#I thought they were a borrower or something

[shariasweet]

ANYTHING ABT KJUNGWON PLEASEEEEEEEEEEESBKJSABHJBJSF

y.jungwon 𝒙 f.reader

𝓦c ::: -1k 𐙚𝓢harinote ::: oh how I yearn for jungwon, sigh 𐙚 warnin𝓰.ᐟ ::: kissing · pet names · fingering (f) · oral (f) / spit · humiliation (slightly, he's sweet) · squirting · not proofread as always.

this was beyond embarrassing.

if embarrassing was even the right word—this was humiliation and the heat rushing to your cheeks was undeniable proof.

“squirting videos… how to squirt… how can my boyfriend make me squirt?” your boyfriend let a teasing laugh echo across the bed. his voice was lilting with amusement as his eyes glanced up at you from your laptop screen. “baby, this is filthy.” jungwon grinned, continuing to explore the iceberg of your search history.

now more than ever, you wished that the earth would crack open and swallow you whole.

he sat at the edge of your bed, your laptop resting on his lap and his dark eyes flicking between the screen and your flushed, blown-out expression.

you hadn’t meant to leave those tabs open.

or your browser history untouched.

so when jungwon asked to borrow your laptop earlier—just for a second to check something—you didn’t think twice. not until now… you could hardly remember your ovulated haze anyhow, let alone anything you'd desperately searched up in attempts to get off.

your heart pounded in your chest.

jungwon let out another low laugh, biting back a grin as he closed the laptop slowly, setting it aside with the same care he used with anything delicate.

then, his attention returned to you fully—warm, playful, but sharp with an underlying seriousness. “so,” he said, asking you if it were the most casual thing in the world. “have you tried it?”

“tried… what?” you murmured, already fidgeting with the hem of your shorts.

“making yourself squirt.” his eyes flickered, dragging down your body slowly, as though he could see the wetness seeping through your cotton panties and shorts. “i mean, clearly you’re curious.” his voice softened, dropped—inviting. “want help?”

your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

your thighs pressed together instinctively, warmth blooming in your belly from just the idea of trying to… then the thought of him making you do something like that.

jungwon stood and took your hand, guiding you toward the head of the bed like it was nothing. his grip was gentle, his expression unbothered. “lie back,” he instructed, already pulling his hoodie over his head to reveal the toned muscles of his abs. your throat bobbed—dry. “don’t overthink, just let go f'me angel. i’ll take care of the rest.”

you settled into the pillows, nodding as your limbs were buzzing with nerves as you settled. he climbed over you slowly, careful and calm, brushing your hair from your face with a tender touch.

“relax for me, baby.” he smiled against your mouth, pecking you on the lips. he trailed kisses down your body... each one trailing lower and lower. he began working on your jaw, the curve of your throat, to the center of your chest… then beneath hem of your shirt. his tongue carefully traced each spot he kissed, teeth nipping and grazing your skin.

and then it was off… he carefully peeled the material of the shirt over your head, hands creeping up your sides to cup your breasts before removing your shorts. he stripped you down piece by piece, kissing every new inch of bare skin like he had all the time in the world.

when he sat back to look at you, it was with reverence—admiring you as though you were the most fragile, delicate thing in the world.

“so pretty,” he murmured, hands parting your thighs. “already wet too… is it from earlier? or just from me?” the teasing tone hinting in his voice returned and you felt that embarrassing heat creeping back up your body.

his fingers dragged through your folds, "agh!" you gasped, feeling them play with the slick already sticking to his skin.

he spread it around slowly, opening your glistening folds to reveal your puffy, aching clit.

“gotta get you wetter,” he murmured. “so wet you can’t hold it in…” his brows knit together in concentration as he continued to thumb at your clit—rubbing the bundle of nerves in small circles.

then he leaned in, kissing down your stomach before spitting, hot and heavy on your clit. you let a small yelp bubble past your lips, hips jolting—and he chuckled, thumb circling through it lazily.

“there we go.”

two fingers slid in soon after. slow. deep.

he didn’t rush. in jungwon fashion, he just eased them in, curling them gently, his eyes locked on yours the whole time.

“feels good?” he asked, voice steady. you nodded, already breathless. “yeah… yes…”

“good girl… just breathe.” he adjusted his wrist slightly. “i’m gonna hit a spot that’s gonna feel weird at first. but i need you to let go, okay? don’t hold it back.”

his other hand gripped your thigh, pulling you closer and forcing your hips to grind deeper into his fingers.

“ah—o-oh! oh, fuck…!” your jaw fell slack, his free hand rode up your thighs, applying a firm pressure onto your stomach as his fingers continued to coax an orgasm out of you.

he had found it—that spot he'd sworn to find—and dragged his fingers over it with devastating precision… your body twitched and your thighs trembled. “right there,” he whispered, low and husky. “you feel that?”

“f-fuck, yes—” then your tears began forming, pricking your eyes and blurring your vision.

he kept going. kept pressing, rubbing your clit with his thumb in slow, perfect circles whilst prodding at the spongy spot buried into your cunt. your sounds got louder. messier. lewder.

the slick sounds between your thighs became obscene as slick lathered around the base of his fingers. “wonnie, i—something’s—i think i’m—”

“don’t stop it,” he breathed, focused completely. “don’t fight it. let it happen.”

your stomach clenched tight. something inside you coiled, thick and hot… "shit! mpf, stop..!" your hands flew to grasp onto his triceps. "'feels like i'm gonna pee—ungh!" your hips bucked and your voice cracked—and then it hit.

your whole body went limp, releasing all at once and jungwon didn’t stop.

he moaned, latching his mouth onto your cunt, tongue lapping at your juices as your body kept releasing, cunt pulsing around his fingers, his lips sealed over your clit to catch every drop.

you gasped, clutching the sheets as your fingers tangled into his hair.

jungwon swore under his breath, stunned. “fuck. you squirted.” he looked almost dazed, staring at the mess you made. the white sheets of your mattress? soaked.

“angel… that was so fucking hot.” he looks up at you, awestruck with slick and wetness dripping from his face.

he leaned in, kissing up your knee, your thigh, your trembling stomach. not stopping until he's kissing your lips, the taste of yourself evident and reminsent on his lips. he didn’t stop praising you as you came down from your high, taking deep breaths as your eyes stirred open once more.

“so pretty,” he whispered, kissing your temple now. “so good for me. i told you i’d take care of you.”

[alotofpockets]

Target practice | Vivianne Miedema x Reader

5k celebration prompt: "Is it broken?"

Warnings: broken nose, blood

Woso masterlist | Words: 1.2k

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When you walk through the door of your apartment, you find your girlfriend sitting on the floor. She leaned against the couch with her laptop on the coffee table. A match playing on her screen, but it sounds like she is replaying a certain moment in the match by the repetitive commentary. 

You take off your shoes, drop your back to the ground, and walk towards the couch. “Hi love.” You say as you sit down behind her and kiss the top of her head. “What are you watching?”

Viv takes a deep sigh, “The game from yesterday. I had too many off target shots, so I’ve been rewatching them.” You knew this process, she had done it over and over again. Not just for mistakes or things she wasn’t happy with, but also for good goals and moments in play. “Is it helping?” You ask gently, hearing the light frustration in her voice.

“Nope, I’m just frustrating myself. I want to do some target practice, but without someone in goal it won’t be as effective.” She closed the laptop with a sigh. You never liked seeing your girlfriend this way. She’s an incredible footballer, and a missed shot shouldn’t be something on her mind amongst all the amazing goals that she does score. You would do anything to not make her feel like this.

“I’m no goalkeeper, but I could stand in goal if you think that would help.” You offer. Viv looks at you like you’re crazy, but she sees nothing but sincerity in your eyes. “Are you sure?” You smile and nod your head, “Yeah, of course. After dinner?” 

And that is exactly what you did. Once dinner was all cleaned up, you both went to your room to get changed. Viv grabbed one of her City training kits, while your eyes lingered on her old Arsenal one. “Would it be too soon to suggest Man City vs Arsenal?” She followed your gaze and smiled to herself. “You can wear it.” She loved when you wore her clothes, so this was no exception. 

