#round cluster ring

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

i’ve never made a request before so sorry if this is bad but if you could write something about matt murdock with a fake dating trope like that would be so cute, especially if there’s feelings realized during/after it :)

a/n: i swear, i tried to just keep this short and sweet like how i usually keep requests, but then the fantasy i came up with was just too fun and too much like a fucking romcom not to just let myself go ham and turn it into a full-on long fic

word count: 3778

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Leaning your weight against the bar, you waited for Josie to return with another round of beers for you and your friends, who still remained exactly where you’d left them, all clustered around the pool table further into the space. 

Absentmindedly, you fiddled with the ring so often glued to your fingers, passing the heirloom from each digit and sliding it onto the next. It had been your grandmother’s, and ever since her passing, the simple golden circle with a little jade embedded at the cusp of it, rarely stayed in your jewellery box as the act of simply glancing down at it on your finger somehow offered you a drop of comfort in moments of mundane gloom. 

As the heirloom arrived at your left ring finger and slid down over the knuckle, a familiar voice suddenly emanated like an echo after the bar’s front door had swung open. 

“Y/n?” your whole body froze up at the unexpected timbre. 

Slowly, you twisted around to discover none other than your ex, wide eyes trained on you as he clutched the hand of a leggy blonde. 

“Henry!” you gasped, hoping they mistook the horrified look on your face for innocent shock, “oh my god…” 

Without any warning, the next thing you knew, he’d yanked your stunned form into a hug, “how the hell are you?” he clapped your shoulder as if you were old school chums, “it’s been so long.”

“I’m–, uhm, fine,” you managed to reply. 

“Yeah?” he smiled, the insincerity in your tone completely flying over his head, “that’s great.” 

Simply to be polite, you awkwardly asked, “…how are you?” even though you truly didn’t wish to know the answer.  

“I’m good, yeah, life’s been kinda crazy lately because–, oh,” he suddenly paused to glance back at the girl by his side, “Y/n, you remember Rebecca, right?”

“Mhm,” you hummed and offered her a glance, fearing steam might billow out of your ears at any moment, “hi.”

“Hey,” she smiled brightly as she tossed her luscious locks over her shoulder, “and please don’t mind him,” she clapped a palm over Henry’s chest, “he’s just freaking out, you know, usual guy stuff before finally getting tied down.”

“I’m sorry,” you blinked, nearly pinching yourself to test if this was a nightmare or not, “before what?”

Rebecca then held up her left hand to flash you the massive rock nestled on her fourth finger. 

“I finally popped the question!” Henry grinned and draped an arm around his fiancé.

“Wow, oh wow, that’s–…” you sputtered as the blonde promptly shoved her hand in your face for you to get a better look, “that’s a really big rock, right there, on your finger…” your touch floated up and tilted her palm slightly, the light from the neon sign close by glinting in the diamond, “congratulations…”

“Thanks!” she smiled down at the ring herself before her fingers suddenly captured your own and twisted your hand around, “oh wait, congrats to you too!” 

“What?” you still simply tried to keep breathing through this agonising gut-punch of an encounter. 

“I know they say that size doesn’t matter,” Rebecca eyed the tiny green stone that adorned your grandmother’s ring, “and it doesn’t! I mean, that’s so pretty,” she uttered in a sugary sweet and insincere tone that made you feel as if you were back in high school again, “understated, simple.” 

“Ah, no way,” Henry peeked down at your hand, “you’re engaged too?”

“Uh…” you let out a shaky breath, “yep,” the lie then suddenly flew out past your lips before you had a chance to stop it, “that’s me! I’m getting married.” 

“That’s amazing,” your ex let out an airy chuckle, “who’s the lucky guy?”

But before your lips could part and let out another lie, Josie returned, “here you go, hon,” and slid four beer bottles across the bar to you before adding, “and would you tell Foggy to stop sitting on the edge of the pool table? It’s old and I can’t be responsible if it breaks on him.”

“Sure thing,” you promised and snatched up the drinks. 

“Is that your man?” Henry cast a glance to the lawyer Josie had gestured to, “Foggy, was it?”

“Foggy?” a soft giggle couldn’t help but bubble out of your lungs, “no! Don’t get me wrong, he’s great, but no, sadly, he’s already taken.” 

“Then who is it?” 

“Is it the other guy over there?” Rebecca chimed in as they both sent their glances towards your friends, “the one in the light blue shirt and tinted glasses?”

“Uh, yeah…” you squeaked as you slowly turned to look at Matt as well, “that’s–, uh, that’s him,” you watched as he readjusted his grip on the cue stick in his hand, “that’s my future husband…”

“Hm,” a sliver of judgment slipped out of Henry, “wouldn’t have pegged him to be your type.”

“Well, maybe my type has changed,” you stated, letting your lingering resentment show before you noticed how harsh it had come out and your stomach immediately began to twist and knot in regret, “I–…” you swiftly winched, “sorry,” and averted your gaze, “have a nice evening, uh–, I’m gonna go back to my friends,” you stumbled as you tried to escape. 

Though as you turned to walk away, Henry’s voice found your ears one last time, “bye!” before you heard his fiancé turn to him. 

“Pookie? Would you order me a cosmo?” her voice began to fade into the background, “I’ll go find us a table…” 

You simultaneously felt as if a truck had just run you over as your feet carried you back towards your friends, yet also completely numb, as if you’d been turned into a floating ghost of the person you used to be. 

“Who the hell was that and why do you look like you’re about to throw up?” Foggy asked cautiously as he grabbed two of the bottles in your grasp and handed one off to Matt. 

Passing one of the remaining drinks off to Karen, you then lifted your own up to your lips before tipping it back and downing around half of its contents. Once you tilted the dark green bottle back down, you were out of breath as you began to explain, “that,” you wiped your bottom lip with one of your knuckles, “was my ex,” you used that same finger to hazily point back over your shoulder, “and his fiancé,” your eyes stayed fuzzy as you added, “who happen to be the girl that he cheated on me with for a year before I one day finally caught them together.”

“Oh my god…” Karen breathed, her bottle frozen halfway on its journey up towards her lips. 

“It was on easter,” you shared, “he thought I had gone back home to see my family, but I’d actually decided to secretly do this whole big surprise, like I thought I was in fucking rom-com or something,” you sighed at your past self, “but then when he got home from work, and I was all decked out, waiting on the bed, in bunny ears and everything,” you heatedly gestured to the top of your own head, “he wasn’t alone.”

“Wow…” Foggy stared. 

“Yep…” you exhaled heavily, taking another swig before you made the mistake of glancing back over your shoulder just as Rebecca shrugged off her coat and slinked onto a stool at one of the small tables, “fuck!” you exclaimed as if you’d just stubbed your toe, “she’s even hotter than I remembered. How is that possible?” 

“Oh, she’s not that pretty,” Karen tried, but you swiftly cut her off. 

“You shut your face, she’s basically a human-sized Barbie,” your glare roamed one last time from the top of her platinum locks to the bottoms of her high stilettos, “god…” you sighed as you finally averted your gaze and lifted your bottle to drown your sorrows, “I was such an idiot back there. It was like my brain just stopped working and–, oh my god!” your palm shot up to cover your mouth as you then suddenly recalled the lie that had slipped out. Slowly, your wide eyes drifted to Matt, who still remained silent, “oh no…” 

“What is it?” Foggy chimed in. 

“Matt…” you uttered tensely, knowing your friend well enough to be aware of just how much of the interaction with your ex he had overheard, “I am so sorry…”

“What?” Karen’s glance darted between you both, “what’s going on?”

Paralysing embarrassment churned your stomach and choked out any attempt you made to share the truth. But luckily, as your erratic heartbeat thumped and found Matt’s sharp ears, he eventually filled in instead, “…they thought that she was engaged as well and then assumed that I was the guy.” 

“I am so, so sorry,” you gasped, “I don’t know why I didn’t correct them.”

But to your amazement, Matthew simply shrugged and offered you a reassuring smile, “it’s okay, don’t worry about it.”

“I was just fiddling with my ring and then they just–…” you then snuffed out your frantic explanation and instead repeated once again, “I’m sorry…”

Saddling up beside you, Karen planted a palm on your shoulder, “hey, if that was my ex, then I’d wanna give him some of his own medicine as well,” she stated, “if not just straight up cut off his balls, which is what he really deserves.” 

A faint smile then began to soften your expression as you glanced around at your supportive friends, Foggy briefly reaching out to pat your other shoulder. 

But as you averted your eyes to the nearly empty bottle in your grasp, a thought suddenly struck you like a bolt of lightning, “wait, I have an idea…” your gaze slowly lifted to lock on Matt, “I mean, you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, I totally get it, but would you mind, just while they are here, to–, uhm…”

Cocking his eyebrow, he finished your sentence, “…to pretend to be your fiancé?” 

“I know, it’s stupid, and I should probably just go home right now instead of playing some weird and immature game of revenge or whatever,” you uttered as you made the decision to lie in the grave you’d dug for yourself, “but I would forever be in your debt, I'm serious.” 

Sucking in a breath, he barely had to think about it before he murmured, “sure.”

“Really?” you gasped, your brows shooting up, “you’ll do it?” 

“Yeah, why not?” Matt shrugged, “it’s the very least he deserves for treating you like that.”

“Oh,” you crossed the short distance between you two and threw your arms around him. It took a second before you felt him hug you back, but when the alcohol got to your head and made you mutter, “I love you,” into his shoulder, a low chuckle rumbled in the lawyer's chest before you parted ways. 

“So,” Karen then began to fish out the colourful spheres and roll them back into the green felt, “do we still wanna play another game?”

“Hell yeah,” Foggy picked a cue stick back up before adding a playful threat, “you’re not beating me again this time, Page.”

Once the table was set up for another round of pool and you were a few turns in, your gaze couldn’t help but wander back towards the other end of the bar too often to keep track of. Though, soon on one of the fleeting looks, your eyes grew wide as you discovered you weren’t the only one sneaking glances.

Discreetly, you shifted closer to Matthew and leaned in to whisper, “he’s looking over,” however, when he then draped an arm around your frame, you couldn’t help but stiffen up, as you hadn’t thought that far in the plan yet, “what are you–”

“Shh,” Matt hushed your squeak, “just lean into me,” he shifted to stand tall behind you, arms enveloped around your form as he slowly drew you back against his chest, “smile,” his low voice tickled the shell of your ear and caused goosebumps to erupt across your skin, “and don’t look at him.” 

Redirecting your vision back towards the game before you, you narrowly managed to catch sight of the silent slut-shaming the other lawyer flashed his friend with but a glance, before he went back to the mischievous mission he was on. 

“Foggy, would you quit it?” Karen grumbled at the man beside her as he wildly waved both of his hands in her periphery, successfully knocking off her concentration as she tried to line up her shot. 

“No way,” he kept up his flapping, even causing Karen’s golden locks to get picked up by the breeze he produced. 

“You’re cheating.”

“Nope, I am not touching you nor the table,” he stated as if he was in court, “distracting you doesn’t break any rules.”

And as she finally made her attempt, the ball didn’t go in, causing her to explode in a roar, “damn it, Fog!”

“Ha, ha, yes!” he jumped as she straightened back up, “you know, I taste something right now, what could that be? Oh yeah, victory. And it tastes sweet as candy store.” 

“Urgh,” Karen rolled her eyes at him before her glare landed upon the both of you, “Matt, your turn. Would you please set him in his place?”

“Gladly,” Matt chuckled, and as he shifted closer to the pool table, he nudged your side and asked, “hey, would you give me a hand?”

Swallowing a chuckle as you already knew he very much didn’t need it, you cocked an eyebrow, “you want my help?”  

“Yeah,” he uttered clearly and let his real message seep through his tone, guiding your gaze to flicker back toward Henry, who’s stare was still locked upon you both, “so come help me.” 

“Oh!” it finally clicked in your brain, “right,” and you swiftly slid in beside him. 

With bated breath, you grabbed Matt’s hand that wasn’t clutching the pole, and guided it over the ivory ball that rested close to one of the corners. As you began to map out and tell him where each of the other spheres were, your eyes flicked over to notice just how close you now stood, as your nose nearly grazed against his stubbly cheek as you murmured guidingly. When you retracted your touch, you barely noticed how a few of Matt’s fingers reacted, faintly following your fading palm for but a second before it floated back down to the white orb below it. 

Once he’d made his shot, you lingered in the proximity and whispered, “do you think they’re buying it?” 

“Hm?” 

“This,” your eyes momentarily flickered back towards your ex across the bar, “us.”

Matthew’s brows then floated up as you reeled him back in to the matter at hand, “oh, I–, probably.” 

“Or should we do something else?” your mind kept on spinning, “I don’t know, I feel like I’ve completely forgotten how all of that works,” you shared, “kinda just numbed and cut off that part of myself after he broke my heart, it was just how I had to get through it, shut down a little bit because suddenly romance was terrifying…”

“...can I ask you something?” he asked quietly after a breath, and when you offered him a hum in confirmation, he uttered, “are you still in love with him?” 

Time stretched out before you finally replied, “I was, for a very long time…” your voice stayed small, “…but no, not anymore… I kind of thought I was, but then seeing him again cleared it all up. All I feel when I look at him now is rage,” you exhaled, “and pity, just because I know him too well, know everything that’s messed up about him…” silence encumbered you both for a moment before you then opened your mouth once more and said, “so, should we hold hands or something?” you asked plainly, though when a genuine laugh then began to billow out of Matthew, your eyes blinked up at him as your brows swiftly knit together, “what?”

“You know,” he tried to snuff out his chuckle, “if I was actually your fiancé, I wouldn’t just stand around and hold your hand all night,” he then leaned in the short distance till his lips nearly tickled the shell of your ear, “I would have dragged you into the bathroom by now and forced the whole bar to hear us fuck.” 

“I–, u-uhm,” you flusteredly stammered as your face began to heat up, “y-yeah, yeah, that’s good too,” you barely registered your own words as they slipped out past your lips, “if that’s what you wanna do–, I mean! Shut up!” you squeezed your eyes shut as soon as you regained your own senses, “just hold my hand, you dick,” you cursed over his laughter as he swiftly slipped his palm into your own.

“Cut it out, Karen,” Foggy’s voice cut through your haze and caught your attention. 

Glancing over, you spotted as Karen was giving him some of his own medicine, pettily leaning into his eye line, “what? You were the one saying that distractions weren’t against the rules,” she continued to glare in hopes of throwing him off his game, “why? Is this not working? Do you need me to scream directly in your ear instead?”

“Oh, would you?” he sarcastically looked to her, his pitch climbing up high at his words, “going deaf in one ear is exactly what I need to beat you.”

As your wandering gaze then flickered back towards the opposite end of the bar, your eyes grew wide as you spotted only Rebecca still seated at the small table, pink cocktail in her grasp. 

“Shit,” you spotted Henry as he crossed the room, confidently walking precisely in your direction, “he’s coming over,” you hissed, and in your muppet-like panic, your hands clasped each side of Matt’s face and yanked him in for a kiss. 

At first, he froze up as you continued to freak out, but then, as his broad palms slowly slid over your waist, all of your alarm began to melt away. It felt as if you were drifting off to sleep as you relaxed into the kiss. Never in your wildest dreams had you imagined that kissing Matt would feel like this, not that such a fantasy was something you pondered often or even at all, but as you felt his tongue flicker out to dance softly against your own, your knees beneath you wobbled as you lost yourself completely. How long the peck drew out remained a mystery, as when you eventually parted, the reasoning behind it wouldn’t emerge in your memory no matter how hard you tried. 

Though as you stood there, blinking back at Matt, still utterly spellbound by the unexpected feelings currently bubbling and bursting inside of you, the man now standing off to the side cleared his throat and brought you back down to earth. 

“Bunny–, I mean, Y/n,” you whipped your head around to catch sight of your ex, “just thought it would have been awkward if I didn’t come over here to introduce myself before me and Becca took off,” he muttered before his gaze fell to Matt, his arms slowly fading from your form, “I'm Henry, nice to meet you,” your ex then offered his hand, though the lawyer by your side didn’t grasp it, even if his heightened senses had lent him to pick up on the gesture. 

“Matt Murdock,” he uttered on a cold exhale. 

Stuffing his rejected palm into his pocket, Henry then asked, “what do you do?” 

“Matthew’s a lawyer,” you took over, slotting yourself into Matt’s side before you dramatically clasped a hand over his chest, “saves people for a living. That’s actually why we’re out celebrating tonight, he just won yet another case.” 

“Oh, well congratulations then,” Henry offered in well-forged petty politeness. 

“Yeah, I was there, watching him do his thing,” you uttered as some bitter goblin of resentment then took over your soul and caused you to say, “and oh boy, I tell you, if only it would have been socially acceptable for me to interrupt the trial just to rip his clothes off, because wow.”

A scoff then rippled in Henry’s chest, “okay, sure,” his stare upon you narrowed as he then grumbled, “we both know you’re not exactly the groupie type of girlfriend.” 

“Well, maybe your sorry ass was never worth her supporting you in that way,” Matt suddenly cut in, “maybe because you never bothered treated her that way in return,” his guess hit the bullseye, “and maybe that has a little something to do with why I was the one to put a ring on her finger and not you,” your heart thumped in your chest as Matt’s touch returned to the small of your back, protectively sliding over your waist as he continued to speak in a low and chillingly stern tone, “that or you really are as terrible of a lay as she told me you were, during those very first nights when she finally learned what it was like to be with someone who wasn’t a complete fucking idiot.” 

Utterly stunned, you watched Henry’s expression as he scrambled his brain for a way to crawl back from that, but eventually, when no suitable words came to his pea-sized brain, his feet slowly began to shuffle back till his hand had snatched up his fiancé’s and he’d yanked her with him out of the bar. 

As the door swung closed behind the pair, a celebratory squeal burst from your lungs, “oh my god! Matt, that was incredible!” you jumped in place before throwing your arms around him, “I don’t know how to thank you.” 

Tangling his own arms around you, he uttered, “I’m sure we’ll come up with some way you can make it up to me.” 

And as you withdrew, just enough to smile back at him, your gaze began to drift back down towards his lip just before Foggy’s voice cut through the palpable tension.

“Do I need to remind you guys that you’re not actually engaged?” 

“No,” Matt then murmured as the two of you parted ways, quietly enough for his words to be completely inaudible, “but we could be...” 

“What?” you glanced over at him. 

“What?” he echoed in return, though a bit too quickly. 

“Did you say something?”

“Me? No,” he tried to conceal his lie with a cough, “I-I, uh, think it’s your turn,” he then changed the subject, gesturing to the pool table behind you. 

