood this early in the morning,” Robby remarks although he doesn’t sound offended.

But his gaze wanders back to Jack as if he can read something from his reticence, as if he had suspicions before he even came through the doors. “Dr. Abbot, why don’t you tell me about the patients admitted overnight?” Robby suggests nonchalantly. “Come on, let’s take a walk. I’ve heard it’s good for health.”

Jack’s thinking of an excuse to stay. But then he sees you coming back, fresh scrubs on and face focused, and he almost turns around after you, he almost calls out your name. He has to reason with himself: it shouldn’t be a public conversation, you’d never want it to be. And he is yet to find the words for his regret. So he complies with Robby.

They step away, and Jack looks down at the screen, a colored spreadsheet with names and traumas. Robby cautiously looks around. And then he asks:

“So, back to the new resident. Are you getting along?”

Jack accidentally walks into a gurney someone left behind, curses under his breath and forces out: “Like I said, everything’s good.”

Robby hums, hardly convinced and clearly concerned. But not surprised. “You know what I’ve been thinking of recently?”

“I’m sure you are about to tell me.”

“You coming to work here. Remember your first few weeks?”

Those weren’t easy — not to live through, not to reminiscent of. Jack can recall some bland moments and hollow dialogues, a lot of pitying glances given to him. He had to bury his wife six months prior to that.

“I know I wasn’t a ray of sunshine—”

“You were kinda insufferable,” but Robby’s brown eyes are filled with sympathy as he says that. “I mean, obviously no one blamed you. I can only imagine how hard it was in the beginning.”

A crease settles in between Jack’s brows. “And you are reminding me of it why exactly?”

Robby stops, his hand landing on Jack’s shoulder. “Listen, we all adapt to new environment at our own pace. It’s easier for some people but for others, it can take time. And we, as the attendings, should give them that time and not take anything personally or rush to conclusions. If someone isn’t an open book, it may mean they have reasons to keep things to themselves.”

Jack only gives him a confused nod; although the words make sense to him, he can’t grasp their full meaning. “Okay?”

“Glad we are on the same page,” Robby gives him a pat and swiftly turns around.

“What about the patients?”

“Oh, I skimmed through the list, I’ll look up the rest if I need to. Go get some sleep.”

And Jack surely needs it. But Robby’s words stay on his mind, and the incomprehension bugs him, so much so that he comes back to the nurse station. Dana ignores him, loudly tapping on the same one key. He leans to her, lowering his voice:

“Was I insufferable when I first started here?”

“Why the past tense? You aren’t any better now,” she quips dryly.

He can’t hold back a heavy sigh, and when Dana casts a glance at him, he is equally tired and contrite. She grants him some reassurance, albeit begrudgingly.

“You were fine, Jack. All things considered. We knew you’ve been through some tough times. But you are a damn good doctor, and that’s all that matters,” she looks back at the computer. “Although you did scare half of our staff with your silent staring and your tactical knife. Please tell me you don’t have that thing with you.”

“I will refrain from answering that,” Jack straightens up, and her short chuckle gives him hope.

If only approaching you was just as simple.

It’s not that Jack cannot admit that he was in the wrong. Taking accountability for your mistakes helps you to learn from them, his therapist once told him, and words can hurt as much as they can heal. Jack’s had his fair share of hard conversations and harsh truths, and he would never shy away from either. But when he thinks of your heartbroken gaze, his usual equanimity escapes him, and no apology seems good enough to make up for his outburst. Still, he owes it to you to try.

Jack hopes to seize the moment before his night shift, he spends the day gluing together a small speech: he was unfair, he was wrong, he’s sorry. His gaze finds you as soon as he steps into the ER — a habit he doesn’t know how to get out of (nor does he want to). It’s almost laughable how hard it is for him to summon up the courage, it feels like every step to you takes twice as long. He is about to say it — Hey, can we please talk — but you breeze on by him, and then it is too late. Jack persuades himself the timing wasn’t right: he doesn’t want to distract you from your work, he’ll wait until you get a couple of free minutes.

You do not spare him even a second of your time.

It doesn’t seem unfounded: you are busy with patients, you help the nurses with case files, you keep an eye on Whitaker, and offer guidance to anyone who asks for it. Jack’s persuasion wavers but he clings to it, he is dead set on fixing things, he’s never been a quitter.

But your determination is a match for his — and you are awfully proficient at silent treatment.

One day of Jack’s futile attempts bleeds into two, then three, then a full week. And every time you walk past him like he doesn’t exist, like bones and tissues he is made of turned to dust. It should be a relief that you don’t make a scene; instead, your coldness wounds him, a deep incision somewhere at his ribs. And Jack is torn — he wants to put more effort in, he is afraid of taking it too far: it will not help his case if he ruins your lunch break or creeps up on you at the locker room. And it will make him reek of desperation.

But the uncertainty starts gnawing on him, a new bite with each day he fails. The short apology he crafted loops through his mind non-stop — until it sounds like a useless jumble of words, until Jack isn’t even sure him talking to you will not make things worse. You come and leave on time, you offer him no mercy, you master your avoidance as if he is a plague. And Jack is plagued with agitation, and by the third week he is already losing sleep: if he wasn’t desperate before, now he sure as hell is.

Jack checks his phone again because he keeps mixing up the days: it’s Tuesday, he came an hour early and hasn’t seen you yet. He pootles to the vending machine to give coffee another chance to wake him — and suddenly catches a familiar voice.

“Darling, I truly do not want to be a bother, but I have a friend here and I was wondering if you can —”

“Donny?”

It’s been a few years but he hasn’t changed one bit — six feet tall, gaze sharp but eyes warm, russet brown, short grey hair that looks silver against his dark skin, a charming half-smile. He’s also got a huge bruise on his forehead, and there’s a wheelchair he’s ignoring, leaning on the table with one arm.

Princess grins at the man and nods at Jack. “This is the friend?”

“No, this is my biggest pain in the ass,” Donny retorts but his smile grows bigger.

Jack smiles back and walks to him. “Of course, you can’t live out your retirement in peace. Did you head the ball again, sergeant?”

“You’re just jealous 'cause you suck at basketball,” Donny unceremoniously hugs him. But his poise falters slightly when Jack looks closer at his injury. “Apparently, I need a head CT. I keep telling 'em it’s no big deal —”

Jack shakes his head, silently tapping on the chair — Donny rolls his eyes and sits down without protest. “Page me when radiology is ready to take him,” Abbot tells Princess, then smoothly wheels Donny away. “Let’s get you comfortable in the meantime.”

“Do I get a cute nurse?” Donny curiously glances around. “Who can you page to sneak me a Margarita in here?”

“You get me and a cup of ice you can munch on.”

“Jesus, you do know how to kill the buzz.”

“This is me giving you preferential treatment.”

“Aw, you are honoring our unshakable camaraderie? Or have you gotten softer with age, Abbot?”

“It’s neither, but if you die on my watch, Martha will skin me alive.”

“Actually, she’d probably drink to it — we divorced last year.”

“Good for her.”

Donny snorts with laughter, boisterous and unapologetic, slapping Jack’s hand wrapped around the handle. He is about to talk back but then someone catches his attention — Donny turns his head, and his voice turns mellow:

“Oh, here you are, my angel! I was looking for you. Should’ve known the best doctors are the busiest.”

Jack pulls up short — not in reaction to Donny’s words but at the sight of you, standing a few feet away and looking right in his direction. And then the strangest thing happens — a miracle like an oasis in a desert, like a flower blooming in the dead of winter: you smile.

Jack’s breathing hitches.

And he watches like you a blind man who’s seeing sunrise for the first time in his life. It’s faint but undeniably sincere — joy dancing at the corners of your lips as you come near, your gaze kind when you talk to Donny. “Haven’t I told you to take it easy?”

“You know I can’t sit still, I like doing things. I’ll rest when I’m in the grave.”

“And I’d rather it happen later than sooner,” the words are stern but your voice is gentle, caring — something Jack suddenly wishes to deserve too. But you talk to Donny as if there’s just the two of you. “What was it this time?”

“That atrocious painting! I swear Martha superglued that thing to the wall. I spent an hour trying to tear it off, had to go grab a ladder. And I don’t know, maybe I slipped on the puddle of my own sweat,” he grumbles, a tad bit embarrassed. “And now I’m waiting for you guys to stuff me inside that noisy metal barrel. I better not get stuck in that thing.”

“You’ll fit just fine,” you say simply, gaze grazing his head: nothing too alarming for you to stare at. “You can close your eyes and pretend that you’re on a beach. Somewhere in Santa Monica, just like last summer.”

“Yeah, minus the imminent bump on my head,” he cackles. “Do you get lunch breaks in here? Will you come talk to me when you have a minute?”

“I’ll find you after you get a CT,” you promise — and then brush his shoulder with a quiet remark: “You are in good hands.”

And Jack can’t help another glance at you but you already round the corner to disappear somewhere in the hall. So he keeps his face straight and finds Donny a bed, then helps him sit against the pillows.

“You fell off a ladder? Should’ve mentioned it,” Jack takes the tablet and pulls up his medical records.

Donny squints at him. “Hmm, that’s weird. Man, what is this feeling...”

“What, does your head hurt? Vision getting blurry or —”

“It’s the tension between you two!” Donny hisses. “Why were you so awkward around her?”

Jack opens his mouth; then closes it, unsure. He’d love to know how you and Donny met but he doesn’t want to snoop around. His eyes are on the screen, his tone flat:

“Your angel, huh?”

“Oh, I’m sorry I don’t have a cute name for you. Your grumpy face doesn’t exactly call for it.”

“Luckily this face comes with a smart head and steady hands. That’s what you’d want from a doctor.”

“Well, aren’t you a modest one,” Donny doesn’t sound amused. “Now stop deflecting and tell me what’s going on. Were you hard on her, is that it?”

Jack wants to say yes. He was insensitive, he was an idiot, and now you’re giving him a cold shoulder, and it’s been driving him insane. But whining will not make things better. And Donny’s wisdom and support should be offered to you, not Jack.

Donny gives him a level stare. “Listen, I know seventy-eight doesn’t exactly instill fear. But I still can pack a hefty punch. And I swear I’ll punch you if you aren’t treating her right,” — and he immediately relents, his words in between a plea and a request. “Man, I’m serious. Go easy on her, the girl’s been through hell.”

“Haven’t we all?” Jack mumbles.

There is no bitterness and no harbored resentment — it’s just how life has been for Jack. And Donny is aware of that so he isn’t judging. He thinks over what he is about to say. Jack reads his file: irregular pulse, complaints of fatigue, some swelling of the legs.

“You know I’m not the one to sugarcoat all the crap we’ve been through,” Donny tells him bluntly, and it’s the truth. “When I hear random folks raving about their picture-perfect military days, I always call them out on their bullshit. But if there’s one thing I am grateful for, it’s the people. My closest friends are from the army and none are finer,” Donny holds a pause, like he is climbing over an imaginary fence, into an imaginary vault your secret’s hidden in — but not anymore. “Her brother was in the army too.”

Jack stops reading. He hesitates because he realizes right away that this is personal, this isn’t a story meant for just anybody to know. But then again, he knows nothing about you. How bad can this one story be? He looks up, and Donny continues.

“He was definitely one of the good ones. Damn, Sammy was a gem, such an enthusiastic kid. We served in Syria, and it was a shitstorm — well, you know what it’s like — but I can’t remember him complaining once. Good morals, quick reaction, awesome shooter.”

A happy ending is unlikely so Jack calculates the options: killed in combat or crossfire, body delivered in a sealed coffin. Or maybe never found, left somewhere in a foreign land, bones crumbling into dirt, a ghost that haunts his family for years.

“He got sent off to Kabul, a lot of snipers did. Back when Bush thought Al-Qaeda just ambles out in the open, waiting for the brave americans to show up and shoot everyone dead.”

“So, shitty planning?” Jack guesses.

“More like no planning. They got stranded in the mountains, Sammy and his squad. Lost contact with the base, half of them massacred within a week. He dodged a lot of bullets but he took a nasty fall — arm twisted backward, pulled his shoulder out of its socket.”

Jack instinctively grimaces. “That’s 11 out of 10 on the pain scale.”

“He gave it a 100. They were out of meds, completely lost, he was in and out of consciousness. Then, by sheer fucking luck, they found some tiny village, and one of the locals sheltered them. He was no doctor, and I’m sure he meant well... He suggested opium for the pain. The guys agreed.”

Abbot thinks he’d rather step on a landmine again. Any death in combat is a tragedy, but at least it’s quick. Addiction kills you slowly.

“They popped his shoulder back into place but the pain lingered,” — and Jack imagines torn ligaments and damaged blood vessels, the bruising changing color from red to blue. “It was hard to wear a backpack, hard to sleep at night.”

Abbot deduces grimly: “He needed more opium.”

“And he came back an addict,” Donny nods. “It wasn’t just opium, it never is. But Sammy did try to get better, I’ll give him that. Two years in support groups, in therapy, going from one rehab to another. And she would always follow him around, pay him visits, send him letters. She refused to give up on him, and he loved her to pieces, and we all wanted for him to get a grip… I wish I could tell you why he never did. He just kept falling off the wagon, and eventually, he ran out of money. So he borrowed some — from the people you should never be in debt to. And when he didn’t pay in time, they thought: what’s a better bargaining chip than his dear sister?”

Jack wishes he could go back in time and tell Donny he doesn’t want to hear this story. Heavy, hot rage already simmers in him — at the mere thought of someone hurting you; it also pains him deeply.

“They roughed her up, pretty badly. And one of them got out a gun — on trial, they insisted they didn’t mean to fire it, they just wanted to scare Sammy so he’d pay. The guy aimed at her but then a fight broke out, and someone pulled the trigger. Sammy pushed her away at the last second. The bullet went right through his heart. He probably died before those fuckers even managed to escape. When the cops arrived, they had to drag her away from his dead body. She was fifteen.”

Jack wants to bang his head against the wall.

And he thinks of you freezing at the doors, of how your gaze didn’t meet his when you were wiping off his blood, of your strained voice. And you weren’t reckless, weren’t prideful or condescending. You were afraid he might get hurt trying to keep you out of harm’s way. Because it happened to you once before, because it tore your heart in half. And his words made you relive that.

“It’s hard to bounce back after that. I don’t know how she did. Not with her parents' help, that’s for sure.”

Jack clears his throat; his voice is marked by sadness. “They aren’t very close?”

“I still can’t believe they are related,” Donny rants. “I’ve heard that money ruins people but her parents set a new low. Couldn’t say a single good word about their own son at his funeral. Didn’t care to console their daughter. They were ready to fuck off as soon as the priest gave his speech but she didn’t want to go. And they just left her at the cemetery, can you imagine? I was the one to give her a ride home. And I swear, at some point that evening I contemplated murder.”

And he doesn’t say the exact words, but Jack reads between the lines: you’ve got no other family. You had to grow up having no one to rely on.

“They wanted her to get a banking job. Said she shouldn’t spend her life digging into someone’s guts, it is not very lady-like. But she studied day and night, managed to get a scholarship — hell, I didn’t even know they offered those in med schools. The day after she got into residency, she cut ties with her parents. Haven’t spoken to them since. And I guess the silver lining is that she did become a good doctor, despite it all.”

Abbot gets paged to radiology. But his thoughts are far away — in his childhood home, at the dining table in the kitchen: here’s his mother with her contagious laughter, his father with the deep voice and crude jokes, the comfort of a family meal and sharing conversations. There were arguments too, even fights — his dad and he were too alike to compromise sometimes. But he knew that his parents would have his back, and they always did. Not getting that support as a child sounds hard, harrowing. You must’ve been very lonely.

Donny studies him for a moment. “So are you gonna tell me what you did or should I start throwing punches?”

After all the truth he’s just learned, it feels wrong to lie. “I... I did go hard on her. But I will apologize,” Jack says firmly and faithfully, like a vow. And he can’t help but admit: “You are right, she really is great.”

Donny can’t resist a chortle. “I’m always right. You should know by now.”

His CT comes clean but he does reluctantly complain of headache. Jack figures it’s a mild concussion and lists the basics: take paracetamol for the pain, rest for a week, no physical activity. No alcohol.

“Not even a splash of whiskey? Not even a tiny —” Donny reads no from Jack’s unblinking stare. “You are no fun, Abbot. Like, at all.”

“Your liver will thank me.”

“My liver is attached to me, and right now I’m not feeling very grateful,” but Donny isn’t aggrieved either because he swiftly adds: “Where’s that cup of ice I was promised?”

The walk to the ice machine and back takes Jack about five minutes. He hears your voice first — and he can tell you’re smiling just from the sound of it. Jack sees you from afar and gets his hunch confirmed: Donny is scrolling on his phone to show you something, his face expressions eliciting a laugh from you, genuine and carefree. And when you are like this — not wearing your usual defense, not rushing anywhere, not weighted down by every bad thing you had to live through — there’s so much light in you, Jack finds it hard to look away. Warmth threads through him, quiet and calming, and he can’t stop looking.

And he is drawn to steal more glances at you, like would a treasure hunter carefully steal pieces of art.

Jack catches on to small things: you mindlessly tap on the corner of the chart when you’re deep in thoughts, you often bite the inside of your lower lip while you are reading, eyes darting quickly from left to right. And he wonders what your favorite books are, and if you spend your evenings cozied up under the covers in the dim light of your bedroom. But what is readable to him under the LED lamps of the ER is weariness that spills under your eyes and tugs at your limbs, your voice quieter and your pace falling off a little.

On Wednesday you have to stay an extra hour when one of the patients goes into preterm labor: it ends with her hemorrhaging, blood trickling on the floor, and Robby steps in, and everyone is loud and maybe slightly panicking. You aren’t — still steady and unwincing and knowing all the right steps, no guidance needed, no mistakes made. But then you walk out and pull the edges of your sleeves down to your fingers, as if you’re cold, as if your grit is frailing, and it makes Jack’s heart ache. He grabs a knitted blanket he has stacked deep in his locker — thick, soft, bright plaid, a handmade gift from one of the army vets he treated years ago. He leaves it at the nurse station, as if by accident. You almost miss it on your way out, but then your eyes glide over it — and you can’t help but touch it, putting your whole palm onto the fluffy wool. It’s just a speck of comfort before you back away, hands quickly tucked in the small pockets of your denim jacket.

But the next day, when Jack trudges to the ER after another failed attempt to sleep, he sees that you’re already dressed to leave — your hoodie half a size too big, your hair down and head titled as you talk to Dana, — and you are holding to the blanket with your fingers, relaxed or tired enough not to fight a smile. He lingers at the doors and gazes at you for a long minute. And then he sneaks into one of the waiting rooms so your face won’t fall at the sight of him. When he comes out, you are gone, but the blanket still has some of your warmth. And he aches all over.

On Friday there’s a storm alert, and the evening comes dreary and drizzling. Jack isn’t surprised that they get a car crash victim barely ten minutes after he is in. It is a woman in her thirties — with a head injury and three broken ribs, clothes wet with rain and blood, her vitals weak. But somehow her daughter is intact, and she’s brought in by one of the paramedics: six years of age, tight curls and a tiara on her head, poofy dress that’s sky-blue and sparkling. And she can’t stop crying.

People are drawn to help — the nurses come to offer her kind words, to bribe her into calmness with some sweets. But her sobs turn into wails, cheeks red, and body shaking, and she’s too terrified of everything to be reasoned with. And Jack is bothered by how powerless he feels, how much he wants to be of help too but has no clue where to begin. There was a time when he really wanted kids; but recollecting it feels like reopening a wound he spent years on healing.

You emerge out of the trauma room and take the gown off with one swift motion, your gaze already on the girl. But you tread carefully, slowly, waiting until she sees you coming with her teary eyes. Then you crouch down next to her.

“Why is a princess crying in our hall? You are shedding tears all over your beautiful dress,” and your fingers smooth out the layers of satin and tulle, and she glances down at your hands. You give her a small smile: “You look just like Cinderella.”

She stops mid-sob, stares at you, then at her own dress again, bright sparks of glitter caught in the blue. She manages out, sniffling: “S-she is my fav-vorite.”

“Isn’t this what she wore to the ball where she met the prince?”

The girl goes quiet, wipes her nose. She gives you a nod — and then another one, more certain. Her words come out calmer: “Like in the movie.”

“Even prettier up close,” you assure her easily and wipe off her tears with your fingertips. She’s pouting but she isn’t crying anymore. You brush away a curl that stuck to her wet cheek. “I know you must be scared but you are safe now. And our best doctors are trying very hard to make your mom feel better. You just need to hold on for a little longer,” you murmur. Her lower lip trembles yet she fights against it, small hands grabbing the sparkling fabric. Her eyes are woeful but yours are warm, as is your voice. “What is that Cinderella’s mother used to say? Something about being kind and having courage.”

She looks like she’s about to burst into fresh tears. Instead, she shakes her head with defeat, curls bouncing at the movement.

“I don’t— Don’t think I have a lot of courage.”

“It’s okay, honey. You can take some of mine,” you tell her and take her hand in yours, fingers gently massaging the skin above her wrist. Her breath is even, all of the tears dried up; and timidly, she smiles. You get up, your hand still holding hers.

“We have a room with coloring books and a teddy bear who can keep you company. And on the way there I’ll let you pick a jelly, any flavour you like. How does that sound?”

She agrees eagerly, and you breathe out a short laugh, then lead the way. And Jack’s gaze stays on you, his own breath stilled — and a thought crosses his mind before he can stop it, vivid like a falling star: you will be a great mom. And in the next second, he forces himself to look away, to push back a myriad of other thoughts suddenly sparked into existence. Because it is unreasonable, because he fucked up, because it’s wrong to even think of that.

But it doesn’t feel wrong.

He battles with himself for half an hour. The girl’s mother pulls through — Jack learns about it from Robby who goes around looking for the kid.

Dana shrugs with the utmost indifference. “I didn’t see where they went. Dr. Abbot, any chance you did?”

He knows you must be still in the waiting room, and maybe now it’s time — he’ll walk in and make apologies, away from any prying eyes. He will be genuine and repentant, he’ll take all the blame. At this point, he isn’t above begging.

“I’ll bring the girl,” Jack mutters.

His heart rate instantly speeds up as he approaches, throat dry and body stiffening, even before the room comes into view. Jack breathes in and pulls the door handle — and right at the entrance, he comes to a halt.

It’s quiet inside, and on the small uncomfortable couch stuffed in the corner, you and the girl are sitting, covered with his knitted blanket. And you are asleep. The tension in his chest evaporates as he watches you — your head pressed to the wall, your face peaceful, and he wishes for nothing more than for you to always feel like this.

Jack takes one step in, and the girl peeks out from under the blanket. She puts a finger to her mouth, then slowly gets up, the blue dress shimmering and rustling slightly as she moves. The kid confidently struts to Jack, wraps one of her hands around his, holding the teddy bear in another. She looks up at him and whispers: “How is my mom?”

“She’s alright,” Jack whispers back. “You can come see her.”

She tugs at his hand, and Jack glances at you, commits the moment to his memory, convinces himself he’ll make it quick. The girl brims with excitement but she acts polite and walks slowly. And she peppers him with questions: how many rooms are there in the hospital? Can you fix everyone who’s hurt? Can doctors wear dresses at work? Are all of them as tired as the lady who gave her the orange jelly? Jack winces at the last one. But he likes talking to the kid — it’s actually quite easy, fun, not scary at all. When they reach her mother’s room, she turns to look at him again.

“This is Mister Courageous. You can take him,” she gives him the plushie, the bear’s paw pressed into Jack’s palm. The girl beams at him mischievously, and he sees her dimples when she adds: “Maybe you need some courage too.”

But with all his courage, Jack is short on luck: when he rushes back to you, the waiting room is empty, his blanket folded and left lone on the couch. It is upsetting because tomorrow is his day off; but he comes up with a flumsy consolation: he has more time to think over what he should say, to phrase it better. So in between the patients, he mentally constructs another speech, tactful and heartfelt, no less than you deserve to get. His nerves are eased a little by the morning; he gets home and gets about five hours of uninterrupted sleep: no dreams of oceans, no nightmares filled with fog.

The afternoon is sunlit, warm against Jack’s skin when he draws back the curtains. He takes a shower and makes lunch, then does the dishes and the laundry. And he turns on the police scanner — out of boredom, out of habit, just so he’s always in the loop. His day off lasts for about ten more minutes before the PBP frequency roars to life:

Shots fired. Multiple GSW.

