#this is how it’s always been and this is how it’ll always be | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jackrrabbot · 3 days ago

Text

fidus achates

dbf!jack abbot x fem!reader

word count ~12.2k (sorry guys, omg)

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

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

masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You groan, “Daaad.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course. Bye!”

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

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

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

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

…and your dad.

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

He only wishes he had more time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t tempt me.”

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

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

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

Whatever, old man. Good music definitely still exists.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Will do. Get some rest.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ll see.”

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

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

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

You don’t mind.

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

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

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

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

Did Jack somehow know this is what you wanted?

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

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

Nah.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…Was he staring at your ass?

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

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

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

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

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

You thread your fingers through his now-free hand.

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

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

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

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

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

Is he even paying attention?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hums. “Can’t argue with that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, and your lap is more comfortable?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh God, the thoughts are getting worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A few seconds pass in silence.

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

Jesus, you did not just ask that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even if they’re only for his food.

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

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

Jack watches as the material lifts, exposing your skin.

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

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

“Meet you there.”

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

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

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

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

Addressing the problem head-on is best.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s always someone watching.

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

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

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

“Jack—Jack, what are you doing?”

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

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

“Hm… I guess you’re right.”

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

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

You plead, “J-Jack—”

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

“Do it.”

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

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

Gentleman, my ass.

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

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

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

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

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

But that isn’t the worst part.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I said what I said.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please don’t stop.

“Just give it to me. You can.”

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

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

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

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

“So, so pretty.”

“You did so good, kid.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let me—”

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

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

Is he fucking serious?

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

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

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

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

He knows he fucked up.

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

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

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

You’ll get over it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s not coming.”

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

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

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

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

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

They both give you a sad smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wants you.

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

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

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

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

He calls you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Angel… it’s been a while.”

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

“Heard it too.”

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

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

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

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

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

“W-why are you calling?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do we do about my dad?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Goodnight, Jack. Love you.”

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

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

Love you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#the pitt #the pitt fanfiction #smut #jack abbot smut #jack abbot fanfic #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x you #dr abbot #dr abbot x reader #dr abbot x you #dr jack abbot #the pitt hbo #jack abbot #the pitt x reader #rev.writes

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lunar-tale · 3 days ago

Text

🩷 Messages from your Future Spouse 🩷

Pick a Lee Felix

Hello, my lovely darlings. Thank you so much for the love on my first reading, I really appreciate each and every one of you who liked and reblogged it, it really makes a difference to me. Let's get on to the next reading! Pick the picture of our own Yongbokkie that you like the most (it must really speak to you) and read that pile! I hope it resonates with you and I hope you enjoy!

Pile 1 🧡

"I know you’ve been the one holding it all together. The giver. The helper. The one who says, 'It’s okay, I’ve got it,' even when you don’t. You’ve loved people who didn’t know how to build with you - only how to lean on you. But love isn’t meant to feel like effort without return, and when we find each other, you won’t have to do this alone anymore.

I won’t just meet you halfway - I’ll know how to stand beside you. I’ll be patient with the parts of you that learned to settle. I’ll see the way your eyes go distant when old hopes start whispering, and I’ll bring you back. Gently.

I know you miss things that never fully bloomed. People you gave pieces of your heart to and never got them back. But none of that was wasted. Every unfinished chapter taught you what you deserve - and it’s me. It’s this. A home you don’t have to earn. A love that stays.

We’re still finding our way to each other. But when we do? It’ll feel like the first time someone truly looked at you - and saw the whole picture.”

Pile 2 💚

"I’ve felt your loneliness before I ever knew your name. The way you’ve walked through the world with quiet strength, even when it felt like no one had your back. You’ve been shut out, left out or made to feel like love was something to be earned - not simply given. And I’m sorry for every time you had to question your worth.

Fate hasn’t always been kind. I know you’ve wondered if the timing’s just...off. If things keep slipping away because you’re somehow not ready or not enough. But it’s not you - it’s the process. And I promise, it’s not over. It’s realigning.

Right now, you’re growing in ways you can’t even see yet. You’re becoming someone who can recognize the kind of love I’ll bring you - not the kind that burns out, but the kind that builds. Slow, steady, real. I admire your effort, your persistence, your refusal to give up on yourself even when the world tries to quiet your spark.

And that spark? I’ll see it the moment I meet you. You’ll be lit up from the inside - curious, bold, maybe a little guarded still. But you’ll be ready. Ready to start something new. And so will I."

Pile 3 💙

"You’ve been following all the ‘right’ steps. Doing what’s expected. Holding yourself together with grace, even when it feels like the world only cheers for you when you’re achieving, succeeding, shining. But I need you to know - my love won’t arrive just because you’ve performed well enough. It won’t be another prize you have to earn.

I’m not coming in like a storm. I won’t be loud, or reckless, or someone who pushes their way in before you’re ready. I’m learning, too - how to slow down. How to be present. How to love in a way that doesn’t leave people empty.

You’ve given so much of your heart to people who weren’t ready to hold it. Maybe part of you still wonders if the problem was you - if you were too intense, too open, too soft. But it wasn’t you. It was timing. Mismatch. Immaturity.

When we meet, it won’t feel like a race. It’ll feel like coming home to a kind of peace you didn’t know you were allowed to have. And I’ll love you not because you’re impressive - though you are - but because I’ll see who you are when the performance stops."

#pick a pile reading #pac reading #tarotblr #tarot reading #tarot #kpop #felix #stray kids #skz #pick a card #pick a card reading #pac #lee felix

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insomniac-dot-ink · 2 days ago

Text

A month later, an advert appears in the paper. You wouldn’t normally answer, the odds of getting caught would go up every time you do stupid shit, but your bike spoke broke. DoorDash had been suiting you just fine–you really could bike forever. But the spoke on your bike split like someone snapping their fingers and your heart sank. You used to love biking.

Plus, the advert felt targeted. Near the back of the paper, you’d been checking them every day now, and it was barely a paragraph. WANTED: Spirit or Ghoul with high endurance. Strong preference for ghoul. Flexible hours and attire. Temporary position, paid upfront. Meet at crossroads at twilight.

It was dated for that day. How presumptuous, you think, and you fold the newspaper in half and then in half again like you’re storing good wedding linen.

“I’m going out, grandma!” you call toward the drawing room.

Your grandma mutters to herself, she was a muttery person, before yelling back: “bah! No need to always tell me, you’re an adult, kitty Kate.” The statement was a little at odds with your childhood nickname, but grandma was always insisting you fly to Paris on your own or adopt a hellhound or buy a house. Well, you’d like those things too.

You're out the door in late afternoon. No heels this time, and your pantsuit had gotten a small grass stain last time so leave that too. You walk because of the bike situation, and you walk even more quickly when you’re out of your neighborhood. There were several devil’s crossroads throughout the city, most were tourist traps, but everyone agreed Old Town really did host an intersection of the otherworld. It was also a tourist trap, naturally.

You leave the sidewalk and walk up and then down several stone streets that become stonier with every block. Old Town is lousy with crowds and you suddenly wish you’d worn your pantsuit and heels. A ghoul that looks like she has a business degree might turn out better in their photos, you think.

Head down, eyes on your feet, you almost run headlong into her. She has a the same crooked smile that matches her crooked nose.

“You made it.” Stephanie is wearing a studied leather belt and a pair of black skinny jeans. You pang with jealousy–it must be easy for her to throw on pants or a long skirt and blend right in. “You’re early.”

You muster a smile and check the skyline. “Too early?”

She shrugs. “Depends on if you want the job. Come on, this way.”

Glancing around, you slide a face mask on. No way are you going to be identifiable near Stephanie and her gigs. You walk in step toward the back alleys, thick with shadows and crisscrossing side streets.

“I like the new hair,” Stephanie says as you walk.

You touch the ends of your shortened hairdo. “Thanks.” You muster a better smile. “I was going for morning weather lady.”

“Want to be on the news?” She snorts, and you don’t mention you interviewed at a local radio station. You didn’t make it to the second round. Stephanie points at her own head. “I was mainly talking about the color.”

You feel a blush creep down your neck, and you’re even more glad you put on the face mask on. Had you meant to bleach your hair the same white as hers? God, you’re embarrassing.

“It’ll fade soon.” You sigh, tosling your Weather Lady locks.

“Green?”

“How did you know?” you say dryly. “I used to tell the kids in class that it was part of a curse on my bloodline. Haunted by the ghost of grass or limes, I suppose.”

“I take it spirits aren't the source?” You kind of like that you have her attention, this stranger out of time.

“Nah.” You smile behind your mask and lower your voice, “my family’s favorite symbiote. Can’t get enough of us.” You refrain from saying the word “fungus” since no one wants to hear their companion has a mossy covering from her hair to her teeth. You’d tried dying your hair a hundred different colors as a teen and the fungus always repopulated from the scalp outward.

She laughs, dusty and a little grating. “Is that the difference between a ghoul and a spirit, then? One has phantom green and the other makes their own.”

“Something like that . . .” You are distracted by the empty street ahead. Old Town takes a drastic turn into a residential district, pock-marked by dank puddles and frayed laundry lines. The doors are firmly shut on either side of you, and Stephanie leads around the corner to a layer of bright yellow tape.

“Here we are.” She grins at the crime scene tape.

You set your jaw. “Paid upfront.”

—------------------ The alleyway has a neglected feel, straddling the line between the tourist district and the one for everyone else. An ATM sits at the corner, a soda machine, another machine just for bottled waters, and a third one, near the back, surrounded by a web of police tape.

Stephanie has you hang back until the sun splinters across the horizon and turns the sky a quilted purple. She nods, pulled her hood up, and has you duck your heads under the tape.

You follow as low to the ground as you can, eyeing the mouth of the alleyway. “Where are the cops again?”

“Getting special forces.” Stephanie rolls her eyes. “A priest. Come on.”

Crossing the yellow tape in a few bobbing steps, you see why they’re getting a priest. The vending machine is gently glowing. You cup your eyes, and press your face to the glass, glancing between the licorice packs and rolls of powdered donuts. “Jesus Christ,” you say when you see it, which is appropriate.

A fingerbone slots at the very front of the candy bar wrung, caught in the spring like a gruesome snack. The bone is sun-dipped yellow and cracking in places. You jerk back when you blink and the fingerbone reappears among the cracker packets a second later. You feel slightly ill.

Stephanie clicks her tongue. “Saints’ bone.”

“What is it doing in there?” you ask without taking your eyes off it.

Stephanie gets to her knees in a creaky, pained movement. “Some kids used it to pay.” Your mouth falls open and Stephanie cuts in, “Saints bones can be used to pay for anything.”

“Yeah--and for miracles,” you say pointedly. Like the miracle of getting stuck in a vending machine, you guess.

“Kids.” Stephanie says and makes a ‘what can ya do’ gesture. She adds more quietly, “hungry ones. And when the cops go looking for them maybe there is nothing in the machine after all. Maybe their eyes were no good and there is no illegal owning of bones or holy objects used as currency.”

You suck on your bottom lip and follow Stephanie down to your knees, hoping the kids at least got one of every kind. “Why can’t it get out?” You never see the finger move, but every time you blinked, it changed positions.

Stephanie propped open the mouth of the vending machine, wrapping her knuckles against the glass with her other hand. “Bit like a casket . . . Bones don’t leave the casket.”

You groan and peer through the vending machine slot, flexing your right hand and eyeing the finger bone. “Two hundred,” you grunt, “now.”

You get $250 for your troubles, inflation and all that. You jam your entire arm in and reach. Your eyes burn from holding them open, locking the bone in place with your gaze, and shoving half your shoulder into new, fascinating positions. The pad of your finger grazes the bottom of the bone.

“Ow!” You realize why no one else has yanked it out yet. “It bit me.” Jerking your hand back, pinpricks of sluggish black blood dribble out of the tip of your finger. Technically, the bone didn’t really bite, but it had become sharp enough to cut.

Stephanie let out a long breath. “I was hoping it wouldn’t register you . . .”

You growl, “ghouls aren’t undead-undead. It wouldn’t recognize me as one of its own.” Stephanie rubs the back of her neck and you let out another groan. “Whatever. Stand back. Give me some room.”

You blink several times until the bone reappears close to the bottom of the case and you jam your whole arm in all at once. You growl, knowing what to expect now. You tell your body to forget your hand. When you yank the damn thing out, black blood sluggishly weeps down your wrist.

“Fuck you too.” You throw the bone to the ground and shake your hand out.

“Hey! Careful.” Stephanie dives on the finger bone, slamming what looked like a shoebox down on it. The lid seals and begins glowing faintly. Stephanie glances up from the ground. “You okay?”

You cover your hand with a handkerchief before she can see. “I will be.” One of your fingers may have been dangling off but your grandma had remedies for that. The moss was useful for more things than just dye.

Stephanie frowns in a way that suggests birthday party cancelations or a rash you can’t reach. She slides you another fifty. “Hazard pay.”

You plan to stay and clean up any trace of blood or fingerprints, but Stephanie grips the box in both hands and turns. “Come on. The witch said we only had until the sun sets.”

“But . . .” You look between the back of Stephanie and the machine.

She waves a hand in the air. “We’re professionals!”

Who is “we”? you wonder. But the less you know probably the better. You check that the gore is contained to her hand all the same and run after her a second later. “Are,” you swallow, panting and looking at the shoebox. “Keeping that?”

“The kid swiped it from the family’s heirlooms, I suppose.”

You grip your pulsing right hand and lower your voice further, “should they be getting it back?”

Saints’ Bones were almost always stolen, claimed by raiding soldiers generations ago or crooked thieves, and kept apart from their holy bodies. Stephanie looks both ways before crossing the street, and then turns on you. “Should, should, should. Shouldn’t you be in the military? Ghouls get paid like CEOs there.”