  © 2025 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[screampied]

your writing is so amazing I’m begging you to write anything for nanami

❤︎ ໋𓈒 ex husband nanami who fucks like he can’t live without you

warnings. fem! reader, ex husband nanami, mating press, breeding kink, praise kink, slight whiney nanami. mdni.

an. thank u bb!! xo i want him so bad

ex husband nanami that’s completely infatuated with you. he’s never stopped fully loving you—you probably never stopped him either. his touch against you was gentle, he’d watch as you’d try to cover your face with your hand. beneath him, nanami lets off a grunt with a idle hand pressing against your tummy.

“nono, don’t do that,” he whispers, the feeling of his wedding ring he’d never take off skims against your skin. “i wanna see my wife before she makes another mess on me.”

wife.

a term he’d always call you, despite the two of you not exactly being together. yet you’d always find yourself back in nanami’s arms, in his bed.. vice versa.

“k-kento,” you’d gasp, each thrust he creates has the bed creaking and creaking. you gawk as nanami once he grabs your hand to kiss it. twice, the softness of his lips that ran against your skin made your heart swoon. “fuck, you’re so—big.”

“perfect size for you, sweetheart,” he sighs, and he picks the position specifically just to see your face…purely to study your facial expressions, planting a plethora of kisses all over your face. “god, you don’t know how much i’ve missed you.”

he was so thick, stretching you out with such ease like an elastic band—your walls forevermore clamped against him and you bit the inside of your cheek with your eyes rolling back. “so just let me show you, sweetheart.”

as nanami maintained a thorough pace, he was visibly sweating a bit.. not much to your surprise.

beads of it ran down the side of his partly arched eyebrows, his jawline was perfectly sharp each time he clenched his jaw and it was unintentionally sexy.

“w-woman, whenever you look at me like that…” he groans.

the way your walls gripped him oh so tight, it left him speechless. nanami had your legs just dangling in the air as he’s hitting against your cunt with such sloppy erotic thrusts.

your ears ring vividly as your lip trembles in pleasure. “makes me wanna give you another baby.”

“do it then, kento.” you moaned, and for a second the two of you make direct eye contact. his heart pounds and nanami gives you a soft glance.

a sheepish grin going across his pink lips. he lets off a moan right against your ear, “…baby, i just might. ‘m so pent up ‘n full for you. should give you triplets this time. i always adored how you looked with a pretty rounded tummy.”

his brutal hits against you, the way he pivots his hips each time, you’re left with your mouth dumbly dangling open, nails carving into his skin. “oh my g-god, kento. keep hitting me right there, pleasepleaseee.”

he’s plugging into you with such soft force, your legs nearly give out. nanami’s low husky grunts against your ear makes you throb for more.

“i will,” he mutters, grabbing your hand to give it another kiss. “you’re so pretty like this. am i making you feel good? speak to me, my love.”

all that escaped from your lips was a soft, “mhm.”

“that’s all you can give me?” he teases, leaning in to plant a soft kiss near your mouth. nanami’s fingers graciously ghosts against the middle part of your neck. he swipes a thumb against it, smothering you with kisses until he left you gasping for air. his dick reached the deepest parts of you, the curve he had fully expanding into you and you’re just a whiney mess. “my wife’s never been this soft spoken.”

“i— i’m gonna cummm,” you babbled, a sensitive cluster of nerves brewing up from the inside. “kento. ‘s gonna—”

as he’s buried into you, he lets off a soft whine at the way your cunt tugged against him. the filthy wet sounds between your legs created reverberated across the room.

“look at me, look at me.” your eyes dart towards him and his smile was so warm and gentle. you feel the way every few seconds his cock was disappear inside your folds, in and out and your eyes just rolled and rolled. “you drive me insane,” he grumbles, his thrusts began to become more unkept and dirty. his fingers intertwine with yours before he whispers in a broken voice. “marry me again.”

“kento,” you moaned, and he stares deeply into your eyes, bringing a few more kisses towards the center of your mouth. you found yourself speechless, forever being coddled with his warmth from how he’s just so gentle with you. his weight gingerly hovered against you before he lets off a sigh, stroking your cheek. “re-marry?”

he lets off a grunt once he feels your droopy legs just brush all against his back. you’re constantly moving all because of him and it makes him smile. “i’d give anything just to see you in a pretty white dress a-again.”

for a split second, his words gets cut off and he laments lowly at how your pussy gripped him tightly with much needed force. “sweetheart, ‘m gonna fill you…you want that?”

“please,” you whined, practically hugging his back. this position was so lewd — nanami always expressed his love for mating press, it was so affectionate not to mention intimate. he’d always have a good enough excuse just to see your cute expressions right when you were about to orgasm.

“anything for my girl,” he murmurs into your neck, and his voice gets a bit pitchy — whiney even. forlorn and almost desperate, he was trembling on his words from how sensitive you had him, a nanami you don’t think you’ve ever experienced this version with. “so full for you,” he whispers, licking a strick up your neck before claiming your hands against with his.

you feel his ring graze against your palm as he’s quickening his pace just a tad bit. “just for you though, j-just for you.”

once nanami cums, it’s so thick. lengthy ropes spew into your cunt and your legs were left twitching, just clinging onto his waist. nanami’s softly panting against your ear, murmuring how gorgeous you were, how pretty you looked, and most importantly….how charming you’d look with your tummy plump for him again.

“come here,” you’d moan, picking up nanami’s head so he could face you directly. you’d hastily bring him into a warm kiss and he returns in, swabbing a thumb across your cheek before he groans into your mouth.

nanami’s heart raced—you were forever perfect in his eyes, each second the kiss lasted, he craved more of you. still buried inside of you, you feel his palm softly press down against your tummy and you moan. the moment he pulls away, nanami takes off his ring before placing it inside of your hand, kissing your hand afterwards.

“think about it, for me?”

[realprissygirl]

❥ — maramaxxing:

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ becoming prissier and sexier 🍨👛🐈‍⬛˖ ࣪

❤︎ ྀི˖𓍢 my personal pinkprint to aligning with my princess agenda—style, mindset, and routines to embody my future self. as I pivot in life, this will be one of my final blog posts like this. i’m transitioning it off blogging and will now document everything in my video diary… 𐙚

🎀 self prioritization, boundaries, and independence - i come before anyone else. i have no children and my only commitment is to make myself happy.

🍨 shadow work - to reveal what has made me how i am (strengths, traumas, interests, fears), i’ve done so much reflecting on my triggers and responses to specific stimuli. it feels good to know that i’m getting to know myself. that says growth to me.

🎀 studying my birth chart - finding out how my placements, and which houses they’re in has really made my day to day interactions and experiences very insightful and fun to dissect.

🎀 so fab so glam lately - my vibe lately has been just g-l-a-m, glamorous. just oozing sex appeal and hyper femininity with a sophisticated twist. i can’t wait to document this on youtube.

🍨 bougie and sexy - black and satin have been a common theme for me. my aesthetic is naturally going in a very sultry direction along with animal prints, lace and diamanté detailing.

🎀 body mods - back dermal piercings, more ear piercings and super pretty tattoos, nothing too much just small and pretty embellishmentz!

🍨 fab color palette - brown, cream, soft pink, metallic accents (champagne gold, white gold), and leopard print. my everything.

🎀 gold n pink jewelry - this combo is so pretty on everything else so why wouldn’t be just as pretty on my personal adornments? ordered three gold and pink belly rings and i can’t want to mix the metals once my piercings heal.

🍨keeping a physical lookbook in my fashion diary - this year i’m not holding back. the looks are coming. the photos are coming. i want to document my fav looks, accessories, and details in real time. almost like personal portfolio.

🎀 sexy and grownifying my closet - investing in a luxurious, cohesive closet that says grown. gonna be using high heels and casual glamour to achieve this. the fabrics and cuts are extremely crucial too.

🍨 staple designer bags - if you know me you know i love designer purses. especially if they’re neutral colored and essential. i definitely plan on expanding my repertoire of bags.

🎀 customizing my wardrobe - i’m getting a sewing machine and i’m learning how to hotfix rhinestones to personalize and bedazzle anything i want to. i’m so so excited!

🍨 making my own jewelry - i’m so excited to talk about this! i’m making a kit of chains and threads along with beads and charms all in my color palette and i’m going to start popping out with so much custom made shit! body chains, waist beads, charm bracelets, just so exclusive + #prissy.

🎀 new makeup styles - been loving smoky eyes and black waterlines, overlining with a muted brown, lash clusters, rhinestones, and more sultry details.

🍨 interior lingerie - the goal is to have a boudoir that is just a sexy and alluring as my lingerie closet! sweet n sexy kitten! ❤︎︎

🎀 currently healing my gut - psyllium husk supplements, fiber, kombucha/prebiotic soda, chia seeds and an adequate amount of water have all become a part of my routine over the last month or so and i definitely feel different.

🍨 #prettiedup - bleach my hair, signature makeup routines, regular nail appointments (found a tech that i can rely on 🎀), korean skincare + african black soap, and anything else to boost my beauty.

🎀 got a personal trainer to maintain my “skinny bbl” look - i’m a tall girl with long legs and that with a tiny waist and round butt is so my look. currently training for it and i’m pretty happy so far. at this rate, by the end of march i’ll be at my goals.

🍨 building my vitamin and supplement routine - collagen, probiotics + prebiotics, maca, berberine, + some hum essentials.

🎀 my love of teas - cannot live without tea. it’s my favorite form of caffeine. and herbal teas always help me feel as if i’ve boosted my health. my favorite teas right now are green tea, matcha, and double spice chai. also love black, spearmint, and raspberry teas.

🍨 weekly digital detox - one day a week i go out of my way to avoid my phone. i simply rely on other things for entertainment, radio for music and try to interact with those around me.

🎀 hair extension wardrobe - tape ins in natural black and honey blonde, vixen sew ins with 30” bundles (i’m a tall girl so long hair to me is at least 26”)

🍨 cycle syncing - i’ve changed the way i eat depending on where i am in my menstrual cycle. i find my gut responds to the things i eat better. even with the time of day, being intentional with the way i live my life is so important to me now.

🎀 new personalized diet - high protein and low artificial sugar is pretty much what i’ve been following. what i typically eat in a day is berries, rice, oranges, lots of water, almond and peanut butter, etc. my fav sources of protein are grilled chicken, sushi, steak, salmon and eggs. of course i still like sweets they’re for sure few and far between.

🎀 trust in my intuition - it’s taken a while but i’m finally learning to trust myself. if my body is telling me to do something i do it, i don’t try to force what isn’t there, and i respect my mind by honoring the discerning abilities i was blessed with.

🍨 gratitude and thought reframing - so many things in my life changed for the better when i learned to flip my thoughts. in a glass half full fashion. it’s literally the law of assumption. i’m forever grateful for everyone and everything i have. and miss universe has only blessed me with more because i’m now so much more receptive.

🎀 no bull shit + not easily impressed - i literally have the shortest tolerance. i expect a certain standard of behavior from those that wish to be in my presence and this is because i give a certain level of care, consideration, authenticity and respect.

🍨 manifestation journal - my literal best friend. everything i write in my LOA journal comes true. i’m not exaggerating. i read it in the morning and tend to write in it before bed. i keep it right next to my bed along with some stickers and gel pens.

🎀 semipermanent beauty treatments - making appointments for lash lifts and brow microblading as we speak. also super interested in finding a great medspa in my area.

🍨 youtube #vloggingbabe🎀 - i finally made my long awaited comeback and i’ll actually be recording some of the things in this post on video. i love recording and editing. it feels like the best form of self expression to me right now! subscribe!

🎀 glam squad (esthetics, hair, nails) - i’m so anal about things being seamless and easy to remember. i like to go the same place for particular services and i’m determined to find a reliable hairstylist and esthetician that i can stay loyal to (i already have a bomb ass nail tech)

[fairygodsystem]

Do you have any system names for just the grouping that aren't system or collective?

We are really wanting a one worded collective name

♡ Alternatives to "system" or "collective" Master-list ♡

Association　　Assembly　　Aggregation　　Assemblage　　Assortment　　Array　　Alliance

Band　　Body　　Batch　　Battery　　Bunch　　Bundle　　Battalion　　Bracket　　Brigade

Class　　Club　　Chain　　Circle　　Crew　　Collection　　Cluster　　Clutch　　Clique　　Clump　　Clot　　Combine　　Conglomerate　　Congregation　　Crew　　Crowd　　Company　　Collaborative　　Communal　　Cooperative　　Common　　Corporation　　Compilation　　Collation　　Caboodle　　Convocation　　Cumulation　　Constellation　　Clan　　Consort　　Crop　　Coalition　　Classification　　Conspiracy　　Cabal　　Coven　　Corps

Division

Establishment　　Enterprise

Faction　　Function　　Formation　　Foundation　　Fellows　　Fellowship　　Family　　Force

Group　　Gathering　　Grade　　Gaggle　　Grouping　　Gild　　Guild　　Genus　　Generation

Herd　　Horde　　Hoard　　Heap　　Huddle　　Hodgepodge

Institute　　Institution

Lot　　League　　Legion　　Layout　　Lads

Mass　　Medley　　Mess　　Miscellany　　Mobilization　　Muster　　Mess　　Melt　　Mutual　　Mob

Number　　Network

Operation　　Outfit　　Order

Platoon　　Party　　Parcel　　Posse　　Phalanx　　Pack　　Personnel　　Pile

Round　　Ring

School　　Squad　　Squadron　　Set　　Species　　Syndicate　　Staff　　Stack　　Stock　　Suite

Team　　Troop　　Trust

Union

Variety

[wbbgetsmewetter]

PARTY 4 U

SYNOPSIS: i was hoping you would come through, i only threw this party 4 u

NOTES: wrote this on a whim right after the draft and was too scared to post it at the time and also took a break from tumblr. but HEYYY look i am back 😛

WARNINGS: rejection?, unrequited love

“no! no, that needs to be on the other side of the room,” you ordered the crowd, already feeling the weight of frustration settling in as you realised you were technically running late.

you had sacrificed the chance to be with paige as she got drafted, prioritizing her draft party above all else. yet, here you were, stuck in the eye of a chaotic storm. the decorators you hired seemed utterly lost, the caterers were chronically late, the lighting remained stubbornly dim, and the dj was spinning tracks that felt entirely out of place. as one of the servers passed by with a tray full of tequila shots, you seized two, knowing that if you didn’t relax in the next five minutes, you might just implode.

those two shots quickly multiplied, and you lost count after seven. while the tequila may have been a temporary relief, the venue was finally beginning to take shape. the energy started to shift as the music syncopated with the burgeoning excitement around you. then, a voice cut through the chatter, announcing that the draft was about to begin. everyone clustered around the projector, brimming with anticipation for cathy to deliver the news we all already knew.

“with the first round pick in the 2025 wnba draft, the dallas wings select: paige bueckers, university of connecticut.”

the crowd erupted into a cacophony of cheers, people jumping up and down, embracing one another. you stood frozen, tears welling in your eyes, as the camera followed paige’s every move. the first person she hugged was azzi, and you couldn’t shake the pang of longing—you wished that was you. stephanie, the event coordinator, broke your spell by enveloping you in a tight hug, her enthusiasm ringing in your ear. you managed a smile before quickly excusing yourself to the bathroom.

locking the door behind you, you leaned against it, chest heaving as emotions surged. a scream erupted from deep within you, fueled by the overwhelming sense of disappointment. you were supposed to be there, right alongside her—supporting her every step, not organizing this chaotic event filled with people who barely listened to you. your hair was a tangled mess, your makeup nonexistent, and let’s not even get started on your outfit, which resembled pajamas more than anything party-worthy.

you had no idea how much time slipped away while you cried in that bathroom, completely losing track of everything until stephanie's concerned knocking broke through your haze. you hastily wiped away your tears, attempting to restore some semblance of composure before finally opening the door with a facade of a bright smile.

an hour passed in a blur, and the final touches of the setup were underway. you stood back, admiring the fruits of your labor, hoping paige would appreciate your vision as much as you did. stephanie sidled up next to you, her face aglow with excitement. “doesn’t it just look amazing?” she gushed. you nodded in silence, captivated by your handiwork.

“shouldn’t you... go get ready?” she suggested, her gaze shifting toward the clock. “paige is doing pressers right now and could be here any minute.”

your heart sank at her words; you had completely lost track of time. only an hour and a half left to dash to the hotel, get ready, and return before the guest of honor arrived.

you rushed out of the room, frantically dialing the designated driver for the week. the ride to the hotel felt agonizingly long as you remained on the phone with brittany, hoping she had set aside your outfit and that people were still available to work on your hair and makeup.

when the seemingly endless ride finally came to a halt as the driver pulled up to the hotel entrance, you rushed out, grabbing your belongings with urgency, making sure you had your phone and key card at the ready. standing impatiently in front of the elevator, the only thought racing through your mind was how you were going to juggle hair, makeup, and wardrobe simultaneously while still leaving the room looking absolutely stunning.

once you stepped into the hotel room, chaos greeted you. dresses lay strewn across the floor, accessories cluttered every available surface, and polaroids were scattered across the bed. most of the photos featured paige and azzi, with a few others including their teammates. a wave of jealousy washed over you as you picked up one of the pictures; it captured an intimate moment between them, their hands tangled together in a way that felt far too familiar.