He grabs the walkie and turns up the volume. It’s Code 3 — and he knows its meaning from the memo: Backup requested. Proceed immediately. All available units.

Jack gets ready like’s about to go back into combat — he dresses up in under two minutes, with measured breathing, and quick steps, and cold composure. He takes out the bag he’s got packed for emergencies: a mini ultrasound, tactical crickits, tourniquets, hemostatic dressings. He thinks about going to the ER on foot because the roads will get busy in no time. But he decides against it — running the distance with his prosthetics isn’t the wisest choice: it will be a long shift, he’ll need all his strength.

So he gets the keys to his pickup truck, hurries down the stairs and into the parking lot; he slams the driver’s door shut, then his foot presses on the gas. In nine minutes Jack’s already going through the sliding doors — Robby exhales when he sees him.

“Brother, I’m so fucking glad to see you,” he gives Jack a hug, his face laden with worry.

“I heard the news on the police scanner, drove here as fast as I could.”

“Yeah, I figured. You just missed the briefing.”

“Let me guess, colored slap bands? I’m in the red zone?”

“You and me both. Go grab yourself a fancy orange vest,” Robby nods toward the table already crammed with supplies.

“How many are we expecting?”

“I don’t know but it doesn’t sound good. Pittfest must’ve been packed.”

Dana walks past them, visibly nervous and holding up the phone. When Robby looks at her, she shakes her head no.

Abbot gets alarmed. “Wasn’t Jake supposed to go there?”

“He was, I gave him my ticket a month ago so he could take his girlfriend with him. But he went down with a nasty cough, and they had to cancel plans. Apparently, it’s COVID.”

“And he definitely didn’t get it from you,” Jack chuckles.

But Robby isn’t smiling, and Dana doesn’t put the phone away, doesn’t stop calling. And there is a feeling that crawls up Jack’s spine, like winter frost crawls up a window pane:

something is off.

He takes a look around, scanning the crowd of residents and nurses, and everyone is talking in hushed voices, and many faces that he knows now wear the expressions he doesn’t like seeing: fearful, hesitant, dismayed. A few are managing alright — Mateo and McKay are reassuring Javadi, Santos is helping Mel tie a gown, going over the instructions out loud. Whitaker is standing silent, his fingers clasped together and green eyes anxious, like deer’s.

That’s when Jack realizes that you aren’t here.

“Where’s your star resident?”

Robby averts his gaze. “She u-um... Took two days off. I heard that she’s been working overtime, and I didn’t want her to burn out. Seemed like she’s been a bit stressed these days.”

Jack is stung by guilt. Because he suspects it’s not just work that got you so stressed, because he is the one at fault and —

“Whitaker said she planned on going to Pittfest.”

Robby’s words have the effect of a grenade, the air knocked out of Jack’s lungs like doors out of a building by a blast. And he’s left deafened by the shock wave: Jack can see Robby talking but no sounds reach him, drowned out by the ringing in his head. He has to focus to read Robby’s lips — he’s saying you will be alright. You’re a tough kid. You are probably helping everyone who’s injured. You are too busy to pick up the phone.

But Jack’s imagination is adept at picturing the worst: deep wounds, deadly wounds, your heart flatlining, lungs stopping, every hopeless case from the textbook. And even worse is the razor-sharp realization:

he had so many chances to tell you.

Now he may never get another one.

His throat tightens like he’s about to get sick. A nurse bumps a disaster bin into him on accident, and Jack steps aside, unsteady on his feet. He has to bandage the pieces of his composure back together, and he desperately hammers disbelief into his head: no, you might actually survive, there is a good chance that you will.

He holds on to that thought like it’s his lifeline.

Jack gets the gloves and safety glasses, stands closest to the doors, waits for the first wave of injured. And once he sees it — fresh blood, torn flesh — the autopilot finally kicks in: Jack moves like he’s on the battlefield, where time is critical and every second counts. In the ER, it does too. In the red zone, it’s 5 minutes per patient, after that — it’s OR, ICU, or morgue. So Jack gives orders and intubates and cuts into bodies, his hands busy with tubes, bandages, and blades; he fights for every life. But then he notices a gurney fully covered — the first corpse — and he goes to look under the blanket, and his hands shake, a tremor that seeps down to his bones.

And it is getting harder to shake off his fear, to act like all his thoughts aren’t consumed by you.

Unwittingly, Jack looks for hoodies and denim jackets, for your hair color, for anyone whose face resembles yours. In the second hour, two more victims die, both male; in the third, they get a dead body from a civilian’s car — a woman, headshot to the head, a quick death. And every muscle in Jack cramps up when he sees her: it’s not you but it could’ve been. Maybe they’ll bring in your corpse next.

And he can’t take a full breath.

Jack makes up an excuse to leave for just a minute. He walks into the bathroom and presses his head against the cold tile wall. He slowly counts to 60 and gets back out, chugs half a water bottle. Then he sees Robby running out of the corner of his eye. Jack gazes after him — one second, two, three, four. And then his gaze stumbles upon you.

Dark green shirt, sleeves stained with crimson, blood drained from your face. But you are standing on your feet. You are walking on your own.

You are alive.

Relief hits him so hard, he almost chokes on his emotions. The ringing slowly fades as his lungs finally gulp air, his eyes now glued to you. You bring in an old man — one of the guards, shot in the leg: you stopped the bleeding, and he is responsive. Ahmad is following you, his shirt bloodstained too, a mark one of the victims left. He doesn’t care, he keeps mumbling something to you but you weakly wave him off. Your left sleeve is bunched up at the top like there’s a bandage underneath, and your every move is slowed down like you are fighting off exhaustion. Jack’s legs carry him to you with zero hesitation.

Robby glances at him and back at the old man. “I’m taking this one. His vitals are surprisingly good.” Then he barks out at Ahmad: “Go change your shirt, you look like you got stabbed. You’ll give someone a heart attack. C’mon, now!” — and he wheels the old man away, Mel treading on his heels. A nurse groans behind them at the amount of blood splattered all over the floor.

But Jack couldn’t care less about the patients, his focus on you, his voice aching. “Are you okay? Did you get hurt?”

“I’m fine,” you tell him with your hand pressed to the wall, a little breathless, almost soft. Involuntarily so. Because of course he doesn’t deserve any of your softness. “Where’s the pink zone? I want to stick around.”

He wants to argue with you but then you meet his eyes, and your gaze is disarming, striking, and Jack is too guilt-ridden to oppose. So he concedes and points you in the right direction, then watches as your silhouette moves through the waves of white and red until you are out of sight.

Jack drinks more water and helps Mel with intubation. Whitaker passes by, maneuvering between the wheelchairs and the gurneys — he asks for extra bandages, and Robby shouts in reply that he’ll bring some. Princess asks around with irritation who the hell left bloody handprints on the wall.

“Speaking of not getting drenched in blood,” Robby comes running. “I just removed the absolute perfection of a tourniquet. Great placement, no cardiac issues, didn’t get a drop on me. Not that you can tell,” he jests tiredly and changes gowns.

“The old guard from the fest?” Jack asks absentmindedly.

“Yep. We patched him up so good, he’ll be dancing in a month.”

Whitaker’s face is suddenly splashed with incomprehension. “Wait, that can’t be right.”

Robby turns to him, one brow raised in a silent question.

“You just said the tourniquet worked well. But it’s his gurney that left a trail of blood at the entrance, I almost slipped on it,” Dennis explains.

That same feeling bites into Jack again — there’s something wrong. It’s something bad. Ahmad strides into the hall, clean shirt on, still half-unbuttoned because he’s in a rush. And he goes straight to Robby.

“Hey, man, can you reason with your resident? I ain’t no doctor but I’m pretty sure she shouldn’t be running around with a bullet in her shoulder.”

There is a lull — like one before a bomb strikes.

Then Robby roars: “She what?!”

And Jack’s already on the move, looking for you, heart in his throat, blood running cold. You never made it to the pink zone — you stagger in the hallway, holding yourself against a wall, the cotton shirt balled up in your hand. You wear a tank top, and now Jack sees it all so clearly as if he’s looking at an x-ray: your left shoulder slumped down, an entry wound right of your shoulder blade — the bullet must’ve missed the bone because there’s still some movement and you aren’t bent in pain. But dark maroon is smeared down your arm, the bandage soaked, the streaks of blood running to your wrist.

Then you sway slightly on your feet, and Jack reaches you just in time to catch you. Your eyes dip shut, and in a second you are unconscious, your body going limp and lifeless in his hands. Jack searches frantically for a pulse when he notices:

there is no exit wound.

So your shoulder is a minefield, six arteries waiting to explode on contact with the bullet — and now the count goes on for minutes. He knows that, he’s dealt with that, he should get to work. But he can’t move, swept by a wave of horror, dread filling him up like icy seawater.

Someone is yelling.

Someone is running to him.

A gurney hits the nearby wall, the metal screeching against concrete.

“Up, up, up!” McKay moves the gurney closer to him. “Why didn’t anyone check her for wounds? Does she have a pulse?”

“Yes,” Jack manages, voice hoarse, fingers unsteady on your neck. He moves them under your chin — and there is a beating, faint like a ripple on the water, enough for him to let out an exhale. “She does have a pulse.”

He picks you up and places on the gurney, one of his hands immediately slick with blood. McKay swiftly moves you through the hall with Robby running by her side, his face wracked with distress. “She didn’t say anything, she�� Fuck, I should’ve asked.”

Jack is wracked with so many feelings that they are tearing him apart. He should’ve asked you too, he should’ve noticed, how could he not. How could he keep his penitence a secret for so long. The trauma room you’re wheeled into quickly fills with people — as if in some unspoken pact, it’s mostly women: Santos, Javadi, Mel; Dana is looming at the doors. Dennis peeks in from behind her back.

But in the sea of faces, Jack is only seeing you.

He registers some fragments, freeze-frame shots flashing through his mind: your body turned on one side, wound splashed with antiseptic, someone’s gloved hand gliding the transducer over. The gel mixes with blood, the clumps of it being wiped off your skin, more bandages pressed to the wound, more fluid leaking, soaking them. He knows the bleeding’s not arterial because it would’ve been much worse. It doesn’t make him feel better.

“Jack!” McKay calls out to him again; he only hears it on her third attempt. There is a rumbling outside — the thunder rolling in, a harbinger of rain.

“She’s O-neg, and we are short on blood bags. That’s your type, right?” Cassie asks louder. “Can you donate?”

“Yeah,” Jack replies distractedly. It takes a few seconds for the words to settle in. “How do you know her blood type?”

“We donated together,” Javadi hurriedly explains. “I mean, technically she was the one donating because I didn’t really— I’m kinda not a fan of needles and— Sorry, doesn’t matter. She’s O-neg.”

Jack gazes from you to Robby. “Did you locate the bullet?”

“It grazed the scapula and snuggled close to the axillary artery. No metal shards,” but the unease flickers through Robby’s concentrated face.

Because it isn’t just the arteries and bones: it’s webs of muscles, nerves and vessels — the bullet going through all that would leave a lot of damage. It can leave you in so much pain, you won’t be able to move your arm. It can put an end to your career.

The thunder claps once more. The nausea threatens to bubble up Jack’s throat again. “What caliber?”

“Pretty sure it’s a .22.”

Robby darts a glance at him, and Jack can read its meaning: a .223 bullet would’ve shattered the bone. Would’ve been lethal. A .22 is smaller, so you have better chances to recover. And Jack will get a chance to —

The monitor starts beeping as your blood pressure drops. More bandages are thrown out wet. The rain outside loudly scuds against the walls and windows.

“You sure the artery’s intact? She is still bleeding,” McKay notes, brows furrowed.

“Arterial comes in a different color,” Robby’s expression mirrors hers. He peers at the image on the screen, eyes narrowing, a moment that is unbearably too long. Then his brows shoot up. “It’s not the artery, it’s the vein.”

Your heart rate is bright before Jack’s eyes, the number inexorably increasing: 120, 124, 127, 130. Robby is aware of it too — he quickly moves the ultrasound machine away. Then puts on a new pair of gloves.

“The ORs are packed so we need to deal with this in here. Cassie, you’re with me, everyone else — get back to your patients. We will update you guys when I’m done.”

Jack’s gaze wanders back to you — your tank top cut in the middle, the fabric ruined, your shoulder marred by the open wound that will leave a lifelong scar. He only now realizes that he’s been holding to your green shirt. He grabs it tighter.

“Let’s do a direct transfusion,” he breathes out.

Robby has no arguments against it, and Dana rushes in without command. She rummages through the supply closet. “Hey cowboy, come sit.”

“I’ll stand—”

“No, you will sit. Don’t waste your time on testing my patience,” she stares him down.

Jack stalks in and takes the chair closest to you, his gaze fixed on you, his voice dull. “You can drain me.”

Dana glances at him with a huff. “I’d like to avoid that.”

She pulls his sleeve up, wipes his arm clean with antiseptic, then works fast: a cannula in, connected to the transfusion tubing, then to your vein. Then Dana gives him another look and asks more quietly: “Are you okay?”

Jack looks numbly at his blood flowing, then to the drops of yours left on the floor, harsh red against the muted blue. Robby inserts a tube into your throat. And Jack is not okay, he is very far from it. “I’m not the one on the table,” he notes despondently.

The fear stays wrapped tight around his ribcage like barbed wire.

Your arm is scrubbed with hydrogen peroxide, and Dana helps to hold it up. Your pulse is thready, and all the sounds are muted in Jack’s head, his mind clouded like the sky before the storm, the waves of agitation churning in. His gaze darts to your vitals then to the instruments — scalpels and forceps catching light, steel stained, dark crimson. He watches Robby work with bated breath: it’s dilute epinephrine irrigation to reduce the bleeding, then suture ligation to make it stop.

The red number of your heart rate is slowly going down. Jack’s nerves are tight like a taut string.

He is too overwhelmed to show any reaction when the bullet is extracted, the edges of your wound sewn, the breathing tube removed. He doesn’t notice when Evans takes the needle out and puts a band-aid on his arm. He barely feels his legs when he stands up, his eyes snag on your body being wheeled out to transfer to your room.

Jack follows you without a doubt, with no questions, in a heartbeat.

He leaves his vest at the nurse station, the reasoning he’s come up with is believable enough: his leg’s been hurting, he just needs a break. He takes the stairs and gets up to the patient’s floor right when McKay is coming out of your room. Jack snaps out of his pensiveness only when he’s sitting by your bed.

And he’s afraid to move.

He can’t concentrate on any thought, he doesn’t dare to make wishes, he’s learned not to rely on prayers. So in the silence that’s broken by the thrumming rain, he watches as your chest falls and rises with each breath. Jack balances right at the very edge of slumber, and the exhaustion is weighing on his body but he doesn’t let it up a bit. It feels like time is stretching into endless hours — in truth, it barely takes one. And then he sees your fingers twitching.

He anxiously drags his gaze — up from your hands to chest to shoulders. When he looks at your face, you are already slowly blinking, eyes on the ceiling. You let out a quiet groan — and unexpectedly, it’s followed by your voice:

“If this is about me being reckless again, I really don’t want to hear it right now.”

The hand Jack reached to you freezes midair.

You aren’t angry or annoyed, just tired — which hurts him more. All the unsaid words feel heavy on his tongue; he swallows them without a sound.

“I’m gonna call Robby,” he mumbles and quickly leaves the room.

Jack pauses when he’s outside, his heart pounding so fast he needs a minute to calm down. He takes a few deep breaths, one thought cycling through his mind like mantra: you are alive, he didn’t lose you, all his apologies can wait.

He doesn’t go back in with Robby. Instead, Jack leans against the wall next to the door and listens in on the conversation you are having. Robby holds back his discontent but you do offer him an explanation: you didn’t want to bother anyone, it didn’t seem too serious, you thought you’d ask for help when the ER’s less busy. Then come the standard questions: how much the shoulder hurts, how freely can you move your injured arm, is there still any discomfort? Jack’s getting mildly irritated with how long this process takes because he thinks you only need more sleep. And he does too. He bites his tongue when Robby finally walks out.

“We’ll monitor her overnight, probably will discharge her in the afternoon,” he taps on the tablet, then stretches his arms. “God, I’d kill for a glass of scotch right now. Wanna make a beeline for the bar across the street? I have about an hour left.”

“I think I’ll stay put. Maybe see if Evans needs some help with paperwork, or check up on Shen,” Jack trails off.

In all honestly, he feels like his legs are filled with lead. As soon as Robby leaves, Jack picks a chair and puts it right next to your room and almost falls on it, his limbs lumbering, his body worn to a frazzle. The floor is quiet, and he tells himself he’ll close his eyes just for a minute.

... He wakes up on inhale.

At first, he doesn’t know why.

The weather has calmed down, the raindrops tapping in the distance, the buzz of people echoing somewhere far enough to not be a bother. Jack rubs the back of his neck, his muscles tense, his mind a little drowsy — and he catches a small sound, something like a gasp. Then comes another one, sharp, desperate, like someone is struggling to breathe. And that someone is in the room he’s sitting next to.

Jack leaps off the chair and thrusts the door open, and instantly he meets your eyes — wide, terrified, lips trembling and parted. You are sitting in bed, one hand pressed to your chest as you are helplessly gasping for air. He rushes up to you, his voice low but firm, calm, coaxing.

“Hey-hey, you need to breathe through your nose,” Jack says, but you only shake your head, your fingers digging into the white hospital gown.

He sits on your bed and takes your hand before you can scratch into your skin through the thin fabric. “Can you think of a phone number? Any number. Try saying it out loud but backward,” he suggests, his gaze never leaving yours. “What’s the last digit? Let’s start with just one. You can do it, c’mon. Think about it and tell me.”

It takes you about a minute — with each new second your panic wanes, slowly but surely, like thick fog giving way to clear skies. Your voice cracks when you force out:

“T-two.”

“Okay, that’s good, you’re doing good,” Jack praises quietly. “And what’s the second to last?”

Without thinking, he brushes the inside of your palm with his thumb. You don’t recoil. You keep looking at him, and your voice grows stronger, and you are letting more and more air in as you name the remaining digits.

Only when he hears the tenth, Jack figures out: “That’s the ER number.”

You drop your gaze. “I don’t know many phone numbers. It was the first one that came to mind.”

But what he hears is that you don’t have many people you can call. He wishes there was a decent reason to share his number but he can’t think of any.

“How are you feeling?” he asks cautiously.

You take a deep breath in, then out. “Better, I guess. Thank you. I didn’t mean to bother you, it was just a bad dream.”

Jack guesses that it’s more than that: more serious, long-lasting, the imprint your trauma leaves behind, not letting you forget. Because he knows — from memories, from the experience, his own included. He almost sounds apologetic when he notes:

“That’s how PTSD usually works.”

“Isn’t this too soon?” you chuckle mirthlessly. “I was hoping I’d get one good night while I’m on morphine.”

But then your gaze flits back to him — and it’s wondering and heedful, like you are afraid to hurt him. Your question comes out in a whisper: “Did you have to deal with it too?”

Jack is taken aback although it’s not offense that paints his features — it’s genuine surprise. Did you ask around about him? How else would you know? You give him an explanation before he can find the words to ask.

“The dog tags. You tug at your chain sometimes when you think things over. That’s how I noticed,” and it’s your turn to be apologetic.

But your reply is softened by a smile, and you don’t move your hand away from his. It’s not the topic Jack likes bringing up: he’s rarely met with understanding, and he hates being pitied. But you don’t give him pity — instead, you look at him like you want to treat him gently. And he feels like he’d talk to you just about anything.

Jack slowly nods. “Hard to avoid PTSD if you’re in the military. But therapy helped. Lots of therapy, lots of patience. The good old recipe.”

“Can’t wait to break the news to my therapist,” you let out half a groan, half a laugh. “I’m sure she’ll be ecstatic.”

“My therapist would’ve loved it,” Jack blurts out.

You give him a puzzled look. But you sound intrigued. “Okay, you need to elaborate on that. Or find a better therapist.”

Jack breathes out a chuckle. “He just likes solving things — problems, puzzles, murder mysteries. And I feel like he’s getting a little bored of me. Sometimes when he is writing in his notebook, I wonder if he’s just got a crossword hidden in there.”

“Oh, mine loves baking. I used to leave with hands full of pastry. I shared it with colleagues, I even started feeding birds. It’s kind of a relief that we switched to online sessions. Pretty sure half of the pigeons in my neighborhood now suffer from obesity.”

A smile crosses Jack’s face — not at the thought of chubby pigeons but at the realization: you find it easy to talk to him too. But then your hand trembles in his, and instantly Jack is on alert for trouble: his eyes dart from your shoulder to the needle taped to your arm.

“Are you in pain?” Jack frowns. “What’s your morphine dosage? You can get a little extra if —”

“No,” you refuse sharply, and Jack’s acutely aware he chose the wrong words. You only sigh and tug at the blanket with your other hand. “It’s not about morphine, it’s just... My blood pressure is usually low so I get cold easily.”

Jack perks up: that’s something he can actually help you with. “Wait, I’ll be right back,” he promises and rushes out like he just got a second wind.

All his enthusiasm is blown out by the chaos in the ER: it takes him a mortifying amount of time to find where his wool blanket disappeared. He searches the entirety of the nurse station, goes through his locker, he checks both bathrooms and even ventures out into the morgue. He’s running past the entrance when he glimpses Shen — with the said blanket thrown over his shoulders.

“Hey man, look what I found!” Shen blithely tells him.

Jack darts to him and yanks the blanket off, his gaze burning. “Don’t. Just don’t ever touch this.”

Shen blinks uncomprehendingly. “What? It’s not like it had your name on it!”

When Jack comes back, he finds you curled up on the bed, the thin bedcover brought up to your neck, hands folded under your cheek. He tiptoes closer and puts the blanket over you, then tucks you in. He’s checking the IV line’s placement when all of a sudden, your fingers catch his palm — as if on impulse, or maybe out of habit you are unconsciously forming.

“You are so warm,” your voice is barely above the whisper.

His hand stays pressed to yours as you doze off, and Jack stands still. For a minute, five, ten; he doesn’t feel like moving.

And then, without letting go of you, he manages to reach the chair and pull it closer to your bed. He sits down and lowers one of the side rails, then leans to you, his elbows sinking into the mattress, your steady breath grazing his skin. Jack rests his chin on his free arm and watches you — with peacefulness that’s akin to tenderness, with some other feeling that fills him up with warmth.

And slowly, he gives in to sleep, lulled by the sounds of the rain and monitors, his hand tangled with yours, his thumb on your pulse.

GSW = gunshot wound / PBP = The Pittsburgh Police;

shout-out to @/thedarkesthistories who made a post about everything Jack’s got in his backpack ♡

I did a lot of research (the FBI agent watching me through my laptop was probably hella confused by me reading case studies and watching surgeries lmao) BUT obviously, I am not a doctor so please forgive me for any inaccuracies;

the title is a quote from “Wake” by SYML ♫

dividers by @/cafekitsune & me.

some bad and good news. the bad: this chapter originally was coming close to 20K and... no, I don’t think many people would’ve read that. so we’ll have 4 chapters in total instead of 3. the good news: the next chapter is half-written so hopefully it won’t take me forever to finish it (fingers crossed).

English is not my first language, so feel free to tell me if you spot any major mistakes!

I also want to take a moment to thank everyone who left a comment and reblogged my fic(s). obviously, I am grateful for every like I get. but if I’m being honest, my imposter syndrome often beats all the motivation out of me, and as much as I enjoy writing, I spend an embarrassing amount of time on self-doubting. I know my fics aren’t everyone’s cup of tea (I rarely write short stories, I don’t include smut in every single one, my writing style might seem overloaded or too detailed... the list goes on), and that’s fine. but I also have an unfortunate habit of joining fandoms a little too late. which feels like walking into a cafeteria where all the tables are already taken, and no one intends to spare you a seat. I don’t feel like a part of a community and at the end of the day, I write for myself. which is why it’s so rewarding when people find the time to say something nice about my fics and to share them. thank you so much to every single one of you, that means a lot to me. ♡

354 notes · View notes

lovetwist · 1 year ago

Text

Veil of Deception (I)

SYNOPSIS: In a world where political alliances are forged in blood and treachery lurks around every corner, you find yourself thrust into marriage with Feyd-Rautha, the enigmatic scion of House Harkonnen. Born to be his perfect mate, you grapple with the terrifying prospect of becoming entangled with a man known for his brutality, obsession, and madness. As your union unfolds, you navigate a landscape of deception and dark desires, struggling to find your footing in a marriage fraught with danger and uncertainty. Caught between duty and defiance, summon your strength and resilience to survive in a world where loyalty is a luxury and love is a dangerous game.