You study your feet, sun disappearing behind you and leaving you both in the dark. Stephanie steps in close and hands you a brick-like cellphone. “Well, if you’re interested in more gigs in the future. . . I won’t have to pay any more newspaper fees.”

A part of you considers smashing the phone to the ground, but you take it in your good hand.

“So I can mangled again?” you say this to your shoes, still gripping the phone.

She waves, weakly, and presents a meager smile when you look up. “Well, I mean, you’re good at it.”

You snort and turn away, trying to hide the sudden warmth in your chest and temptation to buy a leather belt. She doesn’t let you watch her leave and you decide to bus home for once.

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

A/N: I'm thinking of turning this into series if people are interested!

WANTED

You find the advert face down on the table. You’re picking up after your grandma. She insists her mind is sharp as a tack but her empty tea cups and loose handkerchiefs and day-old newspapers litter every surface. You scan the paper, and a part of you is sure there aren’t any more jobs like this.

The paper is yesterday’s paper and the various jobs match LinkedIn: nannying and dog walker and kitchen staff. The advert, the one, is stark against the others. You read the tiny printed words over and over, always getting stuck on the word WANTED.

Your friends told you not to go: what kind of job asks you to meet in the middle of the woods? What kind of jobs has no website or contact info? What kind of jobs were advertised in the goddamn paper? You friends wouldn’t get it.

Anastasia, your best friend since third class, tells you to keep your “Find My Phone” on and call when you get there. She really wouldn’t get it. Your grandma tells you that this is the world, the other version of it, and you are her granddaughter. So go.

You walk the three and a half miles in high heels. This job probably wouldn’t even expect high heels, but old habits die hard. You were once convinced in college your girlfriend cast a curse on you, the sleepless nights and a relentless rash proved it. Now that you’re an adult, an adult-adult, you don't think so anymore. If anything was a witch’s spell, it was LinkedIn. Hours and hours of youth wasted on the same go-around.

5 years of experience and 3 different references and no street parking but the bus is only a block away. You can walk, right? Unpaid overtime and shaving your legs to go sit for an hour in an uncomfortable plastic chair. That’s an unusual last name, is it a family one? Ah. I see.

You can walk for a long while. Your heels slup, slup, slup in the soupy ground and it takes you longer than you’d like to look around. The street lights dwindle. The trees gather. The path disappears. The woods are thick and unfamiliar and an iron fence rises in the distance. Despite the late summer heat, the air smells of frost. Maybe Anastasia was right–whether you are your grandmother’s descendent or not.

She comes out of the woods on rail-thin chicken legs. Her skirt is short, cut at a horizontal angle, and she looks like where the punk scene from the 80s went to die. She has a studded leather jacket and bleach-blonde asymmetrical hair. You shove your hands in your stupid suit jacket and check the skies. Half-moon, just risen, you’re right on time.

“You here for the advert?”

“It’s half-moon, isn’t it?” you say back and flash her a tight smile. You had had a sudden sinking feeling about her ability to write you a paycheck.

She looks you up and down. “Spirit?”

“Ghoul.” You shrug. “Yaga?” She sticks out one of her stalky chicken legs. “Servant of one. Two gens back. On my father’s side.” Your strained smile gentles. “I’m Katie.” Her smile sharpens in response. “Stephanie. Come on, let’s take a walk.” “Was that a real advert, Stephanie?” You saddle up beside her despite yourself. “Cause if you’re just here to pull my leg, know that I'm pretty hard to put down.” She lets out a harsh laugh that sounds like it hurts. “I’m counting on it.” She winks. “Now, not sure I know your line so well, what’s the difference between a ghoul and a spirit?” What is a spirit or ghoul? What was a gig worker or a salaried one? Perhaps a whole length away. Stephanie pushes a bush aside to reveal a hole in the iron fence and leads you through. The grass turns from wild heather to manicured green and you emerge into a field of rolling hills. Your skin prickles. You might be hard to kill, but not to capture. You stay low to the ground.

“Can I be paid upfront?” Her breath smells of winter frost and fresh-turned soil. “You down that bad?”

You survey the trimmed grasses and gentle slopes, the unnatural prickle spreads through your skin to your bone. A house rises in the far-distance, and you swallow thickly. “Is this some Scooby Doo shit?”

“Come on.” She pushes your shoulder. “I’ll pay upfront. The only real question is if you’ve got a pair of lungs on you.” You toss your ponytail back. “For as long as you like. But, I gotta ask, are there really not any free banshees right now?” Stephanie’s smile falters for the first time. “Old world is dying,” she snorts. “Or just buried deep enough to feel that way.” “We’re still here.” “Still here.” She slips you two hundred and takes you to the side of a small lake. The water is murky and the edges form an unnatural drop. She hands you a lightweight dress, gauzy and impossibly white, and you wrinkle your nose. You looked back and forth between the far-distant house and the lake.

It took you the whole walk to place the gate and the house and the land: The Turnpikes. Built almost seven generations back and larger than ever. You couldn’t imagine. The old world was dying, but you supposed it was also just right there. You put the dress on and kick your heels off. Gathering your stuff, Stephanie gives you a big thumbs up and backs away. You take a deep breath, you don't need many, but you had a feeling it would count.

A light in the far-distant window turns on. You see your grandma in your mind’s eye, her tangled green hair and wicked little smiles. All this for two hundred? But a ghoul isn't a banshee. You jump in feet first.

The wet and the cold and the dank water with no memory swallows you. You submerge in the tiny manmade lake, and when you come out, you come out screaming.

The fear of ghouls is an ancient one–something hard to kill. That can walk forever, fight forever, go Without forever. And you think, as you toss your head back, drip water, and let your lungs rattle in your chest, that you might scream forever too.

For two hundred bucks, a ghoul can be a banshee and a world can be made old and new and when you scream, you can scream until you’re made real again.

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

Newsletter 🧡 Pre-order my new book!

#ghoul story #fantasy story #fic #long post #my writing

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neiptune · 3 days ago

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assessment gone wrong

cw: 2.5k wc, female reader, miscommunication trope, very self indulgent, quite sappy by the end, yikes yikes yikes, oliver comes up with a not so brilliant idea to test out how much you actually like him and it blows up in his pretty face

“I think we should have a threesome”.

You damn nearly choke on the piece of whipped ricotta toast you’re eating, eyes darting to where Oliver is sitting across from you at the breakfast table he so kindly set.

“What?”, you swallow, trying really hard to hide your astonishment. He just smiles.

“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that for a while. What do you say?”.

You clear your throat, gaze low while you keep your fingers occupied by tapping them on the mug filled to the brim with freshly brewed tea.

Oliver relishes in that agitation and, as he brings a spoonful of spinach tofu scramble to his mouth, he secretly congratulates himself on the brilliant idea his brain came up with while on his morning run.

The thing is, you two have been dating for a while now and he truly likes you. That’s precisely why he would like to confirm that you like him too. No, more than that: he wants to understand just how much you like him. So of course the mature and adult thing to do would be to test whatever feelings you might or might not have for him through a silly trial. An assessment, if you will. All you have to do is say no, confirm that you don’t want to go through with something like that because you want him and no one else. You don’t need anyone else. He’ll take any confession, really, from the sweetly embarrassed one to the heartwarming, touched, emotional one.

It’ll be his cue to tell you, too. Tell you that he doesn’t want anyone else either.

It’s the perfect plan: you’re nervous, surely debating how it’d be best to tell him that it’s not a good idea. Victory already tastes so sweet on his tongue, like a ripe mango or a drizzle of honey…

“Okay”.

Oliver blinks.

“Sorry?”.

You offer a smile.

“Fine. Let’s do it”.

Suddenly, the taste in his mouth is sour. He clears his throat.

“You sure?”.

“Yep”, you pop the ‘p’, “how about Itoshi?”.

Oliver calmly swallows another bite of his breakfast and washes it down with a generous sip of coffee. He didn’t expect you to accept, let alone to have a preference. What the actual fuck.

“Which one?”.

“Either”, you grin, “Sae, if I had to choose”.

Why do you want to choose in the first place? He can’t wrap his head around the unexpected result of his experiment. He wasn’t prepared to face this specific scenario.

“Will you ask him?”, your tone is so sweet, as it always is when you want him to do something, “or were you thinking of someone else? Sendo is cute but I thought it’d be weird since you two are practically brothers and, like, he’s the straightest guy I know. How about Isagi or Karasu? Oh, I know! Shid-”

“I will ask him”, Oliver sternly interrupts the little philippic of possible men you’re apparently dying to sleep with. He only has one remaining wild card to play.

“How about a woman? I was thinking Anri, she’s really hot”.

Oliver almost smirks when his question is met with the hesitation he was looking forward to at last. It only lasts a second, then you offer the biggest smile as you shrug.

“Yeah, she’s beautiful. Why not?”.

The wild card burns to ashes right in front of his eyes. Fuck.

“Okay, then”, he chirps, ever the charming liar.

“Okay, then”, you say back and if Oliver wasn’t so focused on contemplating how every single one of his certainties was disrupted like a house of cards left in a rainstorm, maybe he would’ve noticed the tense corners of your smile.

A few days go by without the stupid agreement being mentioned and part of you hopes that practice and games and silly family drama will be enough to take his mind off of it. But you also know that once Oliver sets his mind to something, it’s nearly impossible for him to reconsider it.

Honestly, you were completely blindsided by the threesome idea. Not letting it get to you, not falling into the trap of thinking you may not be enough for him, has been hard. The past few days have been hard. You’ve been replying to his texts normally and it’s still quite early for him to notice that your smiles are all forced, your enthusiasm fictitious.

It’s just that it kinda felt like the dating stage was finally about to transform into something different, something more. Perhaps you’ve been too naive but the thought was there: you couldn’t help but believe he likes you as much as you like him, enough to not feel the need to see other people anymore. Clearly, not only he still wants other people, he’s also been wondering whether you’d want them too. Which is fair. Unexpected but understandable. He’s not your boyfriend, is he?

It’s your fault for having been dumb enough to say yes to something you don’t actually want to do. But the thing is, you panicked and feared that refusing would have automatically led to him breaking things off.

It’s embarrassing how badly you’re falling for Oliver Aiku, enough to blindly accept a goddamn threesome apparently. Enough to be scared of not living up to his standards as a partner. But if this is what he wants, if this is what he needs, clearly you’re not the right person for him and prolonging what’s not meant to be will only result in heartache.

Still... are you ready to just let him go? Couldn’t you maybe at least try, for his sake? Isn't this how you get to prove that you like him enough to do something like this in the first place?

These thoughts have been tormenting you day and night, you’re too embarrassed to mention the issue to any of your friends so you’re just letting the endless pondering eat away at your sanity.

Oliver casually swings by your place after practice, takes your face in his hands to kiss you when you open the door for him.

“Can I shower here? I have a change of clothes”, he murmurs against your mouth and you kiss him again, tell him he already knows where the clean towels are.

Your apartment is considerably smaller than his, so it’s easy to chat while he’s in the bathroom and you’re putting together dinner for two in the kitchen. The familiarity you have so easily fallen into feels comfortable and warm in your belly, the tune he hums in the shower making the perfect soundtrack for your quiche to bake in the oven.

Oliver smells of your shampoo and body wash when he wraps his arms around you by the kitchen counter, hair still damp tickling your collarbone when he kisses your shoulder.

“How was practice?”, you ask with a smile.

“Pretty good. Guess the best part”.

“Mmm. Sendo finally scored with a corner kick”.

He chuckles.

“He was in great shape today but no. The best part is how close practice is to your place”.

Your heart fumbles in your chest at his words and when you turn in his arms he instantly presses you against the counter to give you a proper kiss. It’s slow, sweet, his hands squeeze your hips and you angle your head to kiss him deeper, your lungs unfairly claiming their fill of oxygen too soon. You’d give up something as trivial as breathing instantly, if it meant you got to kiss Oliver forever.

“Stay here tonight?”, you ask sheepishly, thumb stroking his skin where your hand rests on his cheek. He smiles.

“If you want me”.

He’s so beautiful. And so stupid. Occasionally makes you want to hit his pretty head with a baseball bat.

“I may”, you grin, “if you wash the dishes”.

Oliver rolls his eyes with fondness.

“We have a deal”.

He pecks your lips again, then offers a sly smile.

“By the way, I just saw that Anri is currently abroad. Guess she’s off the list for now”.

You blink, then blink once more, something sour suddenly simmering in your stomach.

“Yeah, saw that too”, you lie easily, “we can wait. Or ask someone else”, clearing your throat, you slip away from his embrace and shuffle to your living room, where you let yourself fall on the couch. He soon follows, eyes wary in a way you can’t quite make sense of.

“I asked Sae”, he says quietly, “he said yes”.

You look at him, surprised.

“He said yes?”.

Oliver nods, feeling nauseous.

He is at his wits’ end and the amazement (relief? Excitement?) in your gaze isn’t helping at all.

That’s it, he decides. He’s just going to tell you it was all a giant bluff, the very reason why he stopped by in the first place. To be brave, to finally come clean and admit that his plan wasn’t so brilliant after all. And that maybe, just maybe, if this is what you really want perhaps you’d be better off with Itoshi Sae. Or Isagi. Or Karasu. Or fucking Shido-

“Oliver, I don’t want to do it”.

He looks up from his lap, lips parted.

“What?”.

You look mortified, which makes him feel like a monster.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry but I really don’t want to”.

“But”, he pauses, “you said-”

“I know what I said”, you sigh, exasperated, “I lied. I wanted to make you happy but I can’t watch you kiss, let alone fuck anyone else”.

“I wanted it to be all about you, I don’t have to-”

“Oliver”, you interrupt his stupid nonsense, too distracted to notice the joyful glint in his eyes, “I don’t care. I don’t want to bring anyone else into this, even if this is just dating casually. It’s fine if you want to, uh, end it here though. I’d get it. I wouldn’t want to hold you back or anything”.