Along with borrowing a training kit from your girlfriend, you also wore a pair of her boots. Wearing the same shoe size was always so easy, you could always use one of the hundreds of pairs Viv had laying around.

You walked to the pitch together hand in hand, just chatting and enjoying the nice weather. While football was far from your thing, you loved being able to spend the time with her. 

Once on the pitch you thought it would be a great idea to warm up alongside her, but you quickly realised that as soon as she started her running drills, that you were not a professional footballer, and definitely did not have the same condition of one. So, you opted to watch her with your back leaned against the goalpost for the rest of her warm ups.

You watched with a smile plastered on your face. She looked entirely in her element, even if it was just a simple warm up. When she ran her last drill, she walked up to the goal. “Are you still sure you want to do this?” She asked with a little worry in her voice. You nod, “Yup, I will be the best non-goalie goalie ever.” Viv chuckled, “Alright, let’s go then.”

Viv started shooting while you were moving around in the goal, left to right, jumping around, you were honestly having a lot of fun with just being the most annoying goalkeeper you could be. 

At first you thought your girlfriend was just starting off slow to get into it, but when she kept it going, you started to realise what she was doing. “You can stop holding back, love. I’m not scared of the ball, so just shoot it like you normally would.”

She stayed a bit weary at first, but slowly started building up the power she was putting behind her shots now. One of her harder shots soared past you and went right into the top corner. “Top bins! That’s more like it.” You say proudly.

Viv’s confidence grew more and more with each shot that she took. Clearly noticing you were handling the fast balls flying around you just fine. 

“Is it helping?” You asked her as you went to collect the balls together. “Yeah, a lot actually." Thank you so much for doing this for me.” You smile and lean in to peck her lips, “Of course, anything for you.”

Another few shots hit the back of the net perfectly. Viv was starting to enjoy it more and more. Of course this still wasn’t the same as game play, but hitting ball after ball on target was doing her a lot of good.

Viv lined up her next shot, she looked up at you with a smile. Your moves were ridiculous, but she loved that you were doing the most for you, and she was enjoying every moment of your attempt to distract her from the goal.

She kicks the next ball. It came flying towards the goal with full power, so fast that you didn’t realise it was coming straight to you until it was too late. The ball hits your square in the face, and you fall back instantly. “Shit.” Viv says instantly. 

“I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” She rushed to your side, her eyes widening as she saw the blood gushing from your nose. Your hand reaches up to touch your nose, and you instantly flinch at the pain. Then you look at your hand, which was covered in blood. 

You look up to your girlfriend with worried eyes. “Is it broken?" Viv helps you sit up, and properly looks at your nose. “Well, I’m no doctor, but it’s definitely not straight anymore.” 

By now the adrenaline rush started to come down, and you were starting to feel the pain a lot more. Viv who noticed you getting more uncomfortable helped you up fully. “Come on, let’s get an ice pack at home and then head to urgent care.”

On the walk back home, Viv couldn’t stop apologising. She kept going until to the point you had to stop her. “Viv, I love you but you have to stop. It happened, and it’s fine. It will heal and my nose will go back to looking normal in no time.”

“I know it will, but I should have never asked you to be in goal.” You shake your head. “You didn’t ask, I offered.” She rolled her eyes, “Fine, then I shouldn’t have let you. It’s my fault, and I am really sorry.”

Your nose was indeed broken, and they had to set it. Back home Viv, who still felt very bad, took great care of you. She acted a little as if you couldn’t do anything anymore, but who were you to deny your girlfriend from doing all these kinds for you for a little while?

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[oh-my-damn]

Don't mind me. Just a quick thought I had while watching this video over, and over, and over again.

"Bucky..."

You sigh out the word more than anything, your tone laced with the desire you feel inside.

When your boyfriend told you he got a new uniform because of this "new team" he had found himself a part of, you were not expecting this.

Granted, you haven't exactly hated any uniform he's ever worn. In fact, most of them had looked.. Well, unbelievably good on him.

To be fair, though, perhaps you were biased. More than once, your friends had commented on the fact that your.. infatuation, with your own boyfriend, was less than ideal. Particularly due to the fact that you had a hard time staying away from him for too long, and that he seemed to have the same affliction.

Nonetheless, you've handled everything in stride, if you do say so yourself. Seeing the pictures of him in the 40's? Absolutely devastating, and yet you managed to restrain yourself. The few pictures of him caught while he was The Winter Soldier? While he looked jawdroppingly good, you were able to fight through it by reminding yourself of how painful that part of his life was to him.

The stuff you found on the news regarding that whole T'Chaka/Tony business, however... Those were harder to ignore. You've been upfront with him about that, too. Told him that it affected you, and Bucky did you a hell of a favor when he let you permanently borrow the red henley he used to wear a lot during that time of his life.

But this?

This was unprecedented.

Bucky had told you he was going to a fitting. He had, indeed, informed you that he would be getting a new uniform, one that would make him look more "like a teamplayer."

But then again, your boyfriend was absolutely unpredictable, so you really hadn't been expecting much.

Seeing him walk in with a new hairstyle and a perfectly fitted Avengers uniform was certainly not anything you'd been prepared for.

Which meant you were now in trouble.

Because Bucky is currently looking at you expectantly, waiting for you to express your opinion.

And how does one really express their opinion appropriately, upon seeing something like that?

You know exactly how you would like to express it...

However, the fact that all of his new teammates walked in with him, is kind of putting a damper on things.

How does one jump their boyfriend's bones, while staying polite and professional?

The answer is.. You don't.

"Everyone out."

Yelena raises a brow at your statement, the others quick to follow suit, while Bucky's brows furrows in question.

"Doll? What's wrong?"

Your eyes stay locked on your boyfriends, the steel blue of them sending a shiver down your spine. You take a step toward him, your eyes quickly meeting Yelena's for a knowing glance before they're back at him as you repeat, "Everyone. Out."

It takes less than thirty seconds for all of them to be out of the room.

You and Bucky watch each other for another few seconds before you finally say, "What the hell are you waiting for, Barnes? Don't act like you didn't already know that I would want to jump you the fucking second I saw you looking like that."

It takes him what feels like less than a second before he grabs you, holding you close while his lips slant over yours in a searing kiss.

[itzpookiepooh]

Hiii I really love your writing and I was wondering if you could make the lads (Love and Deepspace) boy going to the reader or mc's house and when entering her room they find some clearly masculine piece of clothing (like boxers or something like that) and they start to think too much about it like she's bringing another man home or some other jealous thoughts only to discover in the end that it was from the reader or mc's herself

That’s Mine!

Rafayel nearly fell out when he came over and saw the boxers on the floor. Were you cheating on him? Was he not enough? Did he have to kill whoever it was? His mind was running rampant with thoughts of you with another man. He bursts into the bathroom where you were showering and opened the shower door.

“Whose are these!?” He shouts holding the boxers on one finger. You were lathered in soap confused and a bit scared from the abrupt actions.

“What?” You analyze the cloth and sigh, “those are mine! Panties aren’t always breathable you know?”

Rafayel sighs in relief as he leans on the shower door. He explains his thoughts to you making you shake your head at your dramatic boyfriend. He kisses your soapy cheek apologizing for his rude outburst.

Caleb was doing laundry when he saw them. The boxers sitting at the bottom of the washing machine. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He never saw you in boxers. EVER. He wanted to ask you but he didn’t want to cause a scene. Is what he would’ve thought if he didn’t think someone else was leaving their dirty clothes in your room!

“Alright I know Zayne has more home training than leaving his clothes here unclean.” He announced swinging the underwear from the basket. The way he burst into the bathroom nearly gives you a heart attack.

You look side to side before your gaze falls on him. What is he talking about? You just stare at him as he pulls out boxers making you become flustered. Swinging your underwear around was the last thing you expected from Caleb.

“Caleb.” You stated firmly, “Those are mine.” He becomes flushed with embarrassment.

“I’m sorry, pipsqueak. I got jealous is all.” He explains as he rubs the back of his neck. You make a face at him before submerging into the bubbles in the bathroom again. You accept his apology making his features soften.