“great! you’re here! what are you doing just standing there? come on, we don’t have much time!” the makeup artist called out from the bathroom, snapping you out of your daze. you stumbled your way across the room, tripping over the mess in your path.

after what felt like an eternity, you were finally ready. your outfit was a dazzling blend of what both paige and azzi had chosen—a fitted white mini dress adorned with shimmering rhinestones and a plunging neckline that highlighted your features. your hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail, giving you a polished appearance. a deep sigh of relief escaped your lips as you took in your reflection, feeling a surge of confidence. the bedazzled watch on your wrist sparkled as you glanced at the time, only to be interrupted by a notification on your phone. it was brittany, asking where you were; everyone was already at the draft party, and you were missing in action.

panic quickly set in again as you fumbled to secure your strappy heels while making your way out the door, racing down to the lobby and then back downstairs.

luckily, this time the car was waiting for you instead of the other way around. just when you thought things were finally going your way, traffic hit like a wall, leaving you stuck in the never-ending congestion of new york while your friends reveled in the festivities you had painstakingly planned.

helplessly, you sat in the car, scrolling through everyone’s instagram and snapchat stories from the event. azzi had sent you a couple of messages, including voice notes filled with concern for your whereabouts. that made you feel even worse; you had spent the entire day harboring resentment toward her, all while she genuinely wished for you to be beside her and the others, celebrating paige’s momentous achievement.

tears began to well in your eyes, so you set your phone aside and focused on the ceiling of the car, hoping your eyes would absorb the excess moisture. after what felt like an eternity, the cadillac finally pulled into the parking lot of the venue you had rented out for the evening. yet excitement eluded you; this day had only left a trail of disappointments in its wake. still, you managed to muster a smile, determined to put on a brave face.

you finally made it inside, the music blasting through the speakers a physical force propelling people into a frenzy of bouncing bodies. you desperately scanned the crowd, searching for paige. the last time you'd seen her was this morning, when the world had barely started turning and neither of you were functioning properly. but she was nowhere to be found.

after a while, you gave up the search and decided to surrender. letting yourself go, you joined kk, ice, and morgan on the dance floor. their moves were a chaotic blur of energy, a reckless dance-off you knew would result in cringe-worthy social media posts tomorrow morning. but that was a concern for hangover you; tonight you were going to let loose. more shots kept coming, and at some point you had settled into a booth, your usual type A, responsible personality had vanished as you giggled at every word you heard. soon, the shots and cocktails caught up to you, and you felt the urge to pee. you excused yourself to the bathroom.

as you carefully studied your steps, hoping not to trip and faceplant, you spotted her. or rather, them. paige and azzi were snuggled up in a corner, their hands all over each other. they too had blurred out the crowd the couple seemingly in their own world. 

your heart skipped a beat as you stood frozen, the noise of the prty fading into a hollow echo. 

paige’s laughter rang out, bright and infectious as azzi whispered something into her ear. the way they leaned into each other, sharing secrets and inside jokes, made the jealousy rise like a bitter tide in your throat. you felt the familiar ache of longing, overwhelmed by the knowledge that you were just a spectator to their little bubble. 

you blinked back the sting in your eyes, forcing a breath past the lump lodged in your throat. everything inside you screamed to look away, to retreat into the safety of ignorance. but your body betrayed you, keeping you rooted in place, caught in the rawness of it all.

the change in songs snapped you out of your daze. 

this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. 

you threw this party for her. 

the heavy bass melted into a glittering, synthy beat as the next song bled through the speakers.

“only threw this party for you…”

your head snapped to the dj booth instinctively, recognizing the opening notes of party 4 u — the very song you had requested weeks ago for this exact moment. it was supposed to play when paige arrived, when you would have wrapped her up in a hug and whispered congratulations into her ear, hearts beating in tandem under the soft pulse of the lights.

instead, you stood alone at the edge of the dance floor, clutching your drink like a lifeline, your heart aching so loudly it drowned out the music.

“i was hopin' you'd come through…”

your body swayed, but it wasn't dancing — it was the tequila, the exhaustion, the sheer weight of the night tilting the room. you laughed bitterly under your breath, blinking up at the strobe lights like they might burn the sadness right out of you.

around you, the crowd twisted and spun in slow motion, their faces blurring into streaks of neon and glitter.

“i just wanted you to show up…”

your vision snagged on a familiar blonde head weaving through the bodies. paige.

she was searching. eyes darting, scanning — frantic in a way you hadn’t expected.

for a second, your heart lifted, naive and desperate. but then you saw azzi trailing behind her, hand brushing lightly at the small of her back, guiding her through the crowd.

whatever fragile hope you had splintered in two.

you turned before she could spot you, slipping past a group of people taking selfies, ignoring the way your head spun from the sudden movement. you pushed open the door to the balcony, gulping down the cold, crisp air like it might erase the taste of regret on your tongue.

the night outside was quieter, but not enough to drown out the music seeping through the walls. you leaned heavily against the railing, head bowed, letting the tears drip onto your dress, unnoticed under the low, purple glow of the city lights.

inside, party 4 u played on, the beat shimmering like shattered glass.

and for the first time that night, you allowed yourself to admit it: this party wasn’t really for paige. it was for you. for the part of you that still believed there was an us to celebrate.

k. bye - tini

[snowseasonmademe]

Wow! Guardati!

word count: 6,003

warning ‼️: smut. kind of fulffy at the end.

pairing: lewis hamilton x black female reader

summary: an encounter with an extra flirty journalist results in the expansion of your family

tag list: @sucredreamer @irishmanwhore @dexastres @coffeevacation @goldenngt @btslover117 @kennaskorner

@leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro

@jessnotwiththemess @thepointlessideas

@kjlovesbigwilo

note: let’s act like lewis has a documentary coming out okay? just for the storyline! anyway, here’s a cute little something for my lewis girls :) i really enjoyed the end of this and i hope you all like it! next is an aurélien fic, then a wilo fic and then an alejandro fic :) as always, enjoy and tell me what you think!

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

The atmosphere buzzed with elegance, anticipation, and a kind of glamour that could only be conjured under the Italian moonlight. Florence’s old-world beauty was the perfect backdrop for a night like this—timeless, opulent, and humming with flashbulbs. The red carpet shimmered under the weight of the moment. Lewis’ latest passion project, F1, was premiering tonight, and the turnout had been nothing short of cinematic. Everywhere you turned were tuxedos and gowns, laughter softened by champagne bubbles, camera lenses blinking like stars just inches from your face.

And through all the spectacle, Lewis hadn’t let go of you once.

You were still high on love—on the marriage, on the promise of forever. Five months into your union and it still felt like you were floating, like each morning you woke up next to him was the start of something new. He kept you close the entire night, fingers tracing soft, reassuring lines over the fabric at your waist, pulling you in like you were the anchor in the sea of lights and attention. His hand never strayed from you—always grounded, always present. There was a reverence to the way he held you, like you were both part of the show and entirely above it.

He looked stunning, of course. That effortless Lewis Hamilton kind of stunning—tailored black tux with crisp lapels, the soft glint of jewelry against his skin, and that signature calm that made the loudest rooms feel intimate. But tonight, it wasn’t just about the way he looked. It was about the pride in his eyes. His movie. His vision. His voice finally made cinematic.

And you… you were the dream incarnate beside him.

Your dress was bold—a strapless red that kissed your curves in all the right places, tailored within a breath of scandal but wrapped in pure class. It shimmered under the flash of every camera, the neckline a delicate frame to your collarbones and shoulders, the hem grazing just the right amount of leg when you walked. You were red wine in silk. Velvet flame. He hadn’t stopped staring at you since you stepped out of the car, his eyes lingering like a man deeply, wildly in love.

The photographers had eaten it up. Posing together, Lewis’ hand steady on your waist, your smiles in sync—it was art, really. The kind of love that makes even the most jaded paparazzi pause behind the lens. After the photos, it was time to make the rounds—answer questions, shake hands, show face. Lewis kept his hand locked with yours as he guided you from one cluster of journalists to the next, answering questions about the movie, the creative process, his transition into film.

And, of course, about marriage.

“She’s been incredible,” he said more than once, nodding toward you with the kind of smile that made your stomach flutter. “Honestly, I don’t know how I did any of this without her.”

You tried to stay quiet in the background, but Lewis made sure you were never just an accessory. His answers were laced with love, and his glances in your direction were nothing short of devout. The glimmer of your wedding rings caught the light more than once.

It had been smooth sailing—until you approached him.

The flirty journalist.

He was standing at the end of a velvet rope, credentials swinging from his neck, mic already raised before you even reached him. Tall, tan, and smug with confidence, he had sun-kissed skin and chestnut curls that framed a chiseled face. His hazel eyes sparkled with something cocky, like he was more interested in the fantasy than the facts. His suit was sharp, but his smile was sharper.

As soon as you and Lewis stepped up, he zeroed in on you.

“Wow, guardati!” (Wow! look at you!) he said with a flirtatious grin, eyes unapologetically raking over your silhouette. “Mrs. Hamilton, you look absolutely gorgeous tonight. Are you enjoying yourself?”

You felt the weight of the attention immediately, felt it coat your skin like heat. But your years beside Lewis—your years of practice with poise—had trained you well. You didn’t falter. You smiled, nodded, poised like a diamond. You were used to the attention, used to being watched, admired, and occasionally tested. But something about this man’s tone felt a little too eager, a little too personal for the setting.

Still, you knew the drill: smile, thank him, and redirect. It wasn’t the first time you’d had to politely deflect on red carpets.

But before you could respond, Lewis stepped in.

His voice was smooth, but the tension in his jaw was subtle and unmistakable. “She does look absolutely stunning tonight, doesn’t she?” he said, eyes fixed on the journalist like a man quietly staking a claim. His hand squeezed your waist, fingers a little firmer now, pulling you ever so slightly closer to him.

The message was clear. Crystal.

You smiled through it, gently brushing a loose curl away from your face, giving the camera a glimpse of your glistening wedding stack. “I’m honored to be here with my husband,” you said, deliberately drawing out the last word like honey on your tongue. “He’s worked so hard on this project. I’ve seen the hours, the passion. I’m just so proud he finally gets to share it with the world.”

Your voice was calm, collected, elegant. But you didn’t miss the way the journalist’s eyes flicked back to your neckline, or the way Lewis stiffened ever so slightly beside you.

“And Lewis,” the man continued, clearly unfazed by the shift in energy—or maybe just too bold to care, “you’re looking sharp as ever. Marriage suits you. Has Y/N been helping with the wardrobe lately?”

Lewis didn’t miss a beat. He smiled—tight, amused, challenging.

“She actually picked out all my jewelry tonight,” he said, holding up both hands to show off the glint of his watch and the rings that adorned his fingers. His wedding band sparkled the brightest.

“She makes great fashion choices,” the journalist added, casting another glance your way—lingering, greedy.

And that was it.

That was the moment Lewis’ patience ran out.

He tilted his head slightly, a sharp motion almost too subtle to catch. His eyes narrowed just enough to shift the air between them. The sweetness in his smile dissolved into something darker, more pointed.

“Did you wanna marry her too, or—?”

The question was tossed like a blade disguised as a joke. Your lips twitched, stifling a laugh as your gaze dropped to the carpet for a moment. You could feel the heat blooming at your cheeks—part embarrassment, part delight.

The journalist blinked. “No, no,” he stammered, taken off guard but trying to recover, “she just looks so beautiful, I can’t help—”

“You are not her type” Lewis cut in smoothly, voice low and final. “Enjoy the movie man.”

And just like that, he gently guided you away, a protective hand on the small of your back, shielding you with the strength of someone who knew exactly what he had—and refused to let anyone else forget it.

You kept a soft smile on your face as you walked off the red carpet, the sound of your heels echoing lightly on the stone steps beneath you. Lewis’ hand remained steady at the small of your back, guiding you with that same mix of intention and tenderness that always made you feel like the only woman in the world. The flashes were still going off, camera bulbs catching the sharp lines of his jaw, the glossy sheen of your lips, the way your bodies curved toward each other like you were made to fit—like he belonged nowhere else but beside you.

But even as you kept your composure, your mind was still spinning a little. That journalist. The way he looked at you, the audacity in his smile, the not-so-subtle flirtation that slipped between his words like smoke. It wasn’t your first time being flirted with in front of Lewis—but this had felt different. Bold. Purposeful.

Still, you didn’t let it show. You walked gracefully back into the venue, back through the velvet-lined corridor that smelled faintly of fresh paint and expensive perfume. His fingers twitched once at your waist but stayed respectful, possessive only in the way he tilted his body just enough to keep you between him and the wall.

Only once you were in the elevator did you allow yourself to break the silence. The doors glided shut with a soft chime, cutting you off from the chaos behind you. The moment felt suspended, like the city was holding its breath.

You giggled, the sound light, teasing, deliberately casual. “Was he actually okay?” you asked, tilting your face toward him, your cheek resting briefly against his arm. “That was kinda crazy babe.”

Lewis didn’t answer right away. He inhaled, jaw clenched just slightly before his shoulders dropped and his voice came out low and steady.

“He must’ve lost his mind,” he muttered. “That guy’s fuckin’ crazy. Who talks like that to someone’s wife? On camera?”

You smiled again, tracing little circles against the fabric of his sleeve with your thumb. “He was kind of cute though.”

He turned his head slowly to look at you, mouth parting as if to say something, but what came out was laughter. Deep, amused, slightly exasperated.

“Y/N, don’t joke like that,” he said with a playful warning in his voice. “Even if you did find him cute—which I know you didn’t—he can’t dress, and he smells like pepper. Like, full-on crushed black peppercorns. Who wears powder yellow to a movie premiere? In linen? Is it 1973?”

Your laughter burst out before you could stop it, sharp and bright in the small space of the elevator. “You’re so mean”

He smirked, rolling his eyes. “Nah. I just have taste. Can’t have my wife being hit on by a man dressed like a lost Easter egg.”

You leaned into his side and sighed, smiling to yourself. You could feel his arm shift as he brought his hand up to your waist again, this time resting his fingers just beneath your ribs. There was a comfort in it—protective, proud, and just the tiniest bit possessive. But not in the way that smothered. No, this was different. He was reminding you that he was here, that you were his, and that anyone with eyes could see how lucky he was.

~~~~~~

The rest of the night unfolded in golden, surreal fragments.

The lights in the screening room dimmed slowly, and the room fell into a silence that was reverent. The movie began without any grand title cards or booming score. Just the hum of an engine, the sound of breath through a helmet, the stillness before the chaos.

You saw the world through Lewis’ eyes—literally. The camera moved like a body. Like his body. You were pulled into the cockpit, thrown into corners, accelerating, braking, dodging raindrops and grit, hearing radio chatter and sudden silence. It was breathtaking. Terrifying. Intimate.

Every flick of the steering wheel was a decision. Every race was a war. And beneath it all, you could feel the unrelenting pressure—the constant negotiation between perfection and catastrophe.

And then came the personal parts.

The montages of his childhood. Footage of him karting. Shaky home videos with his father. Archive clips of headlines that vilified him, commentators dismissing him, critics dissecting his every move.

You held your breath during those moments.

Lewis didn’t move beside you. His posture stayed the same, but you saw the tension in the set of his jaw. The way his hand tightened slightly around yours as a clip played of a journalist calling him “too flashy,” “too emotional,” “too political.”

And then came the joy. His first win. His championships. The scenes of him working with his engineers, pushing his team to be better, standing at the front of protests, speaking up when everyone else stayed silent.

By the end of the film, you weren’t just emotional—you were transformed.

You turned to look at him as the credits rolled. There was a stillness in his face, but his eyes were soft. Brighter than they had been all night.

“I’m so proud of you,” you whispered, your fingers tracing the back of his hand.

He didn’t say anything right away. He just leaned over and kissed your temple, long and slow, breathing you in like you were the only safe place in the world.

~~~~~~

Later, you were home.

The bathroom light spilled out across the marble tile, casting a soft glow that made your skin look warm and golden. You were standing in front of the mirror, unclasping your earrings with a tired sort of grace. Your feet ached, your body was starting to slow, but you still looked stunning—red gown hugging your curves, lip gloss smudged just enough to be human.

You heard him before you felt him—his bare feet on the tile, the soft rustle of his jacket hitting the armchair. Then his arms wrapped around your waist, his hands spreading wide over your stomach as he pulled you back into him. His lips found the slope of your back, trailing kisses up your spine. Gentle. Thoughtful.

“I loved the movie baby,” you murmured, your eyes meeting his reflection in the mirror. “I know I already said it, but… it was so good. I think—” you yawned mid-sentence, covering your mouth—“I think I wanna watch it again tomorrow.”

He chuckled, the sound low in your ear. “We can watch it again. Maybe we’ll invite Mr. Wife Stealer too.”

You laughed, turning in his arms and walking slowly to the edge of the bathtub, sitting with a little sigh.

“Can you take my shoes off?” you asked, looking at him through tired lashes.

He raised a brow as he followed you over and knelt, one knee touching the cool tile. “Babe, I already said yes,” you said, teasing. “Now can you take off my shoes?”

You smiled and let your head fall back as he unstrapped your heels one by one, his touch reverent. When the first one came off, he cradled your foot in his palm and began to massage it slowly, pressing into the arch like he’d done it a thousand times before. Your mouth fell open in a quiet moan of relief.

“This color makes you look really sexy” he murmured. “If I’d known this was what Ferrari red did to me, I would’ve signed the contract years ago.”

You opened your eyes and looked down at him, his face bathed in the amber light, devotion etched into every line. He moved to the other foot, giving it the same care, same attention.

Your voice came softly. “Do you think he would’ve still flirted if I was pregnant?”

He paused, just briefly. Met your eyes.

“I mean… unless he’s secretly from a scouser, probably not,” he said finally. “But clearly we never know. I would think the big ass ring on your hand would be enough.”

You pulled your foot from his hand gently and shifted, rising up to straddle his knee. He leaned back slightly, one hand instinctively catching your waist.

“It’s not too soon for kids, right?” you asked, fingering the open collar of his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin just beneath. “I know you said you wanted to wait until you retire, but…” you trailed off, eyes searching his face, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want another cute Italian journalist flirting with me.”

Lewis looked at you for a long moment. Then he smiled—slow, certain.

“I wouldn’t say it’s too soon,” he murmured, brushing your cheek with the back of his hand. “We’re gonna be married forever. Might as well get started now.”

You didn’t say anything. Just smiled, slow and private, like you’d just made up your mind about something important.

Then, wordlessly, you stood and reached for his hand.

He took it.

You led him to the bedroom.

The room was dim—near dark. Only one candle burned in the far corner of the room, a slim, flickering flame perched on the mantel above the fireplace. Its soft golden light cast long shadows across the walls, dancing over the sheets, painting you both in warm amber and deep, stretching shadows. It smelled faintly of bergamot and wax. Quiet. Private. Tranquil.

Lewis reached for you with both hands and pulled you into him like he couldn’t bear even a sliver of distance. The kiss was immediate—no teasing, no gentle buildup. Full-bodied. Deep. Tongue and breath and heat. His mouth moved over yours with a hunger that felt old and familiar, but new somehow too. Urgent and tender all at once.

As you kissed, his hands moved. Purposeful, but never rushed. He undressed you both right there—standing in the center of the room like no one had ever taught him patience but you. His shoes came off first. Then your gown, sliding down your body in one red whisper. His socks, his belt. His pants pooled around his ankles. Your bra, unhooked with a single snap of his fingers. His shirts—both layers—peeled away to reveal warm, waiting skin. His boxers. And finally, your panties. Every layer felt like it mattered. Like a ritual. A vow.

He walked backward toward the bed, never once breaking the kiss. He held your face, your jaw, your shoulders, like you might disappear if he didn’t touch enough of you. Your knees bumped into the mattress, and before you could lower yourself, he pulled you into his chest and let both your bodies fall together. The bed caught you, the sheets cool beneath your backs, and in one fluid motion, he flipped you over—settling himself above you, kneeling between your thighs.