He’s too engrossed in the way your voice trembles, in the sadness reflected in your eyes, to focus on the actual relief flooding over his chest. He just feels like a dick.

“I came here to tell you I never really intended to go through with it”, Oliver takes one of your hands in his, brings it to his mouth to kiss your wrist, “I’m sorry. It was stupid”.

“What?”, you furrow your brows, “are you joking?”.

He offers an embarrassed smile.

“I only now realize that it might’ve been a bad idea. But the way you responded… I thought you actually wanted to! You had a list ready-”

“You’re an idiot”, you release your hand from his grasp and punch his shoulder, “are you stupid or something? And fucking insisting even after I said no because it’d be all about me! God, I’m gonna go fuck Itoshi Sae out of spite right this second”, you are snatched backwards as soon as you get up from the couch, pulled by the arm and then caged in a strong embrace you wouldn’t be able to free yourself from if you tried.

“I don’t want it to be casual”, he murmurs into your shoulder. You freeze into his hold.

“What?”.

“Not only I don’t need to bring anyone else into this, I don’t need anyone. I don’t want anyone”, Oliver rests his chin on the juncture between your neck and shouder. You can feel his breath hot on your skin when he speaks next. “Be my girlfriend”.

When you look at him, your heart squeezes at the sheer vulnerability in his hopeful gaze.

“Like… in a relationship?”, the question makes him chuckle.

“Yeah, like in a relationship”.

“An exclusive one”.

“That’s what I had in mind, yes”.

“In a way that would make you my boyfriend”.

Oliver laughs again, the sound lighter this time.

“I believe that’s how relationships usually work”.

Your irritation dissipates, which annoys you to an extent but there’s no time to focus on that because Oliver Aiku just asked you to be his girlfriend. You never even got to dream about this scenario, that's how out of reach it felt.

When you gently take his face in your hands, something melts in your chest at the way he leans into your touch.

“I’d like that”, you murmur and Oliver smiles so big before kissing you, arms wrapping tighter around your frame.

“You have goosebumps”, he whispers, the pads of his fingers gently tracing your arm.

“Shut up”, you mutter, burying your face in his neck. He adjusts you better against his chest, kisses the crown of your head.

“S’that because I’m your boyfriend now?”, Oliver’s teasing doesn’t actually feel exasperating for once, not when it sounds so sweet. You just hum against him, an affirmative sound that makes him smile. He decides against admitting it out loud but he feels it somewhere in his chest, loud, clear, eager. He’s falling in love with you.

“Can I ask you something?”, you speak quietly after a moment of comfortable silence.

Oliver knows exactly what the question is going to be because he knows you.

“Shoot”.

“Would you have wanted it? If it was a woman or if… you know. It was all about you instead”.

He hums, pensive. This is not your way of invalidating his attraction to both men and women, it’s an insecurity he’s somehow responsible for. You’re asking because you’re still wondering if there is something else he may need from someone who is not you. You’re asking to make sure he’s sure. You’re asking because his dumb plan backfired and now there are still too many uncertain thoughts in that pretty little head of yours, the most urgent one leading you to ponder whether jealousy is the one thing holding him back. If it would’ve been different, with a swap of the right variables.

“I don’t need a man the same way I don’t need a woman”, he simply says, “I just wanted to know if I’m enough for you. The way you are enough for me”.

“You could’ve just asked, you know”.

“Where’s the fun in that?”.

He groans when you punch his shoulder again, with less strength this time.

“You’re such an idiot. I’m still mad at you”, you click your tongue.

“I’ll make it up to my girlfriend”, Oliver smiles, half apologetic, half cocky. The term conjures a storm of butterflies in your stomach, their little wings fluttering restlessly along with the pathetic muscle in your rib cage.

You choose to taste the word on his mouth, feel the texture of it with every brush of tongue against his. The way you kiss him may feel like you’ve already forgiven him but Oliver knows better. He just shuts up and counts his blessings as his hand slides up to cradle your neck and jaw to angle your head the way he needs to kiss you deeper, until you make that sweet little sound that is usually his cue to flip you on your back and devour you whole.

But then you suddenly pull away, eyes wide.

“What’s wrong?”, he asks, gaze hazy, lips swollen. You’re distracted by how beautiful he looks for just a moment.

“What are we going to tell Sae?”.

Oliver blinks once, then throws his head back in laughter.

“First, I think I’m done hearing that man’s name coming out of your mouth”, he grins and you roll your eyes, “second, I never really asked him”.

You stare at him for a moment, incredulous. Then scoff.

“You’re the fucking worst”.

“Maybe”, Oliver shrugs with a smirk, “but I’m still your boyfriend”.

#oliver aiku x reader #oliver aiku x you #aiku x reader #aiku x you #bllk x reader

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conelluwrites · 3 days ago

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Getting Baby Trapped Headcanons

Featuring: Thanos (Choi Su-bong), Nam-gyu, and Hwang In-ho Warnings: manipulation, stealthing, dub-con, drug use (Thanos), AO3 link Explicit Masterlist here Other: I might do fics about this later... much 2 think abt

Choi Su-bong | Thanos

He doesn't do it maliciously, please believe him baby :((

He does it under the influence 100%

There's no pin pricks in condoms, no throwing your pills away, he absolutely does it just because he's high and thinks you'd be a cute lil mama

Please don’t be angry :(( He just loves you so much

He just says he’s got a condom on, but he definitely doesn’t

You’re not a stupid woman, you definitely know the difference, but he doesn’t care

When his drug addled brain finally clears up he does feel a bit guilty and begs for your forgiveness

When those two lines finally show up much to your chagrin, he jumps and fist bumps the air

Absolutely ecstatic, especially if you test positive during one of his high times

Please, cariño, we can do this. Don’t be mad with me, baby girl. You’d be the prettiest baby mama in the world.

Nam-Gyu

Does it maliciously, the fucker!

He gets scared you’ll leave him and instead of talking about it like a big boy he decides the best option is to knock you up

Does he want a kid? Nah, not truly- he’d be a shit dad, that’s what he tells himself anyway

But that doesn’t matter-- what matters is keeping you tied to him with his bastard

Breaking up with him is still an option, but you’d still have to see him and he’d smooth talk you right back into his arms

Definitely stealths

Don’t try to call him out on this, he will belittle you mid-sex for being such a bitch. How could you accuse him of something like that!

He’s a cocky ass when those two lines appear and you’ve been throwing up

Pats your back when you puke while covering his nose and tells you to hurry it up

Poor girl, huh… I thought you were one of those proper women who use birth control. Damn shame, oh well.

Hwang In-ho

He just wants a family with you, you’re his second chance

He’d never verbally call you a second chance, of course, and he doesn’t generally see you that way. He adores you, practically worships the ground you walk on, please don’t doubt that he loves you

He’s more subtle, though he’s prepared if you call him out- pricking holes in the condom and convincing you that you don’t need birth control

After all, why do you need birth control? Condoms have a low risk of failing, he knows what he’s doing, and you’ve complained about the side effects before

Definitely more manipulative than either Thanos or Nam-gyu. He’s in this for the long con. He doesn’t care how long this takes, how many cycles he has to wait through, he knows it’ll happen

Initiates sex more often, but not too much more than usual. With your hormones back to normal after quitting birth control you start to initiate more often than usual

He holds you after sex, brushing his fingers up and down your arms and whispering sweet, calming words. He always does after sex care, even when he’s gentle, but there’s even more gentleness behind his actions now

He’s so damn pleased when he sees you hold out the test to him, your face flushed and looking flustered

He takes it and sits it aside and then envelopes you in his arms, tucking your head into his neck

It seems we’ve been blessed, hm? I suppose even at 98% effective that still gave us a 2% chance. Well, no use in complaining about it.

#hwang in ho x reader #choi su bong x reader #thanos x reader #nam gyu x reader #thanos squid game #squid game x reader

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pohtaytoh · 12 hours ago

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𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗪𝗿𝗼𝗻𝗴 𝗬/𝗟/𝗡

*ೃ༄ Megan Skiendiel x f!reader

Everyone ships Megan Skiendiel with your brother Gabriel, convinced they're endgame. He's always taking credit for the sweet gestures that make Megan swoon, and she totally believes he's the one. But you, Y/N Y/L/N, have been secretly head over heels for Megan for years. You're the one leaving those thoughtful gifts and sending those encouraging messages, watching your brother bask in the glory.

But as Megan starts spending more time with you, she can't shake this feeling. Now Megan's wondering if the person she's really meant to be with has been right in front of her all this time.

part: one. <two.> three. four. five. six.

Y/N Y/L/N had slowly, painfully, become the secret builder of Megan’s small joys. It was a role she never asked for, a strange, heavy job that both made her heart glow with a quiet happiness and, at the same time, slowly broke it. Every thoughtful act, every careful surprise, was meant only for Megan, a quiet whisper of love Y/N couldn’t say out loud. It was her way of showing, without words, how deeply she cared, how much Megan truly meant to her.

However, time and again, her older brother, Gabriel, would just step in. Like a sudden, cool shadow falling over a sunlit path, he would effortlessly claim the praise, the smiles, the grateful looks meant for someone else. It was a strange, sad dance they all seemed to be caught in, though only Y/N knew the full steps.

Y/N poured her whole heart into these actions. Each one was like a tiny, precious gift of herself, a silent promise of a love she couldn’t openly share. Yet, almost as soon as she made the move, she would watch Gabriel soak up Megan’s thanks, her happy exclamations, her warm glances.

It was a pain she put on herself, a constant, dull ache behind her ribs. Still, the thought of Megan being truly happy, even if that happiness was based on a lie, was enough to make Y/N keep going. She told herself, over and over, that it was worth it. That Megan’s smile, no matter who caused it, was enough.

She could vividly recall one particularly rough evening. The air outside was turning chilly, and a sense of quiet dread hung over campus as midterms approached. Megan had been buried in the university common room for hours, a place usually full of chatter that was now hushed by the shared stress of exams.

Megan was surrounded by piles of thick textbooks and scattered notes, her hair a bit messy from running her hands through it in frustration. She was deep into a huge, confusing philosophy paper, a subject that often tied her in knots. Y/N had seen her earlier, her forehead crinkled in a worried frown, her shoulders slumped, and her hand shaking slightly as she tried to highlight a passage in a dense, difficult book.

Y/N knew Megan’s habits well – how she always reached for warm, comforting drinks when she was stressed, especially after long hours of intense studying. She remembered Megan mentioning her deep love for a very specific spiced chai latte from a small, cozy café all the way across town, a little place with mismatched chairs and the scent of cinnamon and old books. It was a cafe Y/N herself rarely visited, because it was quite a walk.

A decision, quick and sharp, had formed in Y/N’s mind. “Should I do this?” a small, tired voice inside her head whispered. It felt like that voice was always there, a tiny, nagging doubt.

“It’ll just hurt later, when Gabriel takes credit, won't it? You know how this goes.”

But then, another voice, stronger and filled with the pure, aching want to ease Megan’s stress, spoke up, “She needs it. Look at her. She’s really struggling.”

This second voice, the one that rooted for Megan’s happiness above all else, always, always won.

So, Y/N had quietly slipped out of the common room, moving like a shadow, trying to blend into the group of students heading out for dinner or back to their dorms. The air outside was turning cold, a fine, misty drizzle starting to fall, making the streetlights glow softly, blurring their edges into halos. She walked quickly, the familiar dampness of the city settling on her skin, feeling the cool drops on her eyelashes.

The sounds of distant cars rattling by and chatter from students slowly faded as she got closer to the quiet café, warm light in the gathering dusk. Inside, the warmth and the rich, sweet smell of spices mixed with brewing tea were comforting.

She ordered Megan's exact chai, asking for it extra hot, just how Megan liked it, knowing she'd be sipping it slowly while she worked. While waiting, she found a stray napkin on the counter and, with a tiny, worn pen she always carried, drew a small, familiar star on the cup’s sleeve—a little inside joke from a conversation she’d had with Megan months ago about wishing on constellations after a particularly tough exam. It was a small, secret mark, meant only for Megan, a tiny piece of Y/N’s heart hidden in plain sight, a silent message—”I see you. I’m thinking of you.”

Back at the university, Y/N crept back into the common room. It felt heavier now, the air thick with unspoken worries. Megan was still there, hunched over her laptop, looking even more tired and lost in her work.

Y/N’s heart ached just looking at her, a tight squeeze in her chest. She carefully placed the warm cup of chai and a small, neatly folded napkin (with a little motivational doodle on it, a tiny, happy doodle she knew Megan would find amusing) beside Megan’s laptop, making sure not to make a sound, not to disturb her focus.

Then, holding her breath, Y/N quickly, silently slipped away, disappearing back into the hallway before Megan could even lift her head, before she could even notice the small act of kindness.

An hour later, Y/N walked back through the common room again, pretending to just be "passing by" on her way to grab a late snack. And then she heard it. Megan's voice, bright with pure, unburdened gratitude, echoed across the almost empty room.

"Oh my God, Gabriel, you are a lifesaver! This chai latte is exactly what I needed! How did you know?" Gabriel, leaning casually against the doorframe, a relaxed, easy smirk on his face, simply winked.

"Knew you'd be in here suffering, Megs. Figured a little pick-me-up was in order." Y/N saw him glance down at the cup, his smirk briefly wavering as he noticed the small, hand-drawn star on the sleeve, a slight frown of confusion crossing his face for just a second but he was quick, he recovered instantly, shrugging playfully.

"Anything to help you crush that paper, Megs. You deserve a break." Megan had smiled, a tired but truly grateful smile, her eyes full of warmth and thanks directed only at him. "You're seriously the best," she'd murmured, taking a long, comforting sip, her shoulders relaxing just a little.

The words "You're seriously the best" felt like a knife twisting in Y/N. They weren't meant for her, the one who had felt the drizzle, walked to the distant cafe, carefully chose the exact drink, and added the secret star. They were for Gabriel, who had done none of those things.