“Now that that’s over.” He says mostly to himself, he basically disappears out of his clothes. Your eyes go wide before you lift your hands up waving them.

“Caleb wait!” You interrupt, “Too late!” He cheerfully exclaimed as he hops in the tub. You groan as he clings to you.

“You’re sitting on my legs.” You inform him making him hop up and hurdle apologies at you.

Zayne knew you had a pretty chaotic wardrobe. There was no simple aesthetic to it. You got whatever you liked. Today however he was confused to find an oversized shirt in the laundry he was folding. It wasn’t his that he was certain of. He did remember you saying that you stayed with a friend until the rain died down the other day though. He folded it and put it to the side before going to find you in the gaming room.

“Is this a colleagues? I’ve never seen you wear it so I’m making sure to put it where it goes.” He asks you, showing you the shirt in question. You know that flicker in his eyes.

“It’s mine. I needed looser clothes because I was uncomfortable during my cycle last week.” You put it to him simply. He hums at your answer before folding it and walking into your shared bedroom to put it away.

Xavier got pouty when he saw the pajama pants. He knew you would NEVER but he couldn’t help the jealousy he felt from you borrowing others clothes. He was right here with a full wardrobe for you to choose from. He asked you about it which made you giggle at his jealousy.

“I like Spider-Man and they don’t really make it for me so I went to the men’s section and got the pants!” You explain to him with a bright smile. He sighed before hugging you.

“I have a whole wardrobe for you to pick clothes from.” He mumbles into your neck. You laugh at the way his breath tickles your neck.

“But none of them are Spider-Man are they?” You tease as he groans in embarrassment. You laugh at him and caress his hair. Your poor jealous baby.

Sylus stared at the cargo pants in confusion. They weren’t technically yours in his eyes since the size was in men’s. He immediately assumed they may be Luke or Kieran’s and got mixed in with your things. When he calls them into his office to tell them they were so confused.

“Those aren’t ours boss.” Luke says crossing his arms. Kieran nods mimicking his twin.

“Yeah. We don’t own a pair.” Kieran adds as Luke nods in confirmation. You just so happened to walk by and widen your eyes at what Sylus was holding. You rush in and grab them.

“They’re mine! Stop flaunting my clothes.” The twins snicker to one another making you glare in their direction.

“Men’s pants?” Sylus teases with his usual smirk. You huff and cross your arms.

“They fit better and went with my outfit.” You stick your tongue out at him, leaving the room. Not before plucking the twins for their excessive laughter. It was now Sylus’ turn to laugh.

[pillow-coded]

Five Hours

Summary: After weeks of pleading, Y/N is granted five rare hours alone with her husband, Spencer, inside prison for a conjugal visit. Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader Category: Smut (NSFW, 18+) MDNI!!!!! Content Warning: Angsttttt but also kinda fluff and then angst again, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, prison!reid, crying during sex, aftercare. A/N: loosely based on CM S12, prison Reid arc. Word Count: 7.8K

According to the Oxford Dictionary, a conjugal visit is a visit to a prisoner, by the spouse of the prisoner, especially for sexual relations.

However, Definitions are cold and stripped of nuisance.

They don’t tell you about the ache in your chest that doesn’t fade with time, or the way silence settles into your bed when the person you love isn’t in it.

They don’t tell you how it feels to wash your hair and suddenly remember the way his fingers used to rinse the shampoo out for you, gentle like he was afraid you’d break.

So no. Sexual relations is definitely not why I spent two weeks calling people, filing paperwork, arguing with strangers in suits and uniforms.

It wasn’t for sex. Even if it happens, even if we need it like oxygen—that’s not why I did it.

I did it because Spencer’s been in prison for a month, and I don’t know how much longer I can go without holding him.

All I want is to hold him in my arms. To kiss the corner of his mouth. To brush those soft curls away from his forehead and whisper that he’s going to be okay—that no matter what this place is doing to him, he’s still himself.

But I’ve seen it happening. His eyes have been growing dimmer with every non-contact visit. That’s all they’ve allowed me—cold chairs, thick glass, a phone pressed to my ear while I watched him shrink in real time. The only people granted private visits until now were Emily, and Fiona.

And now, finally… me.

I pushed, pleaded, filed the paperwork, followed up, waited. Jumped through every hoop they put in front of me. Some of the guards smirked when they handed me the forms—like they thought I was here for something cheap, something selfish.

But I would’ve done anything to get this time. I did do everything for these five hours they gave us.

And now I’m being escorted down a long corridor toward the conjugal suite—a room designed to look almost like a motel bedroom. Almost normal. Cream-colored sheets, a nightstand, dim overhead lighting. A sad little lamp that tries too hard to feel homey. There’s even a fake window with a painted blue sky outside of it. Like that could fool someone who hasn’t seen the real one in thirty days.

My palms are sweating. My heart won’t stop pounding.

In just a few minutes, I’ll get to touch him. I’ll get to kiss him.

I’ll get to breathe him in, memorize the sound of his voice without static in the way. I’ll get to be his again, not through glass, not with guards watching, but here—in this tiny, borrowed pocket of time where the world outside doesn’t exist.

I didn’t tell him about the conjugal visit.

I wanted it to be a surprise.

I wanted to see his face soften the moment he sees me sitting on the bed. I wanted to watch the disbelief bloom in his eyes, see the guardedness fall away. Just for a second. Just long enough to let him remember he’s loved.

Just long enough to let him feel free—even if it’s only for five hours.

“The prisoner will be here in a few minutes,” The guard says, voice clipped, bored, like this is just another Tuesday. “We’ll call eventually, when your time has run out. If you do not answer this call, we will be coming in regardless of what you two are doing. Got that?”

I nod, throat tight.

She gives me a look—somewhere between warning and pity—then shuts the door behind her.

And just like that, I’m alone again.

In a room pretending to be a bedroom. Waiting for my husband like I’m not half shaking.

I glance at the mirror in the corner, force myself to sit on the bed—knees together, hands folded in my lap. I don’t want him to see the nerves first. I want him to see me. The real me. The one that still believes he’s coming home.

I smooth down my clothes and stare at the door like it might open by magic.

Any second now.

My fingers twist together in my lap. I force them to still. The bed creaks under me when I shift, and I flinch like I’ve broken something sacred. Everything feels too loud. Too sharp. Like the silence in here is made of glass and I might shatter it just by breathing.

Then—The sound of keys, a bolt turning, footsteps. My heart stumbles in my chest, the door opens.

And there he is.

He steps inside slow, cautious, eyes adjusting to the low light. For a second, he doesn’t see me. He’s still in that survival state—shoulders tense, gaze scanning for threats before comfort. His hair is longer, curls hanging low over his forehead. His jaw looks sharper, like he’s lost weight again. His posture is too straight, too stiff. His body has learned prison, and it shows.

And then he sees me—Really sees me.

His breath catches.

That’s when everything changes.

His eyes widen like he can’t believe I’m real, like maybe the prison food’s finally driven him to hallucinations. His whole face crumples—relief first, then disbelief, then something wordless and raw that makes my chest ache. He takes one shaky step forward.

“Y/N?” he breathes.

I nod, standing up slowly, cautiously, as if I might spook him.

“Surprise,” I whisper, smiling through the lump in my throat. “You didn’t think I’d let them keep me away forever, did you?”

He’s already moving.

Crossing the room in a few long, clumsy strides until his arms are around me—tight, desperate, anchoring. I don’t even remember closing the distance. We just fold into each other like we never learned how to be apart.

He buries his face in my neck. I feel him inhale deep, like he’s starving for something only I can give. His whole body trembles against mine.

“I didn’t know,” he whispers. “They didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t want them to,” I say softly, fingers curling into the fabric of his uniform. “I wanted it to be a surprise”

He pulls back just far enough to look at me, his hands coming up to cup my cheeks like he needs to memorize every inch. There’s so much love in his eyes, but it’s cracked around the edges. Worn thin.

“You’re here,” he says, as if still not believing it. “You’re really here.”

“I’m here, baby,” I nod. “For five hours… I’m yours.”

His voice breaks on a sound that might be a laugh. Or a sob. I can't tell. I don’t think he can either.