WARNINGS (R18+): mildly dub-con, smut, first time, weapons kink, mentions of violence, manipulations, genetic breeding, power play

Word Count: 3.5k

PART 2

Below the towering spires of obsidian and steel, against a backdrop of opulent extravagance that flaunted wealth and power, a tension hung heavy, pregnant with the promise of destiny.

As Lady Atreides, sole daughter of Leto Atreides, you stood poised on the precipice of a meeting that would shape the course of your future. Your heart seized with nerves as you awaited the arrival of your betrothed.

Since your 15th name day, you had known of your engagement to the na-Baron. It was an inescapable fate predetermined by the Bene Geserrit. Your mother, Lady Jessica, had gone against them by giving birth to Paul, a male heir for Leto. Two years later, she gave birth to you – a gift of compromise for both sides. In return, Lady Jessica and Leto achieved the familial harmony they wanted, through the sacrifice of their daughter.

Every year, the Harkonnens requested your portrait to be sent along with a lock of hair. In exchange, they sent House Atreides jewels, gold, silks, and spice; disguised bribes for the upkeep of such a fine lady. They had only sent a portrait of Feyd-Rautha once. It was taken during his coming-of-age ceremony, a lean young man dressed in black fighting leathers. You stared often at the picture, looking to find some clue that could reveal his character. His demeanor was unnaturally cold and collected, yet his dark eyes barely concealed a burning rage. You wondered if Feyd-Rautha poured over you pictures as you did his.

Years passed and the engagement felt more like a false formality than reality. Unlike other noble families, you never exchanged letters with Feyd-Rautha or even met as a courtesy. Having completed your Bene Geserrit training under your mother, you learned that such things did not matter when it came to pairings arranged by the Reverand Mother. You caught whispers of conversation between your mother and her Bene Geserrit sisters. There would be no chance of failure, this union would be perfect. You were genetically engineered to be his absolute mate. Attraction and physical compatibility was assured. Everything about you was designed to lure him in – your scent, your voice, your everything was to be his undoing from the moment he would lay eyes on you.

Yet the thought gave you no confidence as you stood here now in Giedi Prime. Sexual attraction differed greatly from love, he didn’t need emotions to breed you. Feyd-Rautha, the enigmatic scion of House Harkonnen, was a man followed by countless stories of brutality and wickedness. You heard that he laughed when Reverand Mother subjected him to the Gom Jabbar. He didn’t endure pain, he reveled in it.

Your palms grew clammy, breath becoming increasingly shallow as you pondered the dark fate that awaited you in the form of this formidable man. Would Feyd-Rautha be the embodiment of all the whispered sin that had reached your ears, or would he prove to be an enigma beyond your wildest imaginings? With each passing moment, the anticipation mounted, weaving a delicate web of uncertainty around your heart as your braced yourself to meet the man who held your destiny in his hands.

The grand doors of the chamber swung open with a regal flourish, your heart quickened its pace, echoing the rhythm of anticipation that thrummed through the air. Through the gray haze of incense, you beheld Feyd-Rautha, a vision of masculinity and charisma, whose presence seemed to command the very essence of the room. His eyes met yours across the expanse of the chamber, a charged moment filled with unspoken tension, as if the universe itself held its breath in anticipation of this meeting.

You were ensnared in a tempest of conflicting emotions, thoughts swirling like sand caught in a desert storm. You questioned your own composure, wondering if you could maintain the facade of confidence expected of a lady of House Atreides in the presence of the young Harkonnen and the terrifying Baron. Feyd-Rautha may be your future husband, but he was not required to provide you a good nor happy life. After all, why would he? You were the daughter of his family’s sworn enemy. He may have been bound in marriage to you by centuries of bloodline manipulation, but he maintained a free will.

Would his words falter, betraying the tumult and hatred raging within him? Or would he summon the grace and poise befitting his station, masking the turmoil that churned beneath the surface? Your apprehension mounted, a symphony of doubt and fear playing out in the recesses of your mind. Yet, amidst the chaos of your thoughts, a glimmer of determination flickered like a distant star on the horizon, urging you forward into the unknown with a quiet resolve born of necessity.

For in the labyrinthine dance of politics and power that defined their world, you knew that you could ill afford to falter now. With a steadying breath, you squared your shoulders and prepared to face your destiny, whatever form it may take in the guise of a madman husband.

Feyd-Rautha, with an air of effortless confidence, strode forward, his gaze a smoldering ember that ignited a spark within your soul. In that fleeting moment, as your paths converged amidst the darkness and mist of the surroundings, you felt a surge of something unfamiliar yet undeniable—an electric current that crackled between your bodies, binding your fates together inextricably.

Words eluded you as you struggled to articulate the wave of emotions that threatened to consume you. Yet, in the silence that stretched between you two, you found solace in the understanding that this meeting was but the first step on a journey fraught with uncertainty and possibility. He bowed without taking his eyes off you. In greeting, you extended a gloved hand, Feyd-Rautha grasped it with a firm sense of resolve. You knew that your lives were now intertwined in ways neither could fully comprehend nor stop.

And in that moment, amidst the hazy dream of your shared future, you glimpsed the faintest flicker of something akin to desire dance across his eyes. You noticed a dilation of his pupils as he laid a kiss on the back of your hand. Then, his grasp of you tightened and tightened. Your face contorted in pain as a crooked smirk appeared on his features.

In the dim light of the chamber, your eyes traced the contours of his cheekbones and the fullness of his lips, searching for traces of the young man you once memorized in a portrait. Yet, try as you might, only a beast stood before you in the guise of a gentleman. When he stood at his full height with his darkened leer, you held yourself back from cowering. His gaze was vicious, his smile vulgar with blackened teeth, and he exuded an air of savagery.

“How delightful it is to finally meet you, Lady Atreides.”

His deep, raspy voice caught you off guard. What a performer he could be! Long gone was the ethereal allure he displayed when first entering the room, now you could see him for what he was.

“Likewise, my Lord Feyd-Rautha.”

Uncertainty lingered like a specter in the room, casting a pall over the impending union that would bind you with him. You let your gaze lower onto the floor as your parents approached to talk with the Baron and na-Baron.

You could feel his intense gaze burning through your body even as you moved away to be with your brother. Could his eyes pierce through your facade, unraveling the intricacies of your soul like fine thread? Such questions gnawed at the edges of your consciousness, casting shadows on your will to remain strong.

As the evening progressed, the tension in the air thickened like a fog, suffocating any semblance of ease. Seated at the long banquet table surrounded by your family, the Harkonnens, and noble guests, you found yourself ensnared in a delicate dance of propriety and peril.

Across from you, Feyd-Rautha lounged in his seat, a predatory gleam in his eyes as he watched you with unabashed fascination. His demeanor was that of a predator toying with its prey, his every movement calculated to instill a sense of discomfort. Your family would leave to Arrakis after the wedding festivities, then you would be truly left alone with him. The precariousness of your position tugged at your heart.

As the meal commenced, the atmosphere grew increasingly tense, punctuated by the clinking of silverware and the strained chatter of polite conversation. You forced yourself to engage in small talk with those seated around you, your words measured and careful, lest you betray the fear that coiled like a serpent in the pit of your stomach.

Despite your best efforts to maintain a facade of composure, you couldn't shake the feeling of being scrutinized by those dark, probing eyes. It was as if Feyd-Rautha could see straight through you, peeling away the layers of pretense to expose your most secret vulnerabilities. You found yourself growing increasingly unsettled. You longed to escape, to retreat to the safety of your chambers and away from the suffocating presence of the Harkonnen heir.

But you knew that there would be no reprieve, no sanctuary from the darkness that had descended upon your life like a shadow. For tonight, and every night thereafter, you were bound to him by the cruel machinations of fate, condemned to walk a path fraught with danger and uncertainty. And as you raised your glass to Feyd-Rautha’s toast to your impending union, you couldn't help but wonder what horrors awaited you.

“To the most beautiful bride in the world, I will certainly savor tomorrow’s…memories.”

The men at the table chuckled darkly while your father’s and brother’s jaws clenched. You lay your delicate hand over theirs, do not mourn me. If I am to die, I shall do so with honor.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

As your mother lowered your veil, you noticed tears forming in her eyes. You never thought you’d live to see the day the impenetrable Lady Jessica shed tears for you. I must really be walking into my death, you thought.

You looked at your reflection in the mirror. There were no words to describe the vision you saw. Crafted from the finest silk and satin, your wedding gown exuded an air of majestic elegance with flowing skirts cascading like waves of moonlight around your figure.

The bodice, adorned with intricate beadwork and delicate lace, hugged your curves with a tailored precision, accentuating a slender waist and graceful neckline. A row of tiny diamonds trailed down your body, gleaming against the smooth expanse of your back. While the front of the dress was conservative, your back was tastefully exposed through a combination of sheer silk, diamonds and pearls.

Your hair was pinned neatly into a bun with a delicate braid on each side. The veil was gauzy, making your face seem like a daydream. The ivory fabric of your dress pooled at your feet in a sea of frothy tulle and satin, forming a train that trailed behind you like a regal cloak. The wedding dress was embroidered with delicate motifs of growing vines, mountains and ocean waves – a reminder of Caladan.

At your collar, a border of intricate lacework added a touch of timeless elegance, its patterns catching the light in a dazzling display of shimmering beauty. With every movement, the gown seemed to whisper tales of romance and splendor, a clear hope to the love and devotion the seamstress had prayed you’d find. You choked down a sob.

You’ve made me an angel for him to ruin.

The wedding hall was adorned with such grandeur, you’d expect the emperor’s daughter was getting married instead. The flickering silver torches cast dancing shadows upon the ebony stone walls. As guests gathered in hushed reverence, the air crackled with anticipation, as if the very walls themselves whispered of your impeding damnation.

At the front of the hall, beneath a canopy of arched black silk, Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen stood, an imposing figure in his ceremonial garb. His porcelain skin was stark against the darkness of his clothes as he awaited his bride.

You approached with measured steps, hardening your grip on your father’s arm. Your eyes must’ve betrayed your fear and resignation because you could see Feyd-Rautha biting the inside of his cheek to suppress a laugh.

As you reached the altar, his lips curled into a predatory smile, his voice dripping with malice as he spoke the vows that bound you together in unholy matrimony. The words echoed through the hall like a curse, sealing your fate alongside his.

As you exchanged rings, a union forged in the fires of despair, you vowed that though your body may be bound to Feyd-Rautha, your spirit would remain forever free.

Standing before him, you felt the weight of his gaze like chains around your soul.

With a solemn nod from the officiant, you and Feyd-Rautha were instructed to seal your union with a kiss. He removed your veil, his eyes lingering on your face. As his lips met yours, a shiver ran down your spine.

The kiss was surprisingly gentle, but devoid of love. You gasped when his tongue entered your mouth. It was a macabre dance of dominance and submission, a twisted mockery of affection that left a bitter taste upon your lips. You try to push him away, but he holds your hands firm against his chest. The Harkonnens roar with applause and laughter. As you pulled away, a sense of profound emptiness washed over you, a hollow echo of the dreams and desires that had once burned within your heart.

The rest of the wedding banquet was a blur. As you were led to the high table by Feyd-Rautha's side, you couldn't shake the feeling of being trapped, ensnared in a web of malevolence. The guests, mostly Harkonnen allies, noble families, and sycophants, feigned smiles and exchanged whispers, their eyes gleaming with a perverse curiosity at the spectacle of your union.

The feast itself was a decadent display of excess, with platters of exotic delicacies and goblets overflowing with rich wines. But the opulence only served to accentuate the suffocating atmosphere, as the room was closing in on you with each additional piece of ornate furniture.

Feyd-Rautha, ever the consummate host, played his part with calculated charm, his laughter ringing hollow in your ears as he regaled the guests with tales of conquest and murder. You watched him from across the table, his features twisted in a mask of false benevolence, and you couldn't help but feel a surge of revulsion mingled with a sliver of pity. He, too, was playing a part – ever the performer.

Throughout the banquet, you were subjected to the leering gazes and whispered innuendos of the Harkonnen cronies, their crude remarks slicing through the thin veneer of civility like daggers. But you held your composure, steeling yourself against their taunts and jeers, refusing to let them see the cracks in your mask.

As the night wore on and the wine flowed freely, the mood grew increasingly raucous, the revelry descending into a frenzied ecstasy. You found yourself adrift in a sea of faces, each one a grotesque caricature of humanity, their laughter and applause a cruel mockery of your predicament.

And amidst the chaos and debauchery, you couldn't help but wonder what was in store for you, chained to a man whose heart was as black as midnight. As you absentmindedly finished your last sip of wine, Feyd-Rautha stood suddenly, his chair loudly rattling against the granite floors. A chilling silence descended upon the hall.

He extended a hand towards you and you immediately understood his intentions. You departed the hall, hand-in-hand as men watched with envy and women stared with pity. You couldn’t bear to look at the faces of your family, afraid that you might beg them to take you home.

---------------------------------------------------------------

As you left the banquet hall with Feyd-Rautha, a heavy sense of foreboding settled over you. The echoes of the evening's macabre festivities lingered in your mind, each laughter, each lewd jest, a reminder of the gilded cage in which you now found yourself imprisoned.

You walked beside Feyd-Rautha, his grip firm upon your hand, guiding you through the labyrinthine corridors of the Harkonnen estate. There was an eerie stillness in the air. With each step, you felt the weight of your predicament pressing down upon you, the reality of your situation sinking in like a cold, unyielding truth.

You stole a glance at Feyd-Rautha, his expression unreadable in the dim light. Occasionally fireworks would alight by the window, allowing you to see his eyes gleaming with a predatory hunger that made you look away immediately.

As you walked in silence, your mind raced with a flurry of thoughts and emotions, a storm raging within you. You couldn't help but wonder what awaited in the bedchamber. You weren’t ignorant to the act of consummating a marriage, but your husband was no ordinary man. What horrors lay in store for a woman bound to a man as cruel and cunning as Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen… what would satisfy a man like him? But amidst the fear and uncertainty, a flicker of desire burned within you, a stubborn resolve to claim him as much as he claims you.

He led you into a large room with double doors. Compared to the gaudy decorations of the wedding hall, this room was relatively simple: a chamber of dark elegance and understated grandeur. There were only the bare necessities required of a bedroom, but each piece had been impeccably handmade with the most exquisite of materials. At its center, a massive four-poster bed stands as the focal point, its frame crafted from polished ebony wood, intricately carved with motifs of serpents and ivy. Perfectly sized above the bed, stretching over the ceiling was pure reflective glass. You swallowed thickly, this man had no shame.

A grand chandelier hangs from the center of the ceiling, its crystals casting prismatic rays of light across the room, illuminating the space with a haunting allure.

The walls are lined with dark, navy paneling, adorned sparingly with antique tapestries depicting scenes of forgotten battles and dangerously sharpened weapons. A sleek, black writing desk sits nearby, stacked with books on war strategies and adorned with quill and parchment.

A sense of regal simplicity pervades the space, each element carefully curated to its master. This is a sanctuary of solitude, where one can retreat from the heaviness of the Harkonnen world and immerse themselves in the embrace of peace.

Busy admiring the room, you didn’t notice Feyd-Rautha locking the doors behind you. You tensed when you suddenly felt the coldness of a blade against your back. With one precise slice, he cut your wedding dress open leading all the decorative pearls to fall to the ground. Your hands instinctively went to cover yourself, but his newfound grip on your wrists was even faster.

“You are mine now, pet.” His hands slowly guided yours down as he ripped away the rest of your dress. “Do not resist me, I want to see you in all your beauty.”

Your face flushed as you looked away from him. You knew objecting to his wish was futile, perhaps if you appeased him then he’d be gentler. You learned this was a useless thought the moment you saw his expression – raw, animalistic hunger chipped away at the edges of his sanity. His pupils dilated so wide that his eyes became monochromatic orbs of obsidian.

He removed his own clothes with swift and lithe movements, revealing pure sculpted muscle. Through the rapid rise and fall of his chest, you could see that he was barely holding back his lust. Feyd-Rautha was going to devour you without leaving a single morsel for the world.

“I-I… If you hurt me, I will scream.”

“Go ahead, it’ll only stroke my ego if you do. Scream loud enough for the whole banquet to hear. Let them know what pleasures your husband bestows upon you.”

With each step he took towards you, you took two steps back. When you felt the bed come into contact with the back of your knees, you realize you’ve been trapped.

“Lie down.” he commanded.

Sensing the tonal shift in his voice, you obeyed. You felt his long, slender fingers enter your most intimate place. When he curved against your inner wall, you let out an involuntarily moan – which he quickly swallowed from your lips. You had touched yourself before, but only rarely during occasions when you couldn’t sleep and the moon was hanging high.

However, this was different – he was different. His fingers reached places where yours never could. Your body made lewd sounds as he pumped in and out of you with torturous speed. The way you grind against his hand was indecent, but he rewarded you with such sweet friction. Hearing his low pants against your ear, you couldn't help but writhe into his touch. When you came undone, he smirked and licked your essence from his fingers.

Before you could catch your breath, he was on top of you again; caging you between his toned arms. He reached out to grasp your chin before roughly crashing his lips down on yours. The kiss was all-consuming, he was drinking in every part of you without letting you breathe. Your eyes wandered down to where his member stood unnaturally stiff and enlarged. Your new husband sneered at your expression before his right hand circled around your throat.

“Your throat… it shall be my axis tonight.”

#feyd rautha #feyd rautha harkonnen #feyd x reader #dune imagine #dune fanfic #dune fanfiction #feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha imagine #feyd rautha fanfic #dune x reader #austin butler imagine #feyd smut #austin butler x reader #feyd rautha smut

2K notes · View notes

buckets-and-trees · 1 month ago

Text

Surveillance and Surrender

Characters/Pairings: Alpha!Ari Levinson x curvy Female!Reader Word Count: 10.5k Summary: In the five years since the virtual collapse of civilization, you learned to navigate the challenges of survival with precision and resilience. Challenges not only of survival, but solitude after you lost everyone you knew before. And you'd been fine before meting the enigmatic Alpha Ari. After multiple chance encounter, after a night spent together that you fled from the next morning, you tried to leave him behind, but something undeniable and surreal developed, and you can't ignore it any longer. Will you surrender and embrace a potential future with Ari? Or will your other instincts determine he's not safe, even if you do yearn for him?

Ignore the warnings if you want to avoid spoilers.

Content/Warnings: omegaverse (alpha and omega dynamics, biting/claiming, knotting); feels; angst; apocalyptic setting; explicit smut: oral (female and male receiving, unprotected vaginal intercourse, knotting)

Notes: Takes place directly after Maybe Not.

Part One: Waiting On One Look || Part Two: Maybe Not

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

You arrive at Ari's hideout by nightfall, your body trembling with exhaustion and something like anticipation. But you don't approach the cabin. Instead, you find a vantage point in the woods, settling among some dense undergrowth with a clear view of his place.

The pain in your chest eases slightly just being near him, even without contact. You can breathe easier now, the fog lifting from your mind. But you need to be sure. Sure of him. Sure of yourself.

So you watch.

You tell yourself it's strategic—you need to ensure he hasn't invited others in, that his kindness wasn't a trap.

He emerges mid-morning, rifle slung over his shoulder. His movements are slower than you remember, less fluid. Even from a distance, you can see the tension in his shoulders. He checks the perimeter, refills water containers from the rain barrels, then disappears back inside.

The second day, you move closer, finding shelter in an abandoned shed at the edge of his property. Through a crack in the warped wooden slats, you watch him chop firewood, his muscles flexing with each swing of the axe.

He stops halfway through, leaning heavily on the axe handle, his head bowing. You watch as his shoulders rise and fall with deep breaths before he straightens and continues his task with renewed determination.

That night, you watch through the cabin window as he sits at a small table, a mug between his hands, staring at nothing. He doesn't eat, just sips occasionally from the mug. Your stomach growls in sympathy. The bond-pain has subsided to a dull ache with proximity, but hunger has returned with a vengeance.

On the third day, your resolve weakens. You've watched him long enough to know he's alone, that there's no trap waiting. You've seen the way he moves through his days—efficient but hollow, like he's going through motions without purpose. You recognize it because it mirrors how you've felt for years. How you felt until that night with him.

But still you keep your distance. You need to be sure he’s safe, smart.

The fourth day, you follow him at a distance as he hunts. His movements are careful, practiced. He brings down a deer with a clean shot that drops the animal instantly. You watch as he field dresses it with practiced efficiency, his hands steady despite everything. There's something intimate about watching him like this—seeing his survival skills, the way he wastes nothing, the respect with which he treats his kill.

When he shoulders the dressed carcass for the trek back, you notice he stumbles slightly. The alpha who carried you to bed with ease now struggles under a weight he should handle without difficulty. Whatever is affecting you is affecting him too.

Through the window, you watch as he stores most of the meat but cooks a small portion. He sets two plates on the table.

Your breath catches. Two plates. Every night, you realize with a jolt, he's been setting two plates.

He's been waiting for you.

The realization makes your knees weak. You sink to the ground, back against a tree, and press your palms against your eyes.

You've always lived by your own rules: though you’ve stayed in the region that you were familiar with before the world fell apart, you never stay in one place too long, never trust anyone fully, and above all, never get attached. Rules that kept you alive when the world fell apart. Rules that have kept you safe.

But here you are, watching an alpha set out a second plate night after night, hoping against hope for someone who ran away.

You correct your own thoughts, because that almost cheapens it, makes him seem pathetic when you know it’s not that.

Your paths kept crossing.

You instinctively trusted him and he proved he was a trustworthy ally in those scattered and short encounters.

That he lasted that long, that he had the same strategic plans that you did, spoke to someone you could logically assume had skills as honed as your own.

You’d been drawn to him in each of those encounters - nice moments, funny moments, moments you were sure of.

You’re nearly ready to trust him, but you tell yourself if you’ve waited this long, a few more days won’t be unendurable just to hedge your bet - because it’s still an enormous gamble.

The next day, you wake to the sound of his truck starting. You peek through the shed wall to see him driving away, dust kicking up behind the wheels. This is your chance to get into the cabin undetected, to search for any signs that will either confirm your worries or alleviate them.

You wait ten minutes to ensure he doesn't return for something forgotten, then approach the cabin cautiously. The door is locked—smart—but you find a window at the back that opens with minimal effort. Slipping inside, you're immediately enveloped in his scent. Cinnamon and cedar, earth after rain. The bond-pain in your chest transforms into something warm, something that spreads through your limbs and makes you feel lighter than you have in days.

The cabin is sparse but organized. A living area with a worn couch, the small kitchen table with its two chairs, a woodstove in the corner. You open cabinets, finding stored food—more than you expected, all carefully rationed and labeled. He's been planning for the long term.

There's a bookshelf stocked with dog-eared paperbacks. The bedroom door stands ajar, and you can see the rumpled bed where you spent that night together, neatly made.

You hesitate at the threshold, caught between the memory of that night and the reality of your return. Slowly, you step into the bedroom, your fingertips trailing over the quilt he's smoothed over the mattress. On the bedside table sits a small, framed photograph—a relic from before. You pick it up carefully, studying the image of a younger Ari. He stands with his arm around a smiling woman, both of them squinting in sunlight. His sister, maybe? The resemblance is there—same golden skin, same bright eyes. Behind them, a house you don't recognize.

The intimacy of this small piece of his past makes your throat tighten. He's kept this, through everything. A reminder of who he was, who he still is beneath the survival instincts and scavenged supplies.

You set the photo down gently and continue your investigation, opening the closet door. His clothes hang neatly on one side—shirts, pants, a heavy winter coat. The other side is empty, cleared of whatever was once there. A space made for you, you realize with a shock.

Your heart hammers against your ribs. He's been preparing for a future that includes you, even after you ran. The realization is overwhelming—terrifying and comforting in equal measure. This doesn't feel like a trap anymore—it feels like hope. Dangerous, fragile hope.

You close the door quickly, your heart racing. In the corner of the room, you spot a small desk. Papers are scattered across its surface, maps with routes marked in red. You recognize some of the locations—supply caches, safe water sources, places to avoid. His knowledge mirrors your own, confirming what you already suspected about his survival skills.

Under the maps, you find a journal. You hesitate, knowing this crosses a line, but your need to understand him overrides your hesitation. You flip it open.