He had just accepted the praise, like it was always meant for him. Y/N retreated to her own dorm room, the familiar ache in her chest sharpening into a dull, throbbing pain that spread through her whole body.

It wasn't just the credit he stole, it was the feeling of closeness, of being truly understood, that he took away from her. Every thoughtful act, every attempt to show Megan that Y/N truly saw her, was hijacked, making Megan believe it was his attentiveness, his understanding, his care.

Your pining felt heavier than ever, a secret so massive and crushing it threatened to break you. You knew, deep down, that you should stop. You should pull away, protect your heart from this constant, self-inflicted pain. Sometimes you just wish that your own brother, Gabriel, would back off.

However, the thought of not being the one to bring even a tiny flicker of joy to Megan’s day, even in secret, felt utterly unbearable. So, you continued, a silent guardian of her happiness, forever invisible in her eyes.

The chai latte incident was just one of many, many times this had happened. Weeks later, Megan had mentioned, with a frustrated sigh, how incredibly confusing her advanced historical economics class was. She was struggling badly, often complaining about the dense textbooks and the complex theories. She felt lost.

Y/N, however, had always had a natural knack for breaking down complicated ideas. It was almost a personal challenge for her to take jumbled information and make it clear. Over the next few weeks, while Megan was busy with demanding soccer practice and other tough classes, Y/N spent almost every late night in the library. She didn't just read the historical economics course material, she studied it deeply, she examined every chapter, she dived into the background stories.

She created detailed flowcharts, summarized key points into easy bullet points, drew funny little cartoons in the margins to help remember dry facts, and simplified complex theories into language anyone could understand. It was a huge amount of work, a massive, carefully crafted study guide, something she herself couldn't imagine she can pull off.

She added little encouraging notes in the margins, like "You've got this!" and "Don't let the numbers scare you, they're just friends!"— things she'd say to Megan if she could, little whispers of support.

Once it was finished, a thick binder filled with neatly organized pages, color-coded tabs, and easy-to-read summaries, Y/N felt a strange mix of pride and dread. It was perfect. But how would she get it to Megan? And how, oh how, would Gabriel take credit for this?

She decided on a subtle approach, hoping for once it might slip under his radar. One morning, when she knew Megan would be in a big, crowded lecture hall, Y/N quietly slipped into Megan's locker room (she knew the code from a group project they’d done months ago). She carefully placed the thick binder inside Megan's locker, right on top of her books, so she couldn't miss it. No note, no signature, just the guide itself, a silent offering.

A few days later, Y/N was walking through the student union building when she heard Megan’s voice, buzzing with excitement. "You guys, you will not believe what Gabriel did for me!" she told a small group of friends, including Y/N, after class.

"He somehow got me this amazing study guide for historical economics! It's perfectly organized, and makes everything so clear! I mean, I was really struggling, and now I actually feel like I get it!" She turned to Gabriel, who was casually leaning against a nearby wall, scrolling on his phone, looking as cool as ever.

"Seriously, Gabriel, thank you so much! It's a lifesaver. You’re my lifesaver. My grade is gonna jump because of you!" Gabriel looked up from his phone, a lazy, charming smile spreading across his face.

"Oh, that? Yeah, no problem, Megs. Knew you were having trouble. Just whipped it up for you. Glad it's helping." He didn't even try to look modest or humble, he just accepted the praise as if it were simply his due.

Y/N stood there, a forced, tight smile on her face, feeling her blood run cold, a sudden chill spreading through her veins.

“Whipped it up?” she thought bitterly, her mind screaming. “You didn't even know what historical economics was last week, you kept calling it 'history numbers class'!"

The unfairness was a physical weight, pressing down on her chest, making it hard to breathe, making her vision blur slightly at the edges.

Then came Megan’s birthday. This one was always the hardest of all. You wanted to give her something truly special, something that showed you knew her better than anyone else, something that spoke to her deepest passions.

You remembered a tiny, off-hand comment Megan had made months ago, late one night while talking about her love for classic literature. She’d mentioned an old, out-of-print poetry collection by a lesser-known contemporary of Emily Dickinson, something she’d dreamed of owning but thought was impossible to find.

It was incredibly rare, a true treasure for a poetry lover. Y/N had spent weeks searching online forums, sending emails to collectors, calling small, independent bookstores all over the world, from the US to the Philippines.

She even emailed a quirky little antique book shop she’d heard about in Cebu. Finally, after what felt like endless searching, she tracked down a dusty copy in that tiny shop in Cebu. The owner had been surprised anyone was even asking for it. Y/N paid a hefty price which cost double because of the shipping fee she had to pay for it to be shipped internationally, it was a significant chunk of her savings but the pure joy of finding it for Megan, knowing how happy it would make her, was worth every single cent.

It was more than just a book, it was a piece of her silent affection, something only Y/N, who truly listened to Megan’s quiet wishes, would have known to look for. She wrapped it beautifully in simple, elegant brown paper and tied it with a rustic twine, attaching a small, blank card, left intentionally empty. She planned to leave it on Megan’s desk early on her birthday morning, an anonymous gift from a secret admirer, a small act of love.

Unfortunately, Gabriel beat her to it. On Megan’s birthday morning, as Y/N walked past Megan’s dorm room, her heart pounding with nervous excitement, she saw the door wide open.

Megan was inside, beaming, her face absolutely radiant. She was holding up a beautifully wrapped gift – identical to the one Y/N had purchased, right down to the rustic twine and the exact dimensions of the old book. Gabriel was standing beside her, a proud, almost possessive grin on his face.

"Happy Birthday, Megs! I remembered you mentioning this forever ago," he said, pulling her into a quick, easy hug. "Took me ages to track it down, but anything for you, right? Only the best for my favorite girl."

Megan’s eyes were shining with pure delight. "Gabriel, you shouldn't have! This is... this is incredible! It's exactly the one! How did you even...?" Y/N saw Gabriel subtly glance at the book's spine, then at Megan, before shrugging with a casual, confident air. "Like I said, I have my ways. Only the best for you, birthday girl."

Y/N felt a wave of nausea wash over her. Her hands clenched into fists, fingernails digging into her palms so hard it almost drew blood. She hadn’t even gotten the chance to leave her gift.

He hadn’t just taken credit for something Y/N did, he had somehow gotten the exact same rare item –or, more likely, he had somehow found out about Y/N's gift and co-opted it entirely, perhaps even intercepted it or copied the idea down to the wrapping.

The thought was a chilling realization, a fresh wave of disbelief. This wasn't just stealing credit, it was stealing her unique understanding of Megan, her deep, personal connection, making her thoughtful acts seem shallow and common, easily duplicated.

Her profound disappointment turned into a sharp, bitter anger that tasted like ash in her mouth. She quickly, silently, walked away, the unopened gift for Megan heavy and cold in her own bag, feeling like she had been punched in the gut, winded by the cruelty of it all.

“Why did he choose Megan out of everyone? He could have anyone else he wanted…"

After each of these painful, heartbreaking moments, Y/N would retreat into herself. She’d spend countless hours replaying the scene in her mind, over and over, her thoughts a tangled mess of what-ifs, self-blame, and sadness.

“Why do I keep doing this?” she'd wonder, pacing her small dorm room until late into the night. “It only hurts. It’s like I’m feeding Gabriel’s ego and my own heartbreak at the same time. This is insane.”

She'd try to rationalize Gabriel’s behavior, clutching at any straw of hope.

“Maybe he just doesn't realize what he's doing. Maybe he genuinely forgets that I'm the one who does these things and just assumes he did. Maybe it’s just how he is – a bit scatterbrained, but deep down, he's good-hearted."

However, deep down, in the quiet, honest corner of her soul, she knew it wasn't true. He knew. His knowing smirk, the quick glance at the hidden details, the casual way he dismissed her hints—he knew. He was taking advantage of her quiet nature and his own loud charm, playing a role.

The emotional toll was immense. Y/N often felt drained, utterly exhausted, a dull numbness spreading through her. The constant tightness in her chest was a physical reminder of her unspoken feelings and unacknowledged efforts.

She felt stuck in a never-ending loop: Megan expresses a need or a wish, Y/N quietly fulfills it, Gabriel swoops in, Megan thanks Gabriel with a bright smile, and Y/N feels completely invisible, erased.

The cycle was relentless, and she felt utterly powerless to stop it. She couldn't bring herself to just not do things for Megan, the urge to help, to show care, to ease Megan's burdens, was simply too strong, an impulse etched into her very being.

However, she also couldn't bear the thought of openly telling Megan how she felt, not after years of seeing her so happy with Gabriel, so convinced of his thoughtfulness, his genuine care.

The hardest part, the most agonizing torture, was watching Megan’s genuine happiness when Gabriel "did" something nice for her. Megan’s smile was so bright, so full of pure joy, so authentic, that it was its own kind of deep, aching pain for Y/N.

How could she ruin that? How could she shatter Megan’s belief in Gabriel's goodness, even if it meant Y/N remained heartbroken, stuck in the shadows?

This constant battle, this secret life she led, made her feel so incredibly alone. There was no one she could talk to about it. How do you explain to your own brother that you're secretly in love with the girl he thinks is his and that he's stealing all your gestures? It was an impossible burden, a silent scream trapped deep in her throat. She was merely an observer, a ghost silently watching her own heartbreak unfold, day after day.

Maybe, just maybe, she's not the Y/L/N Megan’s meant to be with.

previous part. | next part.

a/n: If you guys did pay attention, you would know I added some of KATSEYE's lyrics into this part. It's a coincidence his name is Gabriel right? Lol. Anyway, I posted this before I barely started part four, thinking I should post two so it somehow feels complete. Somehow. I hope y'all are loving this though.

#katseye #katseye megan #katseye megan x reader #megan skiendiel x reader #megan skiendiel

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bithewayellie · 23 hours ago

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spin the bottle r.c

part two

bsf!rafe cameron x fem!reader - can be read as a standalone :)

18+ MDNI

After their game of spin the bottle gets a little heated, Rafe makes a decision that there's no coming back from.

warnings: all of them? jks, filthy smut with no plot, dark!rafe, degradation kink, dom/sub dynamic, mentions of drug use, kinda cnc?, unprotected hanky panky (wrap it before you tap it), fem!receiving oral, possessive!rafe. there may be more but i'm a problem so read at your own risk 😇

wc: 3k

Rafe’s hand snaps around your wrists, walking you like his own little pet back to the sofa he was sitting on. He looks at the blonde that was sitting next to him with a look in his eyes that makes you feel slightly nervous, ‘Move.’ His voice is abrupt, and his demand leaves no room for the girl to argue. She scoffs, before moving to seat herself on the floor across the room.

Rafe sits down on the sofa, tugging you down onto his lap. The game continues, the people around you having barely noticed that your kiss with Rafe was anything more than just a game. You’d honestly forgotten that you were playing a game. All you could think about was the bulge that was digging into your ass, making you squirm.

‘Sit still, princess. We’ve got a game to watch.’ His hands snap to your waist, preventing you from moving completely. Your heartbeat starts to echo in your ears, the rapid drum on high alert, speeding up every time Rafe only breathes. He’s closer than he’s ever been now, and it feels like your body is melting in his proximity.

‘What? No sweet stings now? You never let me get the last word in.’ He taunts, his head tucked in the crevice of your shoulder, lips ghosting above your ear. You take a deep breath, trying to recover from your vulnerability. It’s only a small shift in your posture, a breaths-worth of movement, that forces Rafe’s boner painfully into your ass.

‘Shut up, Rafe.’ Your voice is barely above a whisper, unsure of how he is going to respond to anything in this moment. There’s an unseen darkness in his features. His eyes are like those of a stranger, his gaze lacking any sense of familiarity. His body, however, feels like your Rafe. His wandering hands. His scent. Nearly every inch of his body feels like home.

You can’t help but let out a quiet yelp when Rafe tugs softly on your hair, authority in his movements. Your lips part, a shaky breath exhaling, amusing a tutting Rafe. ‘If I shut up, you’d miss me telling you exactly what I’m going to do to you tonight.’ It’s like instinct, the way your thighs tighten on one another, trying to soothe the pulsing between your legs.

He pulls back from his dirty whisper, his grasp on your hips wandering into painful territory. You know it’ll leave a bruise, but you can’t bring yourself to care right now. You’ve never been so turned on in your life, and part of that comes from this side of Rafe you’ve never seen before. The borderline aggressive side of him. The side of him that would make anyone else think he was animalistic to his core.

There’s a frustration hiding in the fact you can’t form a coherent thought right now, leaving Rafe with the last word, once again. You’d never let Rafe get the last word. You were always quick on your feet, with a wit that left most people blindsided. But here, at this moment, you’re a squirming mess, questioning what you’ve gotten yourself into.

Your instinct is to tell him to shut up, but you don’t think you’ve done enough cocaine for that level of courage tonight. He already seems angry, and you decide that you don’t want to dip your toes any further into his dangerous waters. The game continues on, Rafe not saying a single word to you, his heavy fingers massaging your hips.

When the game finally comes to an end, and people start dispersing to get more drinks, Rafe stands the both of you up, his hands not once leaving your hips. He’s pressed closely into your behind, lacking any subtlety–not that you particularly care. He leads you upstairs, to his bedroom.

You can barely process what’s happening as Rafe shoves you into the room, kicking the door shut with his foot, hands slipping up your body to palm your tits roughly. ‘You know, princess, if you thought that making me jealous would get my attention, you’re very, very wrong.’ His eyes are crazed, scanning your face, his movements pinning you against the wall.

Your lips are parted, soft gasps falling from your lips as his hands knead your chest unapologetically. You manage to whisper out a few short words, the last bit of courage you had in your chest now withering away, ‘I got you up here, didn’t I?’ The sound that rumbles in his chest is dark, one that sends a chill down your spine.