Then he kisses me—soft at first, reverent, like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he moves too fast. I kiss him back like I’ve been waiting for this every second of the last month. Because I have.

Because I’d wait forever just to feel this again.

“I missed you,” he murmurs, his voice muffled against the crook of my neck. He clings to me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear—arms tightening around my waist, fingers curling into the fabric of my dress. “I missed you so much.”

“So did I,” I whisper back, barely holding it together. I run my hands over his back, exploring every new ridge, every place this month has hollowed out. “So, so much.”

We’re still wrapped around each other when the door clicks again—followed by a voice that slices straight through the moment.

“Your wife’s already been informed,” the guard says dryly, arms crossed over his chest like he’s seen this scene too many times to care. “But I’ve gotta say it for the record: we’ll call in when your time is up. If you don’t answer the phone, we’re coming in. It’s protocol.”

He pauses for effect, then adds with an unimpressed glance toward the bed, “So please answer the call. We don’t want to walk in to see… well. You know.”

Spencer flinches, just slightly. Not out of embarrassment—out of habit. Like he’s bracing for punishment, even here, even now.

I feel his breath hitch against my skin. His fingers twitch where they hold me.

“We’ll answer,” I say flatly, shooting the guard a look that makes him shrug and back out without another word.

The door shuts again, but the spell is already bruised.

Spencer doesn’t pull away from me. If anything, he holds me tighter. I press a soft kiss to his temple, breathing him in.

“It’s okay,” I whisper, rocking us slightly like I’m trying to soothe both of us at once. “They’re not here now. It’s just you and me.”

“Just you and me…” he repeats, but it sounds more like a question. Like he’s trying the words on his tongue, testing if they’re real. If this is real. His voice is thick with disbelief, the kind that comes from a month of fluorescent lights, shouted orders, and not a single safe place to land.

I pull back slowly and meet his eyes. They’re wet—but not broken. Not yet. There's still a little spark behind them, flickering like a candle in wind.

I reach for his hand—cool and calloused from rough sheets and cold routines—and he lets me take it without hesitation. His fingers thread through mine like muscle memory.

“Come here,” I murmur.

And I lead him toward the bed.

It creaks when we sit, but we don’t notice. We’re too busy drinking each other in like we’ve been wandering through deserts and finally found water.

He looks around the room, almost bashful now. “This feels… surreal,” he says. “Like I’m not allowed to have this.”

I bump his knee with mine, gentle. “Well, you better enjoy it,” I say with a teasing smile, though my throat is tight. “I busted my ass trying to get this visit. Took a whole week of phone calls and paperwork and playing nice with people who looked at me like I was asking for too much.”

His eyes snap back to mine. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Don’t be.” I squeeze his hand. “It was worth it the second I saw your face.”

He swallows hard, blinking faster now. I can tell he’s trying to stay in control—but emotion’s already slipping through the cracks.

“I’m sure I can get another visit,” I say softly, brushing my fingers against his. “But it might take a while. So for now… just let yourself have this. Please.”

He nods, slow and deliberate, like he’s promising me something sacred.

And then he leans in—forehead to mine, breath to breath—and for the first time in thirty days, we let the world fall away.

“How’d you manage to arrange this? A conjugal visit is rare in most of America.”

His thumb brushes over my cheek, barely there. His eyes are on my lips like he’s forgotten how kissing works but remembers that it mattered once.

I smile, just a little smug. “I know.”

“Seriously,” he says, brows knitting. “You must’ve pulled some impossible strings.”

“I did,” I admit. “There were forms. So many forms. And begging. And calling. And smiling at people I didn’t want to smile at.”

He huffs a laugh, the sound small but real. “You charmed the system?”

“I bullied the system,” I correct, grinning now. “Emily helped push it through once I got it on paper. Fiona found a loophole in the visitation code, and I… well, I gave one hell of a speech to the warden’s assistant.”

His mouth tilts up at the corners. “What kind of speech?”

“The kind that makes people uncomfortable if they say no,” I say, lifting a brow. “A little desperate. A little dramatic. Very persuasive.”

He laughs again—really laughs—and I swear I feel his body melt just a little more beside mine. Like the weight is starting to come off, molecule by molecule.

“You’re unbelievable,” he murmurs.

“No,” I say, reaching up to trace the outline of his face. “I’m your wife… and your wife has been desperate to hold you again,”

And then, like gravity shifts between us—he kisses me.

Slow. Intentional. Like he’s trying to relearn me by feel alone.

He pulls back just slightly, his breath shaky against my lips. His forehead rests against mine again, eyes still closed like he’s afraid they’ll betray how close he is to breaking.

“I was terrified that you would forget about me,” he says, voice cracking on the edges.

My heart squeezes. I cup his face in both hands, forcing him to look at me. “Spence… how could you ever think that?”

“I don’t know…” He swallows hard, like the words are knives on the way out. “This place… it’s dark. It changes you. You start to doubt everything.”

His eyes shine wet. He doesn’t blink.

“My mind keeps going to places I’ve never dared to think of. I imagine you moving on. Laughing without me. Falling asleep next to someone who isn't waiting for a phone call to say goodnight.”

I shake my head fiercely. “No. That’s not real.”

“I know,” he whispers. “I know. But in here, knowing isn’t enough. The silence gets inside your head. It starts sounding like truth.”

I press my forehead to his, trying to pour every ounce of love I have back into him. “You haven’t lost me. You won’t lose me.”

“I don’t want to forget who I am,” he confesses, voice barely there. “And I’m scared I already am.”

“You’re Spencer,” I breathe. “You’re brilliant. And soft. And good. You’re mine. And no steel bars or sleepless nights or whispering doubts will ever take that from me.”

He closes his eyes. A single tear slides down his cheek, and I catch it with my thumb before it can fall too far. He’s holding back. Like he didn’t want to ruin the little time we had by breaking down.

“You’re still you,” I whisper again, like a prayer I refuse to stop saying. “Even here you’re you.”

And then I kiss him—deeper this time, slower—both hands buried in his hair like I’m trying to hold all the broken pieces together before they slip through my fingers.

When I pull back, he’s staring at me like I’ve just given him air.

“I think about you all the time,” I say softly, brushing my thumb across his cheekbone.

A real smile—small but real—tugs at his lips.

“I think about you too,” he murmurs, his voice steadier now. “All the time. Every second I can spare.”

He exhales, long and slow, like he’s trying to let go of something he’s been holding in for too long.

Then he looks at me with that kind of aching desperation only someone truly starved can have.

“Tell me…” he says. “Tell me something about the outside. Anything. I just want to hear your voice talk about something normal. Something real.”

I smile, blinking back tears, and thread our fingers together.

“Well…” I begin, letting my voice soften like we’re already under blankets at home, “Henry won the spelling bee.”

Spencer lets out a small, breathy laugh—surprised and tender. “He did? What was the word?”

“‘Ephemeral,’” I say, and that makes him laugh again, fuller this time, like it physically lifts something from his chest.

“Of course it was,” he murmurs, pride shining through the exhaustion in his eyes.

“And…” I glance at him playfully, “Penelope and Luke seem to have something going on.”

His eyebrows lift. “Really?”

“Really,” I nod, grinning now. “They think they’re subtle. They are not.”

He chuckles and shakes his head like he can’t believe he missed that part of the story—like he’s trying to stitch himself back into a life that still exists without him.

“And I…” I pause, brushing his knuckles with my thumb. “I learned a new recipe. A fancy pasta dish with fresh herbs and this creamy lemon sauce. I think you’d love it.”

He closes his eyes and hums, like he’s trying to taste it in his mind.

“I can’t wait to make it for you,” I add, quiet now. “When you come home.”

That makes him open his eyes again. They're glassy, full of something that isn't quite sadness—but close. Hope, maybe. Or the kind of grief that comes from knowing hope is still possible.

He blinks once, then cracks a crooked smile.

“I can’t believe you managed to make a meal without burning the kitchen.”

I scoff, nudging his knee with mine. “Oh, like you’re any better. The only thing you’ve successfully cooked is cup noodles.”