Inside are drawings—detailed, skillful sketches of the landscape, of animals, of the cabin. And there, on the most recent pages, sketches of you. Your profile as you scavenged in that grocery store. You in the forest - his memory and view of the day you left.

You are relieved the journal wasn’t full of any written thoughts - though you clearly hadn’t been able to help yourself, you are glad you didn’t violate a more private territory.

The sound of an engine rumbling in the distance sends you scrambling. You replace everything exactly as you found it and slip back out the window, carefully closing it behind you. You retreat to your hiding spot in the shed, heart pounding.

But it's not Ari's truck. The vehicle passes on the distant road, and silence returns.

Your pulse returns to normal and your decision crystallizes. You've seen enough—more than enough to know he's been honest with you. Enough to confirm he’s the man you thought he might be - not all the details, but you don’t want to discover the details like this, you want to learn them from him. With him.

The decision made, you straighten the cabin, preparing to surprise him when he returns. You even find coffee beans in the pantry and figure out his hand grinder, setting up to brew a pot when he walks through the door.

So you wait.

The sun climbs higher, then begins its descent. The shadows lengthen across the yard. Birds call their evening songs.

You pace the small cabin, checking the window every few minutes. His truck should be back by now. You try to quiet the anxiety building in your chest—he's capable, experienced. Probably just extending his supply run.

As sunset bleeds into twilight, you position yourself by the window, watching the road. The coffee sits unbrewed, forgotten. You debate going to look for him, but fear of missing his return keeps you rooted in place.

Night falls completely. The woods around the cabin grow quiet, the natural world settling into its nocturnal rhythms. Your anxiety spirals, transforming into something cold and leaden in your stomach.

He should be back by now.

You check his maps again, trying to deduce where he might have gone. There's a trading post marked about twenty miles east—far enough to warrant the truck, close enough to return before dark. Other locations are scattered across the paper, some crossed out with notes like "cleared" or "raiders."

A sound outside sends you rushing to the window—but it's just a raccoon, waddling across the yard toward the trash bins Ari keeps secured against wildlife.

You don't know when or how you fell asleep, but somehow you find yourself waking up on the couch, upper body slumped to the side. Despite your worry and waiting, your body must have been far more exhausted from the uneasy sleep you’d subjected yourself to hovering in the woods for the five days before while you watched your alpha.

Your alpha.

The thought startles you fully awake.

You rise, stretching your stiff limbs, and move to the window again. Morning light filters through the thickly wooded forest.

Still no sign of Ari or his truck. Your stomach growls loudly, reminding you that you haven't eaten since yesterday. The anxiety of waiting makes you reluctant to touch his supplies, though you know he wouldn't mind.

Instead, you retrieve your backpack from where you stashed it in the shed and rummage through the meager contents. A few protein bars, some dried fruit, half a bag of beef jerky—carefully rationed supplies you've been saving. You unwrap a protein bar and force yourself to eat it slowly, savoring each bite though it tastes like cardboard in your dry mouth.

You wash it down with water from your canteen, rationing carefully even though Ari's cabin has a supply. Old habits. Survival instincts.

The food does little to settle your nerves. You pace the cabin, alternating between the window and the door, listening for the familiar rumble of his truck. Your mind conjures increasingly dire scenarios—mechanical failure, raiders, injury. The bond-ache in your chest pulses with each passing hour.

You pace the cabin, checking and rechecking his maps, trying to piece together where he might have gone. Anywhere on these maps would have been a single-day trip.

But you suppose he could have taken a different map with him with a destination such farther away.

By midday, your patience fractures. You stand in the center of the cabin, fists clenched at your sides, torn between two impossible choices.

Stay and wait, hoping he returns on his own. Or leave to search for him, with no vehicle and no clear direction.

"Damn it, Ari," you mutter, kicking at the leg of a chair. "Five days I watched you, and the one day I decide to trust you is the day you disappear?"

You return to his maps, spreading them across the table. Your fingers trace the routes he's marked, the notations in his neat handwriting. There are too many possibilities—the trading post, the abandoned hospital ten miles north, the small town to the west that might still have supplies.

You drop into the chair at his desk, head in your hands. The rational part of your brain insists that leaving would be foolish. You have no vehicle. The trading post is twenty miles away—a full day's journey on foot, and that's if you encounter no trouble. Raiders are active in the area.

But staying means another day of uncertainty, another night wondering if he's injured somewhere, unable to return. Another day of that dull ache in your chest.

You straighten, decision made. You'll search for him, but you'll be smart about it. You gather supplies methodically—water, food, medical kit, ammunition for the small handgun you've carried for two years. You find a spare knife in his kitchen and add it to your belt.

As you prepare, a glint of metal catches your eye. Keys, hanging by the door. Not his truck keys—those would be with him—but something else. You approach, examining the small ring. There's a padlock key, what looks like a house key, and—your breath catches—a motorcycle key.

You peer out the window, scanning the property. There, half-hidden beneath a tarp behind the woodshed, the outline of something that could be a motorcycle.

Have you ever driven a motorcycle before?

No.

But how hard can it be?

Not harder than staying here.

And really how hard can it be? Boys do it.

You’ve got nothing but time to kill waiting or time to kill figuring out how to operate a motorcycle anyway.

You reach for the key ring, fingers just brushing the cool metal when the distant rumble of an engine freezes you in place. Your heart leaps into your throat as you recognize the sound—Ari's truck.

Without a second thought, you abandon the keys and bolt for the door. Your feet hit the wooden porch and then the dirt path as you sprint toward the approaching vehicle. The truck appears around the bend, dust billowing behind it.

You see Ari through the windshield, his face tight with concentration—or pain. Your chest constricts at the sight of him. He's alive. He's here.

The truck barely rolls to a stop before you're there, yanking open the driver's door. Ari's golden face breaks into a wide smile as he turns toward you, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. There's not a scratch on him, no visible injuries at all. He looks exactly as he did when you watched him leave yesterday, except for the layer of dust on his clothes from the road.

You urge him out of the truck, and he complies easily. "You're not hurt," you breathe, your hands instinctively patting his chest, shoulders, arms, checking for injuries you can't see. "I thought—I was worried—"

"I know," he says, still smiling that infuriating, beautiful smile. "I felt it."

"Felt what?" you ask.

"Felt you. Felt your worry." Ari's hand comes up to cover yours where it rests against his chest. His heart beats steady and strong beneath your palm. "The bond works both ways, ‘mega. I knew you were waiting."

"Then why didn't you come back sooner?" The words burst from you, part accusation, part relief.

"I could smell you for days," Ari says simply, his voice rougher than you remember.

"You knew I was watching?"

He nods. "I figured you needed time." His eyes never leave yours. "I told you I would wait, and I meant it. And then yesterday, the pain just... shifted. Became something warmer. I knew you'd made your decision."

"But where were you?" you demand, more impatiently now.

Ari's expression softens as he takes your hands in his. "I go to see my sister and her family twice a year," he explains, squeezing your fingers gently. "They're about sixty miles north, in a little community they've built with some other survivors. I would have told you before I left, but..." He trails off, raising his eyebrows. "I was pretending to be oblivious to your proximity until you were ready to come out of hiding.”

You roll your eyes, but a small heat creeps up your neck.

But you brush off the moment, processing this new information. "So your sister? She's alive?"

"Yes. Her, her mate, and their two pups. They made it through the worst of it." Pride fills his voice. "They've got this whole setup now—gardens, livestock, even a school for the kids." He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a small, worn photograph. "This is them."

You take the photo carefully. It's the same woman from the frame in his room.

“They've been trying to get me to join their settlement for years."

You study the image—the woman's smile, the children clinging to her legs, a tall alpha man with his arm around her shoulders. They look happy, healthy. Like a family from before.

"Why haven't you?" you ask, handing the photo back. "Joined them, I mean."

Ari tucks the photo away carefully. "At first, it was because I was still looking for my parents. Never found them." His voice drops, old grief evident but weathered by time. "After that... I don't know. It felt too settled, too permanent. Like admitting the world wasn't going to go back to normal."

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and you feel naked under his gaze. "And then I met you. Kept running into you. Started thinking maybe there was a reason for that."

The honesty in his voice makes your chest ache. You swallow hard, the weight of his words settling in your chest, replacing the bond-ache with something warmer, something both terrifying and exhilarating.

"My sister wants to meet you," he adds, his lips quirking into a half-smile. "Eventually,” he clarifies. “There’s no rush, but I've mentioned you. After our... encounters."

You blink at him, startled. "You told your sister about me?"

"Of course I did," Ari says, looking almost confused by your surprise. "Every time we crossed paths, it was the most interesting thing that had happened to me in months."

Something warm unfurls in your chest. The idea that he'd been thinking about you, talking about you, even before that night in the grocery store—it changes something, shifts your understanding of what's happening between you.

"And what did you tell her?" you ask, trying to keep your voice casual.

Ari's smile turns almost smug. "That I kept running into this stubborn, resourceful omega who was too smart to trust anyone but too intriguing to forget." His thumb traces circles on your palm. "That I couldn't stop thinking about you between encounters. That I was starting to plan my scavenging routes hoping I'd run into you," he admits, not looking remotely embarrassed. "She started calling you 'the ghost omega' because you kept disappearing."

You laugh despite yourself. The sound feels foreign in your throat—when was the last time you genuinely laughed?

"She thinks I'm crazy for not tracking you down sooner," Ari continues, his thumb tracing circles on your palm. "Says I'm too patient for my own good."

"And what did you tell her?" you ask, your voice softer now.

"That some things are worth waiting for." His gaze holds yours, unwavering. "That forcing you to trust me would've been no trust at all."

Something warm unfurls in your chest at his words. He understood—has understood you all along.

The weight of all your fears and doubts you had carried feels insignificant compared to the certainty in his eyes. This alpha—Ari—has been patient not because he's weak, but because he’s unbelievably strong, because he respects you enough to wait.

"I looked through your things," you confess abruptly, needing to start this—whatever this is—with honesty. "Yesterday, while you were gone. I came in through the window and searched the cabin."

Ari doesn't look surprised or angry. He just nods. "Find what you were looking for?"

"I think so." You take a deep breath. "I found the space you cleared in the closet."

His cheeks darken slightly. "Ah. That."

"That," you confirm, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. "Pretty confident, weren't you?"

"Hopeful," he corrects, the word hanging between you like a promise.

Before you can respond, his hands are on your waist, pulling you against him. The movement is swift but gentle, giving you time to pull away if you wanted. You don't. Your bodies collide, your softness against his rugged frame. The bond-ache in your chest dissolves completely, replaced by warmth that spreads through your limbs like wildfire.

His lips find yours, hungry yet tender. You melt into him, your fingers tangling in his hair, drawing him closer. The kiss deepens, his tongue sliding against yours, tasting of dust from the road and something uniquely him. You whimper against his mouth, and he responds with a growl that vibrates through your connected bodies.

When you finally break apart, both breathing heavily, he rests his forehead against yours. "No more waiting," he murmurs, and then his mouth is on yours again.

These kisses are different from those you shared that first night—less desperate, more deliberate. His lips move against yours with purpose, claiming you in a way that makes your knees weak. Your hands find purchase in his shirt, bunching the fabric as you press closer.

His hands slide beneath your shirt, warm against your skin, and suddenly you're both moving backward toward the cabin. The journey is clumsy, neither of you willing to break contact long enough to walk properly. You stumble up the porch steps, laughing against his mouth when you nearly trip.

Ari catches you easily, his strong arms keeping you upright. "Careful, 'mega," he murmurs, voice rough with desire. "I just got you back. Don't want to lose you to a porch step."

The casual possessiveness in his words sends heat curling through you. He pushes the door open behind you, guiding you inside without breaking the kiss. The door slams shut, and suddenly you're pressed against it, Ari's body a solid wall of heat against yours.

His eyes are dark with desire, and that licks through you, thrills you.

"I need to know what you want, 'mega. Need to hear it."

You take a shaky breath, overwhelmed by his scent, his proximity, the intensity of his gaze. "I want to stay," you whisper, the words falling from your lips like a confession. "I don't want to run anymore. I want—" Your voice catches, decades of survival instincts warring with the truth burning in your chest. "I want you."

Ari's eyes darken further, his pupils dilating until only a thin ring of blue remains. "Say it again," he growls, one hand sliding up to cup your face.

"I want you, Ari," you repeat, stronger this time. "I've spent years surviving. I think... I think I'm ready to start living."

Something shifts in his expression—relief, joy, hunger—all making your heart race, all mirrored in you. He kisses you again, deeper, his body pressing yours more firmly against the door. His hands are everywhere, relearning the contours of your body as if committing them to memory.

Ari lifts you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carries you through the cabin. His mouth never leaves yours, alternating between deep, claiming kisses and softer, reverent ones that make your heart stutter.

He sets you down gently on the edge of the bed—the same bed you ran from days ago. But there's no panic now, no urge to flee. Only a bone-deep certainty that this is where you're meant to be.

"I want to see you," he murmurs, his fingers finding the hem of your shirt. "All of you."

You lift your arms in silent permission, and he peels the fabric away, exposing your skin to the cool air. His gaze traces over your exposed skin with reverent hunger. He looks at you like you're a miracle, something precious salvaged from the ruins of the world. It makes your chest ache and swell.

"Beautiful," he breathes, bending to press his lips to your collarbone.

You reach for him, tugging impatiently at his shirt. "Your turn," you murmur. He obliges, pulling the dusty garment over his head in one fluid motion, revealing the golden expanse of his chest. Your fingers trace the lines of his muscles, the scattered scars that tell stories of survival. You want to know each one, to learn the history written on his skin.

You press your lips to his stomach. Your fingers drift lower, tracing the trail of hair that disappears beneath his waistband. He watches you with hooded eyes. You can feel his muscles tense beneath your touch, his breathing growing heavier. Slowly, deliberately, you unfasten his belt, watching his face as you drag the zipper down, the sound deafening in the quiet cabin.

You slide down his body until you're kneeling between his legs. Tugging his jeans down his hips, you reveal him inch by inch, your mouth watering at the sight of him already hard for you. When you take him in your hand, he hisses, his head falling back.

"Omega," he groans, the word filled with need.

You wrap your hand around him, feeling the velvet-soft skin over steel hardness. You lean forward, maintaining eye contact as you take him into your mouth. His sharp intake of breath sends a thrill through you.

"Fuck," he whispers, his hand coming to rest gently on your head, fingers tangling in your hair.

You take your time, exploring him with your tongue, learning what makes his breath hitch, what draws those delicious growls from deep in his chest. You hollow your cheeks, taking him deeper, reveling in the weight of him on your tongue, the taste that's uniquely his.

You work him slowly at first, learning what makes his breath hitch, what draws those delicious growls from deep in his chest. You discover he likes it when you use your tongue along the underside, when you hollowed your cheeks and suck harder. His fingers tighten in your hair when you take him deeper, and the slight edge of pain only heightens your own arousal.

You lose yourself in the rhythm, in the taste of him, in the sounds he makes. His breathing grows ragged, his muscles tense beneath your hands where they rest on his thighs. Your hands work what your mouth can't reach, twisting gently in counterpoint to your bobbing head. His thighs tremble beneath your free hand, muscles taut with restraint.

"That's it, 'mega," he groans, his voice strained. "So perfect."

His praise sends heat through you, your own arousal building with each moan you draw from him. You feel powerful like this, on your knees but completely in control, reducing this strong alpha to trembling need.

His hips begin to move slightly, shallow thrusts that match your rhythm. His control is impressive, but you can feel it fraying at the edges.

"Stop," he finally gasps, gently pulling you off him. His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide. "Need to be inside you when I come."

He pulls you up, then pushes you back onto the bed. You land with a soft bounce, watching as he kneels to remove your boots, then your pants, peeling them slowly down your legs. When you're naked beneath him, he takes a moment just to look at you, his gaze traveling from your face down your body with such reverence it makes you shiver.

Everything the two of you did that first night together was frenzied, desperate, pursuit of pleasure and a long-delayed gratification you’d been dancing around for months.

But this time both of you know there’s not a question mark as to how long you have together, There’s still eagerness, need, and want, but the uncertainty has been erased.

"Been dreaming about this," he murmurs, hands skimming up your calves, your thighs.

His hands glide up to your thighs, gently pushing them apart. He settles between them, his breath hot against your inner thigh. "Need to taste you," he growls, and then his mouth is on you, tongue sliding through your folds. The contact sends electricity up your spine, drawing a gasp from your lips.

You arch into his mouth as he explores you with deliberate precision, learning what makes you whimper and shake. His tongue circles your clit before sucking it gently between his lips. Your hands fly to his hair, fingers tangling in the silky strands as you hold him against you.

Ari moans against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open as he devours you. The wet heat of his mouth is delicious against your heated skin. Your hips rock against his face, and you lose yourself in sensation, hips undulating against his skilled mouth, seeking more pressure, more friction.

"That's it," he murmurs against you, the vibration of his words sending ripples of pleasure through your core. "Let me take care of you."

His tongue delves deeper, tasting you thoroughly before returning to circle your clit. He alternates between broad strokes and pointed precision, reading your body's responses with uncanny accuracy. When he slides two fingers inside you, curling them to find that perfect spot, you cry out, back arching off the bed.

"That's it," he murmurs against your sensitive flesh. "Let me hear you."

He continues his sweet torture, his fingers working in tandem with his mouth. Your thighs begin to tremble as pressure builds low in your belly. Ari seems to sense your approaching climax, redoubling his efforts, his tongue flicking rapidly against your clit while his fingers maintain their perfect rhythm.

"Ari," you gasp, the word half-warning, half-plea.

"Come for me," he demands against your flesh, and the command in his voice combined with the relentless pressure of his tongue sends you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you in waves, your body spasming around his fingers as he works you through it, drawing out every last tremor of pleasure.

When you finally collapse back against the mattress, boneless and panting, he rises above you, his mouth glistening with evidence of your pleasure. The sight is enough to stoke the embers of your desire back to flame despite your recent release.

He moves slowly up your body and lowers himself over you, skin against skin. His weight feels right, grounding you in this moment, in this reality you've chosen. He kisses you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. The intimacy of it makes your heart stutter.

He aligns himself at your entrance, the blunt head of his cock pressing against your slick heat. His eyes lock with yours, searching for any hesitation. Finding none, he pushes forward slowly, stretching you deliciously as he fills you inch by inch. Your breath catches at the perfect fullness, the way your body yields to accommodate him.

"Fuck," he breathes, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. "You feel like home," he murmurs, the words so quiet you almost miss them.

The sentiment strikes you deep in your chest, resonating with truth. After years of wandering, of surviving, this—his body joined with yours, his scent surrounding you—feels like the only thing you ever needed. This is what was missing, what you've been searching for without knowing. A place to belong. A person to belong to.

He begins to move, setting a languid pace that has you arching beneath him, seeking more. Your nails dig into his shoulders, urging him closer, deeper. He responds with a growl that vibrates through your connected bodies, his hips snapping forward with more force.

"Mine," he murmurs against your neck, his breath hot on your skin. "Tell me you're mine."

The possessiveness in his voice should frighten you—after years of fierce independence, of trusting no one—but instead, it ignites something primal within you. The omega in you preens under his claim, recognizing what your rational mind has been fighting: this connection between you is rare, precious. Worth the risk.

"Yours," you breathe against his lips. The word sparks something within you—a certainty, a decision. You want more than this passive surrender. You want to show him your choice is active, deliberate.

You plant your hands against his chest and push. He looks momentarily confused, then understanding dawns in his eyes as you urge him onto his back. He goes willingly, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth as you straddle him. You sink down on him in one fluid motion, taking him to the hilt.

You roll your hips experimentally, and his hands find your waist, steadying you as you begin to move. The new angle sends him deeper, hitting spots that make your vision blur at the edges. You plant your palms on his chest, using the leverage to lift yourself before sinking back down. His eyes are dark with desire as he watches you take your pleasure from him, his golden skin flushed with want.

The intensity builds between you with each roll of your hips. His hands slide up your sides to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your hardened nipples. The dual sensation makes you gasp, your rhythm faltering momentarily before you find it again, more desperate now.

"You're incredible," he murmurs, his voice thick with arousal. "Never thought I'd have this."

Something shifts inside you—a certainty so profound it steals your breath. This alpha beneath you, looking at you with such reverence, such need—he's yours as much as you are his. The realization crashes through you with startling clarity. This isn't enough. Skin against skin, bodies joined—it's good, it's perfect, but it's temporary. You want permanent. You want forever.

This alpha beneath you, looking at you with such reverence, such need—he's yours as much as you are his.

You lean down, pressing your chest to his, your lips finding the juncture where his neck meets his shoulder. His scent is strongest here, intoxicating, drawing you in. You inhale deeply, feeling his pulse race beneath your lips.

"Omega," he whispers, his voice strained with understanding. His hands slide up your back, one tangling in your hair, not pulling you away but holding you there, an invitation.

You scrape your teeth against his skin, testing, tasting. He shudders beneath you, his cock twitching inside you. A low rumble builds in his chest, vibrating against your chest like a purr. The vibration travels through your connected bodies, heightening every sensation.

In that moment, instinct takes over. You sink your teeth into the tender flesh of his neck, breaking skin. The metallic taste of blood floods your mouth as you claim him, marking him as yours irrevocably.

The moment your teeth break his skin, something shifts between you—a connection snapping into place like the final piece of a puzzle. The bond you've been feeling fragments of solidifies, crystallizes into something unbreakable. You can feel his pleasure, his surprise, his overwhelming joy washing through you as if they're your own emotions.

He cries out, his body arching beneath you, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he bucks up into you, his release triggered by your claim.

You release his neck, licking the wound gently, tasting the copper of his blood mixed with the salt of his skin. When you pull back to look at his face, his eyes are wild, pupils blown wide with pleasure and something deeper—awe, devotion, completion.

"You claimed me," he breathes, voice hoarse with emotion. "You claimed me first."

The wonder in his voice makes your heart clench. You nod, unable to form words through the overwhelming sensations flooding your system—his pleasure washing through you, amplified by your own, the bond humming between you like a live wire.

"I want this," you murmur against his mouth. "I want you. All of you."

You kiss him fiercely. His arms tighten around you, rolling you both until you're beneath him again. The movement sends aftershocks of pleasure through your oversensitive body, drawing a soft moan from your lips. He's still hard inside you, his release apparently only fueling his desire rather than sating it.

He slides one hand beneath your neck, supporting you as he lowers his mouth to the juncture of your neck and shoulder. "My turn," he growls, nuzzling against your neck, his breath hot against your skin. His teeth scrape the sensitive spot over your pulse point.

A needy whine escapes you, and you tilt your head to expose your throat to him, a gesture of submission and trust so profound it makes your heart race. "Make me yours, Ari."

His teeth pierce your skin in one swift motion, the sharp pain blooming into something transcendent as the bond between you completes itself. There is only Ari, only the connection forming between you, only the overwhelming sensation of belonging.

You feel his consciousness brush against yours—his joy, his relief, his utter devotion flooding through you. His hips begin to move again, thrusting into you with renewed purpose. Each movement sends dual waves of pleasure through your joined bodies, your sensations feeding his, his feeding yours in an endless loop of escalating ecstasy.

His mouth leaves your neck, his tongue gently laving the mark he's made. You feel his satisfaction at seeing his claim on your skin, a primal pride that burns through your bond.

"Mine," he murmurs against the fresh mark, his voice reverent. "Finally mine."

You wrap your legs around his waist, drawing him deeper as he begins to move again. The sensation is unlike anything you've experienced before—it's not just physical pleasure but something transcendent. You can feel his emotions, his desire, his overwhelming joy at having claimed you, at being claimed by you.

His thrusts grow more urgent, more powerful. The headboard knocks against the wall with each movement, the rhythm matching your racing hearts. Your body responds to his as if it was made for him, meeting each thrust, taking him deeper. The dual sensation of your physical connection and the newly formed bond between you pushes you toward a peak that promises to eclipse all others.

"Ari," you gasp, clinging to him as the pressure builds.

"Come with me," he commands against your lips, and you feel his hand slip between your bodies, finding your sensitive bud and circling it with practiced fingers. The dual assault—his cock filling you, his fingers working you, his presence in your mind through the bond—is too much. Your second orgasm crashes through you with unexpected force, your inner walls clamping down on him, milking him.

He follows you over the edge with a guttural cry, his hips stuttering as he empties himself inside you. His knot begins to swell, locking you together, anchoring him deep within you. The sensation of being completely filled, completely joined with him, sends aftershocks of pleasure rippling through your body.