His erratic movement throws you off guard, his hand snapping up to your throat, the other one tugging your dress down to expose your nipple. You yelp as he pinches the sensitive bud, his frame moving in as he whispers, ‘You’re so cute, baby…’ He trails off, his teeth catching your earlobe in a short nip. His muscles are tense under your hands, snaking up to hold his chest, like it could give you an ounce of control.

‘You don’t control me…’ His teeth sink into your collarbone. His tongue eases the sting with a soft lick, the whimpers he’s milking from you making your legs feel unsteady. His hand tight around your throat forbids you from looking at him, where he’d be able to see the tears beginning to well in your eyes.

‘I’m just letting you play.’

He stands up straight, his hand releasing from your throat, instead settling one hand on either side of your jaw. He forces your gaze up, and you can’t ignore the cocky look in his eyes, seeing you a whining, tearing mess before he’s barely even touched you. His eyes soften for a brief moment, his lips coming to crash against your own.

He’s not gentle. He bites, he gropes, he grips your jaw like it’s the only piece of his restraint he has left. Your lips are just as hasty against his, years of budding feelings all coming crashing down in this one heated moment. You’re both hungry, and there’s so much insatiability under the surface that you could never bring yourself to stop.

Rafe pulls back for a moment, a small smirk on his face, his lips flushed a warm shade of pink, ‘Are you sure you want this, princess?’ You don’t hesitate, nodding rapidly. Your hands tug on the collar of his polo, desperately trying to feel his lips back on yours. He denies your kiss, his grip on your jaw holding you back.

‘Use your words.’ He looks down at you, his gaze falling heavy, intense upon your flustered face. Your voice is barely an octave above a whisper, not trusting yourself to respond with composure. ‘Yes.’

Rafe smirks, the sight intimidating you, ‘Say it like you know what it means, because I’m not here to play nice, baby.’ His hands snake up into your hair, eliciting a yelp as he tugs your head back to look up at him. Your heart is pounding in your chest, yet all you can seem to focus on is the burning heat in your core, begging for some form of release.

‘I’m going to ruin you, and when I’m done…’

That twisted chuckle of his fills the room, before he looks at you with a promise heavy in his eyes. His thumb shifts over your lips, pulling your bottom lip down, his eyes drinking in the sight.

‘There won’t be a single part of you that doesn’t belong to me.’

His eyes bore into yours with an intensity that makes you dizzy. He’s completely in control, and it’s not until you muster the courage to say, ‘yes’, that you realise you’ve just given yourself to him completely. Willingly, yet there’s not a single thought in your mind telling you to stop.

Rafe groans as he moves back down to kiss you, his hand in your hair controlling your movements. You can feel your knees hit the back of his bed as he guides you across the room, his kisses tracking from your lips, down your jaw. His hands are greedy, studying every inch of your body like it is the map to the most valuable treasure.

He doesn’t let up his assault of kisses as you lose balance and fall backwards onto his bed, feet dangling off the side. He situates himself on top of you, on his hands and knees, tearing your designer dress from your body like it was made from paper. The tearing of the fabric burns, making you gasp sharply. Your hands find their way to his hair, pleading with your tugs.

He groans out, loving the feel of your hands on him. His lips run down your body, rapidly creeping closer to your core, only covered by a small black thong. He practically whines at the sight, his fingers wasting no time hooking into the waistband, yanking them down. He follows your panties onto the floor, dropping to his knees and pulling you to the edge of the bed, thighs over his shoulders.

Like a man starved his whole life, he dives in for a tantalising swipe of his tongue across your clit, making your back arch off the bed. A soft whine escapes you as Rafe pulls away from your core, his mouth working to leave smudges of heat and hunger on your inner thighs. ‘You taste so good baby, but I want to make sure you know who you belong to.’

His voice is deep between your legs, the sensation of his suckling giving you goosebumps. Your hands are still tangled in his hair, desperately tugging him to where you need him the most. He chuckles against your thighs, his teasing licks moving closer and closer to your core, ‘Y’know, you put on a tough act…’

Bite.

‘It's a shame you fold so easily.’

There’s a quiet anger in your chest that wants to fight back, but nothing comes to mind as he dives in, his tongue swirling your core. Between your moans, and the obscene noises coming from Rafe, the room is heavy with your tension.

‘Fuck–Rafe…’ You mewl, your hips rocking against his face as he eats you out with a level of skill that only a highly experienced man could have. You can feel the shit-eating grin shift against your pussy, his efforts being joined by two fingers pumping into you at once. He gives you no time to adjust before adding a third finger.

The sounds are sloppy, and Rafe is relishing in every sound he draws from your core and your mouth simultaneously. You feel your release approaching quicker than it ever has, your legs beginning to twitch abruptly against the sides of his head. He moans out against you, impossibly turned on just seeing you melt under his touch.

The burn from his fingers stretching you out is welcomed, filling you enough to bring you to an orgasm. His tongue laps up at your slickness as you begin pulsing on his fingers. Your eyes roll in the throes of pleasure, his movements slowing, letting you relish in the most intense orgasm you’ve ever had.

It sends tingles through your whole body. From your head to your toes, it’s like you’re floating on a cloud of pleasure.

And Rafe fucking loves it.

He loves listening to your whimpers, your moans, your gasps for air.

Maybe there’ll be a conversation about it later, but for now? Rafe knows he’s never going to let another man within a mile of you, now that he knows how pretty you look and sound when he makes you fall apart. In this very moment, he has decided he’s done sharing you with the world.

You’re his and only his.

He slides his fingers out of you, not caring that your ears are ringing from your orgasm, and that stars are still dancing behind your eyes. He strips from his clothes, effortlessly dragging his polo over his head with a single hand. He undoes his belt buckle with his other hand, his pants dropping to the floor with a silenced thud.

He’s breathing heavily, his bulge straining against the thin material of his boxers. You could tell he was big when you were sitting on his lap, but when he drops his boxers–you can’t help but feel like you’re dreaming. He’s bigger than anyone you’ve been with before, and for a brief moment, you feel out of your depth.

Rafe doesn’t miss the look on your face as you examine his throbbing length, a conceited smirk settling on his lips. He moves up, grabbing you by your waist and manhandling you up onto the bed properly, settling himself between your spread legs. His lips drop to yours, wrapping you up in a messy kiss.

His hips inch closer to yours, and the only sensibility in your brain steps forward, your hands moving to his chest to slow him down. Breaking the kiss, you whisper breathlessly, ‘Rafe–hmmm–’ He sucks on your collarbone, most definitely leaving a mark in his wake.

‘Do you have a condom?’ You breathe out, hands tangled in his hair once again. He laughs lowly against your neck, sucking taunting little marks on your most sensitive spot.

‘Princess, I’ve been waiting years to fuck you.’ He sounds amused, a matter-of-factly tone lacing his words.

‘I’m going to fuck you raw, and I’m going to be dripping out of you when we’re done.’

You wish you cared enough to argue.

You really do.

No you don’t.

Your hips buck up, feeling his length rubbing against your clit, coating himself in your wetness. He lets out a deep chuckle, a groan slipping from his mouth, ‘You’re so fucking wet for me–it’s pathetic.’ The gasp that leaves both of your lips is as perfect as a symphony as his hips snap forward, filling you with his thick length.

You whine his name, the sound nearly making him cum before he’s even moved inside you.

‘Fuck–baby–you’re mine when you’re like this, taking me so well,’ He coos, his hips dragging backwards, leaving you bucking against him, desperate to have him as close as possible. Your fingers scratch at his back, needily begging for more.

‘You know that right?’ You mumble something incoherent in agreement, your legs wrapping around his waist to pull him in as deep as he can get. His lips fall to yours, his kiss making love to your mouth to stifle the moans his rough thrusts are squeezing from your lungs.

‘You’re mine.’

He’s rough, a hand tangled in your hair to pull it mercilessly, the other hand pawing at your tits. The friction against your clit from his pubic bone sends heated pangs to your stomach with each thrust, your pussy gripping his cock like a vice.

‘Tighter than I imagined–fuckkk–you don’t know what you do to me.’ He moans in your ear shamelessly, his words egging you on to rock against him hastily, desperately chasing your next orgasm.

‘Rafe–’m gonna–’ You don’t even get the words out before a hand snaps to your throat, wrapping around it like it was meant to rest there forever. Your bubbling orgasm fizzles out abruptly when Rafe pulls out entirely, tugging softly on your neck. Your eyebrows furrow in annoyance, ready to call him an abundance of slurs for his little edging act.

‘The sass doesn’t scare me, baby, it turns me on.’ He’s quick at silencing you, the filthiest grin cheesing his face.

‘Turn around, hands on the headboard.’ Your legs shake as he guides your body up the bed, having you bent over, hands leaning on his overly fancy bedhead. He savours every second he has with you, his hand returning to its rightful place on your throat, his other hand guiding him back into your dripping core.

He thrusts forward, pressing his chest into your back, rocking his hips against you hard and deep. The sensation alone had your orgasm teetering on the edge of collapse, so when his hand reaches around to play with your clit, you shatter.

White knuckles grasp hopelessly against the bedhead, your whole body twitching in overwhelming pleasure as he draws another orgasm from you. But this time, he doesn’t slow down. He’s far past the point of your pleasure. He’s desperate to reach his own peak and leave you dripping sinful traces of him.

You cry out as your pussy continues pulsing against him, getting no time to ride out your thrashing high. He continues driving into you with a primal urge, his grip around your throat tightening, and his other hand coming up to hold your hips exactly where he wants you.

‘I warned you–’ He grunts through gritted teeth, his thrusts growing sloppier by the second.

‘You wanted to act like my girl, making me all jealous ‘n’ shit?’

‘Now you’re gonna take what’s mine.’

You moan out, the unholy words falling from his lips sending you into an unexpected orgasm. One pulse around him and he’s balls-deep, painting your insides with his hot load. He cums with a deep moan, one that you don’t think you could ever get sick of. It’s like music to your ears. You feel every twitch inside you, Rafe surprising himself with the amount of cum already leaking around him.

You stay like that, catching your breath for a second. Rafe seems to recover quicker than you, his hand coming to move your hair to one side. He presses a kiss to your bare shoulder. It’s soft and sweet, like he wasn’t just fucking you like a wild animal mere seconds ago.

‘I meant what I said.’

You hum contentedly, waiting for him to continue, his softening cock still settled inside you.

‘You’re mine.’

‘I’m done being your friend, baby.’

a/n: put me in horny jail 😞

#outer banks #rafe cameron #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron imagines #rafe cameron x you #drew starkey #obx fic #obx fanfiction #obx x reader #obx smut #outer banks smut #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron imagine

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ladykailitha · 2 days ago

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Shut Up and Drive Part 4

If you didn't see chapter three, it is not your fault, Tumblr has hidden the damn thing and it's been two weeks. I can see it on my dashboard and even through the app, but site wide and on browser, nada! I even looked through it and couldn't find anything mature to shadow ban it. Hopefully you'll be able to see this one and it'll have the link to the third chapter.

This story is almost complete. I just have one or two more chapters to go and it's done. I am so excited for you guys to see the end.

In this we have Eddie in AP history, along with Robin and Steve. Yes, Steve. I am still on my Steve is smart and a history nerd agenda.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Monday morning was rife with speculation on who had called the cops. Eddie chuckled as the racers tried double speak their way out of revealing themselves to their peers.

The only one who wasn’t there come Monday was Steve Harrington. The rumor mill was as much a buzz with his absence as they were with cops breaking up the races.

Eddie had his own theory on who had called the cops. It was either King or Chronos. King for being beat to hell and not being able to race and not wanting to lose. Or Chronos for not wanting to go up against King and lose.

Then he spotted Tommy Hagan.

He looked smug as hell and suddenly Eddie got it. Holy shit, that asshole! He knew Chronos was going to beat King or at least get a hell of a lot closer than Titan would have and didn’t want to be shown up in front of everyone.

Eddie was tempted to go over there and punch Tommy in the face, break a nose, knock out a couple teeth, but he promised Wayne he wouldn’t start any fights, but he was allowed to finish them.

Billy Hargrove caught him staring at Hagan, though. “Hey Munson, take a picture it’ll last longer. Never mind, you’d fwap to the photo.”

“You jealous, Hargrove?” Munson shot back. “You worried I’ll stop jacking off to your picture?”

Billy flexed his arms as if he was going to hit Eddie, but just then a teacher walked by, and Eddie fell in step with them, keeping the teacher between Billy and himself.

The teacher looked over at him and then sighed. “I know what you’re doing Mr. Munson, and I do not appreciate being used as a human shield.”

Eddie grinned down at him. “But Mr. Burton, I am merely on my way to class and we are going the same direction. Besides I am sticking to the edict of avoiding fights with my peers.”

Mr. Burton shook his head. “I thought you had Mrs. Click this period and I am certain she is on the other side of the building.”

“Then are you not heading for your own class, Mr. Burton?” Eddie asked all wide eyed. “I assumed that to be the case when I started walking with you, as your class is right across from hers. You know, both being history teachers and all.”

Mr. Burton turned and looked up at him with a small smile. “I can’t pull the wool over your eyes, you got me. You are going the right direction. I just wanted to see if I could trick ya.”

“Mr. Burton! You tease!” Eddie gasped. “They should take back your teacher of the year award for being so saucy.”

Mr. Burton laughed. “How do you think I got the award in the first place?” He winked at him.

Eddie never had a problem with his history or English classes, so he always got along with the history teachers. Well... most of them. Mrs. Click was a damn fine history teacher, but no one liked her.

“I wish I was in your class this year,” Eddie admitted, ducking his head.

Mr. Burton patted his arm in sympathy. “I know. I also heard she’s flunking you and that’s one of the reasons you’re not graduating.”

Eddie let out a shuddering breath. “I don’t know why I’m forced to take a history class again, anyway. I have enough credits for history. It’s math, science, and PE that I need.”