“Excuse you,” he says, mock-offended. “I’ve made grilled cheese. Twice.”

“Spencer, you set the second one on fire.”

“That was a structural issue with the toaster oven.”

“You tried to grill it in the toaster oven.”

He shrugs, utterly unbothered. “Details.”

I laugh, and it feels like something sacred. It’s small, but it fills the space between us like warmth in winter. For a second, we’re not in a prison conjugal suite. We’re just… us.

He watches me like he’s memorizing the way I laugh. Like he doesn’t know when he’ll get to hear it again.

And then, softer—barely above a whisper—“God, I missed this. You. Us.”

My smile fades into something quieter, deeper. “You missed us?” I murmur, a hint of competition laced in my voice. “Spence… I can’t stop thinking about you. Twenty-four seven. You’re all I think about.”

Spencer’s heart swells at the words, something warm blooming in the hollowed-out space inside his chest. He knows this is hard on me—knows I’m carrying the weight of both of us on the outside—but still, hearing it… hearing that I ache for him just as much—it’s almost too much.

“I can’t stop thinking about you either,” he says, and it comes out like a confession. “All the time. I just… I wish I could hold you, kiss you, touch you. I miss everything about you.”

My hand reaches for his cheek, thumb brushing beneath his eye. “Honey… don’t cry.”

He blinks. His brows pull together slightly, like the realization only just hit. He hadn’t even noticed the tears until my touch caught them.

He wipes at his face with a shaky hand, a flush of embarrassment rising. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice rough and frayed at the edges. “I just… I can’t believe this is happening. That I’m stuck in here. That you’re out there, living our life without me. And I can’t be with you.”

My fingers curl gently under his chin, coaxing him to meet my gaze.

“You are with me,” I whisper. “Right now. I’m here. You’re not alone, Spencer. Not even for a second.”

He leans into my palm like it’s the only steady thing in the world.

“I’m here now,” I say again, firmer. “And for the next five hours, I’m not going anywhere.”

I lean in and press soft kisses to his cheeks, one after the other, catching the tears as they fall. Salt and skin. Love and ache. I kiss each one like I can take it away—like I can undo the weight this place has put on him, one touch at a time.

He lets out a breath of a laugh—a soft, bittersweet chuckle that trembles in the space between us.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, quieter this time, like he knows it’s unnecessary but still feels the need to say it.

“Don’t be,” I whisper, brushing my nose against his.

He tightened his hold on me, his fingers trailing slowly up and down my back—gentle, reverent, like he was trying to memorize me. Every curve, every freckle, every breath I took beneath his touch.

Then he lifted his head, propping himself up on one elbow to study my face. His eyes softened as he traced the line of my jaw with his fingertips, feather-light and full of quiet awe.

His gaze drifted downward, lingering at my neck. He leaned in, pressing a delicate kiss to the pulse point just above my collarbone. It was slow. Intentional. Like he was grounding himself in the rhythm of my heartbeat.

“You know,” he murmured against my skin, “I dream of you every night.”

He kissed me again, lower this time. Another soft press to the side of my throat, then another—each one careful, reverent. Like prayer.

I shivered beneath him as his hand slipped beneath the hem of my shirt, fingers skating across my skin. His touch was feather-light, almost hesitant, as if I might break under it. He brushed the curve of my hip, pausing when he felt me tremble.

“You do?” I whispered.

“I do,” he breathed. “It’s been hell in here. A constant loop of missing you. Of dreaming about you. Wishing I could hold you, touch you, just… be with you.”

His hand moved to the front of my shirt now, fingers brushing each button with aching slowness. He began to undo them, one by one, savoring every inch of exposed skin like it was a miracle.

“Spence…”

“Shhh,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss me—soft and slow, like he had all the time in the world. “Just let me look at you.”

His hands moved reverently across my body, rediscovering me inch by inch. His mouth followed—kissing along my shoulders, the hollow of my collarbone, the gentle rise of my chest. Each touch was a vow. Each kiss, a homecoming.

I let out a breathless laugh, unable to help it. “This isn’t looking,” I teased.

He smiled against my skin, warm and unhurried. “Then let me look with my hands.”

He hummed, his fingers undoing the last of the buttons before slipping it off my shoulders. He paused then—really paused—his gaze sweeping over my bare torso like it was something sacred. Like I was something sacred.

No hunger. Just awe.

He leaned down, lips brushing softly against the skin just above my navel. Then he kissed lower—slow, tender kisses that trailed along my stomach, his tongue flicking out now and then to taste my skin. He moved upward again, mouth worshipping a path back to my chest, my throat, until he hovered above me—eyes burning, but gentle.

“Honey…” I whispered, voice breathy and reverent. Like the word itself was a prayer.

Spencer gazed at me adoringly, his eyes reflecting the warm glow of the setting sun filtering through the small window of the visitation room. In a voice low and thick with emotion, he murmured.

"Beautiful... You're so beautiful, Y/N."

His fingertips traced the delicate curve of my cheek, slow and deliberate, like he was carving the shape of me into his memory. He leaned in closer, nose brushing mine, breath mingling with my own.

"I want to remember every detail of you," he whispered. "The softness of your skin. The rise and fall of your chest when you breathe. I’m terrified of forgetting… of losing this. Of losing you."

Coming from Spencer—someone with an eidetic memory—those words shattered something in me. He could recall entire textbooks word for word, yet here he was, terrified that even his perfect mind wouldn’t be strong enough to hold on to us.

His eyes fluttered shut, and a single tear slipped free, trailing down the sharp line of his cheek. But still, he didn’t stop. His mouth continued its journey, kissing down my neck with a reverence that made me ache—each kiss warm, wet, and trembling. Each one a vow.

His hands drifted lower, abandoning the bare skin of my torso to fumble at the waistband of my pants. I didn’t hesitate. My hands moved to meet his, tugging gently at the fabric of his prison uniform, desperate to strip away everything that stood between us—between now and before.

“You’ll never lose me,” I murmured, voice firm even as emotion caught in my throat. “We’re gonna get you out. I promise.”

“Promise?” he asked, forehead pressing to mine, like he needed the contact to believe it was real. Like he was anchoring himself to my warmth.

“Yes,” I whispered, resting my palm over his heart. “Promise.”

Something in him broke then—not in a destructive way, but in a release. Like hearing those words gave him permission to let go. To feel. To want. To have me, even just for tonight.

He kissed me again, slow and deep. Not hungry. Not rushed. Like a memory being rewritten—carefully, reverently. His hands moved over my body like he was afraid he’d miss something if he moved too fast.

I peeled off the top half of his uniform, it was easier than I expected—like the fabric was eager to fall away. I wanted to touch him. To feel all of him again. But then I saw them.

The bruises.

They weren’t clustered, but they were everywhere. Spaced out and blooming beneath his skin—angry shades of violet and blue, like ugly secrets painted across his ribs and hips.

“Spencer—” I breathed, my voice catching with horror. My hand reached instinctively for his torso, but he stopped me.

His fingers closed gently, but firmly, around my wrist.

“Please don’t,” he whispered, voice raw with shame. “Please just… let’s not talk about it. Not right now. Just... let me have you. Please, Y/N.”

His eyes found mine—desperate and pleading—not for pity, not even for comfort, but for escape. For something pure. Something real. Something to remind him that he hadn’t been ruined completely. That there was still softness in the world, and it lived here, in this room, in me.

So I leaned in and kissed his forehead. Then the bridge of his nose. Then each of his cheeks—tender, deliberate—until I had touched every part of him that looked like it might be hurting.

When I pulled back, I met his eyes again and gave the smallest nod. No words. Just yes. Just I'm yours.

Then I kissed him.

He cupped my face the moment our lips met, like he needed the contact to tether himself. And he kissed me back like he needed it—like this was his last breath and he chose to spend it here, on my lips. There was nothing hurried about it. No urgency. Just heat and devotion, building slow and deep beneath the surface.

His hands slipped down to my hips, guiding me gently onto my back. He followed, hovering just above, not rushing—just looking. His gaze roamed my face like it was the first time he’d seen it. Or maybe the first time he was allowing himself to believe it was really here. That I was really here.