He collapses on top of you, careful to distribute his weight so he doesn't crush you. You cling to him, unwilling to let even an inch of space come between your bodies while you're knotted together. His face is buried in your neck, his breath coming in ragged pants against your marked skin.

"I can feel you," he murmurs in wonder, his lips brushing against your pulse point. "In my head, in my chest. Everywhere."

You know exactly what he means. The bond thrums between you, a living connection that allows you to feel the contentment radiating from him, the wonder, the possessive satisfaction. You marvel at how complete it feels, how right, when just days ago you were running from the very possibility of it. You send back your own feelings, letting him feel your certainty, your relief at finding him, for coming back to him.

With his knot still tying you to him, he shifts carefully to his side, bringing you with him so you're facing each other, legs intertwined. His arm drapes over your waist, and he traces idle patterns on your back as your breathing slowly returns to normal.

"I never thought..." he begins, his voice rough with emotion. "After everything fell apart, I never thought I'd find this. Find you."

You trace the lines of his face with trembling fingers, memorizing every detail—the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the slight asymmetry of his smile, the faint scar above his right eyebrow.

"I was so scared," you confess, your voice barely above a whisper. "Not of you, but of this. Of what it meant to stop isolating."

He captures your hand, bringing your fingertips to his lips. "I know," he murmurs against your skin. "I could feel it every time we met. The way you kept yourself just out of reach."

"How did you know to wait?" you ask. "Most alphas would have..." You trail off, not needing to finish the thought. You both know what most alphas would have done—tracked you, claimed you without consent, taken what they wanted.

"I didn't want a submissive, I wanted a partner," Ari says, his eyes serious as they hold yours. "Someone who chose me as deliberately as I chose them." His thumb traces over your bottom lip. "Someone strong enough to survive alone, smart enough to know when not to."

His words settle in your chest, warming you from the inside. This alpha—your alpha now—has upended everything you thought you knew about the world after the collapse. Where you expected brutality, he offered patience. Where you expected dominance, he offered choice.

"I'm glad I came back," you whisper, the confession easy now with his mark on your neck and his knot still tying you together.

His smile is radiant, transforming his face. "Me too, 'mega. Though I have to admit, I was tempted to hunt you down when I realized you were watching me. Four days of pretending I didn't know you were in my shed was... challenging."

You feel heat rise to your cheeks. "You knew the whole time?"

"Alpha senses , remember?" Ari chuckles, the vibration of it traveling through your connected bodies. "Your scent is distinctive to me. I could probably track you for miles now." His fingers trace the mark he's left on your neck, a possessive gesture that sends shivers down your spine. "And I definitely would have if you hadn't come back on your own."

"What would you have done?" you ask, curiosity getting the better of you. "If I hadn't come back?"

Ari considers this, his brow furrowing slightly. "Given you another week. Maybe two." His expression softens. "Then I would have come looking for you. Not to force you back, but to make sure you were okay. To remind you there was a place for you here, if you wanted it."

The certainty in his voice, the unwavering patience—it makes your throat tight with emotion. And there's no threat in his words, only wonder, as if the ability to find you is the greatest gift he's ever received.

And it is.

Alphas and omegas claim and mate with each other as well as with betas, and they create strong relationships.

But fated mates - the kind whose bond can develop before a claiming bite is even exchanged between two individuals?

That was rare, something you only thought was lore, or simply lost to those with alpha or omega designations since alphas and omegas were becoming even more rare. You had never heard of anyone who had experienced it.

Ari’s knot finally begins to soften, allowing your bodies to separate. He doesn't move away, though, keeping you wrapped in his arms as if afraid you might disappear again. Through the bond, you feel his contentment, his satisfaction, but also a thread of concern.

"What is it?" you ask, unable to ignore the slight dissonance in his emotions. You certainly hope he doesn’t harbor any fear of you leaving.

Ari sighs, his thumb tracing the mark on your neck. "I just realized we did this a bit out of order. Most people discuss future plans before claiming each other for life."

You laugh softly, the sound still unfamiliar after so many years of disuse. "I think we both knew what this was, Ari. What it would be."

Through the bond, you can feel his relief at your understanding. It's strange, this new awareness of another person's feelings alongside your own. After years of isolation, of trusting only your instincts, suddenly having access to someone else's emotions is overwhelming—but in the best possible way.

"Still," he says, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your skin, "I should probably mention that I'd like you to stay. Permanently." His eyes meet yours, serious despite the lightness in his tone. "And not just because we've bonded for life."

"Oh? Why else, then?" you ask, playing along, enjoying the way his scent shifts with his happiness.

"Well, I've got this extra space in my closet that needs filling," he deadpans. "And it seems irresponsible to waste something like that.”

You laugh, pressing your forehead against his chest, breathing in his scent—your scent now mingled with his. The bond hums between you, warm and vibrant, a living connection that feels both ancient and brand new.

"I suppose I could help you fill that closet space," you murmur against his skin. "For practical reasons, of course."

"Of course," he agrees solemnly, though you can feel his joy bubbling through the bond. "Purely practical."

His fingers trace the curve of your spine, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Through the bond, you feel a flicker of something deeper—a hope he's trying to contain, not wanting to overwhelm you so soon.

"What is it?" you ask, tilting your head to meet his eyes.

Ari hesitates, then sighs. "I didn’t anticipate how telling this aspect of bonding is.” But there’s still a content curve to the line of his lips. “But I was just thinking about my sister. Her family." He trails off, but you can feel the direction of his thoughts through the bond—the possibility of children, of a family.

After a few moments, he softly asks, “Do you want children? Would you want them with me?"

The idea should terrify you, but instead, it fills you with a tentative hope you haven't allowed yourself to feel in years. In the old world, this would have been a standard conversation before commitment. In this new, broken world, it carries different weight.

"I never let myself think about it," you admit. "It seemed... irresponsible. Bringing children into this world."

Ari nods, understanding in his eyes. "I felt the same way, for a long time. But seeing my sister's pups, watching them grow up in their community..." He pauses, gathering his words. “Before I met you, I still didn’t think seriously about that kind of life. But being there yesterday after I already knew you had come back, even though that’s all it was at that point, it had me viewing it all differently.”

You can feel the sincerity in his words, the longing that he's kept carefully contained until now. Through the bond, his emotions wash over you—hope tempered with patience, desire balanced with understanding. He's not pushing, merely sharing, letting you see all of him.

"I'd want them to be safe," you say softly. "I'd want them to have more than just survival."

Ari's hand comes up to cup your cheek. "My sister's community is growing. They have walls, gardens, livestock. The children there don't just survive—they play, they learn." His thumb strokes your cheekbone. "We could visit, see it for yourself. No pressure to stay or join. Just... see what's possible."

You nod slowly, considering. "I'd like that." The words surprise you as they leave your mouth, but they feel right.

"Not right away," he adds. "We have time. Time to figure us out first, time to see if we want to join a larger community, time to decide if we want to create life in this new world."

Time. It's a concept that had lost meaning for you after the collapse. Days blended into weeks, weeks into months, survival the only goal. Now, with Ari's arms around you, the steady rhythm of his heart against your palm, time feels precious again. Something to plan with rather than just endure.

"When I ran," you confess, "I wasn't just running from you. I was running from the possibility of having something to lose again."

His arms tighten around you. "I know."

"But I think..." you pause, searching for the right words, "I think not having anything to lose is its own kind of loss."

Ari's smile is soft, his eyes understanding. You know - because you feel it - he used to feel much the same way you did, though he had worked to build a more permanent place to stay, where you had moved along from place to place after a few months.

Through the bond, you feel Ari's joy at your new openness, tempered with his own caution. Neither of you wants to rush this fragile new thing between you.

"For now," he says, pulling you closer, "I just want to enjoy having you here. Learning you. Building something together that's just ours."

You nestle against him, fitting perfectly in the curve of his body. "I'd like that too."

Outside, the sky darkens with approaching clouds, promising rain. The soft patter begins against the roof of the cabin, a gentle rhythm that makes the shelter you've found in each other's arms feel even more precious. You listen to the sound together, his chest rising and falling beneath your cheek.

"I should check the rain barrels," Ari murmurs, though he makes no move to leave the bed. His fingers continue their lazy exploration of your back, tracing constellations on your skin.

"Later," you reply, pressing closer, nuzzling your nose against his neck. "Rain can wait."

His chuckle rumbles through his chest. "Never thought I'd hear you prioritize comfort over practicality, 'mega."

"I'm not," you counter, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. "I'm being extremely practical. Conserving energy."

"Is that what we're calling it?"

“Mhmm,” you hum with contentment. He kisses you slowly, and you return the kiss, tongues tasting each other, orienting with each other, but this kiss is for kissing. For laying together with warmth, but not to stoke the fires again - not yet anyway.

Your fingers trace idle patterns on Ari's chest, following the contours of his muscles, the scattered scars that tell the story of his survival.

"Tell me about before," you say softly, your curiosity about him growing now that you've decided to stay. "What did you do?"

Ari's chest rises and falls with a deep breath. "I was a park ranger," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "Spent my days in the wilderness, teaching people how to respect nature, how to survive in it." His hand strokes your hair absently. "Ironic, isn't it? All those skills I taught as novelties became what kept people alive."

"And your sister?" you ask, nestling closer as the rain intensifies outside. "Was she a ranger too?"

Ari shakes his head, his chin brushing against your hair. "Doctor. Pediatrician, actually. That's why their community has thrived—medical knowledge is rare now. People seek her out, bring supplies in exchange for care."

You process this, picturing the woman from the photograph healing children in this broken world. Hope stirs in your chest, tentative but real.

"What about you?" Ari asks gently. "Before."

You hesitate, the memories of your old life like artifacts from another era. "I was a teacher," you admit finally. "High school English."

His surprise ripples through the bond, followed by something like delight. "That explains all the books in your pack," he says, smiling against your temple. “What else?”

You tell him about your life before—the hobbies you had, the apartment you loved, the friends you'd meet for drinks every Friday. Simple things that seem impossibly luxurious now. As you speak, you realize how long it's been since you've talked about the past without pain clutching at your throat.

"I miss ice cream," you admit with a small laugh. "And hot showers that last more than two minutes."

Ari grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I miss movies. And delivery pizza."

"God, pizza," you groan dramatically, and his laughter fills the small bedroom, wrapping around you like another blanket.

The rain continues outside, a steady rhythm on the roof. Inside, wrapped in each other's arms, you exchange stories—small pieces of yourselves that you've kept hidden away for so long. The easy intimacy of it—sharing memories without fear, laughing together at the absurdities of the old world—feels like another kind of revelation.

"What about your family?" you ask, tracing the line of his jaw with your finger. "Besides your sister."

Ari's expression softens, tinged with old grief. "Parents were in Seattle when it hit hardest. Never heard from them again." His voice is steady, the pain weathered by time. "Tried to find them for almost a year before I had to accept they were gone."

You press a gentle kiss to his shoulder, offering comfort without words. Through the bond, you feel his appreciation for the gesture, the way your touch eases the old ache.

The rain becomes a lullaby, and you find yourself drifting, safe and warm for the first time in years.

"Sleep," Ari murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I'll be here when you wake up."

And for the first time since the world fell apart, you believe it. You let yourself sink into sleep without fear, without the need to stay half-alert. The bond hums between you, a reassurance more effective than any promise could be.

You dream of gardens and children's laughter, of a future you'd stopped believing was possible.

When you wake, the rain has stopped. Sunlight filters through the windows, casting golden stripes across the bed. Ari is still beside you, his breathing deep and even. You study his face in repose—the worry lines smoothed away, the slight part of his lips, the shadow of stubble along his jaw. In sleep, he looks younger, unburdened by the weight of survival that you've all carried for so long.

You trace the mark you left on his neck with gentle fingers, marveling at the physical evidence of your bond. It's already healing, but it will leave a scar—a permanent reminder of your claim on him. The sight of it fills you with a primitive satisfaction that surprises you.

Carefully, you slip from the bed, wrapping yourself in Ari's discarded shirt. It falls to mid-thigh, enveloping you in his scent. You pad quietly to the window, drawing back the curtain to look outside. The world after rain always seems cleaner, more hopeful. Droplets cling to leaves and grass, catching the morning light like countless tiny prisms.

"Stealing my clothes already?" Ari's sleep-roughened voice comes from behind you. You turn to find him propped up on one elbow, hair tousled from sleep, eyes soft as they take in the sight of you in his shirt. "Not that I'm complaining."

You smile, warmth spreading through your chest at the domesticity of the moment. You gesture toward the window. "The rain stopped."

"Mmm," he hums, stretching like a large cat before hefting his large body out of bed with surprising grace for his size. "Good. We should check the barrels after lunch, see how much we collected." His eyes never leave you as he speaks, drinking you in with an intensity that makes your skin prickle pleasantly.

He walks toward you with purpose, golden skin glowing in the morning light. There's no self-consciousness in his nakedness, just the confident stride of an alpha who knows what he wants. Your breath catches as he approaches, his arousal evident.

"Turn around," he murmurs, his voice gentle but commanding. "Look outside."

You obey, facing the window again.

A shiver runs through you as he presses against your back, his arousal evident against the curve of your ass. His lips find the mark on your neck, kissing it gently before trailing down to your shoulder. One hand slides up to cup your breast beneath the shirt, thumb brushing over your nipple until it hardens beneath his touch.

"Ari," you breathe, leaning back into him.

His hands slide beneath the hem of his shirt that you're wearing, skimming up your thighs to your hips. The touch sends sparks across your skin.

"I want you to see it," he says, pressing against your back, his lips at your ear. "Our home. Our territory."

His hands guide your hips, pushing you forward slightly until you're braced against the windowsill. The position makes you vulnerable, exposed, but there's no fear—only anticipation coiling in your belly.

"Beautiful," he whispers, guiding your gaze outward while his hands work the shirt up your body. "All of this is ours now."

His hand slides between your thighs, finding you already wet for him, and he growls approvingly, positioning himself at your entrance.

He enters you in one smooth thrust, filling you completely. You gasp at the delicious stretch, the perfect fullness. Ari's rhythm is deliberate, each thrust pushing you slightly forward, your fingers gripping the windowsill for support. His hands hold your hips firmly, guiding your movements to match his. You feel connected not just physically but through the bond that pulses between you with each movement, amplifying every sensation.

"Look," he murmurs against your ear, nipping gently at the lobe. "Look at our home, omega."

Your eyes focus on the clearing beyond the cabin, the way the morning light catches on the rain-soaked leaves, transforming ordinary trees into something magical. This place that was just a shelter to him before is now something more—a beginning, a foundation for whatever you build together.

He adjusts his angle, hitting a spot inside you that makes your vision blur. Your head falls forward, a moan escaping your lips.

"No," he says gently, one hand leaving your hip to cup your chin, tilting your face back toward the window. "I want you to see it. See us. See the future we're building."

His words, combined with the relentless rhythm of his thrusts, push you closer to the edge. The dual stimulation—physical pleasure and the emotional connection flowing through your bond—is overwhelming.

"This is real," he murmurs, his voice rough with desire and something deeper. "You're here. You're staying."

"Yes," you gasp, the word both confirmation and plea. "Yes, Ari."

His pace increases, his control slipping as his own pleasure builds. You feel it through the bond—his mounting desire, his joy at having you in his arms, in his home, wearing his mark. It feeds your own pleasure, creating a feedback loop of sensation that spirals higher with each thrust.

Your release hits you without warning, pleasure radiating outward from your core, making your legs tremble as your body clenches around him. Through the bond, your orgasm triggers his, and Ari buries himself deep within you with a final thrust, his release flooding you as his forehead drops to your shoulder.

For several moments, you both remain still, breathing heavily, connected in every possible way. His arms wrap around your waist, holding you against him. Through the bond, you feel his contentment, his satisfaction, and beneath it all, a profound sense of rightness.

"Good morning," he murmurs against your neck, pressing a kiss to the mark he left there.

You laugh softly, turning in his arms to face him. "Good morning indeed."

His eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles down at you, a tenderness in his gaze that makes your heart swell.

"I should make us breakfast," he says, though he makes no move to let you go. "Protein. After last night and this morning, we both need it."

You smile, tracing the line of his jaw with your finger. "Is that your way of saying I've worn you out?"

His laugh is deep and warm. "Never, 'mega. But I also promised you coffee, if you want to start the day properly.”

“Mmmm, I like the other way we started it,” you say, impishly rutting your hips against his.

He growls and laughs. “Can’t argue with that, but have to keep you properly nourished if we want to sustain that kind of healthy, active lifestyle.”

Heat rises to your cheeks despite everything you've already shared. "Is that a promise?"

"Absolutely." He pulls on a pair of worn sweatpants, leaving his chest bare. The sight of him—casual, comfortable, marked as yours—fills you with a possessive satisfaction you've never experienced before.

You follow him to the kitchen, still wearing his shirt, watching as he moves with easy confidence through the small space. He retrieves eggs from a small cooler—a luxury you haven't enjoyed in months—and sets a pan on the small propane stove.

"Where did you get eggs?" you ask, settling onto one of the kitchen chairs, legs tucked beneath you.

Ari cracks an egg into the pan with practiced precision. "Trade. There's a family about ten miles west with chickens. I fix their generator, they give me eggs." He glances at you over his shoulder. "We should visit them sometime. The alpha there makes this incredible cider from wild apples."

We. The word settles in your chest, warm and unfamiliar. He's already making plans for a future together that extends beyond this cabin, beyond mere survival.

You watch him prepare breakfast, marveling at how natural this feels—sitting in his kitchen, wearing his shirt, planning small excursions together.

And nothing feels more right.

300 word drabble -> 2k one-shot -> 10.5k follow up

...I am so normal.

HOPEFULLY Y'ALL DIDN'T MIND! 🤣

and @stargazingfangirl18 I hoped you enjoyed how devoid of smut this was

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

#ari levinson smut #ari levinson #chris evans characters #ari levinson x reader #alpha ari levinson #omegaverse #alpha april #aspen wrote something #female reader #beyond survival

351 notes · View notes

lizzyiii · 7 months ago

Note

hey, so ur works are literally heaven in itself (im in love with u)

you guys reading my works are what validate me in life (i'm so in love with you too, babe)

Scales and Arpeggios

pairing | aemond x wife!reader word count | 4.3k words summary | aemond and his wife share tender moments with their children, engaging in music lessons that bring warmth and joy to their family amidst the shadows of the dance of dragons.

note | slight angst, hotd au (greens win), KING AEMOND, toothrotting fluffff, children, no description of reader, fluffy Aemond, soft aemond, pregnant!reader a/n | aristocats inspired (duchess and her kittens), I thought of this this morning. I really needed this fluff after all my negative thoughts and feelings. also don't worry, I have all my requests in the making, and in my draft's - prepare for the angst and feels.

likes, comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Aemond was tired.

Day upon day, his life was mired in endless council meetings, audiences with quarrelsome lords, and grievances of the peasantry, all in the name of healing a realm ravaged by war.

It had been two years since the Dance of the Dragons had torn through the land, yet the scars remained, as fresh as the charred ruins left in the dragons’ wake.

And here he was, King of the Seven Kingdoms—but at what bitter cost. He had bested Daemon in the fierce clash over the God’s Eye, and his half-sister, the self-styled Queen, had been devoured by her own madness.

She met her end as Sunfyre tore her asunder upon Aegon’s command. Not long after, Aegon himself succumbed to his wounds, leaving the crown a hollow prize.

Aemond had defeated the Blacks. The traitors were vanquished, their cause snuffed out. But his family had been taken in the fires of war. Jaehaerys murdered; young Maelor torn apart; Daeron slain.

Helaena, dear Helaena, had taken her own life. And Aegon—Aegon had burned away with his dragon, his defiance crumbling under the agony of his wounds.

All that remained of his bloodline were fleeting shadows of memory and ashes of kin. Only his wife, the woman bound to him since he was but fourteen, remained steadfast.

Through the dark days of the war, you had been his only constant, his sole source of solace. In the end, that was all he had left: his bride, his son Aeron, his niece Jaehaera, and his mother, Queen Alicent, who clung to life with a frail resilience.

It was his wife, too, who had stayed his hand when he considered the fates of Daemon’s daughters. You had urged him to spare the lives of Baela and Rhaena, allowing them sanctuary with their sole surviving brother, Aegon the Younger, now far away in Driftmark.

And yet, his mother had been torn asunder by grief, the madness that followed the loss of three of her children consuming her like a wildfire. Just months ago, Alicent had succumbed to the cruel grip of Winter Fever, and with her passing, the warmth of their family had dimmed further.

He blamed himself, for in his fervor to protect his own—the children he adored and his beloved wife—he had allowed himself to be blind to his mother’s decline. Each day, he devoted himself to the care and nurturing of Aeron and Daenys, ensuring Jaehaera felt the presence of family, while the ever-looming responsibilities of the crown overshadowed his duties as a son.

Now, he barely caught glimpses of the life that remained. He would rise in the early hours, the dawn light casting a soft glow upon his wife’s sleeping form, a fleeting moment of peace before he was swept away by the relentless tide of royal obligations.

In the fleeting minutes before he departed for court, he could only admire the serene lines of your face, knowing that the day would steal him from your side again.

The children were no better; brief encounters in the corridors felt like whispers of a past he could hardly grasp. Aeron would be playing with his toys, and Daenys might be crawling after the palace cats, laughter echoing softly in the halls, but those joyful sounds seemed distant, muffled by the duties that consumed him.

But on this day, a flicker of fortune shone upon him; he had managed to complete his duties earlier than usual. Typically, he toiled long into the night, only to return to the warmth of their chambers when all were asleep. Though it was after supper, a glimmer of hope sparked within him that perhaps he could still find them, to grasp those precious moments he had so dearly missed.

Through the dimly lit corridors of the Red Keep, the young Prince Aeron and Princess Jaehaera raced, their laughter echoing against the cold stone walls as they hurried toward the music lesson that awaited them. The air was filled with the thrill of their spirited competition, each eager to claim the title of first to arrive.

As they rounded a corner, Jaehaera noticed Aeron pulling ahead, determination etched across his small face. In a quick, daring move, she reached out and tugged at his tunic, managing to pull him back just enough to dart ahead. “Me first!” she shouted, her voice ringing with triumph.

Not to be outdone, Aeron swiftly grabbed hold of her arm, attempting to halt her advance. “And why should you be first?” he challenged.

Jaehaera strained against his grip, lifting her chin defiantly as she met his gaze. “Because I am the future queen, that’s why!” she declared, her voice bold and unwavering.

With that, she broke free, dashing down the corridor, but Aeron was quick on her heels, bumping her to the side in a playful shove that almost sent her sprawling against the wall. “You’re not a queen! You’re nothing but my cousin!” he yelled.

Jaehaera shot him a fierce glare, her brows knitting together. “I’ll show you if I’m a queen or not,” she murmured under her breath, determination simmering in her tone as they neared the door to the music room.

In a last-ditch effort to claim victory, Jaehaera pushed Aeron aside just as they reached the threshold. He stumbled slightly but quickly regained his footing, throwing a frown her way. “Fight fair, Jae!”

Without missing a beat, she rolled her eyes and slipped into the room, only to be met with an unexpected shove from Aeron as he followed closely behind. He hadn’t meant to, but the force sent Jaehaera tumbling to the ground with a hard thud that echoed in the hall.

She shot him a fierce glare, her lips forming a pout as she rubbed her side. “Now that hurt!” she exclaimed, the hint of a whine creeping into her voice.

“Aunty! Aunty!” she called out, her tone shifting to one of urgency.

Moments later, you entered the room, carrying Daenys on your hip. A mixture of sternness and affection danced on your face as you regarded the two children. “Jaehaera, my darling, Jaehaera,” you said, your voice firm but softening with a smile. “You must stop that; it is really not ladylike.”

Your gaze shifted to Aeron, your tone turning slightly admonishing. “And you, Aeron, such behavior is most unbecoming of a lovely gentleman.”

Aeron’s cheeks flushed, and he scowled at Jaehaera, ready to defend himself. “Well, she started it,” he retorted, crossing his arms defiantly.

Jaehaera, unfazed, lifted her chin in a gesture of regal disdain, pointedly turning her gaze away from him. “Queens do not start fights,” she declared, her voice dripping with authority. Then, with a scrunch of her nose, she added, “But they can finish them.”