“I don’t know, Eddie,” Mr. Burton said sadly. “But I’ll see if I can get together with a couple of the other teachers and see you can’t graduate based on your actual credits and not just them having you repeat your senior year ad nauseum.”

“Thanks, Mr. B.,” Eddie replied with a pained grin. “This is me, so I’ll see you around.”

“Bye, Eddie.”

Eddie slumped down in the desk farthest from the front of the room and waited for the rest of the students to file in. Mr. Burton might be ignorant about why Mrs. Click was failing him, but Eddie had no such delusions. He was in her AP class and she was so sure he was cheating instead of, you know, actually knowing the subject.

He watched as the other students filter into the class. It was a strange mish-mash of juniors and seniors and then whatever the fuck he was.

The smartest of the juniors were Robin Buckley and Fred Benson. They definitely deserved to be there. Most of the class were seniors and the greatest dark horse of the class, even more so himself was Steve Harrington and as near as Eddie could figure, he was writing Mrs. Click’s tests.

He was that good. And because he was that good, she let him get get away with murder. He loved to stroll in fifteen minutes late with a bagel that he would eat, making a mess.

That wasn’t even the worst part of the bagel. It was the way he would chipmunk the thing, his cheeks bulging with the large pieces of bagel that he would shove into his mouth. Eddie had to moved directly behind the guy so that he wouldn’t go feral at the sight.

But there would be no bagel porn today because Harrington was home sick. Thank whatever higher power was out there for that.

When Buckley walked in and saw that the seat in front of her was empty she sighed with relief. Most likely for a similar but opposite problem Eddie had. While Steve was Eddie’s crush, he was pretty sure Steve was drawing all the attention away from her crush.

Which even as far as girls went, Tammy Thompson was not on Eddie’s radar at all. Like sometimes he could tilt his head and go, ‘oh yeah, she’s cute’ and not want to bang said girl, but Tammy? He just didn’t get it.

Yes, yes. He knew he was being hypocritical with the Steve crush especially with what he told Jeff just a couple of months ago. But Steve seemed to grow on him.

Not that Steve improved upon closer inspection. Steve was still a smart ass with more sass then sense. But instead of irritating him like it had done in the past...Eddie found it...argh...cute!

He kept that shit to himself though.

He suffered through the class and shambled out the door to his next class, which thankfully was was Mr. Cohen’s class. Science fiction and fantasy writing. Eddie had taken it as an elective to see he could get more English credits.

Mr. Cohen was also the journalism teacher and yearbook supervisor. So he was having the class write poems and shit for the Reflections magazine because there was a distinct lack of interest that year.

Poems were just song lyrics not set to music yet, so Eddie was a having the time of his life.

“The king on his steed

A heart filled with greed

Races to fill some other need

He rushes forward thundering at great speed”

Okay so it wasn’t his best, but he got Mr. Cohen to laugh at all of them rhyming so he counted that as a win.

“All right, class,” Mr. Cohen said after the bell rang. “We going to read a relatively new book in the sci-fi genre called ‘Ender’s Game.’ It came out in January but it took me this long to get it approved for this class. So I want everyone to come up and pick up a copy. On the inside of each book is a number from one to twenty-seven, you will put your name on the signout sheet next to the number of your book. Please do not outline, draw in, or otherwise deface this book, if you do or you lose it, you’ll pay for it, do you understand?”

The class nodded.

They all filed up to the front of the class to grab their book. Eddie hung back until almost everyone else had picked up theirs. He strangely got number eight, but he dutifully put his name to next to the number and shuffled back to his desk.

“All right, everyone,” Mr. Cohen said. “I want everyone to start reading chapter one to yourselves. Then be ready on Wednesday to talk about your thoughts.”

Eddie started reading the book and was immediately drawn into the world, he was pretty sure he finish the book by tonight.

Which meant he would probably reread the thing several times before the class was over. Which was a plus as far as he was concerned.

He was actually disappointed when the bell rang for lunch. He shoved the book into his backpack and made for the lunch room.

Again not having Harrington gaze at, made for dull lunch. Well he would have to make his own entertainment then.

He got up on the lunch table and starting a rant about how unless the kid enjoyed it and wanted to do something with math or science, students shouldn’t have take them past the basic level. He was never going need to know the golden ratio or e=mc2 or whatever working for the factory down or as a mechanic.

Just as the principal came rushing in Eddie leapt off the table and neatly on his feet.

“Hi!” he said brightly.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to climb up on the furniture of this school,” Principal Higgins snarled. “Just because you were raised in a barn does mean you get you get treat other people’s property like you’re an animal.”

“Ahh...” Eddie said with the tilt of his head. “I wouldn’t go around talking about my mom that way if I were you. It’s not her fault she got cancer and passed away.”

Principal Higgins looked like he had swallowed a very sour lemon. “Just don’t do it again, do you hear me, Munson?”

Eddie just grinned at him, hands on his hips, staring him down. Eddie cocked his eyebrows and tilted his head, daring the principal to put him in detention, suspend him, or out and out expel him.

Principal Higgins did none of those things. He turned on his heel and stormed off, snarling something at one of the lunch ladies as he passed.

“Well that wasn’t very friendly,” Eddie told the assembled students. “Lunch ladies are sacrosanct, everyone knows that.”

He walked up to the offended lady in question and offered to buy her a Coke, one which she gratefully accepted.

He went back to his table and Jeff glared at him. “You do know you only need two years of both math and science, right?”

“And what good is algebra or geometry going do me working at Thacher’s Tires?” Eddie growled back. “All I need is to know fractions and weights and measurements. I don’t need to find pi or know the circumference of a circle to change a fucking tire.”

“No, but you need to know the radius of the tire to make sure you don’t put the wrong one on,” Jeff said cocking his head to the side.

Eddie blinked at him for a moment. “Well, shit.”

“Hey, leave him alone,” Brian bit out. “He just found out that it was those two classes that held him back. Again. They’re not for everyone. And yeah some basic geometry is required for life, but pass me on needing to know what a fucking cosign is for working at Bradley’s Big Buy.”

Jeff’s jaw dropped. “Oh. Damn, man. I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

Eddie picked at his pretzels and kicked the leg of their table. “It is what it is.”

“Still,” Jeff said with a heavy sigh. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that. I know it’s tough for you.”

“It’s okay,” he mumbled and went back to mindlessly chewing on his sandwich.

It didn’t even have mustard on it. It wasn’t like he forgot, it was that they couldn’t afford to get to the store. All the money he made over the weekend went to buying tires for Wayne’s truck. They were starting to get more bald then the owner of the truck and that was dangerous.

Which meant no mustard for his bologna sandwich.

He jumped when something landed square in the middle of his lunch box. He picked it up and it was one of those mustard packets you get at ballparks and the State Fair. He looked up to see Jeff looking at him.

“The deli my mom gets her pre-made sandwiches from,” Jeff said, “comes with little packets of mayo and mustard and since I don’t like mustard I figured you could use the extra.”

Eddie swallowed around the lump in his throat. It was as good as an apology as any. “Thanks, man.”

He ripped open the packet with his teeth and smeared it all over one side of his sandwich. He took another bite and moaned happily, mustard catching on the edge of his mouth.

“Gross,” Jeff said shaking his head and throwing napkins at Eddie’s face, one of them managing to stick to the glob of mustard.

Eddie cackled, wiping off his face. “Mustard is the seed of life, dude. You are seriously missing out.”

“Seed of life or not,” Jeff huffed, “that stuff is nasty. I can smell it from here.”

Brian shrugged his shoulders. “Mustard isn’t that bad. I like it in my mom’s meatloaf and in my potato salads.”

“But that’s mixed with other things to mask it’s vile nature,” Jeff insisted. “Anywhere else and you’re beggin’ the devil’s pardon.”

Eddie sat back with a smile on his face, already feeling a little better than when he started his lunch.

The lunch bell rang and he packed up his stuff, listening his friends talk among themselves, thinking today hadn’t be a complete bust.

As he made his way to his last class he over heard a couple of rich kids talking about some big party that was happening that weekend because their parents were going to be in Indy for the weekend.

Eddie slowed down as he took in the details. Things were definitely looking up.

Jeff's views of mustard are the views of the author. :D

ETA: Mr. Burton is a real person, or was I'm pretty sure he's passed considering he was my dad's teacher mentor when he did his student teaching. My 8th history teacher and he was exactly like this. He would start each class with a joke and it would always be terrible. And yes, he even got teacher of the year for his sass.

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#my writing #stranger things #steddie #ladykailitha writes #street racing au

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oldperedur · 1 day ago

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Becky had gone to her aunt for advice about how to discipline her boyfriend. Turned out that the older woman was an experienced and surprisingly well equipped disciplinarian who had been caning her own husband, who was known for his obedience and perfect manners, for years.

“This is what I use.” She told Becky, handing her a traditional style, crook-handled cane. “I don’t see why you shouldn’t. It’s light enough for a young woman like yourself. At the same time, it’s whippy and it’ll really make a boy’s bottom sting, which is what you want, if you’re serious about bringing him to heel.

“You don’t have to go to extremes. Six hard strokes with one of these should be enough to get him to get a sincere apology from him and make him more obedient in future. You can always add more strokes when you think he deserves it.”

For the first time, Becky felt the strength and the flexibility of a real cane between her fingers. She flexed it and stroked its hard surface. It felt good; it felt right. She smiled to herself, imagining the scene: her boyfriend, with his trousers around his ankles, touching his toes, trembling slightly, waiting for the first stroke.

“Thank you, Aunty.” She said. “I think this is exactly what I need. Can I ask you a huge favour?”

“Ask away!”

“Would you mind being there when I give him his first caning? Just in case … you know?”

“I’d be delighted.” Her aunt replied, quite touched to have such trust placed in her.

#Young female disciplinarian #bringing her boyfriend to heel #introducing him to the cane

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paperstorm · 1 day ago

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thanks for the tags @henrygrass @pimento-playing-hopscotch and @annoyingcloudearthquake!

“Baby, what are you doing?” TK’s voice asks, soft and concerned.

Carlos shakes his head. He can’t explain it, but he’s also not sure he can get up from the floor. He tries, but the signals from his brain misfire and his limbs stay motionless and heavy. Without looking up, he asks, “Just give me a minute, okay?”

He prays TK will listen. Ideally, TK would just nod and agree and walk away, go have a quick shower or unpack his work bag or something and leave Carlos to wallow in misery unwitnessed for a few minutes so that by the time he comes back Carlos will have managed to pack all this back up and they can just pretend it never happened.

It’s a silly thing to hope for, Carlos knows that. If there’s one thing he knows – and ultimately, loves – about TK Strand, it’s that he rarely does what people want him to do.

“Carlos,” he says again, voice a little closer. “Why are you …”

He trails off, and even though Carlos is neither touching him or looking at him, he can feel the moment when TK gets it.

“Oh,” he whispers, and Carlos clenches his jaw and wants to cry.

“Just give me a minute,” he says again, this time through gritted teeth. Maybe TK will listen if he understands how much Carlos needs it.

Slowly, TK steps toward him. Out of the corner of his eye Carlos can see TK’s jeans moving as his legs bend and he lowers himself down, crossing his legs once he’s on the floor and leaning back against the kitchen cabinets with Carlos.

“I’ll give you as long as you need,” TK murmurs, reaching out to take Carlos’s hand and thread their fingers together. “But not alone. You’re not alone.”

Carlos shudders through an exhale. As always, it’s sympathy that threatens to break him more than anything else. Suddenly it’s as if that music is playing here in their home, a lively beat and jazzy trumpets blaring. The sweet smell of cookies is in his nose, his head throbs as if the wound is still fresh and oozing. It’s only for a moment and then it’s gone, but it’s enough to make Carlos want to curl in on himself and sob until his throat is raw.

“I’m having …” he begins, but the words get caught in his throat.

TK waits, patient and sweet beside him, stroking his forearm. He’s so steady, so kind and understanding and wonderful, and it puts a pit in Carlos’s stomach. He doesn’t want to need so much understanding.

He swallows, trying again despite everything inside him screaming at him to shove it all down and lock it all away and never admit it even to himself.

In a miserably shaky voice, Carlos closes his eyes and whispers, “I’m having trouble not seeing the inside of that kitchen. When I close my eyes.”

“Baby,” TK whispers back, fingers curling into Carlos’s long-sleeved shirt.

“I thought …” Carlos sniffs and chokes again, for a moment, on words he wishes he never has to say, “I thought maybe if I just sat here for a bit, against the cupboards like where she had me tied up, it might force me to face it, and then it might go away.”

TK exhales slowly. “And?”

Carlos shakes his head, screwing his eyes up and fighting back tears. “I can still smell her perfume.”

TK shuffles in closer, gripping Carlos’s hand tight enough to bruise and resting his head on Carlos’s shoulder.

“It’ll stop, I know it will,” Carlos says, assuring himself as much as TK. “I just need to keep trying.”

“You don’t need to do anything. Except let me sit here with you.”

“Don’t go.”

“I’m not going anywhere, I told you. We’re getting married. That means you never have to be alone.”

Carlos sniffs and lets his head lilt to the side, temple resting against TK’s soft hair.

“You haven’t been cooking,” TK says softly.

Gritting his teeth, Carlos feels his whole body tense. He hates that it’s true. He hates that TK noticed. “I thought maybe I was playing it off.”

“You love cooking for me. Of course I picked up on it.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll try to – ”

“Baby,” TK interrupts gently. “I’m not asking you to start. Not if it’s bringing back bad memories. I just don’t want you to hide from me.”