He wasted no time. His lips descended to your throat, and his mouth opened against your skin. He kissed, then sucked—soft at first, then harder, then slow again—leaving deep bruises that bloomed like ink beneath your skin. He moved lower. Your collarbones, your chest. He took his time with your breasts, kissing them like they deserved worship, like they were speaking a language only he could understand. His mouth was soft and warm, and his toy—already thick and lengthening—rested against your thigh. It twitched when you gasped. Hardened when your hands found his hair and tangled, fingers tightening with every graze of his tongue.

You could feel how aroused he was. Not just in his body, but in his intention. Every breath, every pause, every pass of his thumb over your hip bones screamed one thing: I want to get you pregnant tonight. And not by accident. By design.

He looked at you like he was etching you into his memory. Not the kind that fades—but the kind you revisit every night before sleep. He wanted you to remember this too. So when your belly was swollen and your feet were sore and you felt like a stranger in your own body, you’d be able to close your eyes and remember this moment: the way he made you feel like a goddess while planting something inside you that would change your life forever.

You ground your hips against him, needy, aching, seeking relief. His mouth curved against your stomach as he kissed down your torso, slow and indulgent.

“Relax baby,” he whispered against your skin. “I’ll give you what you want.”

The way he said it—low, sure, almost reverent—made your toes curl.

He kept kissing lower. Over your navel, down the soft skin of your pelvis. Then, finally, he reached your center and didn’t hesitate. He spread your thighs wide, his hands anchoring your hips like he needed them open. Needed them generous. Needed you to be his in this way.

And then he devoured you.

His tongue moved in slow, languid strokes—no rush, no teasing. Just firm, unbroken pressure that melted your spine and made your mouth fall open. He licked you with full attention, full intention. And when he sucked—low, soft, rhythmic—you whimpered, hand flying to the back of his head. His braids slipped between your fingers like silk. He hummed against your clit, the vibration thrumming through you like music.

One hand left your hip and slipped down—he pressed a single finger into you, deep and unhurried. You gasped. It curled, then stroked, then curled again. Right against the spot that made your legs tremble.

He never broke his pattern. Mouth on your clit. Finger inside you. Controlled. Certain.

“Lewis,” you whispered, breath coming fast. “Oh—Lewis, you’re gonna make me cum.”

Still, he didn’t stop. He didn’t even pause. That same pace, same pull, same promise.

And when you came—when your body finally gave in and clenched around his hand—he groaned against you like he was the one being undone. You shook beneath him, voice catching, thighs closing around his head as if trying to keep him there. You didn’t mean to. It was instinct. Desire. Need.

He didn’t let up until you sagged into the sheets, boneless and dazed.

And all he could think, as he looked up at you—eyes heavy, lips glistening, chin wet with your release—was I can’t wait for her to cum on my dick like that.

He came back up to your face slowly, like a man drunk on something sacred. His lips were soft, parted and glistening. His chin slick with the mess he made of you, your sweetness still clinging to his skin. He smelled like you now—warm and musky, earthy and raw, the scent of sex thick between your bodies.

Your chest rose and fell, trying to catch the breath he’d already stolen. You let out a soft laugh, your fingers curling loosely around his shoulders. “This is why your beard’s ginger.”

He smiled, the corner of his mouth twitching upward before it spread across his face, wide and boyish. A little smug. But affectionate.

“I wouldn’t care if your pussy dyed my beard green,” he said, voice gravel-thick and low. “I’d still eat you.”

And then—before you could respond—his mouth was on yours again, like the words had only been a bridge back to your lips. He kissed you like he missed you. Like he’d been gone for days. Like tasting you wasn’t enough—he needed you under his tongue, around his dick, under his weight, everywhere.

He kissed you until your lips were sore. Until your thighs started to tremble again. Until your breath came in shallow gasps.

His mouth trailed down from your lips to your jaw, your throat, your collarbone. Then back up. He sucked at the edge of your bottom lip again before dragging it slowly between his teeth. His tongue flicked behind your earlobe, then his teeth grazed it—gently, then not. You whimpered, hips shifting on instinct as he ground his length against your clit. Slow. Deliberate. Unrelenting.

The weight of his dick pressing into your center was torture. Your body jolted, sensitive and swollen. And he knew what he was doing. He ground against you like he was memorizing your pulse, like he was setting it.

Your fingers curled into his back. “I can’t wait any longer,” you breathed. “Put it in, baby. Please. I need it.”

He lifted his head, eyes dark with desire. “You need it?” he asked, as if confirming. Then he smiled again—this time with hunger.

And he gave you what you wanted.

He reached down, letting your hand guide him. You both looked down between your bodies to where you held him—thick, hard, veined and leaking. He was already ready. More than ready. He pressed the flushed head of his dick against your entrance and slid inside with one, slow, devastating stroke.

He didn’t stop until he was all the way in. Until his hips were flush with yours and your pussy was wrapped around him like a vise.

A gasp tore from your throat. Your hands flew to his arms. You were full. Stretched in every direction. But it felt so good. So right.

He dropped his head into the crook of your neck, breathing hard, moaning low against your skin. “Fuuuck,” he groaned, like the heat of you melted something inside him. He stayed buried there for a moment, barely moving, like he wanted to memorize this exact feeling—of being surrounded, held, welcomed.

You were trembling already.

“Give it to me, Lewis,” you whispered, voice shaking. “Put a baby in me. Right now.”

That pulled a growl from his chest.

He started to move. Slow and smooth. His hips rolled forward and back with perfect control. Like a wave. Dragging the thick length of him along every sensitive inch inside you.

Your mouth fell open. Your hands slid up to cradle his face, making him look at you. You wanted to watch him fuck you. Wanted to see what he looked like inside you, lost in you.

His eyes were glassy and dark, and he didn’t look away.

Your body was making the most obscene wet sounds—loud and raw and needy. Every stroke of him was met with a squelch of your arousal, and it only turned you on more.

“I fuckin’ love that sound,” he said, never breaking eye contact. “Fuck.”

You whimpered when his fingers found your breast. He rolled your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, soft at first, then harder, pinching until your back arched. “Mmmm yes,” you moaned, voice high and stretched.

His forehead rested against yours, and for a second, it felt like you were floating. Drifting in the heat of each other’s breath.

Then he paused—only long enough to reach beneath you and slide a pillow under your hips.

The second he started again, you felt the difference.

The angle changed everything. He was right there now, hitting your spot again and again. Slow and steady, but deep and hard. Every thrust made you cry out, body jerking.

“Ohhhhhh my God, Lewis!” you shouted, nails digging into his arms.

The slap of his skin against yours echoed in the room—wet and urgent, a rhythm that stole your thoughts.

You were gone.

He was breathing hard now, muttering curses into your shoulder. “Can’t believe how wet you are for me…”

He shifted again, and suddenly your leg was higher on his shoulder, bent back nearly to your chest. He gripped your thigh with one hand, the other dropping to your throat.

He was hitting your g spot.

Dead on. Over and over.

Hard and slow. Just how you liked it.

His fingers wrapped around your neck—tight enough to hold, soft enough not to hurt.

“You want me to get you pregnant baby? Huh?” he asked, breath fanning over your face. “You have cum for me first. I can only get you pregnant if you cum for me.”

His voice was laced with heat and command.

He felt it.

And he fucked you harder.

The room blurred. You couldn’t hear your own screams. You only felt him. Felt how his dick dragged against every sensitive part of you. How his fingers squeezed just enough to keep you open, gasping, eyes locked on his.

Then it hit, your body obeyed.

Your orgasm rushed toward you like a freight train. Your eyes widened. Your thighs started to shake.

You came with a cry that scraped your throat raw, body convulsing as your walls clamped down around him. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. You only felt the pleasure explode and ripple through you like fire.

“Fuck, that’s it—fuck!” he growled, fucking you through it, his own breath falling apart.

His pace stuttered. You felt his legs tense, his rhythm grow erratic.

With the last thread of strength, you grabbed his face, eyes wide and desperate. “Give it to me, Lewis pleaaassee” you begged. “Cum inside me. Please. Give me a baby.”

That pushed him over.

He moaned loud—raw and unrestrained—and slammed into you with a final, bone-deep thrust.

And he came.

You felt it. Hot. Deep. Endless.

You could feel how much more he gave you this time—thick ropes of him spilling into you, pulsing with every twitch of his dick. Your body opened up to him, holding every drop.

He stayed like that, buried inside, chest heaving against yours. Then he collapsed fully, his body resting on top of you. Heavy and solid. Safe.

You kissed his temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. Still grinding gently, still chasing the feeling.

He chuckled, eyes still closed. “Give me five minutes, baby,” he murmured. “We’ll go again in a minute.”

And he kept his word.

He fucked you everywhere.

On the carpet beside the bed, your legs over his shoulders again as he whispered filthy things into your ear.

In the closet, with one of your dresses still hanging behind you, his fingers dug into your hips while you bit down on his shoulder to keep from screaming.

In the hallway, where he took you standing up, pressed against the wall, his hand covering your mouth as you whimpered.

In the foyer, bent over the console table, your hands flat against the glass while he drove into you from behind.

In the kitchen, on the cold marble counter, where your back arched and your legs shook as he licked your nipples and fucked you slow.

In the living room, on the couch, on the floor, on top of the throw pillows.

And finally, against the living room window. His hands gripping your waist, your breath fogging the glass, the night pressing in around you like a curtain. No one could see. But it wouldn’t have mattered.

By the end of it, your mind was blank.

Your body wrecked.

Your legs barely working.

But you knew. You felt it deep in your core, heavy and full and certain.

This pregnancy only needed one try.

And tonight had been it.