Aeron rolled his eyes dramatically at Jaehaera, sticking out his tongue in mockery, but the jest was short-lived as he heard his mother’s voice call out from across the room. “Now, Aeron, don’t be rude,” you scolded, your tone firm but laced with affection.

He turned to you, flashing an innocent smile, his eyes wide with feigned innocence. “We were just practicing fighting and pushing,” he replied, his words punctuated by an exaggerated shrug that only added to the mischief of the moment.

You felt a jolt of discomfort at his words, a wave of haunting memories crashing over you. The echoes of past conflicts flickered in your mind—battles fought and lives lost, the heavy price of such lessons. “Targaryens do not practice fighting and pushing and things like that,” you replied, your voice low, the irony of your own words hanging heavily in the air. “It is just horrible.”

With a determined effort, you sought to redirect the conversation and lighten the mood. “Now,” you began, your expression softening as you turned your gaze to Daenys, nestled in your arms, her tiny form clearly on the brink of sleep.

You smiled adoringly at her, a sense of calm washing over you as you looked back at Jaehaera and Aeron. “Why don’t you two head over to the piano, and let’s begin our lesson?”

“Yes, Aunty!” Jaehaera chirped, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm as she practically danced toward the instrument, subtly shouldering Aeron aside.

Aeron glared at Jaehaera, his indignation flaring up momentarily, but he quickly turned to you with a soft nod. “Yes, Mama,” he replied.

“It’s time to practice your scales and your arpeggios,” you encouraged, as you moved toward the piano. You settled onto the chaise beside it, Daenys resting her head comfortably against your shoulder, her eyes half-closed as she watched her brother and cousin with a sleepy fascination.

Jaehaera stood poised beside the grand piano, her back straight and shoulders squared, a picture of determination. She cleared her throat, the sound echoing softly in the air, and waited expectantly for Aeron to begin.

However, she cast him a pointed glare as he took his sweet time, leisurely warming up his hands as if the lesson were no pressing matter.

Finally, after an impatient moment, Jaehaera announced, “I’m ready, Maestro,” her voice ringing with a blend of authority and hautiness.

Aeron shot her a sideways glance, his mischievous grin returning as he subtly shifted his foot and stomped down hard onto Jaehaera’s, eliciting a sharp squeak from her.

“Aunty, he did it again!” she exclaimed, turning her wide eyes toward you, indignation clear in her voice.

Aeron, unfazed, looked away, propping his chin on his hand with an exaggerated air of nonchalance. “Tattletale,” he whispered in response.

You carefully rubbed Daenys' back, the gentle motion soothing your daughter. Your patience was unwavering, as you said, “Now, Aeron, please, darling, settle down and play me your pretty little song.” Your voice was calm, and your tone both firm and nurturing.

With a resigned sigh, Aeron nodded, his playful demeanor shifting as he positioned himself at the piano. “Yes, Mama,” he murmured, fingers poised above the keys. As he began to play, the room filled with the soft, melodic strains of his music.

Aemond was at a loss, frustration tightening his chest as he searched the sprawling halls of the Red Keep for you. He had scoured your shared chambers, his personal solar, and the children’s bedrooms, but you were nowhere to be found.

The sinking feeling in his gut only grew as he realized he needed assistance, and at last, he sought out one of the guards stationed nearby.

The guard cleared his throat and straightened slightly, sensing the prince’s impatience. “At Her Grace's music lessons, sire,” he replied, his tone respectful.

“Music lessons?” Aemond murmured to himself, brow furrowing in confusion. He had not realized such an event was taking place, nor had he been informed of it.

Without another moment's hesitation, he rushed in the direction indicated, making his way down a seldom-used wing of the castle, its walls lined with faded tapestries and the whispers of history.

As he drew closer, he heard the unmistakable sound of a piano, its notes cascading through the air like a gentle stream, drawing him forward.

Coming closer to the door, he opened it quietly before he peeked his head inside, his heart melting at the sight as he heard Jaehaera's voice.

"Do mi sol do do sol mi do," the girl of six summers sang, her voice young and somewhat pitchy as she sang confidently, "Every truly cultured music student knows. You must learn your scales and your arpeggios Finger music ringing from your chest And not your nose. While you sing your scales and your arpeggios"

Aemond stood just beyond the doorway, a swell of pride filling his chest as he watched his five-year-old son, Aeron, seated at the piano. The boy’s fingers danced across the keys with a mixture of enthusiasm and concentration, his small face lit with determination.

To Aemond’s surprise, Aeron broke into song as well, his voice sweet yet tinged with the tremor of youth. “If you’re faithful to your daily practicing, you will find your progress is encouraging,” he sang, each note imbued with his budding confidence.

Beside him, Jaehaera stood, arms crossed and a hint of exasperation in her eyes as she rolled them subtly at Aeron’s exuberance. Aeron continued, his voice growing bolder yet still wavering, “Do mi sol me do, mi sol me fa la sol, it goes. When you do your scales and your arpeggios.”

Jaehaera lifted her voice to sing her part again, “Do mi so do,” but she was abruptly cut off by Aeron, who had become overly enthusiastic at the piano, his fingers now racing across the keys with fervor.

“Do mi sol do, do sol mi do,” you chimed in, your voice ethereal and melodic, casting a gentle spell over the room. Aemond found his gaze drawn to you, the light catching your features as you sang alongside the children.

Jaehaera quickly fell in with you, her voice harmonizing beautifully, “Do mi sol do, do sol mi do. Though at first it seems as though it doesn’t show, like a tree, ability will bloom and grow.”

In your arms, Daenys, who had previously been drifting off to sleep, now sat wide awake, her bright eyes filled with wonder as she attempted to mimic the words you and Jaehaera sang. Her babbling intermingled with the melody.

The three of you continued in unison, your voices intertwining, “If you’re smart, you’ll learn by heart what every artist knows. You must sing your scales.....and your arpeggios.”

Aemond leaned against the doorframe, a small smile gracing his lips as he took in the delightful scene unfolding before him. The flickering light of the candles cast a warm glow across the room, illuminating the joy radiating from his children.

Aeron beamed at you, his face aglow with pride as the final notes of the song faded into the air. “How was that, Mama?” he asked, his bright eyes shining with eager anticipation.

You turned to him, your heart swelling with affection. “Absolutely wonderful, my love,” you replied, your voice laced with warmth and encouragement. Just as you opened your mouth to add more praise, a small, excited voice broke through the moment.

“Kēpa! Kēpa!” Daenys cried out, her tiny hands clapping together in delight, her wide lilac eyes fixed on the door where Aemond stood.

All three of you turned your attention toward the threshold, and Aemond couldn’t help but feel a slight flush of warmth at the sight of his little girl’s enthusiasm. He stood there, somewhat awkwardly.

“Do you wish to join us, my king?” you teased gently, a playful amusement dancing in your tone as you gestured for him to enter.

Aemond gave you a small smile before striding into the room, the familiar weight of his crown momentarily forgotten in the presence of his family.

Daenys, her cherubic face lighting up with excitement, eagerly raised her arms toward him, and he scooped her up effortlessly from your embrace, her giggles filling the air. “I was not aware there were music lessons in the first place,” he remarked, an amused glimmer in his eye.

“Merely for the children’s entertainment, I assure you,” you replied softly, your heart warmed by the sight of your husband.

Aemond shot you a skeptical glance, an eyebrow arching slightly as he nodded. “Oh, I am sure,” he replied, a hint of teasing lacing his tone.

“Father, did you see how I played?” Aeron asked eagerly, his small hands still resting on the piano keys, a bright grin spreading across his face.

“Yes, I did,” Aemond said, his expression softening as he smiled down at his son. “Much better than any bard I’ve heard.” The pride in his voice was unmistakable, and Aeron beamed at the praise.

“And did you see how I sang, uncle?” Jaehaera chimed in, her voice a melodic chime that danced through the air like the notes of the piano.

“Yes, of course,” Aemond replied, nodding with genuine admiration. “One day, you might even come to rival the Queen’s voice.” The compliment brought a bright flush to Jaehaera's cheeks, her eyes sparkling with delight.

“She’ll be even better than me,” you murmured, a soft smile gracing your lips as you watched the exchange unfold.

As the children chattered excitedly, desperate for their King's attention, your gaze drifted to the doorway, where you spotted your maid, Emery, standing patiently, signaling that it was time for bed.

You cleared your throat gently, drawing the children's attention back to you. “Children, it’s time to go to bed,” you announced softly, your voice laced with warmth yet firm.

Aeron turned to you, his wide eyes shimmering with innocence as he clasped his hands together in a pleading gesture. “Do we have to, Mama? Father just got here,” he implored, his lower lip jutting out in a way that made your heart ache.

You sighed, feeling your resolve weaken under the weight of his pleas. However, Aemond came to your rescue, his hand affectionately ruffling Aeron’s fluffy silver hair. “And I’ll come say goodnight once you are in bed, little king,” he promised, his voice soothing and reassuring.

You tilted your head toward the door, giving a gentle nudge. “Emery is waiting for you,” you murmured, the soft authority in your tone guiding them toward the inevitable.

Disappointment flickered in both Jaehaera’s and Aeron’s eyes, yet they nodded reluctantly. Jaehaera approached your side and planted a tender kiss on your cheek, her small frame radiating warmth as she bid you goodnight.

Following her lead, Aeron hurried to do the same, his kiss lingering a moment longer before he bent down to press his lips against your swelling stomach, his sweet gesture eliciting a smile from you.

Aemond, observing the tender moment, passed baby Daenys into your arms. She giggled excitedly, her laughter a delightful sound as you smothered her with kisses, before you handed Daenys to Emery, who was prepared to lead the children out.

As the soft patter of little feet faded down the corridor, the lively laughter and chatter of the children ebbed away, leaving you and Aemond cocooned in the warm embrace of the cozy chamber.

A serene silence enveloped the two of you, a precious moment amidst the storm of duties and the remnants of grief that lingered in the air.

“Hello, husband,” you greeted softly, your voice barely above a whisper, not wanting to shatter the comfortable stillness that settled between you.

“Hello, wife,” Aemond murmured in return, his tone low and warm as he lowered himself onto the piano bench beside you.

With a gentle grace, he let his hand drift over the piano keys, pausing just short of touching them. It was a silent acknowledgment of his lack of skill, yet he seemed fascinated by the instrument nonetheless.

You watched him, the lines of his face illuminated by the soft glow of the chamber, and felt a pang of affection.

“I apologize for not informing you about the lessons,” you said, your voice steady yet filled with sincerity.

“Tis alright,” he replied, though his gaze remained fixed away from you, a flicker of concern shadowing his features. “When did it begin?”

“The day of your mother’s funeral,” you replied gently, choosing your words with care. “Your duties had taken you away, and Aeron and Jaehaera were feeling very down. I thought music might lift their spirits, and it has. Jaehaera even asked me to teach her to sing and play.”

At the mention of that day, Aemond’s expression shifted. Guilt washed over him, and memories flooded back—his mother’s service at the Sept, the heavy atmosphere of sorrow, and how he had been swept away in the currents of his responsibilities, never given a moment to truly mourn.

He nodded thoughtfully, his voice barely above a whisper. “Aeron seems particularly skilled.”

“He is a very intelligent little boy,” you agreed, your eyes not leaving his as he continued to stare at the piano, lost in thought. “He has an eagerness to learn that reminds me of you.”

Aemond chuckled softly, the sound breaking through the solemnity that hung in the air. “I fear he has far more talent than I ever did,” he said, a hint of pride seeping into his words. “But I’m glad to see them find joy in something so beautiful.”

“Music has a way of healing,” you remarked, a wistful smile playing on your lips. “Especially in times like these.”

He turned to face you fully, his piercing violet eye searching yours. “And what of you? How do you fare amidst the shadows of loss?”

You hesitated, feeling the weight of his concern. “I carry the grief, as we all do. But I find solace in our children. Their laughter reminds me of the light we can still find in our lives.”

Aemond’s gaze softened, and he reached for your hand, his fingers brushing over yours with an intimacy that sent warmth coursing through you. “You are stronger than I,” he said earnestly. “I often wonder how you manage to bear the burdens we both carry.”

With a gentle squeeze of his hand, you replied, “We bear them together, my king. That is what family is for.”

Aemond's brow furrowed slightly, and he murmured, “Aeron... he shall be a better king than I.” His voice held a weight of expectation and uncertainty, a reflection of his own doubts.

You turned your gaze toward him, a hint of sadness flickering in your eyes as you stood and swiftly settled beside him on the bench.

Reaching out, you cupped his face in your hands, grounding him with your touch. “Only because he shall learn from your mistakes. Every king should be better than the former.”

Aemond stared into your eyes, his heart swelling with gratitude. In truth, he had often wondered what he had done to deserve your steadfast presence. Memories washed over him—of the day he first met you when he was merely fourteen, a boy angry and hateful at the world.

He leaned his forehead against yours, finding solace in your warmth. “You are very wise, my queen. You never lead me astray.”

“Destiny has its designs,” you replied softly, a small smile gracing your lips. “And I am merely fulfilling mine. To guide you, to stand by your side.”

He chuckled lightly, the sound a blend of affection and admiration. “Even when I do not deserve it?”

“Especially then,” you countered, your tone playful yet sincere. “Every king needs a queen to keep him grounded, to remind him of what truly matters.”

Aemond took a deep breath, the weight of the realm and his responsibilities momentarily lifted. “And what is that, my love?”

You leaned in closer, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “It is love, loyalty, and the hope for a better tomorrow. The kind of future we want for our children.”

Aemond leaned back, a rare lightness settling in his chest for the first time in what felt like an age. He placed his hand over your round belly, feeling the warmth radiate from within. You tilted your head, an amused smile blossoming on your lips as you caught his gaze.

“Aeron has taken to kissing my stomach,” you said, your tone playful. “He believes that if he shows enough affection, it might persuade my body to grant him a brother. He claims it would make his chances of having a fair fight against the girls much better.”

Aemond chuckled, shaking his head in bemusement. Then, nodding toward the piano, he added, “Teach me. I may never reach the heights of Aeron’s talent, but perhaps I could aspire to match little Daenys’ skill.”

Your laughter chimed like music in the air, a sound that warmed his spirit. Aemond grinned at the absurdity of comparing his potential to that of his infant daughter. “Very well,” you said, your eyes sparkling with delight. “First, let us see what you can do.”

You guided him closer to the piano, instructing him to place his large, slender hands over yours on the keys. “Feel the movement,” you encouraged, your voice soft and patient. “It’s not merely about the notes; it’s about the rhythm and the heart behind them.”

Unbeknownst to you and Aemond, enveloped in your own intimate world, three pairs of curious eyes peered in from the slightly ajar door of the chamber. Jaehaera, Aeron, and little Daenys had quietly slipped away from their caretakers.

Jaehaera, though only six years of age, sighed wistfully as she watched her uncle and aunt. “How romantic,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, yet filled with a sense of longing.

She cradled baby Daenys in her arms, the infant unusually calm, her wide eyes reflecting the gentle glow of the room as she took in the scene of her mother and father together.

Aeron, standing beside Jaehaera, observed his parents intently, a thoughtful frown furrowing his brow. “Do you think our marriage will be like that?” he asked, glancing over at Jaehaera to gauge her reaction.

Jaehaera turned to him, her gaze sharp and serious, her little brows furrowing in determination. “It has to, Aeron. It has to.”

“Do you think we’ll be that happy?” he pressed, his youthful innocence shining through, even as the shadows of doubt crept into his mind.

She nodded vigorously, her long silver hair bouncing with the motion. “Of course! The king and queen love each other. If we love each other like they do, it will be just as wonderful.”

Aeron pondered her words, his gaze drifting back to the sight of you and Aemond, lost in your shared moment. “And what if…” he hesitated, searching for the right words. “What if things become difficult, like they do in the stories?”

Jaehaera frowned slightly, her youthful optimism momentarily faltering. “Then we fight for each other, just like they do,” she declared with conviction.

Aeron nodded, a small smile creeping onto his face. “I like that idea,” he said softly, his gaze drifting back to the happy scene of his mother and his father.

“We’ll make it the best story ever.”

[Jaehaera, Aeron, Daenys]

headcannonsss:

— aemond and reader end up having six children in total: aeron (18), daenys (15), mikael (13), jaemes (10), elaena (7) and aelora (4) + jaehaera (19)

— aeron and jaehaera marry

— daenys falls in love with aegon (rhaenyra's son)

— mikael comes out as gay

— jaemes and elaena marry

— aelora refuses to marry and part with her mother (sophie/donna relationship)

HOPE YOU ENJOYED!

#aemond targaryen x reader #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #hotd fanfic #hotd #hotd aemond #aemond one eye #aemond x you #aemond targaryen imagine #prince aemond

635 notes · View notes

bie-tch · 28 days ago

Text

Kai's vision in the phantasm cave was simple. Very simple. All there was was a mirror, about the same height as him, with a black stand and body. It swayed a little in the wind, the wood creaking, maybe due to age or decay. At first, he was confused. Maybe he looked around and couldn't see anything. Maybe he just shrugged and cracked a joke about missing his reflection. Besides, what's so bad about a mirror?

Then the air changed.

Maybe it grew thicker or carried something more foreboding. Deadly. Maybe the ground felt slightly rougher, jagged rock digging into his soles more evidently, harder to ignore. Maybe his skin felt itchy, like something was crawling under it.

Maybe everything suddenly became familiar.

Then he looked back at the mirror.

And it was him.

No, not him. Him. Not the Kai, who was reliable and strong, the Kai who was everything a ninja and hero should be. It was the ugly, dirty part of him. The one who gave up their morals in order to survive. The one who he'd long thrown away and pretended never existed.

The real him.

Back in his leather robes and monster fur coat, the smell of dirt thick on his form, the katana he forged with his blood sweat and tears attached to his side. Like it always was. His face was covered, his hat planted firmly on him. It was like he never left. Or it never left him. Something wet coated his arms as his reflection stared back at him, unblinking.

And maybe Kai thought, painfully, that it was over.

Then, as suddenly as it started, everything was back again.

The whiplash was strong, but years of resilience made him good at hiding those things. He quietly looked around, maybe pinched his arm, making sure he was back. For real this time.

He could hear Nya behind him, telling Lloyd that she broke out because she knew it wasn't real. And she's right. She knew Jay could never forget her, and because of that she knew her vision wasn't real, just a fake scenario made to test her.

But Kai's vision was.

It was real.

His fear wasn't becoming a monster,

It was returning to being one.

#uurgghhhh im cooking #literary genius #yayaayayyay #i love that fucking lego #ninjago #kai smith #ninjago monstrosity #ninjago kai #writebiebie!#ninjago legends

244 notes · View notes

wistericaine · 23 days ago

Text

face masks | mattheo riddle

mattheo riddle x reader | fluff | wc: 582

summary: mattheo watches you do your skincare routine

Mattheo hadn’t known much about the art and skill of skin care before he met you.

For all of his life, skin had been resilience personified. Hard calloused fingers and scarred faces were proof of life, that he was surviving through his father’s horrors and making it out alive. He’d never thought much about cleaning it farther than a rinse in the shower, maybe a bit of soap on his face if he had time.

But never to this extent.

“We’re gonna start with a makeup remover first.” you said calmly, picking up a bottle and dropping some of the liquid into a towel before rubbing it on your eyes. “I prefer water-based ones, especially before bed.”

“What’s the alternative to a water base?” Mattheo asked you confusedly. He had propped himself up a chair to sit right beside the bathroom door, eager to learn everything about you. Even if everything included a precarious skin-care routine.

“Oil-based.” you said calmly, wiping off the last of your makeup. He’d always adored the way you looked, regardless of whether you wore makeup or not. Though there was something in the vulnerability you held in a bare face—something only a few select people might’ve seen before—that made his chest huff in a sort of triumphant manner. “Next step is cleanser. Oh, I really like this brand.”

Mattheo listened intently as you spewed off products left and right. They weren’t needed for perfect skin—since everyone’s skin was different, a fact you reiterated many times during this educational session—but this was a routine that helped your skin and your mental health.

And that was something he didn’t mind at all.

“Okay, step eight.” you said. “A mask!”

“You look excited about this one.” Mattheo mused out loud.

You held up the container for whatever kind of mask you were talking about with one hand, a small spreader stick wielded in your other. “That’s because I can make you do this with me.”

“What?” Mattheo asked confusedly.

“We can do the face masks together, silly.” you giggled. “I’ll do it first, show you what I’ll do.”

Mattheo found himself watching as you spread the creamy white mask across your face, unable to deny himself the allure that the mask had. Maybe it was because he was more curious than a vulture sniffing dead meat, or maybe it was just the charm that you seemed to have on him.

His hands moved before his brain did as he poked the mask liquid in the container, bringing it up to his nose to sniff it.

“You’re like a cat.” you giggled at him, though you quickly sat him back and began applying it to his face.

It had a cool sort of texture, and he could see the pastel green coloring out of the corner of his eyes, but it felt rather nice overall. Cold but in a nourishing way, the touch of your thighs against his knees warming every other part of his body well. He smiled softly when you booped his nose before covering it in green.

“How long do you wear it?” he mumbled, not wanting to move his mouth much.

“30 minutes or so.” you smiled, sacrificing his uncovered lips to your boops this time. “Then your skin will feel like a newly born baby.”

“Aren’t they covered in blood and placenta?” he asked you confusedly.

You paused at his words for a moment before sighing. “A newly washed baby, then.”

Mattheo chuckled softly at that.

thank you so much for reading! i have single-handedly decided that mattheo would have scars and stuff all over his face, and i have also single-handedly decided that reader forces him to do face masks from now on <3

#fanfic #harry potter #fanfiction #drabble #x reader #mattheo riddle #mattheo x you #mattheoxreader #mattheo x y/n #mattheo fluff #slytherin #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle x you #fluff

166 notes · View notes

sweetheartsofpanem · 2 months ago

Text

Without Needing to Say It - Soft Things Survive

Previous Part

sorry it took me so long to post another part y’all😔

warnings: refer to series masterlist

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

word count: 4.17k

series masterlist | main masterlist

Peeta found the game in one of the old supply boxes they never got around to unpacking after the war. It smells faintly of dust and singed cardboard, has no rulebook, and instructions written in handwriting none of you recognize.

Naturally, it’s everyone’s favorite.

Katniss is already suspicious of it.

Peeta is treating it like a sacred relic.

You are half-asleep against Haymitch’s shoulder.

“Remind me,” he says dryly, drawing a crooked card from the center pile, “what’s the point of this game again?”

“To sow chaos,” Peeta answers, already mid-grin. “And allegedly build ‘emotional resilience.’”

Katniss makes a noise like she’s been personally offended by the concept. “It gave me a card that said I had to compliment the person I trust least.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And you chose Peeta?”

“I trust him too much,” she mutters, eyes narrowing. “It felt like a trap.”

Peeta pouts. “I did nothing!”

You blink at them. “Okay, but where are the rules?”

Haymitch shrugs. “Guess we’re making ‘em up.”

You’re tucked close into his side on Katniss and Peeta’s couch, legs curled under you, one of his arms stretched lazily behind you. Every now and then, his thumb brushes against your shoulder absentmindedly, like he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it.

You don’t call attention to it.

You just lean into him a little more.

And Peeta—because he’s Peeta—glances up from his absurdly idiotic bickering with Katniss and catches the way Haymitch looks at you.

Then he smiles to himself and says nothing.

Not yet.

Katniss draws a card, reads it, and immediately tosses it onto the table like it offended her personally.

“What?” Peeta leans over, trying to peek. “What does it say?”

Katniss scowls. “Says I have to sit with the person I’m emotionally closest to.”

You and Haymitch say “Peeta” at the same time.

“I want a different card,” she mutters.

“You don’t get a different card,” Peeta says, delighted. “The board demands emotional growth.”

Haymitch snorts. “We’re gonna be here all night.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you murmur, nudging him with your elbow.

His fingers twitch where they rest against your shoulder. “You’re the one who insisted we come over.”

“And you came willingly.”

He hums. “For the cookies.”

Peeta beams. “Finally, someone appreciates my contributions.”

“You’re a menace,” Katniss mutters, begrudgingly sliding out of her seat and flopping into the cushion next to him.

“An emotionally available menace,” he corrects.

You roll your eyes. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

Peeta grins at you. “Relax, Pinecone.”

Haymitch pauses mid-sip of his drink. “Pinecone?”

You freeze.

Peeta’s smile widens.

“No,” you say, already bracing yourself. “Peeta—”

“Wait,” Haymitch says, turning to you. “That’s new. Why’s he calling you Pinecone?”