“I love you,” he whispered again, as if repetition might stitch the moment into reality. “So much.”

“I love you more,” I whispered back.

His hand slid down the soft curve of my side—the one he knew by heart, yet had missed so deeply during his exile. He touched me like he was trying to memorize me all over again, as if he didn’t quite believe I was real. As if this was the dream.

His forehead pressed gently against mine, our breaths mingling in the small space between us. I felt the brush of his eyelashes against my cheek, and then his voice—ragged, trembling—barely a whisper in my ear.

“Stay with me,” he breathed, half plea, half prayer. “Stay with me, Y/N.”

My heart clenched at the sound of my name. Stay with him... God, I wished more than anything in the world that I could. But our clock was ticking—fast. Too fast. That’s how time worked in here. Warped. Cruel. We had a couple hours left, and it already felt like sand slipping through our fingers.

“I’ll stay with you,” I whispered, breathless, trying to hold on to the fantasy that we could keep this—this closeness, this moment. “I’ll stay with you forever.”

And with our bodies entwined, he entered me. Gently. Slowly. Like it had been years. Like it hurt to be apart, and this—this was how we stitched ourselves back together.

My fingers tangled in his hair, soft and slightly damp with sweat, and his arms tightened around my waist, pulling me impossibly closer—like he was trying to erase every inch of space between us. Seal me to him completely.

The world outside vanished. No guards. No concrete walls. No ticking clock.

Just us.

Just breath.

Just the steady rhythm of our hearts beating in sync, echoing through the small, borrowed room.

“Do you remember…” I whispered against his lips, the words tumbling out in broken pants, my body trembling beneath his. The feeling of him inside me—of us—was almost too much. “Our first time?”

He swallowed hard, his eyes locking onto mine with a kind of reverence that stole the breath from my lungs.

“Every second,” he said, his voice thick, trembling. “Etched in my mind. In my soul.”

I chuckled, but my voice cracked right in the middle of it. “You head-butted me when you came.”

Spencer let out a breathy laugh, forehead dropping to rest against mine. “I was nervous,” he whispered, smiling despite the tears still threatening at the corners of his eyes.

“You were flustered,” I corrected, running my fingers through his hair. “And apologizing for like ten minutes while I couldn’t stop laughing.”

He shook his head, burying his face in the curve of my neck. “I still think about that. How embarrassed I was. And how beautiful you looked… even when you were laughing at me.”

“I wasn’t laughing at you,” I said softly, smiling into the memory. “I was laughing because you were embarrassed over an accident. It was sweet.”

His arms tightened around me, pulling me closer—like he didn’t want to miss even a second of this. His movements grew slower, more deliberate. We hovered at the edge of everything—not just release, but the kind of closeness that makes the world go quiet.

“I think…” I whispered, voice catching as I pressed a kiss to his temple, “I think that’s when I realized I was in love with you.”

Spencer stilled, just for a moment—his breath faltering against my skin. Then he looked up at me, eyes wide, glassy with unshed emotion.

“You did?” he asked, barely audible.

I nodded, holding him close. “You were so sweet. So nervous. You cared so much about how I felt—how I was. It was messy and imperfect and real. And I just... I knew.”

He kissed the side of my neck, a soft, trembling press of lips.

Spencer lost himself in the sensations—in the feel of me beneath him, around him, enveloping him. Every curve, every dip, every soft swell of my body pressed against his skin, and it was almost too much to bear. It was perfect. It was everything he’d ever wanted. Everything he’d ever dreamed of.

His movements grew more urgent, more deliberate—driven not by lust, but by a desperate instinct to make sure I knew. That I felt it. All of it.

“I love you,” he gasped, the words torn from his throat—raw, broken, honest. He needed me to know. To understand. To feel it in the way he touched me, the way he kissed me, the way he breathed me in like he couldn’t get enough.

His control was slipping fast, the edges of the world blurring until there was nothing left but this. Me. This moment. This love, in its purest, most desperate form.

I didn’t want it to end.

But it was building—rising, unstoppable.

I could feel him unraveling in my arms, every breath he took getting shakier, every movement deeper—more desperate. Like he was pouring everything he had into me. Every ache. Every prayer. Every silent scream he’d swallowed behind prison walls.

“I love you,” he said again, and it was almost a cry this time—like the words had clawed their way out of him, like they couldn’t stay buried a second longer.

“I love you too,” I whispered, my voice shaking. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

His forehead pressed against mine, and for a moment, he stilled—our hearts racing together, bodies trembling as if trying to memorize the exact shape of each other. Then I felt it—that last, broken wave washing over him. The way he buried his face into my neck, his fingers digging into my hips, his whole body surrendering to the feeling as he finally let go.

I held him through it. Anchored him. Whispered his name like a balm.

He collapsed onto me, not heavy, just present. Just Spencer. His breath was warm against my collarbone, soft and uneven. His arms never loosened, like if he let go, I might slip through his fingers again.

I cradled the back of his head with one hand and traced lazy shapes across his back with the other. Stars. Spirals. Infinity signs.

He didn’t speak, not at first. Just breathed. Listened to my heartbeat. Grounded himself in the soft rhythm of the only thing that hadn’t left him.

Then he whispered, “Please don’t let this be a dream.”

His voice was so quiet, I barely caught it—just a fragile breath against my skin.

I tightened my arms around him, kissed the crown of his head. “It’s not a dream,” I murmured. “I’m here. We’re here.”

His breath stuttered, and I felt the tremble in his shoulders before he pulled in a deep, shaky inhale.

We lay like that for a while. Twined together. Skin on skin. Nothing but our bodies and the quiet hum of fluorescent lights overhead. It wasn’t a hotel room, or a bed at home. But right now, it was the safest place in the world. Because he was in my arms. Because he still felt like Spencer.

I ran my fingers through his hair, curling soft strands behind his ear. “You’re okay,” I whispered. “You’re okay now.”

His body trembled against mine—not from what we’d just done, but from the release of something heavier. Like tension stored in his muscles had finally found an exit.

He was quiet for a long time.

Then, barely above a whisper: “You know I have an eidetic memory. I can remember what you wore the first time we met, what song was playing the first time we kissed…”

He swallowed, voice catching.

“But lately, I… I’ll be lying in bed and I can’t recall the exact sound of your laugh. Or how your hair smelled that morning you fell asleep on the couch. I know it’s in there, but it’s like I have to dig for it, like it’s fading behind noise.”

I felt him tense again, like he was waiting for me to flinch. I didn’t.

I pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw. “It’s not fading. You’re just exhausted. You don’t have to hold on so tight, Spence. I’m here. I’ll remind you of everything.”

He nodded against my forehead, the motion subtle, like it took effort just to believe me.

We shifted slowly until we lay side by side, still tangled under the thin blanket. His body curled slightly toward mine—unconscious, like instinct. Like a plant bending toward light.

I rested my head on his chest, listening to the beat of his heart. It was slower now. Grounded.

But I could still feel it—the tension he hadn’t released. The thoughts that hadn’t been said.

For a long moment, we just lay there in the hush, the kind of silence that feels full, not empty. His fingers brushed absentmindedly against my arm, over and over, like a reflex. Like he was still making sure I was real.

Then his voice, low and raw, cut through the quiet.

“I don’t even know if I did it.”

I stilled.

His breath hitched, just slightly. “The murder. The setup. Whatever this is. There are hours of that night that I… I don’t remember. And that terrifies me.”

He swallowed hard, like the words had burned on their way out.

“I keep thinking—what if the reason I don’t remember isn’t because someone drugged me, or manipulated me, or because I was targeted—what if it’s because I did it? What if I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be?”

He laughed then—quiet and bitter. A single breath through his nose that didn’t even try to disguise the self-loathing underneath.

“I mean, isn’t that the irony? The guy with the perfect memory, the one who can’t forget anything… can’t remember the one thing that could save him.”

My hand found his, instinctively, lacing our fingers together.

“Spencer—” I whispered.

But he shook his head, eyes glued to the ceiling. “I’ve been going over it again and again. I’ve reconstructed the timeline. I’ve looked at it like I would any other case. But when it’s me... everything blurs. I can't trust my own mind. And if I can’t trust that, then what do I have left?”