You were pregnant.

~~~~~~

Six months later:

November. The São Paulo Grand Prix.

The sky above Interlagos was a wide, searing blue, streaked with the barest wisps of clouds. The sun was high and golden, baking the asphalt and flooding every corner of the paddock with a kind of electric heat. The Brazilian crowd was still roaring, their cheers echoing long after the checkered flag had waved. Flags flew, champagne glistened in the air, and camera flashes lit the pit lane like tiny bolts of lightning.

And there you were.

Plump. Glowing. Radiant in a way that stopped people mid-sentence.

Six months pregnant.

Your belly rounded out the silk of your dress, soft and prominent beneath the hand you kept cradled over it—like a natural extension of your body, like you were made to carry this baby. The swell of your breasts pushed against the neckline of your dress, full and sensitive. Your skin was dewy, warm, bronzed by the sun and made even more vibrant by the joy in your face. Your lips were painted a soft, glossy pink, your edges laid, curls pinned back with a silver clip that glittered when it caught the light.

You looked exactly like what you were—loved. Wanted. Cherished beyond measure.

The day couldn’t have gone better. Lewis had taken pole position yesterday and sealed it today with a win so commanding it had people whispering about vintage Hamilton magic. He climbed out of the car with his arms raised, fists clenched in triumph, confetti in his hair, champagne in his mouth, and the first thing he’d done was point toward you.

The cameras caught it. You, smiling from the edge of the crowd, your hand pressed to your stomach. Your other hand lifted in a small wave, tears in your eyes, unable to stop grinning.

That was how the world found out.

A baby.

His baby.

You’d waited six months. Not out of secrecy, but because it was yours first. Something sacred and quiet, just for the two of you. After that night—the one that changed everything—you’d known right away. You felt it the next morning in the way your body ached, in the way your insides felt different. Like something had taken root.

But just to be sure, you and Lewis kept trying. Again. And again. And again. For four weeks straight. He couldn’t keep his hands off you. Morning, afternoon, middle of the night. In the shower. In the car. In the kitchen. He was a man on a mission, and the mission was getting you pregnant.

You laughed now, remembering the look on his face the morning the test turned positive. That glassy, soft-eyed smile. That whispered, “I knew it.” The way he’d kissed your stomach for fifteen straight minutes, whispering things to it like it could already hear him.

He hadn’t stopped kissing you since.

And now—here you were. Walking through the paddock hand in hand with your husband. Husband. The word still made your heart race.

His fingers were laced with yours, thumb brushing the back of your hand every few seconds like he couldn’t help it. He was still in his race suit, peeled down to his waist, fireproof shirt clinging to his skin, hair damp from champagne and sweat. The gold chain at his neck caught the light. He wore his win like it was stitched into his skin. But more than that, he wore you.

He didn’t let go of your hand once.

People kept stopping to congratulate you—soft smiles, gentle hugs, nods of admiration. Engineers, journalists, even rival drivers. Some offered a light touch to your arm, others beamed at Lewis and shook his hand with firm, proud grips. Everyone seemed to feel the magic between you. The way your hand never left your belly. The way Lewis kept stealing glances at it. At you.

“Baby’s first race win,” someone joked.

Lewis grinned. “First of many.”

Your steps slowed as you walked past the Mercedes garage. The air shifted slightly. You felt it before you saw him.

The journalist.

The one from that red carpet in Italy. Young. Handsome. The same dark eyes. The same sharp jaw. He was standing beside the pit wall, notebook in hand, headset slung low around his neck. This time he didn’t wear a smirk. No cocky tilt to his chin. No hungry eyes trailing over your frame.

He looked at you. Just once.

And you looked back.

Not with disdain. Not even with warning. Just a soft, knowing smile. The kind that said: You could never have handled me. Not like he does.

And maybe he understood that now. Maybe that’s why he didn’t smile back—just lowered his head in a respectful nod.

Lewis saw the whole thing.

And the way his jaw ticked made you tighten your grip on his hand, thumb tracing soothing circles into the back of it.

You leaned over and whispered, “Relax. He learned his lesson.”

Lewis didn’t respond right away. He just slid his arm around your waist, slow and possessive, resting his palm flat across the curve of your belly. His thumb stroked the side of it like he was drawing a boundary.

“He better have,” he muttered, mouth brushing your temple. “Next time he so much as thinks about you, I’ll remind him whose last name you’re carrying.”

You smiled and turned into his chest, letting the sound of the paddock blur around you. The crowd. The engines. The hum of celebration. None of it mattered.

He kissed the top of your head, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. “You hungry?”

“For you or for food?” you teased, and he groaned softly against your ear.

“Both,” he said, and you could hear the smirk in his voice. “But I’ll feed you first.”

He helped you into the hospitality suite, kept one hand on your lower back the whole time like he was guiding royalty. You knew once the sun dipped and the sky turned dusky and rose-tinted, he’d take you back to the hotel. Strip you down slowly. Kiss every stretch mark, every swollen curve. Run his lips along your belly and whisper promises against the skin.

Because even after the win, after the podium, after the cheers—

You were his prize.

And he was yours.

Forever.

[eden031]

First Meetings

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10

Pairings: Jack Abbot x intern!f!reader

Warnings: none

Summary: Epilogue

A/N: So this will be the last chapter of ‚First meetings‘ and it somehow feels very bitter sweet to post this. I will be making a masterlist soon in which the AO3 Link for the story will also be added. I wanted to thank everyone that followed this story and gave me such wonderful support. More Jack Abbot and Robby fics are in the making, though I might also post other content from time to time. My biggest goal at the moment is to finish the second part of ‚Sweet boy‘ and publish my contribution to the ADAD25 challange! I hope you all have an amazing day and lots of love from me <3

The ED was bustling with life, people running around, calling out to one another. She wasn’t sure what possessed her to agree to join the day shift again, even if it was only for three months, taking over for Collins who was on maternity leave. Looking around she saw a cluster of med students and two interns, a small smile on her lips as she thought about the fact that she had been in the same spot almost six years ago now. The interns, two young men, both tall and broad shouldered, they almost had a certain kind of frat boy way about them. Glancing around she saw Robby standing beside one of the med students, talking to her in a soft tone. Wearing a small smile she approached the senior attending carefully, knowing that he would want to talk to her before the shift started.

“Hey,” Robby spotted her, giving her a gentle smile, “Thanks for stepping up,” he half hugged her as she patted his back.

“Of course, Robby,” she smiled at him, their relationship had become more familiar since she herself was an attending, well it had already changed after she had left the position of an intern and became an actual resident at the Pitt. Robby quickly introduced her to the three med students and two interns, simply explaining to them that she was the junior attending for the day and that she would be taking the place of Dr. Collins for the time the other woman was on maternity leave.

The day started with rounds, then quickly escalated. It felt like she was being dragged from one case to the next and that there was not even one moment when she could take a breath and catch a break. One of the two interns was getting on her nerves with his constant flirting and the comments about her, telling the other intern about what he would like to do to her in the moment he thought she was not listening. It was unnerving to say the least.

Day shift was more grueling than she remembered and the moment she heard the familiar voice of her fiancè it felt like all weight was lifted off her shoulders. She just wanted to walk up to him and pull him into a hug. Turning around she saw him standing beside Robby, talking to the other man in hushed tones.

Putting the IPad down she started walking towards the two attendings, wanting to at least get a quick hug from Jack before she headed home. As she made her way over to the two men a hand caught her arm, turning around she saw the young intern, his eyes glimmering softly in the fluorescent lights of the ED, a smirk on his lips that spoke for too much confidence.

“What can I do for you, Dr. Miller?” she asked, tilting her head to the side, pulling her arm out of his grip. The overconfident smirk only grew as she did so.

“I was wondering about to head home, was wondering if you would like to join me for a coffee?” he grinned at her. For a long moment the only thing she could do was look at him and link slowly. Slowly she reached for the chain around her neck, pulling it out, the engagement ring dangling off it.

“Do you know what that is?” she asked quietly, pointing at the ring, “That is an engagement ring,”

The intern started going red, it was creeping up from his neck towards his face. His overconfident smirk falling from his features as he look at her

“And,” she paused, turning her head slightly to see if Jack was still talking to Robby. He indeed was talking to Robby, arms folded over his chest, head titled downwards slightly as he nodded along with what Robby was saying. “Do you know who that is?” she pointed at Jack, the feeling of triumph slowly growing in her chest.

The intern nodded slowly, “Dr. Abbot,” his voice was a bit squeaky now, like he wanted to vanish into the ground.

“Half correct, Dr. Abbot and my fiancè. So back off,” she spoke calmly. The intern lifted his hands, chuckling like he was caught with his hand in the cookie jar and indeed backed off.

“Hm, you know I like it when you get feisty,” a warm hand sneaked around her waist, pulling her in closer to him. A small laugh escaped her as Jack pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek.

“Ready to go home?” he asked softly as she leaned her head on his shoulder. A soft hum escaped her as she nodded.

“Yeah,” she nodded, already excited to curl up in bed with the German shepherd they had gotten together.

“I already went on a run with Dexter and fed him,” Jack spoke softly, “So you just gotta cuddle the bug to sleep now,”

A soft laugh escaped her lips as she pressed a quick kiss to his lips.

“Love you and see you later,” with that she was headed home, knowing that Jack probably had already gotten her dinner.

——————

Tags: @antisocialfiore @fudosl @smileykiddie08 @darksparklesficrecs @tommosgirl06 @rosieposie88 @moonshooter @wowitsafemale @qardasngan @starlightmoon2020 @loonyloomis

[the-violet-diaries]

The Morning After You've Taken Your Life x the LaDs Boys

warnings: angst, over dosage, suicidal topics

a/n: I'm going through an extremely difficult time right now. It feels like life has come to a full halt and I've found myself in an empty spot, having unconsciously strayed from the path a long while ago. If you are also drowning in life as if stranded in dangerous waters right now, please know that although you may feel alone in your household or life, but definitely not in the entire world. As much as we all wish it was, escaping is not a permanent solution, and it will never be. You, me, we will all someday look back on this day and realize we have become the version of ourselves we yearned to become most. I feel you. So on behalf of all the boys,

Please do not leave. You are not a burden. You are not alone.

I would suggest reading them in order: Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus, Caleb

The last of the rough stone-like pills are pushed down your throat. And it's over. Done. You're gone. Once again.

And this time, for good.

Among many passersby is a very busy Dr. Zayne, who, having parked his car on the other side of the street from your apartment, is unloading a box of freshly baked macarons. As the bloodcurdling cries from above of a name very well-known to him reach his ears, the usually stoic man's eyebrows knit together, and his gaze immediately drifts to the apartment building. Not out of confusion, but concern.

Usually ever the mannered and law-abiding man, Zayne's caution is now thrown to the wind as he rushes across the street. Oblivious of the honks of cars as they screech to halts just mere feet away from him, he makes his way to the other side, the hands gripping the warm package now beginning to sweat.

Stopping a man that gets down from one of the ambulances amidst the cluster of emergency vehicles that has quickly started to form on the curb, Zayne questions him in a low, trembling voice, fighting to push the sinking feeling further down his chest. Silently praying not to receive the answer he fears hearing most.

As the man briefly replies and then returns to the vehicle to help his teammate pull out a roller bed, Zayne feels his entire world tilt on its axis.

Eyes wide open and glazed over with something colder than any ice crystal, Zayne falls to his knees, completely unbothered by the brutal bleeding along his leg caused by the sudden descent. The box of macarons crashes to the ground, bittersweet treats splaying across the cement surface.

Zayne's arms hang loose at his sides. His lips part, mouth falling open in a painfully round "0." Every single sound around him blends into the distant commotion until all that's left in his ears is a sharp high-pitched ringing noise. A hundred questions race through his mind, a thousand thoughts begin to form, and a million regrets take shape.

Would arriving a few minutes earlier have saved you? Would giving you one extra kiss over the phone last night, staying at your place for one more moment before leaving for the hospital have given you the hope or will to keep going? If only he hadn't cut the call early, if only he hadn't left for his night shift. Would he have been able to save you? You, who meant much more to him than just another patient? He should have sensed something was wrong. He should have asked you if you took your meds. He should have left you one extra sweet treat. He should have...

Pupils wandering away from the hectic medical team pushing the roller bed into the big double gates of the apartment building in the distance, Zayne's eyes instead dilate to focus on the crushed box that lays abandoned by the roadside, countless rushing feet carelessly stomping left and right over the once-treasured confections. His shattered heart forms a perfectly identical reflection of the dirt-covered chocolate treats: A macerated dessert, having lost its purpose to be.

You did this. You left her there. All alone.

And as the rhythm of his once harmoniously beating heart grows progressively constrained, a single question runs at an agonizingly restrained pace through Zayne's slowly unraveling mind over. And over. And over again.

Where did I go wrong this time?

Once again, if you are suffering, please do not end it. Though it may seem like it, it is not a permanent release. Trust me, I have been there and am still struggling. The boys would never wish this on you, either. So please. Please stay with us. Stay with me.

~ Vi

[koyagifs]

𝓼𝓾𝓻𝓿𝓲𝓿𝓸𝓻𝓼

pairing: firefighter!seonghwa x er nurse!reader au: first responders | non idol | genre: angst | fluff | ?) word count:3.5k synopsis: it was supposed to be a normal routine for hwa, put out a fire and return back to base. warning(s): gunshots | mention of blood | panic attack description | cursing | basing this on 9-1-1 ep. 13/14.

𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ monday 10:15 am

You stepped into the bustling hospital, the familiar hum of activity already filling the air. It was another day in the life of an ER nurse, chaotic yet strangely comforting. Her coffee in hand, she flashed a warm smile at the other nurses clustered near the nurses' station.

"Morning, everyone," she greeted, her voice carrying over the sounds of monitors beeping and phones ringing.

"Morning, Ynie!" one of them called back, a teasing smile on their lips. It had become a little nickname among the team, and while she pretended to roll her eyes, it always made her grin.

She took a quick sip of her coffee, savoring the brief moment of calm. The calm never lasted long here, but that was part of the appeal. As she set her things down and started looking over patient charts, a familiar face popped into view—Wooyoung, standing in the hall with a playful smirk, waving in her direction.

"Good morning, Doctor Woo," YN greeted with a playful smile, her tone teasing as she placed the charts back into their designated slot.

Wooyoung returned the smile, his trademark charm practically radiating off of him. "Hello, Nurse Ynie," he replied, matching her energy effortlessly. He shifted his stance, crossing his arms as he leaned against the counter, clearly in no rush to get to his rounds.

"How's our superstar nurse today?" he asked, his tone light but genuinely curious. "Ready to run the ER like you always do?"

YN chuckled, shaking her head. "Superstar? Hardly. But ready to deal with whatever chaos comes our way? Always." She picked up her coffee again, taking a sip as she met his gaze. "What about you? Feel like playing hero today?"

Wooyoung's grin widened, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Depends. Are you going to be impressed if I do?"

"That depends," she shot back, raising an eyebrow. "Are you actually going to do something worth being impressed by, or just stand there looking pretty?"

Wooyoung feigned a dramatic gasp, clutching his chest. "Looking pretty is half the job, Ynie. But fine, I'll try to be useful too. For you."

𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ monday 12:30 pm

Seonghwa pulled off his gloves, his hands aching slightly from the adrenaline-fueled rescue they’d just completed. The smell of smoke clung to his gear, and his face was streaked with soot. He glanced over his shoulder as another firefighter called out to him.

"Hey, Park! Want to ride with the kid? He’s asking for ya," the man shouted, gesturing toward the ambulance parked nearby.

Seonghwa’s brows furrowed in brief surprise before he nodded, tossing his gloves onto the nearest truck. "Yeah, I’ll go," he replied, his voice steady despite the exhaustion creeping in.

"See you at the station, Hwa!" Mingi called out with a grin, his voice carrying over the commotion of the scene.

Seonghwa turned, raising a hand to wave back. But before he could respond, a deafening bang shattered the moment. The sound echoed through the air, sharp and jarring, followed by a sudden, searing pain ripping through his side.

Seonghwa’s eyes widened in shock as he staggered, the sudden sharp pain stealing the air from his lungs. His knees buckled, the strength draining from his body as the world around him blurred into chaos. Voices became distant, warped, and frantic, merging with the wail of sirens and the sound of panicked screams.

His body hit the ground with a heavy thud, the impact jarring but eclipsed by the searing pain radiating through his side. His breath came in shallow gasps, the metallic tang of blood filling his senses as he pressed a trembling hand to the wound. Warm, sticky blood seeped through his fingers, soaking his uniform and pooling beneath him.

Through the haze of pain and confusion, his gaze locked onto Mingi. His friend’s face was pale, eyes wide with terror, blood splattered across his cheek and uniform.

Seonghwa’s gaze remained locked on Mingi, his friend frozen in place, shock etched across his face. Blood spattered on Mingi’s cheek glinted under the harsh emergency lights, a stark contrast to his pale expression.

“Mingi…” Seonghwa’s voice was barely a whisper, weak and strained, but before he could say anything else, movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention.

In an instant, another firefighter lunged at Mingi, tackling him to the ground. The force of the impact sent them both sprawling, the sound of their bodies hitting the pavement echoing around them.

Confusion flickered across Seonghwa’s face as his muddled mind tried to process what was happening. His body screamed in protest as he shifted slightly, trying to understand why Mingi was suddenly being dragged away.

Gunshots. The sharp cracks of gunfire rang out again, piercing through the chaos.

It hit him then. The sound that had sent him to the ground—the bang that had caused the searing pain in his side—hadn’t been random. Someone was still firing.

The firefighter who had tackled Mingi shielded him with their body, shouting something Seonghwa couldn’t make out over the ringing in his ears. Mingi’s wide eyes met Seonghwa’s briefly, panic and fear warring in his expression.

“Seonghwa!” Mingi yelled, struggling against the firefighter holding him down, his voice raw with desperation.

Seonghwa tried to lift a hand, to reassure him somehow, but his strength was fading fast. The darkness at the edges of his vision grew, threatening to pull him under. All he could do was lie there, his blood pooling beneath him as chaos erupted around them.

𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ monday 12:40pm

YN pulled the privacy curtains closed, finishing up with her last patient. The hum of the ER’s usual chaos surrounded her, but it wasn’t until her name was called over the intercom, requesting her at the front, that a strange sense of dread began to creep in.

Before she could get far, Wooyoung stepped into her path, his presence commanding yet calm. His face was set in an uncharacteristically serious expression, his eyes searching hers.

“YN,” he said, his voice soft but firm, the calmness in it somehow more alarming. He placed a gentle hand on her arm, stopping her mid-step. “Why don’t you sit this one out?”

Her brow furrowed, confusion and resistance flashing in her eyes. “What? Why would I—” She stopped, catching the subtle shift in Wooyoung’s demeanor, the way his jaw tightened despite the gentleness in his tone.

“Just trust me,” he urged quietly, his gaze steady. “You don’t need to take this one.”

Before YN could argue back, something caught her eye—the unmistakable sight of the emergency cart being wheeled toward the trauma area. The moment her eyes landed on it, everything seemed to slow. The familiar shape of a person, covered in sheets, and the frantic voices of medical staff surrounding it filled her ears.

Her heart stopped for a beat, her breath catching in her chest as a cold wave of dread washed over her.

There, lying on the cart, was Seonghwa.

The realization hit her like a sledgehammer, and before YN could fully comprehend what was happening, her knees gave way beneath her. The world around her tilted and spun, her breath caught in her throat as she stumbled forward, hands reaching out desperately for the nearest counter but missing entirely.

The next thing she knew, Wooyoung and her fellow nurses were there, catching her before she could hit the ground.

She let out a sob, the noise raw and desperate, echoing in the sterile, chaotic environment around her. “Seonghwa!”

Her voice cracked, each syllable a reflection of the fear and helplessness flooding her heart. She hadn’t been ready for this—not for the sight of him on that cart, not for the sudden weight of what had happened.

Wooyoung’s arms were around her now, holding her steady as she trembled, her body wracked with sobs. He didn’t say anything at first, just offering his support as she leaned against him, trying to regain control.

“YN,” he said softly, his voice calm but tinged with concern. “I know you want to be there, but you need to step back for now. Let the doctors and nurses handle this. He’s in good hands.”