Tagging @theghostofashton @reyesstrand @strandnreyes @eclectic-sassycoweyes @carlos-in-glasses

@bonheur-cafe @actual-sleeping-beauty @herefortarlos @heartstringsduet @alrightbuckaroo

@goodways @lightningboltreader @emsprovisions @freneticfloetry @liminalmemories21

@reasonandfaithinharmony @ladytessa74 @never-blooms @sanjuwrites @orchidscript

@jesuisici33 @kiwichaeng @hereghostslive @thisbuildinghasfeelings

@just-inside-her @firstprince-history-huh @captain-gillian @tellmegoodbye @ironheartwriter

@butchreyes @anactualcaseofthetruth @ditheringmind @whatsintheboxmh

@afiendishthingynisba @chicgeekgirl89 @carlossreaders @denizoid @everlastingday

@rangersoup @ambernotember

@certifiedflower

Want to be added or removed from the list? Lmk

#911 lone star #wip wednesday #911ls fanfic #missing moments

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mixingandmelting · 2 days ago

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HEYA!! I was wondering if you could write for Wooin and Hyuk when reader tries to make them jealous? Take your time with this ofc!!

Hyuk:

It’s cute, adorable even. You’re trying so hard to get his attention, yet, all because you didn’t want to ask for it, you resort to pull a petty prank like this.

“I’m telling you; I can beat everyone in LOS. Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy!”

“I believe you, I believe you. I can totally see it.”

It’s been ten minutes since you and that one guy talked, you working behind the seven-eleven cashier for today while the other is simply a customer. The signs are there: the strained smile, faux enthusiasm in your voice. Yet, despite how uninterested you are in the guy, you did your best to cling on to him. Something you rarely do, even to him, your own boyfriend.

Intending to see how much longer your shenanigans will go, Hyuk continues watching while slurping on his Pocari Sweat. Occasionally, his phone would buzz and he’d tap on his screen, tugging on his bottom lip as he reads over the text Wooin sends him.

It’s when he’s about to deal with Wooin’s temper for not texting back, the guy leaves. Then an hour later, your shift ends.

“Did you have fun talking to him?” Outside of the store, he nuzzles the crook of your neck, his arms wrapping themselves around your shoulders.

“I mean, it’s nice chatting with someone from another crew and getting to know them.” You shrug.

Instantly his grip tightens, eyes impossibly blanker.

…So, that’s how it’s going to be, huh.

Being the good boyfriend he is, he gives exactly what you want. His full attention is on you for the rest of day and night, not once letting you in every sense to where, the next day, people were constantly looking at you when you appear in a quarter zip, constantly tugging up the zipper and looking sleep deprived while Hyuk, standing next to you, seemed more refreshed than ever. It was also, not coincidental that a certain someone from yesterday gets toyed around and taken down during the race Hyuk, surprisingly, personally volunteers to enter.

Wooin:

His smirk never disappears; eyes wide and pupils constrict and snake-like. Across the club, you’re laughing at something some loser tells you, looking as if you’re having so much fun. It might’ve been more believable that you are if your eyes had some light in them or, at least, you stop glancing at him. But what did the other know, too dumb to even realize you’ve been faking it from the very start.

His finger continues tapping on the bar counter, taking sips of his drink time-to-time as he waits it out.

You could’ve told him you wanted him to yourself for the day. The things he needed to do today are things that can get pushed back to tomorrow –say the word, he would’ve done it. But, it’s funny really. You often whine how he’s so clingy, telling him to let go only for you to stay attached to someone who you don’t care about for over an hour.

Suddenly, there’s loud laughter in the corner you’re sitting in.

“Okay, that was a pretty good joke.”

“Yeah? Well, there’s more where that came from. Drop your number and you can hear the rest of them.”

…Forget watching, maybe he should really do it. Show the guy that you’re taken in the flashiest way. It’ll probably piss you off but consequences be damned when the guy can’t take a hint-where are you going now?

The few seconds he takes his eye off of you, you’re already making your way out. Quickly, he goes follows after you, slipping through the crowd with ease and catching up the moment you step out.

“Got bored of that guy?”

“Who the fuck-Wooin?!”

He snickers, pulling you closer to him with the arm slung around your shoulder.

“If you really wanted my attention, you just needed to say it.”

“Who said that I wanted your attention?”

Long story short, the two of you don’t sleep that night as he makes it his mission to have everyone know you’re taken while letting you know he will always give his time to you.

#windbreaker manhwa #windbreaker webtoon #hyuk x reader #hyuk kwon #wooin x reader #yoo wooin

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minaaaliyah · 20 hours ago

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Chapter 1

Why couldn’t life be easy? Why couldn’t you come into this world with a blueprint—a map laid out, step-by-step, telling you what path to take and when to take it? Instead, life tosses you in blindfolded, hands tied, heart exposed. You’re left to fumble through the dark, trying to make sense of the noise.

No one said life was going to be worth living. But here you are.

A healer.

You could ease a person’s pain with nothing more than an herb and a prayer. Your mama was an herbalist, your daddy, a doctor. You’d been learning how to use what the earth gave you since before you could even say the word “medicine.” It was in your blood—something ancient, something sacred, something that flowed in your veins like second nature.

Your mama swore she knew you were special before you even took your first breath. Said she felt it in her belly—that you were a gift that kept on giving. Said you’d shine so bright you could kill someone. Of course, she was being dramatic—mothers always are—but still, mothers know. And when you started helping her in her home herb shop at the ripe age of six, you began to understand what she meant.

People would come in for chamomile, peppermint, maybe some eucalyptus for a cold. But you felt something deeper. A tug in your chest, a whisper from something unseen. You knew they were battling more than a stuffy nose. You’d walk up, press your little hand to theirs, and pray. Ask the Gods to bring them peace, clarity, safety. And somehow, it worked. Words from the mouth of a child with old-soul power behind them.

After that, Mama made sure you never forgot what you were. “Keeping a gift like that to yourself is a sin, girl,” she’d say. “And the Gods will snatch it back as fast as they gave it to yuh.”

Now, you’re twenty-five, a single mother working at Annie’s Place just trying to keep your head above water. You live above the restaurant, scraping by. There’s food on the table, bills paid—barely. Mama still helps here and there—mostly for your daughter, Yara—but she kicked you out the moment you said you didn’t want to use your gift anymore. Claimed she was doing what was right. But you know better. You feel it in your bones. She’s just waiting for that power to resurface, maybe even hoping it’ll pass into your daughter.

Still, you stay quiet. You need her.

Besides your mama, you don’t really have anyone. Your father past three years ago. You’re an only child. And friends? Sure, you have Mary and Perlene, but they’ve got lives of their own. They saw that past-due light bill taped to your door and said nothing—just shook their heads and kept it moving. You never asked for help. Hated the idea of owing anybody anything. So, you struggle in silence. You don’t cry, don’t break, don’t pause. You can’t. You’ve got a child to raise, shifts to work, bills to pay. Life’s not fairytale magic—it’s survival. But it’s yours. And you live it for her.

“Nyx, you know you ain’t got no time to be sitting up on that damn phone,” Annie’s voice called from the kitchen, carrying the scent of fresh-fried fish.

Looking up from the counter, I muttered a quiet curse. Of course she came out now. I tucked my phone into my pocket.

“Sorry, Annie. I’m just waitin’ to see if Yara got that scholarship to the private school. They said emails go out at four. It’s 4:05.”

Annie shrugged. “Girl don’t stress. She’s gonna get it. Now, help me with these plates.”

I pulled on gloves and joined her behind the bar. The place was slow today—Naomi was handling the few customers we had.

“You know, Nyx,” Annie said, handing me a to-go box, “if you need help payin’ for Babygirl’s school, I can—”

“No, ma’am,” I cut her off. “If she doesn’t get it, I’ll just get another job.”

She gave me that look—the one that could slice you straight to your soul.

“Nyx,” she said slowly, “when exactly are you planning to work another job? You’re here 10 to 5, then you’re running across town to pick up Yara. Who’s gonna take care of her? When you gonna sleep?”

Annie doesn’t lie. Doesn’t sugarcoat. Doesn’t indulge in fantasy. She gives you truth, sharp and unflinching. I looked at her like she just kicked my dog and told me it was for my own good.

But she wasn’t wrong.

Still shaking my head, I slipped my phone back out. One new email.

Dear Ms. Noorani, We are excited to share the wonderful news that your child, Yara Noorani, has been selected to receive a scholarship for the upcoming school year!

This award reflects your family’s commitment to early education and your child’s joyful spirit and enthusiasm for learning. We are thrilled to welcome you into our school community and look forward to supporting your child’s growth and development.

You will receive more information soon about next steps, including enrollment details and how the scholarship will be applied.

Congratulations again, and we can’t wait to see Yara Noorani shine!

“ANNIE!” I shouted, my voice cracking. “Oh my God, Annie—she got it!”

I spun around the kitchen, nearly knocking over the fish.

Annie just smirked. “That’s great and all, but if you don’t stop jumpin’ around, I’ma make you work a double.”

I laughed, breathless and warm all over. I hugged her tight, told her I’d see her later, and clocked out. Then I called a ride.

I rode with the windows cracked, warm summer air brushing against my cheeks as the city blurred by. The scholarship email kept replaying in my head like a hymn. She got it. My baby got it. The one thing that could lift her out of the mess I was buried in.

Mama's house was on the east side—tucked behind rows of overgrown bougainvillea and rusted garden gates, looking just like the woman who owned it: wild and unbothered by what people thought. I climbed the stairs two at a time, heart thudding, already picturing Yara’s big smile when she heard the news. But something stopped me at the top step.

A smell—faint, earthy, thick with sage and sandalwood—curling from the porch like it had a message of its own. Mama was burning again. That usually meant spirits had been nearby. Or something worse. I stepped inside. “Mama?” I called. She was in the back, kneeling on the floor, her hands deep in a bowl of red clay and water. Her head snapped up when she heard my voice. “You felt that too?” she asked.

I hesitated. “Felt what? “But I had. A subtle twist in the air. A hum behind my ribs. She wiped her hands on a towel and stood, looking older than I remembered. “They been callin’ you again, haven’t they? The spirits. The energy. You’re runnin’ from it, but it’s catchin’ up.”

I didn't answer. Instead, I gave her the news. “Yara got the scholarship.” Her eyes lit up—just for a moment—but the shadow returned quickly. “She’s gonna need it,” she murmured. “The girl’s light is growin’. And so are the eyes watchin’ her.”

Mama, please don’t start,” I said, brushing past her into the kitchen. “Just be happy. For once.”

I opened the cabinet, pulling out Yara’s small backpack and snacks, already mentally running through the checklist for the morning store run. “All I’m trying to do is warn you, Nyx,” Mama said, following close behind. “The spirits been talkin’. They said there’s a man out there—he’s coming for you. And he ain’t good news.” I sighed, stuffing Yara’s water bottle into the bag harder than I needed to.

“If you would just use that gift of yours,” she went on, her voice catching like a thread on splintered wood, “you’d understand. You could see him comin’ too.”

“I’m not tryin’ to see anything, Mama,” I muttered, slinging the bag over my shoulder and heading toward the front room. “I’m just trying to live.” She followed me to the living room like a shadow that wouldn’t let go, her presence thick in the air.

I placed Yara’s things by the door, then climbed the stairs quietly to my old bedroom. The door creaked the way it always had. Inside, Yara lay tangled in blankets, deep in a toddler’s dream, mouth slightly open, one chubby hand curled around her stuffed bunny. “Yara, baby,” I whispered gently, kneeling beside her. “Wake up, love. The Uber’s outside.”

She stirred, groaning softly. “Mommy, I’m still tired,” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes with tiny fists. “I know, I know,” I said, pulling her upright. “We’ll nap when we get home, okay?” She nodded sleepily, letting me put on her little shoes and zip up her jacket. In the hallway, Mama stood watching us, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line. She didn’t say anything this time, just looked at me like she was memorizing the moment.

Yara gave her a hug around the knees. “I love you, Grandma. See you next week.” Mama’s face softened as she bent down to kiss her cheek. “Love you too, baby. Be good. And remember what I told you.”

“I will,” Yara said, her voice already fading with sleep again. I picked her up and carried her down the stairs. At the door, I paused long enough to give Mama a kiss on the cheek.

She didn’t say another word.

I didn’t either.

Outside, the car was already waiting, headlights cutting through the dawn fog. I climbed in with Yara curled up against me, the silence between me and my mother still hanging heavy in my chest—half love, half warning.

By the time the car pulled up near the curb, dusk had wrapped the city in a quiet, copper-toned hush. You thanked the driver, gathered your bags, and scooped Yara—now asleep with her cheek resting on your shoulder—into your arms.

The entrance to your apartment was in the back, which meant a short walk down the cracked sidewalk, then a right turn into the narrow alley behind Annie’s. Dim light flickered from the single bulb overhead, casting long shadows on the damp pavement. You adjusted your grip on the bag, hoisted Yara a little higher on your hip, and climbed the metal stairs that always groaned beneath your weight.

The apartment wasn’t much. A one-bedroom, one-bath, 750-square-foot shoebox with peeling paint and thin walls. But the hardwood floors had character—warm and worn down in places—and the little kitchen window caught the morning sun just right. It wasn’t perfect, but it was home. It kept you and your daughter safe, and that was more than most could say.

You unlocked the door, pushed it open with your shoulder, and stepped inside. The smell of yesterday’s incense still lingered faintly in the air—sage, maybe lavender. You dropped the bags by the door and laid Yara gently on the couch. She stirred a little but didn’t wake. You brushed a curl from her forehead and whispered, “We’re home, baby.”

The place was exactly how you left it—blankets strewn over the couch, breakfast dishes still in the sink, and a few toys scattered on the floor like breadcrumbs from the morning rush. You carried Yara to the bedroom, changed her into pajamas, and tucked her into bed. She murmured something in her sleep, clutching her stuffed bunny close to her chest. You kissed her temple before turning out the light.

You went back into the main room and turned on some music—just loud enough to fill the silence. A little Erykah Badu, soft and soulful. The kind of music that makes you feel like you’re floating while your hands stay busy.