He turned to look at me then—finally—and it gutted me.

Not because of the tears in his eyes. But because he wasn’t fighting them anymore.

“You didn’t do it,” I said, firm despite the lump in my throat.

His brow furrowed, bitter and disbelieving. “How can you be so sure of that? I mean—I went to Mexico without telling you. I’ve been lying. Hiding things. Being secretive about this whole mess since the beginning.” He let out a dry, humorless laugh. “That’s not exactly the behavior of an innocent man.”

I reached for his hand again, squeezing it tightly. “Honey, I know you didn’t do it,” I said softly. “Because I know you. As cliché as that might sound.”

He turned his face slightly toward the wall, like he couldn’t bear to look at me while I said it.

“I know the way your voice goes quiet when you’re scared,” I continued. “I know the way your hands shake when something feels out of your control. I know how hard you try to do the right thing even when it hurts you. I know how much you love. How deeply. How fiercely. And I know you would never—never—hurt someone like that.”

I swallowed hard, pressing my forehead to the side of his.

“You're not perfect. You mess up. You shut people out. But Spencer... you are not a killer.”

His jaw clenched, a tear slipping down the side of his face and into the pillow.

“But what if I’m broken?” he asked, and it came out so small, it didn’t sound like him at all. “What if prison is breaking me, and I don’t even realize how far it’s gone?”

“Then we’ll get through it together.” I whispered. “I’m not saying I can put you back together, because I cant… but I sure as hell will try to help you through this.”

He let out a shaky breath—half a sob, half a sigh—and pulled me into him like I was the only thing tethering him to the world.

We stayed like that for a while, curled into each other. No sound but the ticking clock we were both trying to ignore.

But I felt the shift in him—the way his grip loosened, the way his breath hitched again. He was spiraling. Quietly, but fully.

I reached up and cupped his face in my hands.

“Spence, look at me.”

He hesitated, then let his eyes find mine. They were glassy, full of fear. Shame. Exhaustion.

“You're still in there,” I whispered. “Even when you feel lost. Even when your mind starts telling you lies. You're still in here.”

I took his hand gently and guided it to the center of my chest.

“Feel that?”

He nodded, lips trembling.

“That’s yours,” I whispered. “You’re still in here with me.”

His face crumpled then, and I wiped the tears that spilled over before they could fall too far. My thumbs brushed his cheekbones, my forehead resting lightly against his.

“You’re not alone,” I breathed. “You never were.”

We held each other like that as the minutes slipped away from us. Soon enough the minutes turned to hours, all spent with us talking and holding each-other.

I didn’t want to remind him of the time, but it reminded us anyway.

The sharp ring of the phone on the nightstand cut through the silence.

I flinched.

Spencer didn’t move at first. Just stared at it. Then he closed his eyes and exhaled like the air had been knocked out of him.

I reached for it, hand trembling.

“Time’s up,” the voice on the other end said. No warmth. No pause. “You have five minutes to dress and prepare the inmate for escort.”

I didn’t respond. Just hung up.

Spencer sat up slowly, moving like his bones didn’t want to cooperate. Like gravity had gotten meaner in the last hour.

I helped him dress, my hands moving on autopilot—straightening seams, buttoning cuffs, smoothing down the stiff collar of his prison uniform even though it didn’t matter. It was a pointless gesture, but I needed the contact. I needed something to do. Something to get my mind off this awful feeling of leaving him.

My fingers trembled, clumsy and obvious, and I hated that I couldn’t stop it. That I couldn’t hold it together for him, even now.

He watched me the entire time. Quiet. Still. His hands stayed at his sides, balled gently into fists like he was physically holding himself back from touching me. His jaw was tight, lips parted slightly like there was something he wanted to say—but couldn’t.

Then he stood.

And I stood.

And something in the room shifted. Broke.

I stepped into him without thinking—without breathing—and he caught me like he’d been waiting for it. My arms wrapped around his torso, and his came around me just as fast, one hand splayed across the back of my head, the other curling around my spine like he was afraid I’d disappear.

I pressed my face into his chest and let myself fall apart. The sob started in my throat and cracked its way out, ugly and trembling and loud. I didn’t try to muffle it. Not anymore. My whole body shook with it, and he just held me tighter, swaying us gently like he could rock us back in time.

“I don’t want you to go,” I choked out, the words barely making it past my grief. “I don’t want to leave you here.”

“I know,” he whispered. His voice sounded scraped raw, like he’d been crying on the inside for weeks. Maybe he had.

He kissed the top of my head, soft and lingering. Then my temple. Then my lips—a kiss with no pressure, no heat. Just ache. Just love. His eyes were wide open the whole time, like he didn’t want to blink. Like he didn’t want to miss me for even a second.

Then the knock came.

Two sharp taps against the door. Not rude, but not kind either. It was the sound of routine. The sound of time’s up.

Spencer stilled. I felt the breath leave his lungs like he’d been punched. His arms didn’t drop right away. He lingered, like his body hadn’t caught up with what had to happen next.

Then, slowly, he stepped back. Not because he wanted to.

Because he had to.

His eyes darted over me like he was taking inventory—my face, my hands, my mouth. He was memorizing again. Storing me somewhere safe.

And then he turned toward the door.

But just before it opened, he paused.

He turned back, and for a moment, we just looked at each other.

I was standing there, my hands on the hem of my shirt, clutching it like it could keep me together. My tears had blurred everything, but not enough to lose him. Never enough to lose him.

His face was unreadable—but not empty. It was full. Of everything he couldn’t say. Of every goodbye he couldn’t bear to speak aloud.

His hand twitched at his side like he wanted to reach for me again.

But he didn’t.

And then the door opened.

He looked at me one last time.

And then he was gone.

[er1nne]

hi! i’m the anon who requested a new part for “the interview with drew goes viral”. you actually posted it on my birthday, so i’m sending you a huge thanks, really.

i absolutely loved it and i also wouldn’t mind if you wanted to turn this into a series too hahah.

the two of them 🥺🥺🥺 i love that drew is going to the coffee shop after her, would love to see how their relationship grows! i’m in love with them and with the you you write. thanks again!!!

hope you’re doing well, have a nice weekend xxx

another run in with drew ♡

part one, part two, part three

author's note: love how this had become a series lol, also series masterlist coming soon. give me ideas on what you want to see, your wishes are my command

(do not copy or plagiarize, original work)

You haven’t seen Drew since the coffee shop. No texts. No calls. No accidental likes on Instagram stories. Just that strange little moment—quiet, simple, unexpected—followed by nothing but silence. A silence you didn’t have time to question, at least not out loud.

Work swept you under fast. One interview turned into five, turned into twelve. There were red eyes and red carpets, layovers that bled into morning glam, emails marked urgent that weren’t, and endless voice notes from your assistant reminding you to drink water or, God forbid, actually sit down and eat. You’ve been floating from event to event, mic in hand, pretending the whirlwind is normal.

And maybe it is. Maybe this is just what success feels like when it comes all at once.

But somewhere in the back of your mind—between camera flashes and client lists—you still think about that coffee. The way his hand brushed yours when he reached for the lid. The way he looked at you like you were someone worth pausing for. Not performing for. Just… seeing.

You never followed up. Neither did he. So maybe that’s where it ends.

Until now.

You’re back on the red carpet, badge clipped, mic wired, heels biting into the carpet just enough to remind you to stand tall. Another night. Another venue. Another lineup of stars and stylists and agents crowding every inch of the step-and-repeat. Ironically enough, for a Drew Starkey interview. Even when you can't make time to see him personally the universe has a funny way of putting you two together. Meant to be? who knows.

You try not to think too hard about it—don’t give it weight. You’re here to work. You’re here to do your job. Not to chase the what-ifs of a man who left your texts untyped and your mind way too occupied on nights when you should’ve been sleeping.

Still, your fingers tighten around the mic just slightly as you read down the list of arrivals. Tom Blyth is slotted ahead of Drew. You know Tom. He’s warm, low-maintenance, the kind of actor who gives thoughtful answers and makes your job easy. You ground yourself in that—small wins. Familiar rhythms.