But YN couldn’t hear him—her mind and heart were consumed with images of Seonghwa lying unconscious, blood staining his uniform. She couldn’t sit back and do nothing.

“Please,” she whispered, the word barely escaping her lips, “please don’t let him…” Her voice broke off as fresh tears streamed down her face. She had to fight to steady her breathing, her whole body trembling with the intensity of her emotions.

Wooyoung tightened his grip on her, his expression softening as he gazed down at her. “I’m not leaving you alone, YN. But you need to let the doctors do their job.”

She felt her body shake as he looked at Wooyoung franticly - " someone.. yun, he has to know-" yn cried out.

Wooyoung’s gaze flicked to the side as he saw someone moving quickly toward them through the chaos of the ER. The person’s face was familiar, and as they neared, it became clear they recognized YN.

“YN!” the person called, voice sharp with urgency.

YN turned her head, still shaking with anxiety, only to see San and Yunho rushing toward her. The sight of them brought a fresh wave of emotion, and she didn’t hesitate before reaching for them, her cries becoming more vocal, louder.

Without thinking, she gripped onto them, her hands clutching desperately at their uniforms, seeking comfort and stability.

“What—what happened?” she cried out, her voice breaking as the weight of the situation crashed down on her all over again.

Yunho, always the calm one, was the first to respond. His face was tight with worry, his eyes dark with concern. “They were getting ready to head back to the station when Seonghwa was shot, YN.” His voice was soft, but the words hit her like a punch to the gut.

“Shot?” Her eyes widened as she pulled back slightly, looking at him, still trying to process the reality of it. “But... why? How?”

San stood behind them, his hands resting on her shoulders, his usual confidence replaced by the same tension that radiated from Yunho. “We don’t know yet,” he added, his voice thick with frustration. “The shooter’s still at large. We were all too focused on getting Seonghwa to safety... It happened so fast.”

YN’s chest tightened, her breath shallow as she struggled to stay grounded. She had to hear more, to understand. “Is he... Is he going to be okay?” The question came out in a whisper, barely audible, as if saying it out loud would make it too real.

San glanced at Yunho, a look of understanding passing between them. Yunho sighed heavily, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. "There was a lot of blood, YN," he said softly, his voice strained, as if the memory of it still haunted him.

The words hit YN like a wave, a sob escaping her throat. She grasped at her chest as if trying to hold herself together. "Someone has to get our son, oh my god, Yun," she cried out, her voice breaking with panic. Without thinking, she fumbled for her phone, her hands shaking as she tried to dial, the urgency in her movements unmistakable.

But before she could press the call button, San was there, gently but firmly taking the phone from her hands. "YN," he said, his voice steady but laced with concern, "I know you want to reach him. But you can’t do this right now. It’s too much. You need to stay calm for Seonghwa.”

She looked at him, her tear-filled eyes pleading, but San’s expression was firm. “We’ll take care of it. Just... just breathe, okay?”

Yunho stepped closer, crouching down beside her, his hand resting gently on her knee. "We'll get him. You focus on Seonghwa." His voice was filled with the same protective determination that YN had come to rely on, the same love that had gotten them through countless trials before.

YN swallowed hard, her head spinning with thoughts of Seonghwa, her heart breaking for him and for their son—her mind struggling to keep up with the chaos of the moment. But she nodded, her hands trembling as she wiped at her eyes, trying to collect herself.

“Okay,” she whispered, taking a shaky breath. “Just... please, don’t let anything happen to him.”

Yunho and San exchanged a brief look, both determined, before Yunho spoke again. "Nothing’s going to happen to him, YN. We’ll make sure of that."

And with that, YN clung to the fragile thread of hope, trusting in their words, though her heart still raced with fear for Seonghwa and the child they loved.

𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ thursday 1:45 pm

YN sat in the guest chair by Seonghwa's hospital bed, her body exhausted from the emotional toll of the past few days. Her eyes kept drifting closed, fighting the pull of sleep as the steady beep of the heart monitor was the only sound keeping her grounded. The rhythmic sound was both soothing and a stark reminder of how fragile Seonghwa's condition still was.

Her hands rested in her lap, fingers twitching every now and then as though searching for something to hold onto. Despite the exhaustion weighing heavily on her, she couldn't bring herself to leave his side. She'd barely been able to look away from him since they’d wheeled him into the room—his still form, pale and bandaged, the evidence of what he'd been through so vivid.

Every time she did manage to close her eyes, she could see flashes of Seonghwa's face, his gentle eyes, his smile, and then the overwhelming terror of when she first saw Seonghwa.

But each time, when her eyes fluttered open, she was met with the comforting sound of the heart monitor and the sight of him still there, breathing, still holding onto life.

She forced herself to stay awake, though the world around her felt fuzzy as sleep pulled at her consciousness. The chair was uncomfortable, her body aching from the tension, but she stayed, determined not to leave his side—not while there was still a chance. She couldn’t bear the thought of missing a moment, even the smallest one, if Seonghwa woke up.

A faint knock on the door startled YN awake, and she blinked rapidly to clear the fog of sleep from her eyes. She had been drifting in and out, barely able to keep her focus on Seonghwa, but the sound was enough to pull her out of her dazed state.

Her heart skipped a beat when she saw Mingi standing in the doorway, holding their son in his arms. The sight of them both—Mingi’s expression filled with concern, their son’s little face full of uncertainty—hit her like a wave.

“Mingi...?” YN whispered, her voice hoarse from both exhaustion and emotion. Her eyes darted between Mingi and their son, her heart aching to hold him, to feel the warmth of her child.

Mingi’s eyes softened, his gaze flicking between her and Seonghwa. He slowly stepped inside, his voice gentle yet strained. “I thought you might want to see him... He was asking for you.”

Her son, holding tightly onto Mingi, shifted slightly, his small arms outstretched toward her. The sight of him sent a fresh wave of emotion through YN, and she immediately stood up from the chair, her legs weak but steady enough to carry her forward.

She reached out, pulling her son into her arms, feeling the weight of his small body against her as he clung to her neck.

“Mommy, where’s daddy?” he asked quietly, his voice laced with a mix of worry and innocence.

YN’s heart ached as she held him tighter, trying to fight back the tears that threatened to spill. She kissed the top of his head softly, her voice trembling but firm. “Daddy’s going to be okay, baby,” she whispered, even though she wasn’t sure she believed it herself. “He’s just resting right now.”

Mingi stood off to the side, watching quietly, his arms crossed as he waited for the moment to settle. He knew YN needed this, needed her son’s presence as much as he needed her strength.

“YN,” Mingi spoke up softly after a long moment, “You need to take care of yourself too. You can’t keep this up. He’s in good hands, and you’re needed for him, but you need to rest.”

YN sniffled, her voice small but firm. "I will after Hwa wakes up." She glanced over at Seonghwa, still unconscious in the bed, and the weight of her words settled in her chest. She couldn’t leave him, not yet, not while he was so fragile.

Mingi’s gaze softened, though there was an undeniable firmness to his words. "Why don’t you go home and wash up?"

YN opened her mouth to protest, but Mingi held his hand up, stopping her before she could say anything. "I’ll stay and wait for you to come back," he said gently, his tone steady, reassuring. "Yun hasn’t been able to sleep, and you both need the rest. I promise to call if anything changes."

YN hesitated, her heart torn between the need to be there for Seonghwa and the reality that she hadn’t rested in what felt like days. Her body ached, her eyes burning from the lack of sleep, but the thought of leaving him—of stepping away from his side when he needed her—seemed impossible.

But Mingi’s words sank in. Yun had been by her side just as much as she had been by Seonghwa’s, and they all needed rest.

"I don’t want to leave him," YN whispered, her voice tight with the struggle of what she knew was necessary. "But... okay. I’ll go, just for a little while."

Mingi gave her a reassuring smile, nodding. "It’ll be okay. I’ve got this. I’ll stay close, and if anything changes, you’ll be the first to know."

" ready to go home hun?" yn said to Yun who nodded his head before a yawn escaped his lip.

𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ sunday 5:14pm

Seonghwa smiled widely, his heart swelling with joy as he held his son on his lap. The warmth of the moment filled him with an overwhelming sense of peace, a stark contrast to the chaos that had filled his life not long ago. His son’s little voice was a constant source of happiness, and today, it was no different.

“Uncle Mingi said we could go camping next time! He said we could roast marshmallows!” his son babbled excitedly, eyes wide with enthusiasm as he described the latest adventure he’d shared with his favorite uncle.

YN smiled at Seonghwa and Yunho as they shared a quiet moment together. Seonghwa, looking much better than he had in the past few days, grinned back at her, his tired eyes lighting up. There was still a sense of exhaustion, but the spark of relief and joy that came with knowing he was going to recover was unmistakable.

Before anyone could say anything more, the nurse who had been taking care of Seonghwa entered the room, a soft, encouraging smile on her face. “Great news, Seonghwa,” she said, her voice bright with optimism. “You’ll be able to be discharged here shortly. You’re healing well, and we’ve finished all the necessary tests.”

Seonghwa's face broke into a relieved smile, his hand instinctively reaching out for YN's. He squeezed it gently, as if telling her everything would be okay without needing to say a word.

“Really?” YN’s voice broke through the moment, her eyes wide with disbelief. After everything, it felt almost surreal that they were finally hearing this. She had spent so many sleepless nights at the hospital, fearing for Seonghwa’s life, wondering if he would pull through. Now, to hear he was going to be okay—it was a balm for her weary heart.

The nurse nodded with a soft laugh. “Yes, you’re on the road to recovery. We’ll just need to make sure everything is in order before sending you home, but you’re doing well enough that we’re confident you can rest more comfortably at home.”

Seonghwa looked at YN, his eyes filled with gratitude and affection. "We’re going home," he said quietly, as if reaffirming it for both of them. His voice was still a little hoarse, but there was a sense of peace in his words that warmed YN’s heart.

"That’s all I wanted to hear," YN replied, her eyes glossy with tears that she hadn’t realized were there. The overwhelming relief was too much for her to hold in. She had spent so long holding her breath, waiting for this moment.

The nurse gave them a few moments to take in the news before she spoke again, "We’ll start preparing everything for your discharge, but feel free to get comfortable. We’ll give you the time you need."

As the nurse stepped out, YN moved closer to Seonghwa, gently kissing his forehead. "You’re really coming home," she whispered, a smile breaking through the tears that welled up in her eyes.

"Can't get rid of me that easily, baby," Seonghwa teased, his tone light and playful, the exhaustion from the ordeal now replaced with the warmth of being surrounded by his family.

Yun bounced around the room, his excitement contagious. "Daddy coming home! Daddy coming home!" he cheered, his little hands clapping in the air as if celebrating the best news of the day.

[mrsarnold]

heyy girly pops i yearn for smt where reader organises a scavenger hunt for paige and at the end reader proposes to paige ( preferably with a lego ring box )

— marry you ✩ paige b.

syn : you finally fought up the courage to propose to Paige in the most sweetest way.

pair : paige bueckers x gf!reader

warn : pure fluff :), kissing, lego ring ( oh my gosh ), the team being absolute no help

note : this is so genius anon ily, @kamii-2 ty for helping mee

Paige stirred from her sleep, reaching out instinctively, expecting to feel your warmth beside her. But the bed was empty. Blinking awake, she glanced around the room, and her gaze settled on a small note placed neatly on your pillow.

Groggily, she sat up, picking up the piece of paper. The familiar handwriting made her smile as she began to read:

"Good morning, Baby. sorry Im not there right now :((. go to the closet i picked something out for you, you'll find a clue !!."

Paige’s smile widened as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and walked to the closet, curiosity bubbling inside her. When she opened the door, her breath caught. Hanging there was one of her favorite outfits, carefully arranged, and pinned to the fabric was another note.

"You’re going to need to look your best for where we’re going today. Get dressed, and meet me where the waves meet the shore. You know the place."

The beach. The very same spot where you’d spent countless afternoons together, soaking up the sun and the salty breeze, where memories were made with every sunset. Paige felt her heart quicken as she slipped into the outfit you’d chosen for her, her mind racing with excitement as she prepared to find you.

After getting ready, she made her way outside, heading toward the beach. The morning was crisp, the air full of promise as she walked, the sound of the waves growing louder with each step. When she finally reached the beach, she found no sign of you. Not immediately. But she was met by KK and Ice acting all giddy.

"uhh Ice which way is she supposed to go again", KK said scratching her head. Ice rolled her eyes clearly annoyed KK forgot already. "Take a right Paige trust me", she said smiling.

Paige laughed then scanned the shoreline, looking for you, the beautiful backdrop of the sparkling water and the sand. Her eyes darted between the familiar rocks and steps, but you were nowhere to be seen.

And then she spotted it just down the beach, there was a small arrangement of seashells forming an arrow, pointing toward a nearby cluster of rocks. Her heart raced as she followed the trail.

She stepped carefully over the sand, rounding the rocks. She saw more of her teammates as KK and Ice followed after her. And there you were.

Standing with your back to her, just at the water’s edge, you were looking out toward the horizon, the sunlight casting a soft glow around you. You had a floral dress on with your hair down.

In your hand, Paige noticed something small and colorfu what looked like a tiny LEGO box, you knew she loved lefos.

Paige’s breath caught in her throat as she approached, her footsteps soft in the sand. When you turned around, the look in your eyes told her everything before you even said a word.

You were standing infront of a big, light up heart that fitted perfectly in the sand.

You took a deep breath, your smile soft but nervous. “Paige,” you began, stepping closer to her, “there’s no one in this world I want to share every morning, every adventure, and every quiet moment with but you. You’re my best friend, my partner, and I want to keep building this life together.”

You opened the small LEGO box in your hand, revealing the ring inside, catching the light from the sun’s reflection on the water. It was purple, paige's favorite color.

“Will you marry me?”

Paige’s eyes brimmed with tears, shocked that you went all out for her, her voice catching in her throat. “Yes. Yes!” She laughed through the tears as you slipped the ring onto her finger, her heart bursting with happiness. The team cheered but glared at KK after what Ice told them.

The world seemed to slow as you wrapped her in your arms, the sound of the waves crashing around you, the sand soft beneath your feet. The beach, your beach, now held a new, unforgettable memory.

After a moment, you pulled back, grinning. “Now, how about we go celebrate with some food? I made a reservation at our favorite place.”

Paige smiled, her hand in yours as you both made your way down the beach towards the restaurant. KK was more excited to eat then you and Paige

taggies : @pbnbucks @wbbgetsmewetter @cosmopretty @3xoticyanna @hrtslaces @hrtsdollie

[beanarie]

inspired by this post by @monstream theorizing that tommy will pop back up in a couple months and reveal he dipped out like his ass was on fire because he got a cancer diagnosis. (be advised: this is not about real cancer. this is tv cancer.) 1300 words.

a chance encounter

Bobby still has a blood donation appointment at First Presbyterian every two months, which he attends religiously, barring exemptions like the six months he had to skip after the heart attack. Years ago, when it started, Chimney arranged a rotation for rides, and as their team went through staffing changes, it settled to a more informal thing, whichever of them would be available verbally stepping up each time. Athena would have been the logical choice with one of the 118 as backup, but this is theirs. Buck likes it because usually he and Bobby stop for a meal and catch up, just the two of them.

On their way to the elevators, they hear applause in the next wing over, and Bobby gives Buck a little smile before they join the gathering at the back of the small crowd. He loves a bell ceremony.

A teen girl in a green hoodie that reaches her knees is blushing and stumbling over her words, flustered by the attention. "Anyway," she says, "I'm not gonna be sick at prom and I'm so effing excited." She rings the bell and pumps a fist in the air before hugging one of the nurses.

"All right," says a blonde woman holding a clipboard. "We have three more patients who completed treatment! I know, right? It's been a good week."

Buck looks down at the coffee he grabbed from the on-site cafe while Bobby was getting drained, which tastes different somehow but he can't put his finger on it. Soy milk, maybe? A sharp nudge forces him to look up into Bobby's suddenly tense expression.

"Well. So... yeah. These last few months have sucked."

Buck swings his head around and Bobby grabs the coffee out of his hand. There, acknowledging a round of polite laughter, is Tommy, dressed in a henley and flannel shirt, all in shades of blue. Buck always liked him in blue. He looks slimmer, more like the version of himself from Chim and Hen's old team photos. He's wearing a Raiders hat.

"I knew, as a firefighter who flew helicopters, that I probably didn't have the highest life expectancy. But this diagnosis still threw me for a loop."

Buck should not be here. He should not be here. But he can't convince his feet to move.

"I did some dumb things, isolated myself, assumed the worst. It was the staff here who kept--gently--smacking me upside the head, reminding me that there was still hope." Tommy ducks his head and when he looks up eyes are bright. "Thank God for them."

Buck feels like he is stuck in a column of rapidly curing cement. It started down at his feet and now his lungs won't inflate.

"Buck," Bobby hisses, tugging at his sleeve.

"Bug your city council rep to increase compensation for healthcare workers because there's no way they get paid enough to deal with my bullshit." A cluster of small children at the front of the group starts howling at the swear, and he grins, unrepentant. Buck might be drowning. "Thank you, everyone. Fuck cancer." He rings the bell and steps back quickly for the next patient, accepting good-natured pummeling from several members of the staff as everyone applauds.

The smile that settled on Tommy's face vanishes as their eyes meet. The column of cement also vanishes. Breathing hard, his pulse hammering in his ears, Buck follows Bobby down the hall to the elevators.

"Buck?"

It still sounds so wrong coming from him. Buck flinches and looks at the slowly progressing display of which floor the elevator is on. Stairs it is. "I'll meet you down there," he says to Bobby, and doesn't wait for a response.

Buck plows through the door to the stairwell, moving as quickly as possible.

"Wait! Please? I can follow for a little bit, but fourteen flights of stairs is beyond me at the moment."

Buck slows his progress down, stopping at the next landing.

"What-" Tommy takes the stairs slowly, one by one. "What are you doing here? How did you find out?"

Buck glances up. "I didn't. We just happened to be in the neighborhood. This place is our home away from home, you know?"

"Oh," Tommy says, then has the nerve to look concerned. "Is everyone okay?"

"I'm not fucking okay. Did you know you were sick?"

"When?" he temporizes. "I mean, they did tell me at one point."

"You know when," Buck says, seething, his vision growing redder when Tommy doesn't answer. "I asked you to move in with me." I was all in. You didn't have to do this alone.

Tommy finishes the last few steps and joins him on the landing. "You asked your gym rat firefighter boyfriend to move in with you. Not an unemployed puke machine with a thirty-nine percent chance of kicking it in the next five years."

"Oh my God." Buck laughs, wanting to scream at the wall. "So I'm not a newborn bisexual who couldn't possibly know what I want, I'm just a piece of shit who would drop a partner for getting sick. Or maybe I'm both."

"No, I-"

"If you say 'it wasn't you, it was me' I'm gonna start taking these steps three at a time."

"It was-" Up close, Tommy looks tired. There are lines in his face that weren't there before. "Significantly more about me and my trust issues than it was about you. Is that different enough for you to stick around?"

"You gave me trust issues, Tommy. Not just in you, or other people I might date, but in myself."

Tommy's expression is gutted. "I'm sorry. I was trying to avoid more pain in the future, for both of us."

Sparing a thought for Bobby, who hopefully settled in the lobby to wait, Buck sits on the landing, wedging himself against the wall to take up less space. "I loved you."

"I believe you." Tommy sat down next to him, almost touching because of the width of the staircase. "I shouldn't have dismissed your feelings. You're a grown man and all I can say in my defense is that I become the fucking unabomber when I get scared. Ask Howie and Hen about my years as a closet case working under a captain who got a medal for outstanding work in homophobia."

It would be so easy to pull Tommy into his arms. Just reach out.

"Buck?"

Buck swipes at his eyes with the heel of his hand. "Please don't call me that."

"I'm sorry. I honestly felt I gave up the right to set myself apart in that way." Tommy swallows. "Evan."

Buck blinks away a fresh round of tears. "Are you okay, really?"

Tommy gestures at himself. "As you can see, I'm not going out tomorrow and running a marathon, but next week I get to start training to go back to work." He shrugs a little, smiling. "So I'm pretty damn peachy."

"What about the thirty-nine percent?"

Tommy whistles while pointing down. "It's pretty much back to whatever my prognosis was for running into fires and flying around in a tin can."

"That's- That's great." Buck's phone rings.

"Hey, I don't mean to interrupt anything," Bobby says. "I just didn't want to leave without saying something. I'll get an Uber, okay?"

"No. No, we're good. I'll see you in five." Buck meets Tommy's steady gaze. "Next week, huh? Do you wanna go for a run at that park near my place? I promise to take it easy on you. Or, not easy, whichever you need."

Tommy visibly stops himself from declining. "Okay. Text me." He rises from the steps and starts for the exit door as Buck begins his way down. "Evan?"