“I—” You stammer. “It’s nothing. Inside joke. Not important. Totally irrelevant to everything.”

Peeta is glowing.

Katniss glances between you and Peeta like she’s trying to calculate how fast this is about to go downhill.

Haymitch raises an eyebrow. “Honey.”

You scowl. “Do not call me honey while interrogating me about my secret shame.”

That’s when Peeta—traitor, snitch, former friend—claps his hands together and says, “She had a crisis. A whole dramatic spiral. Came over and said, and I quote, ‘I’ll fake my own death. I’ll move into the woods. Change my name to Pinecone.’”

Haymitch turns to you slowly.

You are beet red.

“I was overwhelmed,” you hiss.

“Overwhelmed by what?” he asks, eyes narrowing with far too much amusement.

You want the couch to eat you. “Feelings.”

Peeta is cackling.

Katniss is smirking.

Haymitch looks delighted. “You were going to run into the woods because you have feelings for me?”

“I—maybe. Shut up.”

“I kind of like it,” he says, biting back a grin. “Pinecone’s got a nice ring to it.”

“You’re never allowed to use that name.”

He leans closer, voice low. “You sure about that, Pinecone?”

You groan into your hands while Peeta looks like he might explode from joy.

Katniss takes a slow sip of tea. “This is the best game night we’ve ever had.”

“Okay, okay,” Peeta says, trying to recover from laughing. “It’s my turn.”

“You should be disqualified for emotional treason,” you mutter, still red.

Katniss snatches it from his hand and reads it aloud, “Name three things you’d bring into the woods if you had to survive alone for a week.”

She grins. “Oh, this one’s perfect.”

Peeta groans. “Oh no.”

You cross your arms. “Alright. Let’s hear it.”

Peeta sighs, counting off on his fingers. “Fine. A knife, a firestarter, and Haymitch.”

Haymitch raises an eyebrow, mildly amused. “What the hell would I be good for?”

“Morale,” Peeta says solemnly. “And sarcasm. Also, probably immune to bear attacks through sheer force of bitterness.”

Katniss snorts.

You nod, pretending to be thoughtful. “Solid choice. He’d glare at the wildlife until they felt too emotionally vulnerable to attack.”

“Damn right,” Haymitch mutters, leaning back smugly.

“My turn,” you say, drawing a card—and immediately blanch. “No.”

Katniss perks up. “What’s it say?”

“Nothing. It’s—no. I’m redrawing.”

“You absolutely are not,” Peeta says, lunging forward to snatch the card out of your hand. He reads it aloud with glee. “Do an impression of someone at the table.”

You groan. “Unfair.”

Haymitch grins. “You gonna do me, honey?”

Peeta chokes on his tea.

You cover your face again. “Why do I even speak.”

Katniss, calm as ever, says, “You walked into that one.”

Haymitch leans in, far too amused. “I’d like to see your impression. Go on. Give it a shot.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Fine.”

You sit up straighter, put on your best scowl, and in your most gravelly voice, say, “Life’s a joke, kid, and I’m the punchline.”

Peeta nearly falls out of his chair.

Haymitch tries not to smile. He fails. “That’s not what I sound like.”

“It’s exactly what you sound like,” Katniss says flatly.

Haymitch shakes his head, still grinning. “Bunch of traitors.”

“You love us,” Peeta says, leaning back dramatically. “Admit it.”

Haymitch makes a vague hand gesture. “You’re tolerable.”

You glance up at him through your lashes. “Even me?”

He glances down at you—arm still draped behind you, fingers grazing your shoulder—and says, a little softer this time, “Especially you.”

That shuts you up.

It shuts everyone up.

Until Peeta—unbearable, shameless, Peeta—lets out a dreamy sigh. “And the award for Most Emotionally Charged Board Game Moment goes to…”

Katniss tosses a pillow at his face.

Peeta recovers from getting pelted in the face but only after pretending like he was just severely wounded during war. “Okay. Since we’re already off the rails—bonus round. Everyone goes around and says who they’d want with them in a zombie apocalypse.”

You blink. “Is that a real part of the game?”

“No,” Katniss says.

“Yes,” Peeta says at the same time.

Haymitch mutters, “I want the zombies.”

“Rude,” you say, nudging his leg with your foot. “You’d want me on your team, right?”

He gives you a slow once-over. “Can you outrun a zombie?”

You gasp. “Wow.”

“Answer the question, Pinecone.”

Peeta chokes on his own breath and has to curl over like he’s in physical pain from joy.

You glare at Haymitch. “Yes, I can outrun a zombie. Especially if they’re slow.”

Katniss hums. “Too bad. Our zombies would be runners.”

“Great,” you mutter. “Guess I’m doomed.”

Haymitch leans back and says, entirely too smug, “I’d still pick you.”

You freeze.

Peeta says, “Ugh,” like it physically wounded him.

Katniss narrows her eyes. “Wait, so you’d let the rest of us die?”

Haymitch shrugs. “I figure she’d be the only one who didn’t make fun of me if I screamed.”

“Oh, I’d mock you,” you say quickly.

“Relentlessly,” Peeta adds.

“But I’d do it while helping you fight off a horde,” you say, with mock sincerity.

Katniss reaches for the snack bowl. “You two are exhausting.”

“You’re just jealous,” Peeta says. “They’ve got coordinated apocalypse plans. What do we have?”

“A shared trauma bond and good aim,” Katniss says, deadpan.

Peeta grins. “We’re gonna be fine.”

You toss a handful of popcorn at them.

Haymitch sighs, mutters something about the sanctity of game night, and promptly eats a piece off his own shirt where it landed.

You stare at him. “Did you just—?”

“Waste not, want not.”

“You are feral.”

“You knew what you were getting into.”

Peeta points at you. “She absolutely did not.”

Katniss leans over and steals the card deck. “Alright. A few more rounds, then we stop before someone proposes.”

Everyone goes quiet.

Peeta looks at you.

You look at Haymitch.

Haymitch calmly takes a sip of his drink.

“…Right,” Katniss says, eyes narrowing. “Not touching that.”

Peeta leans forward, still grinning way too hard. “Okay, speed round. No hesitations. You get one question and everyone has to answer.”

“Is that even legal?” you ask.

“Illegal in five districts and a monastery,” Haymitch mutters.

Peeta ignores both of you. “First question—what’s your biggest irrational fear?”

“Bees,” Katniss answers without hesitation.

You blink. “Wait, really?”

“They don’t have a moral code.”

“That’s not even—”

“They’re chaos incarnate.”

You nod slowly. “Okay.”

Haymitch raises an eyebrow. “I’m terrified of silence being used as a strategic weapon.”

Peeta points. “That sounds targeted.”

You consider your answer. “…Accidentally sending someone the wrong letter and ruining their life.”

Everyone stares at you.

“That’s not irrational,” Peeta says. “That’s just deeply specific.”

You shrug. “I think about it a lot.”

Peeta grabs the next card. “What’s your go-to comfort meal?”

“Stew,” Katniss says.

“Cinnamon bread,” Peeta says with zero hesitation.

You smile softly. “Pasta with butter and garlic. The cheap kind. From childhood.”

Haymitch is quiet a second too long.

“…Cold toast with honey.”

You glance at him. “Why cold?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “That’s how it was when my ma made it. Used to think it was the worst thing. Then it was gone, and—” He stops. Shrugs again. “Guess it stuck.”

Your chest tugs, soft and aching.

Katniss doesn’t say anything.

Peeta looks like he wants to.

You reach up and brush your fingers against Haymitch’s arm where it rests along the back of the couch. Just once. A soft, barely-there touch.

He doesn’t look at you.

But after a second, his hand shifts slightly—fingertips grazing the top of your shoulder—and stays there.

The next few rounds pass in a blur of laughter and insults, Katniss bluffing like her life depends on it, Peeta stealing snacks from everyone’s bowl, you and Haymitch sniping at each other like a married couple.

Eventually, the cards dwindle.

The laughter softens.

The night sinks deeper.

Peeta glances at the clock and groans. “How is it already this late?”

Katniss is sprawled on the floor with a throw pillow under her head, perfectly content and not moving.

You stretch your legs out with a quiet hum. “Okay. I guess we should probably head out before one of us falls asleep right here.”

You slip your shoes on by the door, still warm from the laughter that lingers in the corners of the room. Haymitch reaches for your coat without a word, holding it out for you with a quiet sort of ease that makes your chest ache a little.

“Thanks,” you murmur as you slide your arms through the sleeves.

Peeta offers a lazy wave from the armchair. “Try not to fall in love on the walk home.”

You flip him off without turning around.

You hear Katniss snort behind you.

Haymitch just shakes his head and opens the door.

The air outside is cool, the kind that hints at autumn even though summer hasn’t quite loosened its grip. You step into it together, the door clicking softly behind you.

The walk is short but neither of you rush it.

Your hands brush once.

Then again.

And then he reaches over and threads his fingers through yours like it’s nothing.

No words. No pressure.

Just the familiar shape of him beside you. The stars overhead. The quiet rhythm of footsteps across soft grass and stone.

By the time you reach the porch, you almost forget where the walk ended and the comfort began.

He opens the door. Waits for you to step inside.

And when you do, you feel it settle again—that quiet, steady warmth you’ve come to crave more than anything.

Home.

Your cardigan’s draped over the back of his chair.

You haven’t moved in. Not technically. You still have your house. You still sleep there sometimes, especially if Katniss or Peeta stays over after dinner and Haymitch’s house is too quiet.

But most nights, you’re here.

You fall asleep tucked beneath his arm, forehead resting somewhere between his jaw and his shoulder. And when the dreams come—because they always do—you don’t let each other go.

When your past haunts you, he holds you without asking questions, rubbing slow circles into your back until your breathing evens out.

When his own past claws its way into his dreams, you wake to the sound of his breath catching in his throat and shift closer, hand at his chest, whispering soft reassurances into the dark until his grip on you loosens and his body remembers it’s safe.

You still haven’t said I love you.

But it’s in the way he pulls you back in even when he’s shaking. It’s in the way you don’t hesitate to climb into his lap and hold his face in your hands until he comes back to you.

It’s in the quiet. In the way you both stay.

In the way neither of you run anymore.

You toe off your shoes just inside the door, breathing in the familiar scent of his house—faint woodsmoke, something herbal, and whatever soap he uses that somehow always smells like comfort.

Haymitch hangs your coat on the hook next to his, then moves into the kitchen to pour a glass of water. He doesn’t ask if you want one—just brings two and sets one in your hand without comment.

You smile against the rim as you sip. “Thanks.”

He grunts, already halfway across the room flicking off lights as he goes. You follow behind, finishing your water, trailing him like you always do when it’s late and your body’s starting to forget how to hold tension.

When he reaches the stairs, he glances back once, waiting for you to catch up. You do without a word, bumping your shoulder against his just enough to make his lips twitch.

The bedroom is dim when you step inside, lit only by the low lamp near the bed. The sheets are still rumpled from earlier, and your heart does something dumb and fluttery at the sight of it—like the room knows you belong here now.

Haymitch disappears into the bathroom for a moment. You change into one of the soft shirts he keeps in your drawer—gray and worn thin with age, stretched a little from too many washings. You sit on the edge of the bed, curling your legs beneath you, and wait.

When he comes back, he’s shirtless again, and your brain short circuits for a second in the dim light.

You try not to stare.

You fail.

He raises an eyebrow, but says nothing.

You lie down before you have to answer for whatever expression just flashed across your face.

He slides into bed beside you a second later, warm and familiar, the quiet creak of the mattress almost a comfort in itself.

You shift onto your side.

And without a word, he slides an arm around your waist and pulls you close.

It’s not rushed.

It’s not even fully deliberate.

It’s just what you do now—fit together in the dark like something tried and trusted.

Your hand finds his on instinct. Fingers curling. Holding.

Neither of you says anything for a while.

And maybe you don’t need to.

Because in this house, in this bed, in this moment—you are home.

You stay like that for a long moment, his chest pressed warm against your back, your fingers laced together.

You feel his breath against the nape of your neck. Slow. Steady. Present.

Eventually, you whisper into the quiet, “You ever think we’d end up like this?”

He lets out a small breath that might be a laugh.

“Not exactly like this,” he murmurs. “Didn’t think anyone’d put up with me long enough.”

You hum. “Good thing I’m unusually patient.”

“Mm. Is that what we’re calling it now?”

You smile into the pillow. “Shut up.”

But his arm squeezes you just slightly. Like he heard what you really meant. Like he feels it too.

You shift, just enough to roll onto your back. He lets you move, doesn’t pull away, just adjusts to stay close. You turn your head toward him, and he’s already looking at you.

There’s nothing teasing in his face now. Just warmth. And something that looks dangerously close to awe.

You reach up, brushing your fingers against the soft edge of his hair. He leans into it without hesitation.

“I like you like this,” you whisper. “Quiet. Not pretending.”

His eyes search yours. “I like you like this too.”

You smile. “A mess?”

“Real,” he says simply. “Still showing up anyway.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you lean in and press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

He stills.

Then turns his head slightly—just enough.

Your lips meet again, slower this time. A little deeper. A little more certain.

It’s not rushed. It’s not hungry. It’s something quieter.

Like a promise.

His hand comes up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing lightly against your cheekbone as he kisses you again. And again.

And again.

Each one softer than the last.

When you finally pull back, you’re close enough to feel his breath against your skin. His eyes are half-lidded, softer than you’ve ever seen them.

You whisper, “I’m really glad I didn’t change my name to Pinecone.”

That earns a real laugh—low and quiet and rough around the edges.

“You still could,” he says. “I’d find you.”

You grin. “Would you follow me into the woods?”

“Every damn day if I had to.”

And somehow, that’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to you.

You shift again, tucking yourself against his chest, one arm across his middle, your face pressed against the curve of his shoulder.

His arm settles around you like it belongs there.

You feel his lips brush the top of your head.

And everything—everything—is quiet.

You don’t fall asleep.

Not yet.

You’re too warm. Too full. Too aware of the way his fingers are tracing gentle, absent-minded shapes along your back—barely there, like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it.

You shift slightly, just enough to look up at him again. “You’re not tired?”

He shakes his head a little. “Too much noise in my brain.”

You nod. “Same.”

He studies you for a second, then says softly, “You wanna talk about anything?”

You shrug against him. “Not really. Just like hearing your voice.”

That gets a huff of a laugh out of him. “You’re a menace.”

You grin. “You love it.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

But his hand stills for a second on your back, then resumes, slower now. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I think I do.”

You look up again, but he’s staring at the ceiling like he didn’t just say that.

And your chest aches.

Not in a painful way.

In the way that says I could live in this.

You shift again, propping yourself up on one elbow beside him. His arm drops to rest around your waist like he can’t quite stop touching you even when you move.

“Hey,” you murmur.

He glances at you, and there’s something in his expression—tired, open, maybe a little overwhelmed—that makes your heart stutter.

You brush a knuckle gently along his jaw. “You’re allowed to say it, you know.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Say what?”

“That this is good,” you say. “That it’s okay to be happy.”

He exhales slowly. “It scares the hell out of me.”

“I know,” you say softly. “Me too.”

His eyes flick to yours.

“You’ve been through more than anyone should’ve had to,” you continue. “And maybe it still hurts. Maybe it always will. But you’re here. You’re still here. And that matters.”

For a second, you think maybe you’ve said too much.

But then he nods. Almost imperceptibly. “It does.”

You lie back down again, curling against his side, your head resting on his chest. You listen to the slow rhythm of his heart, one of your hands rubbing the scar on his collarbone.

“I like being here,” you whisper. “With you.”

He tilts his head just enough to brush his lips against your hair. “Good.”

You shift closer. “Maybe tomorrow we can sleep in. Make a lazy breakfast. Do nothing.”

He hums. “Sounds dangerous.”

You smile. “That’s a yes, then?”

“Might even let you make pancakes again.”

You feign shock. “You’d trust me with the stove again?”

He smirks. “Only if you promise not to burn down my house.”

“No promises.”

Another laugh, low and warm.

You breathe in deep, letting the moment settle, letting it stretch long and soft between you.

“You know,” you murmur, “for someone who once told me he wasn’t someone to count on… you’ve been showing up a hell of a lot.”

He’s quiet for a long time.

Then, so softly you almost miss it, “I didn’t think I had it in me.”

You tilt your face up toward his. “You always did. You just didn’t know where to put it.”

He meets your gaze, something raw in his expression, and doesn’t look away.

You reach up and trace your thumb lightly over his cheek. “You can put it here.”

He closes his eyes like the weight of that almost knocks the breath out of him.

But when he opens them again, he nods.

He kisses your forehead, slow and steady, like he’s planting something there.

Something that might grow.

You don’t say anything else after that.

You just stay close, wrapped in each other, the night stretching quiet and soft around you.

You can feel the way his breathing shifts every time you do, like he’s quietly adjusting to your rhythm, or maybe like he’s trying not to get used to it.

You lift your head slightly, just enough to glance up at him again. “Still not tired?”

He shrugs a little beneath you. “Not in a hurry to waste this.”

You smile, soft and lopsided. “This?”

He glances down at you, and for once, he doesn’t look away. “You. Here. Me not screwing it up.”

Your chest aches in that familiar, quiet way it always does when he says something like that.

So you kiss him.

Just a light press of your lips to his—soft, certain. A reassurance.

His hand finds your waist, warm and steady. He kisses you again, a little longer this time, a little more sure.

Then a third—gentler. Slower. Like he’s learning your shape by feel.

You pull back just far enough to murmur, “You’re not screwing it up.”

His thumb brushes your hip. “Give it time.”

You roll your eyes, then kiss the corner of his mouth. “You’re allowed to believe you’re good at this, you know.”

He snorts softly. “That’s a big ask.”

“Start small,” you whisper. “Like… maybe letting yourself be kissed.”

He hums, low in his throat. “Think I can manage that.”

So you do it again.

Another kiss, longer this time. You tilt your head and shift closer.

His other hand slides up to cup the back of your neck, and for a few breaths, it’s just that—your mouths pressed together, slow and unhurried, like time doesn’t matter as long as this keeps happening.

When you finally part, you don’t move far. You stay close, noses almost touching, your eyes barely open.

His voice is low. “You’re gonna kill me, honey.”

You smile. “I’m trying to keep you alive, actually.”

He huffs a breath, and it brushes your cheek. “Funny way of doing it.”

You press a kiss to the tip of his nose. “Still here, aren’t you?”

And his expression shifts—just slightly—but it’s enough to make your breath catch. Because for all the teasing, for all the sarcasm, there’s something devastatingly sincere in the way he looks at you right now.

Like he’s realizing something he doesn’t know how to say.

You don’t push it.

You just rest your forehead against his again, your fingers tucked against the side of his chest, your lips still tingling from every kiss.

Neither of you speaks.

But it’s all there anyway.

And when you kiss him one more time—just because you can—he lets out the quietest sigh, like maybe he’s finally letting himself believe he deserves this.

You stay like that.

For a long, long time.

Until your body finally relaxes into sleep.

Safe.

Held.

Loved.

Even if neither of you has said it yet.

Next Part

156 notes · View notes

lefteagleblizzard · 10 months ago

Text

ℭ𝔯𝔲𝔰𝔥 𝔞𝔠𝔯𝔬𝔰𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔢𝔢𝔱

Mike Schmidt x male reader

Summary: Life as a college student was hectic. You had always noticed Mike Schmidt, the quiet, brooding neighbor who lived just a few houses down. Though he was about five years older than you, that gap only fueled the intrigue and admiration you felt toward him. You admired the way he balanced his responsibilities, especially his care for his younger sister, Abby. Over the years, this admiration blossomed into a deep-seated crush that you couldn't quite shake off. Today, you finally got the chance to talk to him again after so much time due to you going to college.

Warnings: Age-gap (5 years) between you and Mike. Male reader. He/him pronouns used towards the reader. Fluff. Strangers/Friends to lovers. Smut at the end. Top Mike. Bottom reader. Reader being called “good boy”. Handjob (M receiving). Anal sex.

Words count: 5000

ℳ𝒶𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

Can also be found on wattpad and ao3

This is different from the usual gender-neutral stuff I write, and I’m sorry to those who are used to them. I’m just so sad about never being able to find a male reader story, something that I can relate to. Your support and understanding mean a lot to me!

You had always noticed Mike Schmidt, the quiet, brooding neighbor who lived just a few houses down. Though he was about five years older than you, that gap only fueled the intrigue and admiration you felt toward him.

Over the years, you often saw him in the mornings when he returned from work, his expression weary but softened when he exchanged a word or two with your father.

Those fleeting moments were enough to plant a growing crush in your heart, a mix of admiration and something deeper you couldn't quite name.

One crisp morning, as you grabbed your backpack, ready to head out to college, you ran into him.

Literally.

You were in such a rush that you barely noticed him until you bumped into his solid frame on the sidewalk.

"Whoa, sorry about that," he chuckled, a warm sound that made your heart race. His hazel eyes, always a bit shadowed with fatigue, brightening just a little at the sight of you.

His hair was slightly tousled, and there was a shadow of stubble on his chin, which somehow made him even more attractive.

The sight of him made your heart skip a beat, a reaction you were becoming increasingly familiar with but were still not quite used to.

You felt your cheeks heat up, embarrassed by your clumsiness but secretly thrilled to be talking to him. "You're in a hurry, aren't you?"

His voice was deep and warm, like a comforting blanket after a long day.

You laughed nervously, trying to play it cool. "Yeah, running late as usual. What about you? Just getting back from work?"

"Yeah," he replied, scratching the back of his neck in a way you found endearing. His movements were tired yet graceful, revealing the strain of long nights but also a quiet resilience you admired. "Long night, But hey, it's good to finally bump into you —literally."

"You're looking... good." You regretted your choice of words almost immediately, feeling your face flush with embarrassment.

Mike chuckled softly, the sound warm and comforting, as if he was genuinely pleased by your compliment. "Thanks. You look great too. College must be treating you well."

"Thanks," you murmured, trying to hide your blush and not wanting to make a fool of yourself in front of him.

"The usual chaos. It's busy, but I'm hanging in there. I guess I'm learning a lot, though some days it feels more like I'm just trying to survive."

He chuckled, nodding knowingly. "Sounds about right. I remember those days, even if they were a bit short-lived for me. Dropping out to take care of Abby was the right choice, but sometimes I wonder what it would've been like to finish."

The way he spoke, his voice tinged with a mix of nostalgia and acceptance, made your heart ache. You admired him for the sacrifices he made. "You did what you had to do. Abby's lucky to have you looking out for her."

You stood there, both hesitant yet unwilling to end the conversation. It had been a while since you'd last talked. Life, college, and his busy schedule made these interactions rare. But when they happened, they were the highlight of your week. There was a warmth to his presence, a comforting steadiness that contrasted with the chaos of your daily life.

"So, how's Abby doing?" you asked, shifting the weight of your backpack on your shoulder. You knew how much she meant to him and how hard he fought to keep her happy and safe.

"She's great," Mike said, a genuine smile breaking through his usual guarded demeanor. His eyes softened, a hint of pride and affection in them. "Growing up way too fast, though. She actually asked about you the other day.

The idea that Abby remembered you, even though you'd only met a few times, warmed your heart. You tried to picture her as you remembered-a bright, inquisitive little girl who could light up a room with her laughter. "That's sweet. I should stop by more often."

"Yeah, you should," he replied, a glint in his beautiful hazel eyes that made your heart skip a beat. There was something earnest in his tone, something that suggested he wouldn't mind having you around more often. "She misses having someone around who doesn't mind her endless questions."

"I don't mind at all," you said quickly, realizing how eager you sounded. "In fact, I like talking to her. She's a really smart kid."

"She is," Mike agreed, his expression softening further.

"And you?" The question slipped out before you could stop it. "How are things going with... you know, the custody stuff?"

A shadow crossed his face, and you regretted bringing it up. You watched as his shoulders tensed slightly, and the easy smile slipped a notch.

"It's... it's been tough. My aunt's not making it any easier," he admitted, his voice tinged with frustration. There was a pause, a moment of shared understanding of the challenges he faced. You admired his strength, how he continued to push forward despite everything.

Your temper flared at the thought of the obstacles thrown his way. "That woman is just—" You caught yourself, but not before an unsavory word slipped out.

You covered your mouth, horrified, but Mike just laughed, a sound that was more soothing than you'd anticipated.

"You're not wrong," he said, his laughter fading into a soft smile. "But it's nice to know someone's on my side. You're cute when you're mad, you know that?"