You started in the kitchen. Dishes first. You emptied the dishwasher, put up the clean plates and glasses, and loaded the sink full of the mess from earlier. The rhythm of scrubbing, rinsing, and stacking grounded you—one small task after another. You wiped the counters down, sprayed the stove, and lit a citrus candle by the sink to chase away the lingering smell of grease.

The living room came next. You folded the throw blankets, picked up Yara’s toys, and vacuumed around the rug with that little handheld vacuum you hated but couldn’t afford to replace. Everything in its place.

Finally, the bathroom—always your least favorite. You didn’t do much tonight. Just swept the floor and sprayed the sink. Enough to feel decent.

Once the place felt clean and the candle's glow flickered gently in the kitchen, you turned off the music, took a shower, and slipped into bed. The sheets were cool, the room quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator in the next room.

That’s when your mind started to wander.

Back to how you got here.

To the gift you walked away from. To Mama’s warnings. To the man in the shadows—the one the spirits whispered about. To all the moments you’d swallowed your tears and stood tall, because crumbling wasn’t an option.

You stared up at the ceiling, the weight of the day pressing into your chest like a heavy hand. You’d made it through, just like always. But something was shifting. You could feel it—in the wind, in your bones, in the quiet spaces between your thoughts.

You turned onto your side and glanced toward Yara on the other side of the bed, where her nightlight still glowed soft and amber.

Let whatever’s coming wait until tomorrow, you thought.

And you finally closed your eyes.

Saturday morning started slow—just the way Nyx liked it.

The city outside still yawned as light crept between buildings, stretching across power lines and rusted window frames. Inside the apartment, everything was quiet except for the soft rustle of Yara flipping through her picture book and the occasional thump of tiny feet pattering from the bathroom to the couch.

Nyx stood barefoot in the kitchen, wrapped in a long robe, hair piled on top of her head. She pressed the stove knob again. Waited.

Click. Click.

Nothing.

She exhaled sharply through her nose, hands on her hips.

"That’s just disrespectful," she muttered, grabbing her phone and typing a note to herself—Call Darnell again (!!!)—before tossing it onto the counter.

Yara peered around the corner. "Mama, pancakes today?"

Nyx sighed. "We gotta go downstairs for that, baby. Stove’s playing games again."

Yara grabbed her bunny and slipped on her sneakers without complaint. Nyx got them both dressed in something decent, pulled her keys off the hook, and they made their way downstairs, the scent of smoked sausage and cinnamon already curling up the stairwell like a welcome.

The bell over the door chimed. Annie didn’t look up from the grits she was stirring. “Lemme guess. The stove?” Nyx stepped inside, Yara tugging her hand. “Dead. Again. I can’t keep feeding this child off cereal and prayer, Annie. I need real heat.”

“You need a new landlord,” Annie muttered. “I told Darnell three weeks ago to check that thing.”

“You told Darnell,” Nyx repeated, pointing to herself. “But I have to live with his half-fixin’. That’s the difference.” Annie gave her that look—the one that always said you ain’t wrong, but don’t start no mess this early—then nodded her head toward a booth. “Sit. I got sausage and sweet cornbread in the back. Let the girl eat.”

Nyx smiled down at Yara. “You hear that, baby? Annie’s spoiling you again.” Yara beamed and ran ahead to their usual seat. That’s when the door chimed again. Two men entered. The air changed.

Smoke came in first. Dressed in deep gray, with eyes that didn't scan the room—they read it. Quiet. Still. Not a man who needed to announce himself. The kind of man who made you straighten your back without realizing it. The kind of man who made you pause when your instincts stirred, and your spirit wasn’t sure if it should kneel or run.

Stacks followed, louder, lighter, full of charm. Gold ring flashing on his pinky. Laughter already rising from his chest. "Whew, Annie," he said, fanning himself like a preacher. “You still cooking with holy fire in here?”

Annie grinned. “Only thing that keeps men like you comin’ back.”

Stacks turned toward Nyx’s booth and spotted her. “Well, well, what do we have here?”

She blinked, caught off guard by the sudden focus.

Annie chuckled. “Stacks, Smoke—this here’s Nyx. Lives upstairs. Works the counter most days.”

Stacks reached out, but Nyx stayed seated, offering only a nod. "Nice to meet you, Stacks. And… Smoke?" She looked up at him now. He didn’t smile. Didn’t nod. Just stood there.

Watching.

Like he already knew her face.

Stacks laughed. “Don’t mind him. Smoke don’t say much. He thinks in thunder but speaks in whispers.”

Smoke’s gaze didn’t waver. His arms remained crossed over his chest, but Nyx could feel his energy like a drumbeat beneath the floorboards.

She looked away first.

“So y’all the famous twins Annie always talking about?” she asked, pouring Yara some juice from the small carafe on the table.

Stacks slid into the seat across from her like they were old friends. “Famous might be generous, but yeah. We run things around here. Logistics, cleanup, favors. If something needs to be handled, we’re the ones they call.”

“Interesting,” Nyx said, slicing into Yara’s sausage. “So you’re the neighborhood problem-solvers?”

“That’s one word for it,” Annie muttered from behind the bar.

Stacks winked. “We do it all. Except breakfast. That’s Annie’s territory.”

Nyx chuckled. “Well, I’m glad someone’s working around here, because my stove is on strike again.”

Stacks leaned back. “You got a man around? Someone to look at it?”

“No man,” Nyx said flatly, without apology.

Smoke, still standing, shifted.

That single movement said more than most men said in full sentences.

Stacks raised his eyebrows. “That’s rare. You don’t give off single-mom energy.”

“Oh?” Nyx raised her brow. “What kind of energy do I give off?”

Stacks grinned. “Bossy. Beautiful. Might-cut-you-if-you-say-something-stupid type.”

Nyx smirked. “So I give off accurate energy.”

Annie snorted in the background, nearly choking on her tea.

Smoke finally moved—quietly sliding into the seat beside Stacks, still watching. He didn’t speak. Not a word. But Nyx could feel him.

The way his eyes didn’t waver.

The way his presence filled the space without crowding it.

The way his silence wrapped around him like armor.

It unnerved her. But not in a bad way.

In a way that made her nervous—for reasons she didn’t have time to name.

Stacks went on talking—about the neighborhood, about Annie’s food, about some guy who owed him money and was now washing dishes for free. Nyx smiled and laughed in all the right places, but her attention kept sliding to the quiet man across from her.

Smoke hadn’t said her name.

But he was studying her like he was trying to memorize it.

Like somewhere, deep in the folds of his spirit, he already knew it.

And as they sat in that booth—Yara quietly coloring, Annie humming in the kitchen, and Stacks telling stories—Nyx felt something pull tight inside her.

A tether.

Invisible.

Ancient.

And it was tied to the man who hadn’t said a word.

Stacks leaned over the table, eyes twinkling as he took a sip of sweet tea and pointed to Yara’s coloring page. “Now hold up—who taught you to stay inside the lines like that? That’s professional work right there.”

Yara paused mid-crayon stroke, blinking up at him. Her cheeks puffed, and she dipped her chin low like she was trying to disappear into her hoodie.

Stacks grinned wider. “Aw, don’t go shy on me now. What’s your name, baby girl?”

She looked at her mama for permission.

Nyx nodded gently. “Go ahead, love.”

Yara peeked out. “Yara,” she whispered.

Stacks put a hand to his chest like he’d just heard a secret. “Yara. That’s a beautiful name. You know what it means?”

Yara shrugged a little, still coloring.

Nyx smiled to herself. She knew what was happening. Yara rarely opened up to strangers—but Stacks had a charm that was disarming even to grown women. The man had a gift, and today he was using it to unlock a toddler.

“It means ‘small butterfly’ in Arabic,” Nyx added, brushing a curl behind her ear.

Stacks widened his eyes at Yara. “Butterfly? Now that makes sense. You look like the kind of girl who’s always flyin’ somewhere.”

Yara giggled once, soft and quick.

That was all he needed.

“Aha! I knew I’d get a laugh. I used to be a butterfly myself, you know,” he said, dramatically fluttering his fingers like wings.

Yara laughed again—this time with her whole face—and Nyx tried not to melt at the sound.

“You like to draw?” Stacks asked, tapping a blank spot on the paper.

Yara nodded.

“What’s that?” he asked, pointing to a pink shape.

“That’s me and Mama and my bunny. We’re going to the moon.”

“The moon?” he said, eyebrows shooting up. “Shoot, I haven’t even been outta the city this year.”

She giggled again and flipped the page to start a new one. This time, she handed him a crayon.

“Ohhh, you want me to help? I gotta warn you, I draw like a sleepy raccoon,” he said, but took the crayon anyway.

Smoke watched the exchange without a word. Just sat there, arms crossed, jaw tense, eyes unreadable.

Nyx glanced his way—curious.

She wasn’t used to men who stayed quiet around kids. Most either talked too much or ignored them altogether. But Smoke was different. Not disinterested, not cold—just… studying. Listening. Like he was trying to understandsomething.

Stacks kept chatting with Yara, filling the space with easy warmth.

“What’s your bunny’s name?” “Bunny.” “Classic.” “You wanna color the moon?” “Okay, but I think the moon should be blue today.” “It’s your moon, baby girl. Make it neon green if you want.”

Yara smiled—open now, radiant. Nyx felt her heart loosen just a little watching them. She turned to Smoke.

“You good over there, or you only speak after sunset?” she asked, teasing—but only a little. He looked at her. And for a heartbeat, it felt like he looked through her. Then he said, low and deliberate, “I speak when there’s something worth saying.”

It wasn’t rude.

But it hit like thunder.

Nyx blinked, caught off guard—not just by the weight of his voice, but by the feeling behind it. It was like he’d been holding back something he couldn’t name.

Something watching her the way old gods watched people who lit candles without knowing why.

Stacks broke the silence, smiling wide. “Don’t mind him. He’s just mad he can’t color as good as Yara.”

Yara beamed, clearly proud.

Smoke gave a faint, nearly invisible smirk.

Nyx noticed.

It was the first break in his armor.

And for reasons she didn’t want to explore yet, she felt it settle somewhere low and slow in her chest.

The hush in Annie’s diner wasn’t empty.

It was full—with everything they weren’t saying.

Steam rose in slow curls from Annie’s chipped coffee mug. The scent of chicory, fried sage, and cornbread clung to the air. It wrapped itself around the group like a shawl, familiar and warm. Outside, the street was lazy. The sun shone but didn’t blaze, and the sidewalk shimmered soft in the stillness of the late morning.

Yara’s soft breath was the only real sound.

Nyx shifted just enough to let her daughter lay her head in her lap. She smoothed a curl away from her brow, her hand lingering longer than usual. That girl was her world, her reason, her spine. Watching her sleep with her fists unclenched—it reminded her why she worked so hard not to fall apart.

Across from her, Smoke leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move much. But his presence was dense. Grounding. Like a storm cloud that had no plans to rain—yet.

Stacks, surprisingly, had gone quiet too. He stared into the cup of coffee Annie had poured him, turning it in his hands like it held a message. The grin he usually wore had faded—not in sadness, but in realness. Like he’d taken off his performance for just a minute and let the man underneath breathe.

It felt like everyone was holding something.

And for once, nobody was trying to fix it.

Annie pulled a chair from behind the counter and joined them, sitting sideways so her knees pointed toward Nyx. “I used to dream of mornings like this,” she said softly. “Mornings where nobody needed anything. Where we could all just be.”

Nyx looked up at her. “You mean you don’t like when folks come in yelling ‘Annie, I need a plate, and my man just left me again’?”

Annie gave a dry laugh. “Honey, I’ve been everybody’s mama, therapist, and exorcist. I ain’t had time to just sit in my own skin for years.”

Stacks raised his mug. “To sitting in your own skin.”

Annie raised hers. “To finally being around people who don’t drain it.”

Nyx lifted her water glass. Smoke didn’t lift anything, but he gave a slow nod.

And Yara, half-asleep, whispered, “Cheers…”

Everyone chuckled.

That laugh settled the room like a song’s final note.

Then Nyx spoke again—quieter this time. “It’s hard, though. Being strong all the time.”

She hadn’t meant to say it.

Not out loud.

But now it was out there, hanging in the air like incense smoke.

Annie didn’t interrupt.

Neither did Stacks.

But Smoke looked at her.

And for the first time, he said her name like he’d known it longer than she’d been alive.

“Nyx.”

Just that.

Just her name.

But it landed like a blessing.

She met his eyes. There was no flirtation there. No slickness. Just something steady. Like he saw her—and wasn’t afraid of what came with that.

And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she had to be guarded.

She just… was. Yara stirred again, reaching up sleepily. Nyx pulled her close, whispering, “Go back to sleep, baby.”

Stacks smiled. “She’s gonna be something else when she gets older. You better prepare.”

“She already is something else,” Nyx replied, brushing her daughter’s cheek. “Just like her grandma.”

“Your mama the real deal, huh?” he asked, eyes curious.

Nyx hesitated. “The kind of woman who talks to spirits before she brushes her teeth.”

Annie laughed. “That woman always gave me chills—but her hands? Healing. I remember once, back in—”

Before she could finish, Smoke suddenly stood up.

Not abrupt. Just… quietly certain.

Nyx looked up. “You okay?”

He nodded, but his gaze had shifted—like he’d just heard something only he could hear.

“Just needed air.”

He looked at her for a second longer, like he wanted to say something more.

Then he walked out, the bell over the door chiming softly behind him.

Stacks and Annie exchanged a glance but said nothing.

Nyx watched the door swing gently in his wake.

Something inside her stirred.

Not anxiety.

Not fear.

But familiarity.

Like the moment before lightning strikes—when the world inhales.

#stack x y/n #stack moore smut #sammie sinners #sammie x reader #smoke smut #smoke x stack #smoke x reader #smoke x black oc #smoke x black reader

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