Buck turns. "Yeah?"

"I loved you, too."

Breathing out, Buck rolls his shoulders back. "I figured. See you next week."

[diejager]

Hello hellooooooo

I hope you are doing great !!

(I was waiting patiently for your requests to be open again lmao)

So, my brain was just thinking of something for monster!141 and I just need to share it somewhere 😵‍💫

As you may know, penguins' love language is giving pebbles to their loved ones

Penguin hybrid!Hunter just giving monster!141 pebbles and little rocks to show them that they love them 🥹

Alright, I'll go back to my knitting now BYE

*gets out by the window with a parachute*

Pebbles Cw: weird courting, tell me if I missed any.

You didn’t have any noticeable differences to a human, having the appearance of any human with a some quirky and funny behavioural traits that all of them enjoyed. You had your moments of oddity, but you didn’t seem that far from a human, having no tail, ear or horns, your skin as smooth and soft as any. They dropped their suspicions of you being a hybrid, a monster or even an inter dimensional creature of some unknown source.

And somehow, they find small trinkets - small, round pebbles picked out of a bunch to be perfectly rounded, smooth edges and glistening under the light, and sticks, long and robust, but small enough to sneak into the base without being caught - placed in the areas they often found themselves frequenting.

Price would find a cluster of pebbles on his desk, arranged neatly in a ring, a curious little thing that he shrugged off, putting them away for the time he’d be able to catch the culprit red handed in the act. Price chucked it up to being Soap and Gaz pulling a prank on him, an unsuspecting and benign trick for a little laugh between them, he didn’t bother with it too much.

Ghost found his small collection of sticks and rock on the books he liked to read, placed near the corner of his desk in his office, the arrangement was neither crude nor clean, it was a chaotic abstraction that he didn’t understand.He didn’t know what to make of it, no one would be brave enough - stupid enough - to pull something like this on him and on his stuff without knowing the risks they put themselves in.

Soap and Gaz had a few placed that belonged to them alone, like their rooms or their locker in the armoury, small areas that everyone knew was theirs. Gaz was the first of the two to find flowers and pebbles in the top compartment of his locker, picked with utmost care to keep the petal from bending. Soap found his collection of sticks and flowers stitched in a pretty crown placed around the collar of his vest, a little present full of romance and adoration. Both of them couldn’t help but find this weird act endearing.

Until Price saw you rush out of his office, a sweet, love-filled smile plastered on your face as if you’d been given the miracle of your life. If he pushed the thought farther, he could almost see a little tail wagging behind you, oh so overzealous and overjoyed with something you did. Peaked by it, he looked into his room and caught the bright petals of a daisy gently placed in the middle of a wreath of stick. He looked at it with a renewed aww and curiosity, feeling your affection roll of your intricate design, made and catered to him as if you’d made each and every single one of his boys a little courting gift-

It was an instinctual courting behaviour seen in monsters and hybrids alike. It stopped him in his tracks, causing him to question himself and your file, he’d been sure that you were human through and through, holding not a single ounce of monster blood in your veins, you’d done tests. Tests, he had to remind himself that these tests were - despite being physical and DNA tests - noted down if the recipient had any traits deemed worthwhile, something useful in the minds of a battle or in a dogfight.

That would give reason to some missing holes in your file, the little things that made you so charmingly you in every aspect was missing from your papers, reserved for people who came to know you. It warmed his heart, to see you so comfortable with them that you ended up forging such strong, emotional connections that you started giving them gifts. He’d have to take it up with the other boys, tell them what he just found out: your little, courting gifts, your hybrid roots that they could explore and your lovable smile when you’d successfully given your gift, and see where they would go from there.

Taglist: @craxy-person @crowbird @dead-cipher @iwannabealocalcryptid @iizx7y @mxtokko @yeetusspagheetus @capricorn-anon @perfectus-in-morte @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @angelcakes-22 @cassiecasluciluce @ramadiiiisme @ramblingsofachaoticthinker @ki-cant-spel @im-making-an-effort @love-dove-noora @jinxxangel13 @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @mul-pi @danielle143 @virginalsacrifice @beau-min @makayla-666 @urfavsunkissedleo @mixplara @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @luvecarson @petwifed @aldis-nuts @randominstake @stay-088 @heartelysia @jggykhug09090 @cassiecasluciluce @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

A Guiding Hand 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, parental neglect, depression, inference of self harm, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: your online academics are affected by your personal struggles but your professor won't let you give up so easy.

Characters: Raymond Smith, Lee Bodecker in the background

Note: surprise double chapters!

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You lay in the dim glow of your laptop, the screen saver swooshing back and forth, giving light to the dark. You’re limned it its idleness, in a similarly inert state. You blink, eyes dry and raw, your head pounding. Your back and shoulder pang with your inactivity as you lay on your stomach, neck twisted to one side.

Your vision is static and fuzzy, the air humming. You groan and drag an arm up, the effort alone like lifting a boulder. The world is distant and desolate. There is nothing beyond those four walls.

A chime comes from your laptop. You stare at the curtain, darkness along the borders. It’s night time already. Or again. You don’t know. You lost count of the hours, rather, days.

You roll over and peer at the abyss above. The ceiling is similarly shrouded in shadows, the corners clustered with darkness. Your head spins at the effort of your movement. Your tongue is starchy and sticky from neglect. You cough and sit up, nearly falling back against your pillow.

You don’t want to be awake. It’s so much easier to sleep. Nothing makes sense in your dreams but everything is awful in real life.

You push yourself to the edge of the bed and reach for the plastic cup of stagnant water. You sip from the brim and a slam brings you back into focus. Your hand shakes and you clack the cup back on the table, turning to watch the wall as chaos erupts on the other side.

“Goddamn, Irene, get off of me. I ain’t tellin’ ya again,” the holler rolls through like thunder. “Fuckin’ skank.”

Your eyes round as your ears ring. You cover them and back up to cower against the headboard. Your lip trembles as you hear a crash followed by the shatter of glass.

“We were having fun, sweetheart,” your mother’s desperate yawl comes over the patter of her feet, “don’t go so soon, please, baby.”

“Why you actin’ like a goddamn whore?” The man snarls and you hear your mother whimper. You sniffle as you fold yourself up and push your chin down against your knee, shielding your head as if it’s you taking the blow.

“I--” your mother snivels, “I just wanna love you, hon.”

You close your eyes. Lee huffs and stomps past your door, his shadow flickering beneath. He’s just another in a line of men your mother brings around; each one as angry as the last. It always starts the same; at first, they’re nice, then you hear how they change.

“I’m too damn tired and it’s too damn late. I’ll be back when you get your head screwed on,” he retorts and hits the wall, making you jump again as the springs of your bed squeak. “And you’re a goddamn mother... should know better...”

You crouch in fear, locked up as you listen through the wall. You hear him moving around as your mother begs him to stay. You press your hands to your ears so you can’t make out her words. The front door of the apartment snaps shut and quaver out a breath.

You wait until you hear your mother retreat, herself crying, and the clink of a glass comes shortly after. You wipe your face and lift your head slowly. You won’t be able to sleep, not with your heart racing like this.

It takes all your strength to crawl across the bed and put your feet to the floor. Your stench clings to your unwashed clothes. You haven’t changed in a couple days at least. You can barely remember the last time you left your room.

You sit down in front of your computer. The metal seat of the folding chair is hard and cold, even through your pants. You squiggle your fingers over the touchpad of the outdated laptop, as thick as a book.

The screen wakes up and you key in your passcode with one finger. The wallpaper comes up, the colours stinging your eyes, and you squint as you adjust to the glare. You tap on the envelope icon to open your inbox.

At least a dozen unread emails clutter the folder. Reminders and notifications automated by your obligations and inactivity. You scroll through and delete the messages telling you to submit your assignment and noting several missed tests. At the very top, the latest of the bunch, is from a person.

Your heart sinks as you see the name and the subject line. Professor Raymond Smith, Attn: Overdue Work. God. You clutch your head and your eyes tinge once more. You don’t have enough moisture to summon any more tears. Your head pulses and your eyes itch but you can’t cry.

You shudder and make yourself look at the screen. You hover your hand over the mousepad and make yourself tap. Just one quick touch and the message opens.

The professor greets you by name. You want to dissolve into nothing. It’s easy to just be a student number on a screen but now he picks you out of the bunch and you know exactly why. You haven’t logged into the learning site in a week or more. You haven’t been able to make yourself.

‘It has come to my notice that your last tasks have gone unsubmitted. As your instructor, I am obligated to check in to see whether I can expect these assignments to be submitted for grading. As well, I would offer any support necessary for you to do so.

Please respond to this email at your convenience so we might rectify this situation. You may also schedule a meeting through my calendar linked in my signature.

Best Regards,

Professor Smith’

You cringe. How do you explain to him that this always happens? That you’re just a failure?

This was supposed to be different, but just like everything, you blew it. You thought that you could make this work. You remember the day you got your acceptance; the program is manageable and you can do it all online. You thought you were getting better but your mom stopped refilling your script and you stopped caring.

You sit, blindly staring at the screen. For an hour, maybe more, caught between shame and sadness. You can’t just run away from another thing. You take a breath and raise your hands over the keyboard. It’s just letters on a screen.

Hi

Dear Pro

Hello Professor

I apologize for not submitting my work. I will not be able to complete this course due to mental health personal reasons.

Thank you.

You read and re-read. You guess it’s good enough? You don’t know. Whatever. Just another poor excuse.

You hit send and you peek at the time. You look at the original email. It’s a bit strange the instructor would email that late. You delete the email and go back to bed, hiding under the blanket. Typical, just another stupid idea.

📓

Your head throbs as you wake up. You’ve slept too much. Nothing different than usual but you haven’t left bed for more than a couple minutes at a time. Your skull feels ready to cave in and swells with each movement.

You get up, stumbling as you find your bearings, shuffling to your door and into the hall. You go into the bathroom. It’s a mess, like usual. Your mother’s clothes are on the floor and a man’s razor is on the edge of the sink. Is he here again?

You relieve yourself and flush, washing your hands then your face. You should probably shower while you’re in there. You lift your arm and confirm the need. You stink and your clothes are damp with your sweat.

You undress and crank on the faucet. You step into the grimy booth behind the counter as the water splashes down cold and slowly warms in the whining pipes. You shiver and let it cleanse you as much as it can.

You squeeze out some of the discount soap that smells like a hospital and scrub yourself as the air steams around you. You hear an odd creak then the plastic of the toilet seat hitting the porcelain tank. What the heck?

You grab the edge of the curtain and peek around it, smearing lather along the plastic. It’s opaque enough to blue your silhouette but not completely hide you. That man, Lee, belches as he holds his dick and pisses. He looks over and smirks.

“Ah, sorry, darling, didn’t know you were in here,” he chuckles and turns straight, leaning to brace the wall as he sighs, “goddamn, my balls are tight.”

You pop back behind the curtain and grimace. Ew. It’s not the first time you’ve had an awkward run in with one of your mother’s suitors, for lack of a better term, but no less jarring than any other. You shut off the water and back up, reaching past the other end of the curtain to grab the towel.

Something closes around your wrist and has you yelping. You cling to the curtain, staying behind it as Lee tugs on you.

“Don’t needa be shy, darlin’,” he tries to drag you out, “doubt it’s much different than your mama.”

You try to yank back but he’s too strong. You slip and barely save yourself as you grab onto the towel bar. You cry out, “let go! Please!”

He squeezes and you wince, pressed against the curtain as your knees buckle. Your soles are slippery on the wet tile. You whine and whimper, heart pounding in your chest.

There’s a knock at the door and he lets you go. You quickly pull free the towel and hide in the shower to wrap your body in it. You don’t think it’s clean.

“Everything okay?” The door groans with your mother’s entry.

“Ah, I’m just tryna piss and your daughter’s making all sorts of fuss,” he scoffs and flushes the toilet, “like she ain’t never seen a real man before.”

“Oh, Lee, you shoulda let her finish--”

“What’s the big deal, she was in the shower,” he deflects, “you know I ain’t her for that brat.”

You pant and lean against the wall, veins coursing with adrenaline. Your mother grumbles as they leave. You feel the draught of the open door and warily sidle out from behind the curtain. You gather your clothes and check that the coast is clear and find your way back to your room.

You pull on a fresh hoodie and your least dirty pair of sweats. You need to do laundry desperately. You need to do a lot of things. Your computer bings as if to agree with that sentiment.

You sit down at the table and stare at your laptop. The folding plastic thing has barely enough room for that and your notebook. You sigh. All you do is sigh. Everything is just a disappointment. You have nothing but trash around you and you fit right in.

You open the lid and login. You could watch that play through of the new fantasy game you can’t afford. Or you just break that damn thing. You have an email.

You don’t click on it right away. Instead, you scroll through a subreddit on an obscure television show you streamed on Youtube. All the posts are years old and the place is dead. If you’re good at anything, it’s avoidance.

Finally, your anxiety knots tight enough for you to do something. You close your browser and open Outlook. You make a strange noise as you see the response to the email you sent days ago. Or by your estimation. You scratch your neck until the skin burns.

You work at deleting the spam from your inbox before you’re forced to face the Re:

You click and read with trepidation. Again, the professor addresses you by name.

‘I understand that you are dealing with personal obligations. Considering how far we are in this course, I would like to allow you the opportunity to complete it successfully. If the current workload is too much, we can discuss alternatives to meet the learning objectives.

I would prefer that we have this conversation face-to-face. If you would like explore your options, please use the link below to meet with me on Tuesday at noon. Please confirm here and I look forward to meeting and speaking with you then.

Also let me know if I can do anything else.

Professor Smith’

You want to melt into nothing. You want to evaporate from existence. You want to just keel over and die. How embarrassing!

You want to delete it a forget. You want to say now and through everything away. You want to go back to how you’ve always been. You want to be a slug in the dirt. You want to stop hoping because it only ever ends like this.

But you can’t. You hit the trash button but then you can’t help but stretch your fingertips between CTRL and Z. The message reappears and you read it again and again and again. It feels like this is the moment. This is the big decision you make; is your life always going to be like this or are you going to try?

You hit reply.

‘Thank you, Professor Smith. I will meet you on Tuesday. I appreciate your understanding and I will do better.’

Your eyes blur as you move the cursor over the little arrow. You take a breath and tap your fingertips. That’s that, then.

[bestanimal]

Round 2.5 - Cnidaria - Cubozoa

(Sources - 1, 2, 3, 4)

Cubozoa is a class of cnidarians commonly called “box jellyfish.” There are two orders within the class: Carybdeida and Chirodropida. It is the smallest cnidarian class with roughly 50 species known, though it is likely many more remain undescribed. Cubozoans are infamous for some species having extremely painful and even fatal stings, though many species are not dangerous to humans.

The medusa form of a box jellyfish has a squarish, box-like bell, from which its name is derived. From each of the four lower corners of this hangs a short pedalium or stalk which bears one or more long, slender, hollow tentacles. The rim of the bell is folded inwards to form a shelf known as a velarium which restricts the bell's aperture and creates a powerful jet when the bell pulsates. As a result, box jellyfish can move more rapidly than true jellyfish, and speeds of up to 6 metres (20 ft) per minute have been recorded. The Cubozoan nervous system is more developed than other cnidarians with a ring nerve at the base of the bell that coordinates their pulsing movements. Uniquely, Cubozoans are also the only cnidarians to have true eyes, complete with retinas, corneas and lenses. Their eyes are set in clusters at the ends of sensory structures called rhopalia which are connected to their ring nerve. Each rhopalium contains two image-forming lens eyes. The upper lens eye looks straight up out of the water. In species such as Tripedalia cystophora, the upper lens eye is used to navigate to their preferred habitats at the edges of mangrove lagoons by observing the direction of the tree canopy. The lower lens eye is primarily used for object avoidance. Each rhopalium also has two pit eyes on either side of the upper lens eye which likely act as mere light meters, and two slit eyes on either side of the lower lens eye which are likely used to detect vertical movement. In total, the box jellyfish have six eyes on each of their four rhopalia, creating a total of 24 eyes. Due to this complex nervous system and relatively advanced sensory system compared to other cnidarians, box jellyfish display active, visually-guided, fishlike behavior, rather than drifting on the currents like true jellyfish.

The venom of cubozoans is distinct from that of scyphozoans, and is used to catch prey (small fish and invertebrates, including prawns and bait fish) and for defense from predators. They feed by extending their tentacles and accelerating for a short time upwards, then turning upside-down and pausing their pulsating. Then the jellyfish slowly sinks, until prey finds itself entangled by tentacles. Each tentacle has about 500,000 cnidocytes, containing nematocysts, a harpoon-shaped microscopic mechanism that injects venom into the victim upon contact. Many different kinds of nematocysts are found in cubozoans. When prey is tangled in the tentacles and the nematocysts have fired into it and stunned or killed it, the pedalia folds and brings the prey to the oral opening.

Chirodropida reproduces by external fertilization and Carybdeida reproduces by internal fertilization and is ovoviviparous; sperm is transferred by spermatozeugmata, a type of spermatophore. Hours after the fertilization, the female releases an embryo strand that contains its own nematocytes. Cubozoans are the only class of cnidarian that contains species that perform a “wedding dance” to transfer the spermatophores from the male into the female.

Cubozoans have been around since the Middle Cambrian.

Propaganda under the cut:

Often described as “the most lethal jellyfish in the world” the Australian Box Jelly or “Sea Wasp” (Chironex fleckeri) is responsible for 64 known deaths in Australia from 1884 to 2021. Being stung commonly results in excruciating pain, and if the sting area is significant, an untreated victim may die in two to five minutes. The amount of venom in one animal is said to be enough to kill 60 adult humans. It is also the largest Cubozoan, with body sizes reaching up to one foot in diameter and thick, bootlace-like tentacles up to 10 feet long.

Irukandji Jellyfish are any of several similar, extremely venomous species of rare box jellyfish. With very small adult sizes of about a cubic centimetre, they are both the smallest and some of the most venomous jellyfish in the world. There are about 16 species of box jellyfish called Irukandji, of which Carukia barnesi, Malo kingi (image 3), Malo maxima, Malo filipina and Malo bella are the best known. People stung by these may suffer severe physical and psychological symptoms, known as Irukandji Syndrome. Nevertheless, most victims do survive.

Wearing pantyhose, full body lycra suits, dive skins, or wetsuits are an effective protection against box jellyfish stings. The stinging cells on a box jellyfish's tentacles are not triggered by touch, but by chemicals found on skin, which are not present on pantyhose or the outer surface of wetsuits, so the jellyfish's nematocysts do not fire. If a tentacle of a box jellyfish does adhere to skin, it automatically pumps nematocysts with venom into the skin, causing the sting and agonizing pain. There is no scientific evidence that urine, ammonia, meat tenderizer, sodium bicarbonate, boric acid, lemon juice, fresh water, steroid cream, alcohol, cold packs, papaya, or hydrogen peroxide will disable further stinging, and these substances may even hasten the release of venom. However, flushing with vinegar can be used to deactivate undischarged nematocysts and prevent the release of additional venom.

Sea turtles, including the hawksbill sea turtle and flatback sea turtle, are unaffected by box jellyfish stings and specialize in snacking on them.

High school marine biology teacher Lisa Peck won an online competition to name the Bonaire Banded Box Jellyfish Tamoya ohboya (image 2), because, she said "I bet ‘Oh Boy!’ is the first thing said when a biologist or layman encounters the Bonaire Banded Box Jellyfish." It has orange and white striped tentacles. Oh boy!

The tiny (1 cm [0.4 in] wide) Mangrove Box Jelly (Tripedalia cystophora) is harmless to humans and feeds on copepods. They are threatened due to habitat destruction.

They have eyeballs for goodness sakes. Why do they have eyeballs. Who gave them the right.

These are amazing, ancient Cambrian creatures that have existed in the seas long before us and will be here long after we are gone. They are smarter than other jellyfish, smarter than we give them credit for, and they are not out to get us. We are not their prey. We are land animals and they are sea animals. If we’re going to keep entering their hunting grounds then it’s up to us to figure out how to adapt to live alongside them.