The compliment caught you off guard, heat rushing to your cheeks. You tried to brush it off with a smile, but inside, you were glowing. He noticed, of course, but chose to let it slide.

"Well, I just... I hope things work out for you, Mike. You deserve that."

His gaze lingered on you, something unreadable in his eyes. You wondered what he saw when he looked at you and if he could sense the emotions you tried so hard to keep under wraps.

"Thanks. It means a lot coming from you" Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he added, "I need to find a new babysitter for Abby. The last one quit because, well, I can't really afford much right now."

Without thinking, you blurted out, "I could do it!" you offered eagerly, almost too quickly, the words spilling out before you had a chance to reconsider.

The offer hung in the air between you, and for a moment, you worried you'd overstepped.

But you couldn't help it. The thought of spending more time with him, getting to know him and Abby better, was too enticing to pass up.

Mike studied you, his expression softening. His eyes held a mix of surprise and gratitude, and you noticed how his lips curved up slightly at the edges, almost as if he was trying not to show too much emotion. "You'd really do that?"

"Of course," you replied, trying to sound casual despite the hammering of your heart. "I mean, I have some free time, and honestly, my college roommate is loud and annoying. Plus, I'd love to help."

He smiled, and it reached his eyes this time. There was a warmth there that seemed to envelop you, drawing you in. "That'd be great. I can't promise much in terms of payment, though."

"Don't worry about it," you said, waving a hand dismissively. "I'd be happy to help. It's not about the money. I'd love to help out, really. I've missed seeing you guys around."

Your heart pounded in your chest, both from the rush of making the offer and from the hope that he would accept.

The way he looked at you then, with a mixture of gratitude and something else— something hopeful—made you believe this was the start of something more.

You felt your heart flutter, a thrilling sensation that made you wonder if maybe he felt something too. "You're really something," he said softly, almost to himself.

You shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant even as your heart soared. "Just trying to do what I can."

"Well, thanks. Really," he said, his voice earnest. "It's nice to see you again after so long.

You nodded, feeling warmth spread through you at his words. "Yeah, it's good to see you to, Mike."

As you both parted ways, you couldn't help but glance back over your shoulder Mike was doing the same, and when your eyes met, he waved. You waved back, feeling a flutter of excitement.

This new arrangement was more than just a job; it was a chance to see him, to learn more about the man who had quietly captured your heart. And maybe, just maybe, it was the beginning of something that could change both your lives for the better.

As you walked away, your mind replayed the conversation. You noticed how Mike seemed to pay close attention to your words, how he listened intently as if every word mattered. It was a rare quality, one that made you feel truly seen and heard. You couldn't help but wonder if there was more beneath the surface of his smiles and laughter, if perhaps he harbored feelings that mirrored your own

Mike's presence lingered with you throughout the day, the memory of his rare smile and warm gaze etched into your thoughts. You found yourself imagining the moments you would share while babysitting Abby, the possibility of spending more time with Mike, getting to know him on a deeper level.

As you reached campus with a heart full of excitement and a mind brimming with thoughts of Mike, you headed into the day, eager for what the future might hold.

The first day of babysitting Abby was a mix of nerves and excitement. As you approached Mike's modest home, a cozy littie house with a well-kept garden, you couldn't help but feel a rush of anticipation and a bit of anxiety. You wanted to make a good impression and hoped that Abby would like you as much as you liked her brother.

Abby greeted you at the door, her eyes wide with curiosity and a hint of shyness. She was a bright, energetic girl with dark hair and a mischievous grin that reminded you so much of Mike. Her presence was immediately infectious, and you felt any lingering anxiety melt away.

"Hi, Abby! I'm here to hang out with you while your brother's at work. How does that sound?" you asked, bending down to her level, hoping to convey friendliness and approachability.

She nodded, her eyes lighting up with enthusiasm as if she had been eagerly anticipating your arrival. "Okay! Can we play with my toys?" Her excitement was palpable, and it was impossible not to be drawn into her world.

"Of course," you replied, smiling as she grabbed your hand and pulled you inside with a surprising amount of strength for such a small person. You were grateful for her enthusiasm, feeling your own spirits lift at the prospect of spending the day with her.

The hours flew by as you played games, read stories, and even painted together. Abby had a vivid imagination, and you found it easy to connect with her. She was talkative, often sharing stories about her day and asking about yours.

Her innocence and curiosity were refreshing, a welcome escape from the complexities of adult life.

"Do you like my brother?" Abby asked innocently, her eyes wide with curiosity as you helped her with her coloring book. Her question caught you off guard, and you felt a blush creeping up your neck.

"I think your brother is a really great person," you said carefully, hoping to dodge the deeper implications of her question. You didn't want to make things awkward or too serious.

She giggled, a knowing look in her eyes that made you wonder just how much she picked up on. "He likes you too. He talks about you sometimes" Her words sent a jolt through you, a mix of excitement and hope that you struggled to keep under control.

Your heart skipped a beat at her words.

Unbeknownst to you, Mike had returned home earlier than expected. He needed to grab some pills he'd forgotten and thought he'd quickly check in on how things were going. As he stepped inside, he heard the sound of Abby's laughter echoing through the house, drawing him toward the living room.

Peeking inside, Mike found you and Abby sprawled on the floor, surrounded by crayons and papers.

Abby was in the middle of telling a story, using her drawings as illustrations, her eyes alight with creativity. You listened intently, encouraging her with nods and comments, clearly engrossed in her imaginative tale.

For a moment, Mike simply stood there, watching the scene unfold before him. His heart swelled with warmth and admiration as he saw the joy on Abby's face, the ease with which you interacted with her. It was a sight he hadn't realized he longed to see, and it stirred something deep within him.

Seeing you there, so effortlessly connecting with Abby, made him fall even more in love with you. It wasn't just your kindness or the way you made Abby laugh, it was the way you seemed to understand her, to know exactly how to make her feel valued and cherished.

Mike cleared his throat, stepping into the room. "Looks like you two are having fun."

You looked up, surprised but pleased to see him. "Hey, Mike. We're just finishing up Abby's latest masterpiece."

Abby beamed at her brother, waving her drawing triumphantly. "Look what we made!”

He approached, crouching beside you to examine the masterpiece. "I love it.”

Abby beamed, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of pride at her joy. "We make a good duo," you agreed, catching Mike's eye. There was something in his gaze, a warmth and appreciation that made your heart flutter.

"Thanks for today," Mike said, his voice low enough for only you to hear. "It means a lot to see her so happy"

"It was my pleasure," you replied, feeling your cheeks heat up under his scrutiny. "She's a wonderful kid."

As the days turned into weeks, your bond with both Abby and Mike deepened. You found yourself looking forward to each visit, eager to spend time with Abby and, more secretly, to see Mike. He was kind, patient, and had a dry sense of humor that often caught you off guard and made you laugh until your sides hurt.

Abby quickly became a friend, often sharing her thoughts and ideas with you. "Do you want to see my drawing?" she'd ask, holding up a colorful sketch that she'd made with all the innocence and creativity of a child.

"Wow, Abby, that's amazing!" you'd respond, genuinely impressed by her creativity. "You've got a real talent." Her pride in her work was infectious, and you felt a deep sense of fulfillment knowing you were making a positive impact in her life, fostering her confidence and creativity.

Meanwhile, your interactions with Mike grew more frequent and meaningful. Sometimes, after Abby had gone to bed, you and Mike would sit in the living room, sharing a beer or a cup of tea, discussing everything from music to movies to life's challenges. These moments became the highlight of your day, a chance to unwind and connect on a deeper level.

One evening, as you settled onto the couch after a long day, Mike handed you a steaming mug of tea, his fingers brushing yours briefly. The contact sent a jolt of electricity through you, and you wondered if he felt it too. Your heart skipped a beat at the possibility, and you felt a warmth spreading through your chest.

"You're really easy to talk to," Mike said, his voice sincere, cutting through the quiet hum of the room. "I don't get that a lot." His admission made your heart swell, knowing that you were someone he felt comfortable with, someone he valued.

"I feel the same way, Mike," you admitted, feeling a warmth in your chest that was becoming all too familiar. "It's nice having someone who gets me and doesn't think I'm weird for my horror movie obsession."

You wanted him to know that you felt a connection, a shared understanding that was rare and precious.

He chuckled, shaking his head, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "I think it's cool. Most people just give me funny looks when I tell them I enjoy those films." His smile was infectious, and you couldn't help but smile back, feeling a sense of camaraderie and mutual understanding.

"Then they're missing out," you said, a smile playing on your lips, enjoying the banter and the ease with which you could share these moments with him.

You found yourself opening up to Mike in ways you hadn't with anyone else, revealing dreams and fears that you usually kept hidden.

There was a trust between you, a sense of safety that encouraged honesty and vulnerability.

"I always wanted to be a writer," you confessed one night, surprised by your own admission. The words felt heavy and significant, a part of yourself that you hadn't shared with many people. "But I don't know if I'm good enough."

Mike looked at you thoughtfully, his gaze steady and encouraging, as if he could see the potential within you. "I think you'd be great. You have a way with words, and you see things differently. That's a gift." His words filled you with a warmth that lingered long after the evening had ended, a validation that resonated deeply with you.

You often caught yourself daydreaming about him, replaying conversations and imagining what it might be like to tell him how you really felt.

The movie you've found online and that you were currently watching, an old, obscure horror film, played on his TV. The film was terrible, with laughable special effects and wooden acting, but it provided ample opportunity for humor.

You tried to focus on the movie, but you found yourself constantly distracted by Mike. The way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, the sound of his chuckle, and the way he seemed genuinely relaxed in your presence made you feel special and welcomed.

"There's something about these films that just never gets old," Mike said, his eyes still glued to the screen as a particularly ridiculous scene unfolded. "I mean, look at that monster. It looks like it was made from papier-mâché. Did they really think that scene would be scary?" Mike chuckled, shaking his head. His laughter was contagious, a sound that filled the room with warmth and lightened the weight of the day.

"Right?" you replied, though your focus was more on him than the film. You watched the way his smile lingered, the subtle way his body leaned toward you as if drawn by an invisible force.

You were lost in thought, contemplating the words that had been on the tip of your tongue for weeks. Watching him enjoy himself, knowing that you were part of the reason he could unwind, filled you with a sense of pride and affection that was hard to ignore.

"There's something I need to tell you," you began, your voice steady but your heart racing. The words were heavy on your tongue, but you knew it was time to speak your truth.

His expression shifted slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. He sensed the seriousness of your tone and straightened, giving you his full attention.

"What's on your mind?" His voice was calm and steady, a reassurance that made the confession feel a little less daunting.

You took a deep breath, gathering your courage and pushing past the fear of rejection. "I really like spending time with you, Mike. And not just as a friend. I've felt this way for a while now." The admission hung in the air between you, a truth that couldn't be taken back.

For a moment, Mike looked at you with wide eyes, clearly caught off guard by your confession, His initial surprise was evident, and you could see the conflict playing out in his mind. He opened his mouth to speak but seemed to struggle to find the right words.

His thoughts were a jumble of emotions and concerns. The age difference between you, Abby, and his financial struggles weighed heavily on him. He didn't want you to feel tied to him, not because he didn't feel anything for you, but because he knew he couldn't give you everything you deserved.

"... I didn't expect this," he finally said, his voice laced with uncertainty. "I care about you a lot, but... it's complicated. You're younger than me. I have a lot of responsibilities with Abby and work. There's a lot I can't give you, and I don't want you to feel stuck because of me. You deserve better" His words were hesitant, filled with an internal struggle that made your heart ache for him.

You understood his hesitation, could see the conflict in his eyes, but you also saw the way he looked at you, the warmth and affection that couldn't be hidden. It was enough to give you hope, to make you want to show him that you didn't care about the obstacles, only about him.

Gently, you moved closer to him, closing the space between you. His eyes widened slightly, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he seemed frozen, waiting to see what you would do next.

Reaching up, you cupped his cheek with your hand, feeling the roughness of his stubble against your palm. "I just want to be here with you." Your voice was soft but firm, a quiet promise of your intentions.

Then, slowly, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his. It was a gentle, tentative kiss, one that held all the feelings you hadn't been able to put into words. For a moment, Mike seemed surprised, his body tensing at the unexpectedness of it all. But then, he melted into the kiss, his hesitation giving way to something deeper.

His hand found your waist, his fingers tightening slightly as he pulled you closer, closing any remaining distance between you.

The kiss was slow and tender, a shared moment that spoke volumes about what words couldn't convey.

You felt him relax against you, his internal conflicts momentarily forgotten as you both gave in to the feelings you had been harboring for so long.

His other hand reached up to gently cradle your head, deepening the kiss as he finally allowed himself to accept what was between you.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and heart racing, you looked into his eyes and saw the worry and doubt had been replaced by something softer and more hopeful.

"Well, that was unexpected," Mike said softly, breaking the silence. His voice was a gentle rumble, carrying a hint of wonder and disbelief.

"In a good way, I hope?" you replied, your own voice barely above a whisper.

"In a very good way," he assured you, his lips curving into a smile that sent a flutter of joy through you.

"I've wanted to do that for a long time," you admitted, a small smile playing on your lips as you stayed close, unwilling to let the moment end.

"Me too," he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. "l'm still scared about what this means, but I know I don't want to lose what we have."

You leaned in closer, feeling his breath mingle with yours, and captured his lips in another kiss. This one was softer, more lingering, a gentle exploration of the connection between you. It was a silent affirmation of the feelings you both shared, a testament to the bond that had grown between you over time.

You felt his hands slide up your back, pulling you even closer, while you wrapped your arms around his neck, reveling in the warmth and security of his embrace. The kiss deepened, and you lost yourself in the sensation of being so close to him, of sharing in this moment of intimacy and understanding.

A soft sound escaped your lips, a quiet sigh of contentment, and you felt him smile against your mouth. There was a playfulness to his touch now, a sense of joy that mirrored your own.

"Shh," he whispered teasingly, pulling back slightly, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

Mike's lips moved against yours with a growing urgency, his own quiet moans mingling with yours. He tried to keep quiet, pressing soft kisses against your lips to muffle your own sounds, though the effort only served to heighten the sensation, a delicious tension that wound tighter with each passing moment.

His efforts to remain quiet were punctuated by low, throaty grunts, each one a reminder of the passion that simmered between you.

The quiet of the room was punctuated by soft gasps and whispered names, a symphony of affection that crescendoed in perfect harmony.

With a gentle tug, he guided you onto his lap, his touch firm yet careful, as if handling something both precious and fragile. The movement was fluid, instinctive, a seamless continuation of the magnetic pull that had drawn you together on the porch. Your knees settled on either side of him, bringing you chest to chest, your faces inches apart. The heat of his body seeped through your clothes, a tangible reminder of the passion simmering just beneath the surface.

His hands found their place on your legs, fingers splayed to support and explore, tracing slow, deliberate paths along the fabric that covered your skin. It was as though he sought to memorize every contour, every curve, feeding the curiosity that had lingered in the recesses of his mind for years wondering how it would feel to finally hold you close.

You leaned in, capturing his lips with yours in a kiss that was both tender and insistent, a mingling of breath and heartbeat that spoke of shared longing and mutual surrender. The world outside faded further into oblivion, leaving only the two of you entwined in a dance of exploration and affection.

His tongue slipped into your mouth, exploring with a curiosity that had been held in check for too long. The sensation was intoxicating, a dance of intimacy that spoke of all the moments he had wondered, all the times he had imagined what it would be like to taste you.

Mike's quiet grunts of pleasure were a symphony to your ears. You could sense the tension in him, the effort it took to maintain control even as his own desires threatened to overwhelm him.

His fingers brushed over your back, tracing the line of your spine, before moving to explore the curve of your waist and the strength of your thighs.

You mirrored his exploration, your hands finding purchase on his shoulders, feeling the tension and release of muscle beneath your touch. Your fingers traveled to his neck, threading through his hair, drawing him even closer as the kiss became more fervent. It was a symphony of sensation-a blending of warmth, breath, and the gentle hum of shared affection that enveloped you both.

It was as if time itself had slowed, allowing you to savor each second, each heartbeat, as you became one in a language unspoken yet deeply understood.

His hands were slowly gliding all over your hips and lower back now, and they eventually made their way down to rest on your ass.

He squeezed, causing you to grind down against him and you moaned. You started prepping with kisses on his face, his stumble scratching your lips occasionally. Mike groaned in response, his eyes fluttering shut for a minute. You began a slow rhythm of rocking your hips against him, his head falling back to rest on the back of the couch.

"Good boy," Mike murmured against your lips, his voice a low, soothing rumble that vibrated through you. It sent a shiver down your spine, your heart swelling in response to the intimacy of the moment.

Mike's hands, confident yet gentle, found their way beneath the hem of your shirt, a silent question hanging in the air as his fingers brushed against bare skin. You nodded, granting permission. The fabric lifted, sliding over your skin with a whisper, leaving you vulnerable and exposed, yet utterly safe in his embrace.

His touch was electrifying, a gentle exploration of the expanse of your chest, the warmth of his hands grounding and exhilarating all at once.

You leaned up and captured Mike’s lips again in a bruising kiss, moaning into his mouth. His hips bucking up into yours as you quickened the movement of your hips against his.

He was trying to pull you even closer against his body to increase the friction between the two of you as much as possible.

He began peppering open-mouthed kisses all over your chest and collarbones. You sighed, and laced your fingers in his hair, relishing in the feeling of his lips all over you.

He began sucking on one of your nipples, moving one of his hands to play with your other, which earned him a suppressed moan from you and caused you to throw your head back. You tugged on his hair, and it only seemed to make him even more enthusiastic with his movements.

He suddenly stood up, moving his arms to hold onto you tightly as you gasped, but landed back onto the couch almost instantly. You were now laying on your back and still looking up at him as Mike reached to pull his gray shirt off.

He was so handsome.

He began undoing his belt and the button to his jeans, pushing them down his legs. He kicked the jeans off and kneeled down, placing a hand on your thigh and looking at you.

“Can I?” he asked. You didn’t waste a second nodding your head, and you watched as he took his time to pull off your jeans and underwear, throwing them onto the floor beside his own discarded clothes.

Mike didn’t take his eyes off of you for a single second, wanting to admire the sight of you and he moved so that he was now on top of you. He now had you pinned down against the couch cushion, and you felt your own heartbeat inside your eardrums.

He leaned down to kiss you again, his enthusiasm from earlier returning as he deepened the kiss instantly.

He shifted slightly, reaching over to a small drawer built into the side table next to the couch. You watched curiously as he pulled out a small bottle of lube. The position was a bit awkward, and you couldn't help but give him a puzzled look, wondering why it was there instead of in his room.

Mike caught your expression and stuttered slightly, a hint of a blush coloring his cheeks. "Uh, well, I keep it here because of Abby. She tends to rummage around my room looking for toys or paper to draw on."

You giggled at the thought, imagining Abby innocently sifting through Mike's things, completely unaware of what she might find. "That makes sense," you said with a smile, amused by his predicament.

He chuckled along with you, the tension in the air dissolving into something more playful and intimate. With a deft motion, he flicked open the cap of the bottle and poured a small amount onto his fingers, his movements careful and deliberate.

You watched, fascinated, as he spread the substance between his fingers, his focus returning to you with a renewed intensity. There was something thrilling about the trust and care in his actions, a silent promise that you were in good hands.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked softly, his gaze steady and reassuring.

You nodded, feeling your heart race with anticipation and excitement. "Absolutely" you replied, meeting his eyes with unwavering confidence.

His hand slowly trailed from its place at your side, down your hip before moving it to the space between your thighs. You gasped slightly when you felt his touch on your dick, causing fireworks to set off all throughout your body.

You moaned into his mouth now that Mike was touching you exactly where you needed him and he picked up the pace, pumping you as you began to let out soft moans at his touch. He flicks his finger over your tip, which was now leaking profusely.

Your hand returned itself to tangle in his hair while your other made its way to his shoulder to steady yourself.

“Does that feel good, baby?” He questioned, and you could’ve swore he was smirking against your lips.

You whined and nodded slightly. You had very little control over your reactions at this point, and Mike was well aware of this. He quickened his pace once again, and you were beginning to squirm underneath him.

It seemed like he was having a lot of fun at this point, amused by all of the reactions he was dragging out of you. You weren’t sure how this could get any better when he had maneuvered his hand lower, beginning to thrust his middle finger deep into your hole.

Another loud moan, muffled by your own hand, escaped your lips and you squeezed your eyes shut at the sensation, clenching your thighs together around his hand.

He pulled his head away and began biting your jaw, sucking hard enough that it will definitely leave a mark tomorrow, but you were too focused on his finger moving inside of you to care.

Mike then added his ring finger and you whined loudly, tugging on his hair. He let out a groan, and began fucking you faster, causing you to come into his hand, and onto your stomach.

Your back arching off of the couch and your fingers digging into his shoulder, but he didn’t seem to mind one bit.

He was only focused on you, and he would do anything to indulge you at the moment. He pulled his fingers out of you after riding out your climax and shifted above you a bit. Your entire body flooded with warmth and you were panting.

Your recovery was cut short by Mike grinding into you, the length of his cock rubbing against you.

A soft, involuntary groan escaped his lips, signaling his turn.

He pulled back to look at you and his expression was questioning, waiting for an answer before going further with anything.

You whimpered out a small please and that was all it took before he was slowly sinking his cock inside of you.

He threw his head back and groaned, his cock twitching inside of you. You whined at the feeling and bit your lip, squeezing your eyes shut. He slowly bottomed out inside of you and kept still, Pausing to admire you, lost in your serene, blissed-out state, like a masterpiece in a moment of pure tranquility before he began thrusting into you.

“You gonna be a good boy for me?” He groaned out, leaning his head down to speak directly into your ear.

Your eyes shot open when you heard him, whimpering and quickly nodding your head, you were unable to speak, all you that was coming out of your mouth were the most pathetic whines, whimpers, and pants. Hearing him talk like this made you clench around him, which in turn caused him to slam into you faster.

“All mine, every bit of you,” he declared, his words sending shivers down your spine. You bit down hard on your bottom lip, trying to stifle any more sounds that might escape

You wrapped your legs around his hips, your body bouncing each time he thrusted into you, each time even harder than the last.

You and Mike were drenched in sweat, looking like you just conquered an epic adventure.

Your back was continuously arched off of the couch as he kept railing into you.

Your entire body was tingling with pleasure, and you knew you could get addicted to this feeling.

Mike slamming into you at just the right angle, the feeling of his body moving against yours, and before you knew it, Mike had reached his hand down between your bodies to begin stroking faster and faster, and each time a new sound came from your mouth, devoured from his own mouth.

You were officially done for after that. It was all too much, but it was so, so good.

“Please cum for me, my sweet boy. C’mon.” Mike gritted out, and that was all you had needed to hear.

You clenched around Mike’s cock and you came, your eyes rolling on the back of your head. All you could do while riding out your orgasam was squirm from the overstimulation, Mike still pounding into you as he was chasing his own orgasm.

Feeling the tightness of your body, he couldn't hold back any longer, his own release spurting deep within you.

Mike, who had been resting on top of you, shifted to lie beside you, the couch barely wide enough to accommodate both of you. His chest rose and fell rhythmically, a mirror to your own breaths as you both began to calm in the quiet aftermath

Your mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions, the reality of what had just transpired between you and Mike barely beginning to settle in. It felt surreal, like a dream spun from the depths of your imagination, and yet the solid warmth of Mike beside you was a comforting reminder that it had indeed happened.

As you lay there, lost in your thoughts, you felt a gentle nudge against your cheek. Mike was nuzzling you, his stubble a rough but comforting texture against your skin. The affectionate gesture pulled you back to the present, grounding you in the moment and dispelling any lingering disbelief.

He turned his head slightly, capturing your lips in a quick, tender kiss that spoke of both contentment and lingering desire. When he pulled back, a hint of shyness flickered in his eyes, an endearing contrast to the confidence he had shown just moments before.

"Hey," he murmured softly, his voice barely above a whisper in the quiet room. "Do you want to sleep in the bed with me? The couch isn't exactly comfortable for the night."

His invitation caught you off guard, a warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the lingering heat from earlier. A smile broke across your face, broad and genuine, as you nodded, the simple gesture carrying a weight of unspoken emotion.

"I'd like that," you replied, your voice infused with a joy that you couldn't hide even if you wanted to.

Note: If you liked this story please leave a comment, I love reading them <3.

577 notes · View notes