[swappetf11]

Weekend party transfer

“Y’all are gonna remember this for the rest of your damn lives,” was all Elijah said when the first invitations arrived. Creamy thick envelopes sealed with wax—his initials pressed in bold copper. The four of them—Dev, Mason, Jorge, and the groom-to-be, Griffin—received theirs within a day of each other, scattered across the country.

Inside was a card, embossed with burnished lettering on rough parchment:

You are cordially invited to a most unusual Bachelor Celebration—five days of immersion, camaraderie, and transformation. Pack light. What you wear now, you won’t need. Your new life awaits.

We need the following by Sunday:

• Current measurements: height, inseam, waist, neck, shoe size, hat size, wrist circumference

• Facial hair status

• A headshot without facial expression

Your destination is: Santa Fe Regional Airport

Date of Departure: September 9

Do not open your character card until you are in the air.

That was it. Elijah didn’t answer questions.

Griffin had tried texting him three times the week before.

GRIFFIN: What kind of bachelor party is this, man?

ELIJAH: Just trust me.

GRIFFIN: You making us do ayahuasca in the desert or some shit?

ELIJAH: Better.

Griffin, 34, a finance consultant, sharp-featured with buzzed light brown hair, a lean, gym-maintained body, and a nervous laugh, was both excited and low-key panicking. Mason, his best man, had shaved the sides of his head into a fade, wore silver rings on nearly every finger, and had a perpetual smirk that made everyone expect mischief from him. He flew in from Chicago, where he ran a boutique gym. Jorge, the biggest of them all, was broad-shouldered and warm-eyed, a firefighter out of Denver with a thick beard and callused hands. Dev, a tech guy from Seattle, was slim and stylish, usually in black turtlenecks, obsessed with speakeasies and jazz bars.

The four friends hadn’t been in the same place together in nearly two years.

And now, they stood beside one another in Santa Fe’s tiny regional terminal, bags in hand, laughing too loudly, hugging longer than usual, staring at Elijah, who leaned against a matte black SUV outside.

Elijah, the quietest of them all, wore a black button-up shirt and beige desert boots. His beard had grown in since they’d last seen him—darker, fuller—and his hair was longer, slicked back. Something was different in his energy. Focused. Stern. He hugged each of them, but didn’t laugh.

“Y’all ready?” he asked, smiling but guarded.

“You gonna tell us what the hell is happening now?” Mason asked, tossing his duffel in the back.

Elijah just grinned and pointed. “Get in.”

The Embodiment Institute.

A low-slung adobe facility emerged—curved edges, pale ochre in color. Strange wind chimes hung in clusters near the entrance. As they climbed out, a woman in a green dress approached. Her gray hair was piled high in a bun, but her arms were covered in ink.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” she said with a strange accent—somewhere between Midwestern and something older. “Please follow me to Intake.”

Still no answers. Just wide-eyed glances between friends.

Inside, they were brought into a cool hallway lined with lanterns, floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and old, sepia-toned portraits of men with long mustaches, leather dusters, rifles, and pipe smoke curling from their lips.

They were led into a round room where four high-backed leather chairs waited. In front of each chair—neatly folded—were loose-fitting gray gowns and slip-on sandals.

“We’ll begin shortly,” said the woman. “Please undress and change into your prep robes. Jewelry off. Phones on the tray.” She motioned to the center pedestal. “After this, the fun begins.”

Still stunned, the guys looked at Elijah.

“Elijah,” Dev said cautiously, “What the fuck is this? You told us bachelor party. Not… spa cult retreat.”

Elijah smiled, standing near the exit. “Just trust me. It’s all part of the immersion. Everything’s about to change. In the best way possible.”

One by one, still laughing nervously, they undressed.

Griffin felt weird taking off his clothes in front of everyone—boxer briefs, socks, the wedding ring he already wore just for comfort—placing everything in the canvas bag provided. He slid the robe on. The material felt… heavier than expected. As he looked at himself in the mirror, he noticed the color of his eyes shift—just subtly—from gray-blue to a hazier, muddy green.

“Uh—guys?” he muttered.

“I feel like I’m tripping and we didn’t take anything yet,” Dev said, looking at his arms. “Is it me or are these robes… tight around the chest?”

Jorge was already seated, eyes closed. “Feels good to me. Warm. Like it’s molding to me.”

“It’s supposed to,” said a man who entered silently. He was massive—long black hair tied back, a black turtleneck over broad shoulders, his skin sun-worn and bronze. “You’re not wearing robes. You’re wearing time.”

Elijah smiled. “Boys—meet Ezra. He’s our transformation lead.”

Ezra handed each of them an envelope. “Do not open these until you are airborne. Your character cards. These are who you’ll become.”

They boarded a sleek, vintage-style aircraft just an hour later. Wood interiors, leather chairs, dark velvet curtains. No logos. No flight crew—except Ezra, who now wore a brown vest and had taken on the air of a conductor in an old train.

The plane lifted gently into the sky.

“Now,” Ezra said, “open your envelopes.”

Each man did so, hearts beating fast.

GRIFFIN:

Name: Ellis Booker

Age: 38

Profession: Sheriff of Wren Hollow

Background: Former outlaw turned lawman. Known for his cold stare and swift trigger. Stoic. Clean. Craves justice… and whiskey.

Vices: Cigarillos, strong bourbon, power

Body type: Broad-shouldered, deep-chested, heavy-legged with square jaw and sun-aged skin

Clothing: Leather duster, steel toe boots, sheriff’s badge, wool vest

Facial Hair: Thick dark mustache, stubbled jaw

Hair: Jet black, parted, heavy pomade

MASON:

Name: Saul Vickers

Age: 43

Profession: Riverboat Tycoon

Background: A man of means and schemes. Knows how to manipulate trade and men alike. Flashy. Always in motion.

Vices: Gambling, cigars, women… and secrets

Body type: Tall, soft belly, expensive hands, long fingers

Clothing: Pinstripe three-piece suit, gold chain, top hat

Facial Hair: Curled mustache, oiled beard

Hair: Chestnut, styled and curled

JORGE:

Name: Clay McKinney

Age: 36

Profession: Bandit and Enforcer

Background: Once worked on the rails, now robs them. Simple, loyal, deadly.

Vices: Chew tobacco, brawling, greasy meat

Body type: Wide torso, hairy forearms, deep chest, fat fingers

Clothing: Canvas pants, suspenders, bandana, gunbelt

Facial Hair: Wild, unkempt beard

Hair: Buzzed, dirt-streaked

DEV:

Name: Felix “Trickshot” Darrow

Age: 39

Profession: Saloon Owner

Background: Talker, charmer, hustler. Ran from the east coast and reinvented himself.

Vices: Opium, gin, flirting

Body type: Lean, wiry, long legs, deft hands

Clothing: Velvet jacket, lace shirt, finger rings

Facial Hair: Narrow chin beard, waxed mustache

Hair: Auburn curls, shoulder-length

Griffin read his card twice.

“Sheriff?” he whispered. “I’m… I’m a goddamn sheriff?”

Mason started grinning. “You see this shit? I’m wearing a top hat.”

Jorge was already chuckling. “Bandit? Hell yeah. Makes sense.”

Dev raised an eyebrow, “Opium? The hell, man?”

They laughed. The laughter faded. Each man looked at the others—really looked. Mason’s beard looked fuller than it had that morning. Griffin’s hands had grown wider, knuckles slightly more pronounced. Jorge’s jaw was beginning to square out—hair creeping higher on his cheekbones.

“Wait…” Griffin said slowly. “My skin…”

Each of them watched themselves changing, inch by inch, millimeter by millimeter. Cuticles thickening. Teeth aching. The smell of tobacco started to feel… enticing

“Ezra,” Dev asked, his voice already raspier, “What the fuck is happening?”

Ezra looked at them, unmoved. “You’re becoming what you always were. The costumes are just catching up.”

[Continuing with the next 5,000+ words of the transformation — from makeup room through to individual dressing and full emergence. No summary, no headers. Just immersive narrative.]

The moment the plane touched down on the desert runway, the air had shifted. No one said a word. It felt like stepping through a veil.

Each man was escorted into a separate vehicle—horseless carriages styled to resemble something out of the 1800s, yet clearly engineered with precision. Not one of the friends spoke; they couldn’t. Their voices felt thick in their throats. Their thoughts—disjointed, vibrating, foreign.

Griffin… no, Ellis—he began thinking in fragments now—noticed that when he blinked, the light bent differently around the edges of his vision. Mason’s nose looked slightly broader than earlier. Dev’s freckles had darkened. Jorge… he was staring at his hands like he didn’t recognize them.

The cars rolled up to a vast compound, part adobe ranch, part old Western movie set. Ezra stepped out first and turned, his voice sonorous.

“Inside, you’ll undergo Hair and Makeup. You’ll each be taken to separate dressing rooms once your body is ready.”

“Ready?” Griffin’s voice cracked—lower than before. Guttural. “What do you mean ready?”

Ezra only smiled. “Don’t fight it.”

Inside, the hallway was lined with rich velvet curtains. Oil lamps flickered. Distant fiddle music played softly, but no source could be found. One by one, they were ushered behind separate doors by silent, gloved attendants. Griffin was last.

The chair was wide. Leather. Heavy wooden arms. As he sat, he noticed the weight in his hips. The robe clung differently now, stretched around broader shoulders.

“Mr. Booker,” said a voice behind him. “We’ll begin.”

A mirror loomed in front of him. His reflection flickered… and then steadied.

The makeup artist was older, with silvery eyes and long, sunspotted fingers. She dipped her brush in a tray of deep brown pigment and began smearing it into the contours of Griffin’s face. Except… it didn’t feel like makeup. It tingled. It stung. His pores absorbed it.

“Wait,” he murmured. “This ain’t… normal.”

“No, Sheriff Booker,” she said softly. “None of this is.”

Griffin grunted. His jaw ached. The brush moved down his neck. He blinked, and his reflection blurred again—his chin squaring, his temples tightening. The bones under his skin popped—crack—softer than a fracture, but loud enough to make him wince.

The brush was swapped for a small metal instrument. She pressed it into his upper lip and applied something waxy. Heat bloomed under the skin.

And then—sprout. Like the sudden bud of spring, a thick black mustache pushed through. It itched fiercely, then stopped. The ends curled downward just slightly.

His cheeks reddened. The sun-aged look. He could feel the burn of it, like long days on horseback. His eyebrows thickened—his eyelids heavier. His lips lost their pink flush and dulled to a dry, dusty hue.

The attendant placed a firm, calloused hand on his scalp.

“What the hell—” he murmured.

And then he felt it.

The follicles on his head tingled. Hair pushed out, jet black and coarser than he’d ever known it to be. A natural part formed at the center, swept back as if trained over years. It felt heavy with oil… with pomade. His hand lifted, ran fingers through it—it didn’t feel like a wig. It felt his.

“God… damn…” he whispered.

A tingling burned across his gums.

Then came the pop.

Each tooth loosened slightly, then re-rooted. The front two now large and squared, more visible. His tongue ran over a molar—flat, strong. A chewing tooth.

He looked in the mirror. He no longer saw Griffin.

He saw a sheriff. The eyes, the jaw, the weathered skin. The kind of man who settled problems with silence and a revolver.

He heard yelling through the wall—Mason.

“Are those real?!” Mason’s voice echoed. “What the fuck—what the fuck are these—these rings are part of my hands now?!”

The makeup artist laughed softly. “Mr. Vickers has arrived, I see.”

Across the compound, Mason’s own transformation had become theatrical. They had brought him a velvet-cushioned chair and surrounded him with three attendants. One applied thick creams that bronzed his skin a full shade darker, bringing out a strange reddish undertone. Another began reshaping his beard—not trimming it, but massaging something warm into it.

The hair on his jawline pulsed.

He screamed as the beard suddenly thickened, oiled up as if maintained daily for years. His mustache curled up at the edges—he hadn’t seen that coming. “Jesus! I look like… some old banker-slash-wizard!”

His reflection betrayed more—his nose now more hawkish, his ears pierced with gold studs. His fingers… long and slender, with thick knuckles and pruned, soft palms. A man who’d never done labor. Just deals.

Then, without warning, a cigar was placed between his lips.

He coughed at first.

The artist leaned in. “Inhale, Mr. Vickers.”

His lips wrapped around the dark, thick stogie. A slow pull. He tasted tobacco and cloves. It burned his throat. Then it soothed him. His pupils dilated. A grin crept across his face.

“Oh,” Mason—Saul—moaned. “Oh that’s… nice.”

He looked at his teeth. Slightly yellower now. But even. Sharp. The kind of grin that closed deals and opened legs.

One floor below, Jorge sat bare-chested. His robe was already torn at the seams, unable to contain his expanding chest and gut. He groaned as thick body hair exploded from his chest and trailed down his stomach.

“What the hell are you doin’ to me?” he asked, voice now low and thudding.

The attendant—male, broad-shouldered, wearing only suspenders—grunted and stuffed a dip of tobacco into Jorge’s lower lip.

He resisted at first. Then sighed. His whole mouth began to salivate. His tongue licked at the brown leaf. His mind dimmed slightly.

“You’re Clay McKinney now,” the man said. “And you’re strong as hell. And dumb as you need to be.”

His neck thickened. His shoulders cracked, spreading wide. A tattoo of a cross emerged across his forearm like it had always been there. His thighs widened, his boots bursting at the seams. New ones waited nearby—mud-stained and steel-toed.

Meanwhile, Dev sat in the mirror… trembling.

His hands had already become slimmer. More graceful. Each nail buffed, each knuckle faintly dusted in silver rings. His skin pale but glowing.

He watched as his hair curled and lengthened before his eyes—down past his shoulders, auburn waves cascading. A delicate goatee etched itself onto his chin, a waxed mustache curling above his lip.

“I… I look like a fucking magician,” he whispered.

“You own the saloon,” the artist said, applying rouge to his cheeks and eyeliner to his lids. “Your job is to seduce, distract, and profit.”

He saw his eyes in the mirror—sultry. Knowing. Older.

Then came the clothes.

They were led—individually, now wordless—down the corridor toward four separate rooms. In each room, their character wardrobe was displayed like museum pieces. Lit by lantern. Reverent.

Griffin stepped into the Sheriff’s room. His breath caught.

A thick leather gunbelt, a steel star, a tailored black duster with red lining. Boots with square heels. A wool shirt the color of gunmetal. Underwear—long, woolen. His name—Ellis Booker—embroidered in the waist.

He dropped the robe.

His body was dense. His thighs thick like tree trunks. Hair had sprouted along his stomach and legs, coarse and dark. His feet were wider. Even his dick hung heavier—meaty, low, crowned with new skin he didn’t recognize. His balls were fat and swung as he moved.

“Holy shit,” he whispered.

His voice was deeper. Hoarse. Like gravel.

One by one, he dressed.

Underwear first—itchy, but instinctual. Then the shirt, thick around the arms. He buttoned it slowly, hands trembling. The pants were stiff denim. No zipper—just buttons. They clung to his new ass, which was rounder, firmer. The suspenders hugged his shoulders.

The boots—heavy, unpolished—slid on and made him taller. He adjusted the badge last, pinning it to his left breast.

As it clicked in, something clicked in him.

He stood straighter. His mouth curled into a tight line. His eyes narrowed.

“Ellis Booker,” he said to the mirror, and believed it.

Elsewhere, Mason slid into silk boxers—not modern, but the high-waisted kind. A crisp collared shirt followed, frilled slightly, tucked into pinstripe slacks. A gold chain draped across his chest, connected to a pocket watch he instinctively wound.

The vest hugged his belly. The top hat balanced perfectly on his oiled curls.

He took another puff of the cigar—now perfectly placed between his two front teeth—and gave himself a smirk.

“I got deals to make, don’t I?”

Jorge—Clay now—grunted as he pulled up canvas trousers that nearly split from his thighs. No underwear. Just thick denim against thick skin. He belted them high. A red bandana around his neck. Suspenders snapping into place.

He laughed as he caught his reflection. “Hell yeah,” he muttered, bouncing once. “Built like a damn ox.”

Dev buttoned a velvet waistcoat over his lace shirt. A blue cravat at his throat. His hands delicately adjusted each ring. He smelled faint gin and lavender. His nipples peeked through the thin shirt. His hips now slightly more curved. He looked… ambiguous. Rich. Dangerous.

One hour later, the saloon doors swung open.

Four men emerged—not as they were, but as they now believed.

And something deep in the mirror’s reflection… locked into place.

From their perspective

Ellis stood alone in the wooden dressing room. The lamp overhead flickered softly. His breath was slow and heavy—slightly wheezing, like a man who’d taken in years of desert air. The mirror before him no longer reflected Griffin. That was gone.

He reached for the long underwear first—coarse wool, scratchy on the skin. As he bent over to step into it,he caught his new thighs flexing in the mirror.

“Jesus…”

His voice caught in his throat. Gravel. That was what it sounded like now. Gravel and whiskey.

He tugged the long johns up his legs. They were snug. His thighs were thicker than they’d ever been. Covered in a new coat of coarse, dark hair. Even his calves had changed shape—leaner, harder, like someone who spent their life in saddle.

He reached between his legs. He had to. He needed to know.

His new balls were heavy. Full. They hung low in the wool, pulling forward with gravity. His dick was different too—uncut, girthy, almost unrecognizable. Not the clean, smooth shaft he’d known in his old life. This was something primal.

He didn’t know whether to panic or moan.

Instead, he kept dressing.

The shirt was stiff—gunmetal wool. He slid his arms into it and froze when he felt the muscles in his forearms bulge slightly at the movement. The sleeves barely made it over his thick wrists. His new shoulders pushed the seams wide. He ran a hand down the length of his torso. The shirt clung to him.

Next, he buttoned on the thick denim pants. No zipper—buttons only. Every inch of it reminded him of the body beneath. He could feel the shape of his ass—rounder, wider. His thighs rubbed as he walked. He cinched the suspenders, the weight of the pants pulling on his waist as if daring him to stride.

His badge was last.

He pinned it to his chest slowly. As it clicked into place, he exhaled.

“Sheriff Ellis Booker,” he said aloud, testing the name.

And it felt right.

Saul Vickers was laughing to himself. In his room, he stood naked in front of the mirror with one hand on his stomach.

“I got a damn belly,” he whispered. “When the hell did I get a belly?”

He poked it, and it jiggled. His chest, still broad, now sloped slightly. It wasn’t fat—it was luxury. This was the body of a man who didn’t need to lift shit. A man waited on.

The silk drawers slid on easily. He adjusted his cock—it was long, a little veiny, and hung lazy between his legs. His pubic hair was neat and auburn, like the waves now curling atop his head.

“Damn. Even my bush is classy.”

He pulled on the tailored shirt, the collar brushing his neck. Then the pinstriped pants—he sucked in his gut to button them, which made him laugh again.

Next, the vest, snug around his torso, a gold chain dangling from the front. He slipped on the jacket. It hugged his shoulders perfectly.

He looked regal. Smug. Dangerous.

He reached for the cigar. Lit it. Inhaled deep. Coughed—just once. Then smiled.

“I’m Saul fucking Vickers.”

Clay McKinney wasn’t talking. He was grunting.

The first thing he’d done was look in the mirror and mutter, “Aw hell naw.”

His gut hung heavy. His chest was broad and furry. He had a scar across one pectoral, a tattoo on the other. His arms were thicker than his thighs used to be.

He looked down at his cock—uncut, thick, surrounded by wiry black hair. His balls hung like saddle bags.

“I smell like sweat and iron,” he muttered. “And it ain’t bad.”

The pants were hard to pull on. Canvas, stiff, gritty. But they felt right. They held his thighs together tight. No underwear. Just man and denim.

He snapped the suspenders on and rolled his shoulders. He cracked his neck. Then he saw the boots—mud-caked, scuffed—and slid them on with a grunt.

He smacked tobacco into his lip, spit in the bucket, and belched.

“I could wreck somebody.”

Felix Darrow, meanwhile, was humming as he powdered his cheeks. He was completely naked—admiring the way his hips curved now. Slender. Almost effeminate. His nipples were darker, more sensitive. He brushed his fingers across them and felt a rush of heat.

He leaned close to the mirror and smiled.

His teeth were perfect—but not Hollywood perfect. 1800s-perfect. Slightly tinted. Seductive.

The lace shirt went on first—flowing, translucent. Then the silk pants, tight at the waist and loose around the legs. He added the velvet coat, slipped on his rings, tied the cravat.

When he stepped into the heeled boots, he felt taller. Not in inches—in presence.

He blew a kiss at the mirror.

“Felix Darrow. Owner of sin.”

Outside the doors, the others were waiting. They’d all finished dressing. Each man stepped into the yard—one at a time. And then froze.

They stared at one another.

Saul was the first to speak.

“Griffin…?”

Ellis took one look and said, “Don’t call me that.”

Dev blinked. “Holy shit, you’re… huge.”

Jorge stepped out and grinned. “Y’all look like the damn cast of Deadwood.”

They stared.

Each body different.

Each voice… subtly changed.

Each man standing different.

Saul’s hand never left the cigar. Felix adjusted his cravat compulsively. Clay stood wide-legged, scratching at his side. Ellis was holding his belt, thumb hooked casually near the revolver.

“This is fucked up,” Felix said. “But also… not.”

“Y’all feel that?” Clay asked. “Like… deep in your bones?”

Ellis nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

Then, a voice echoed from the rooftop above.

Ezra.

“Gentlemen,” he said, arms crossed, smiling.

The wind caught his coat.

“Welcome to Wren Hollow. Your home for the next four and a half days.”

Felix squinted. “Wait… this is the bachelor party?”

Ezra nodded. “This is the party.”

Saul raised an eyebrow. “You serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

Ezra continued, voice low and clear:

“You will live here. Eat here. Drink here. Sleep in your cabins. Perform your duties. No one’s pretending. These roles are yours now. You’ve been prepared for this. The memory integration has already begun. By morning, your instincts will guide you.”

Clay stepped forward. “What if we don’t wanna do it?”

“You’ll want to,” Ezra said simply. “Trust me.”

Ellis narrowed his eyes. “This permanent?”

Ezra smiled. “Not technically. But the longer you wear it… the harder it is to take off.”

Then he pointed toward the town.

“Sun’s setting. Time to live like the men you were always meant to be.”

He vanished behind the chimney.

The four friends—no, not friends anymore—characters—looked at each other.

Felix let out a soft whistle. “Well, Sheriff,” he said with a grin, “might as well go see what kind of liquor you got in that saloon of mine.”

Saul flicked ash off his cigar. “And maybe try my luck at some poker. See if I can’t buy this town by tomorrow.”

Clay grunted. “I want meat.”

Ellis… just nodded.

They turned toward the town.

And walked forward—boots crunching on gravel—into the wild, lawless world of Wren Hollow.