Your team gives you the signal, and you step forward into the chaos of flashbulbs and pre-show nerves. The cameras sweep toward you and Tom as he arrives, his publicist giving you a nod. You settle into the interview, asking your usual questions—questions you could probably recite in your sleep by now. He smiles, laughs, says something about the director’s process. You nod, respond, push the conversation where it needs to go. It’s smooth. Effortless. Just how it’s supposed to be.

Your heels click into place on the press line, the carpet beneath you plush but just unstable enough to remind you you’re balancing on borrowed time—and four inches of designer expectation. The noise is a hum—paparazzi flashes, producers shouting cues, the murmur of industry air kisses and small talk no one really means.

Then you see him.

Tom Blyth moves through the crowd like it’s parting for him on instinct. All charm and movie-star ease, dressed in something sharp and tailored, the kind of suit that looks effortless but costs more than your entire monthly invoice report. The lapels lie just right, the fabric catching the camera flashes like it knows it’s being watched. He carries himself like someone who’s used to being looked at—and knows exactly what to do with that attention.

When he stops in front of you, the grin he offers is the kind you feel—not just see. It’s practiced, yes, but not fake. It lands with just enough weight to leave a mark.

You hold your mic steady and smile back, but the energy shifts the second he opens his mouth.

“Well, well,” he says as he stops in front of you, eyeing your mic, then your face, “didn’t expect to see the best-dressed person here holding the microphone. Shouldn’t you be on this side with the rest of us?”

You smile, professional but just shy of bashful. “Careful, Tom. Keep sweet-talking me like that and I might start charging for compliments.”

“Go ahead,” he says, laughing. “As long as you let me expense it under ‘networking.’”

He winks, and you try not to let your shoulders tense under the cameras. “Let’s talk about the film, yeah? You’ve worked with some heavy hitters this year. What drew you to this script?”

He leans in slightly, enough for you to catch a trace of his cologne—something warm, amber, expensive. “Besides the fact that it gave me a reason to show up and see you again?” He pauses, grin widening. “I liked how human it felt. Honest. Flawed. I’ve been chasing those kinds of roles lately. But this one hit different.”

You nod, genuinely engaged, your mic lifting instinctively. “Do you think audiences are ready to see you in something that vulnerable? Or do you still like being everyone’s golden boy?”

“Depends,” he says. “Would you still like me if I wasn’t?”

Before you can even come up with a reply—witty or otherwise—a voice cuts through the noise, low and unmistakably familiar.

“Now he’s trying to steal my favorite interviewer.”

You turn.

Drew stands just behind Tom, casual but calculated, hands in his pockets, eyes trained on you like he’s trying to read the punchline before you’ve even delivered it.

Tom steps back half an inch, amusement flashing across his face. “Well, didn’t know I was stepping on any toes.”

“Not toes. Just territory.” Drew’s tone is light, but the message is there, coded in the way his eyes flick to you, then back to Tom like a reflex.

Tom glances between the two of you, catching it. “Didn’t mean to step on anything,” he says, chuckling under his breath. “Or anyone.”

You force a smile—tight, professional—and tilt the mic toward Drew without looking directly at him. “We’re all friends here. Right?”

“Sure we are,” Drew murmurs, eyes still on you. He doesn’t blink when you finally meet his gaze. He just lifts one brow slightly, like he knows something you don’t want to admit out loud.

Tom excuses himself down the line, sensing the shift, and you don’t blame him. The moment he walks away, the noise around you fades into a blur. Your crew’s still watching. Cameras still pointed. But all you feel is him.

Then he leans in closer—like he’s adjusting something on his suit, like he’s letting you fix his mic—but his mouth is right by your ear.

“Long week?” he asks, voice low.

Your breath catches before you can stop it. You don’t turn to face him, just nod slightly, lips pressed together. “Busy.”

“Mm,” he hums. “Too busy for coffee, huh? Maybe dinner works better instead.”

You slightly hold your mouth agape with a surprised smile decorates your face. You swallow hard. He’s not wrong.

“Sure, it that will make it up to you.”

"How about tonight? If you’re not busy after the premiere.”

You pause. Then add— Then: “There's not a such thing as 'too busy'. It’s a date, then.”

The words fall out softer than you expect, almost natural, and the moment they land, both of you flinch—just a little.

“Promise.”

That gets him.

He doesn’t smile—but something in his expression shifts. Softens. You feel the shift in his body before you see it—his shoulders ease, but the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s forcing stillness. He doesn’t smile, not exactly, but something in his face unlocks. Like your words knocked the wind out of him for half a second.

And then—

You turn your head. Just slightly. Just enough for your mouth to hover where his had been.

“Tell me something,” you whisper, breath warm against his skin. “Are you the jealous type?”

He goes still. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. Just still.

One beat. Two.

And suddenly it’s like everyone around you vanishes. The press. The handlers. Even the cameras seem quieter. Because anyone watching now sees it—the way his hand flexes at his side. The way your smile lifts just barely, slow and knowing. The air between you buzzes, hot and thick and impossible to ignore.

Then you smile for the camera—tight, sweet, unreadable. “We’re rolling, Starkey. You ready?”

He pulls back, expression unreadable. “Always.”

You lift the mic, voice smooth. “Drew Starkey, star of tonight’s premiere, joining us now…”

And just like that, you fall back into the rhythm. But your pulse is nowhere near calm. And neither is he.

And just like that, you’re back on script—two professionals, poised and polished.

But your pulse is nowhere near calm.

And his? His jaw ticks once. His eyes don’t leave you.

But this is anything but far from over.

[urhoneycombwitch]

turns of caring

husky!neighbor!Eddie x neighbor!Reader

foreword: this anon got more than they probably bargained for SOZ but thought it was a cogent time to give some more depth and backstory to husky!neighbor!Eddie tysm anon!!! here’s the meetcute storyline which kinda gives this more bones, h!n!Eddie mlist here. thanks for reading!!!!

cw: husky!Eddie, fat/plus-sized Reader, Frank the Dog (our beloved), death anniversaries, general PTSD/depression, grief, R mentions former partner, allusions to abuse, R has past history of fear around dogs, hurt/comfort (this sounds so heavy there's fluff I prommy)

wc: 3.6k 

___

The first real spring rain of the season catches you by surprise, clouds splitting ten minutes into your walk to release the downpour.

Luckily, you and Frank have only made it partway around the brick side of the apartments, your aimless path usually led by the black pitbull’s nose. 

It’s a short dash to the covered stairs, but the shambling nature of Frank’s pace means the both of you are partially drenched by the time you make it back to Eddie’s front door.

“Goddammit,” you chuckle, rain dripping from your hairline into your eyes, against the shoulders of your borrowed jacket as you fish for the keys. “Worst dogwalker in the world. Sorry, pal.”

Frank’s tongue lolls out of his mouth when he looks up at you, long tail thumping rhythmically and forgiving against the floorboards where he sits, dripping with rainwater and waiting. 

You roll a palm over that thick head of his then pull back with a wince- wet dog smell is not something you’re entirely used to, yet.

Eddie has been incredibly kind and patient with your mistrust of the canine species, understanding that the fear wasn’t your fault (something you didn’t realize yourself, until recently). He started slow, letting you learn and experiment at your own speed, only pushing the comfort zone when he felt you could handle it. 

And now, you’ve graduated from heart-clenching fear at every lick to a proper walkabout with a real, live dog. The best one, probably in the whole world, but you might be slightly biased. 

Frank’s been his easy, amiable self throughout the process, undeterred by your caution in the beginning, with an almost human-like sense of self that you attribute to his owner’s care.

Since the dog’s early-morning flight a few months back, Eddie wisely changed out the front lock to something more sturdy- it takes a shoulder shove to get the door open these days, Frank trotting happily into the small alcove of the apartment as you close the door behind you both.

Eddie isn’t in the kitchen or connected living room when you glance around, but then, you weren’t really expecting him to be. 

He’s been a bit off, lately, something tight around the lines in his eyes and cheeks when he smiles. 

You noticed it about a week ago, picked up on some frequency of his pitched just high enough for your ears only, a vague disruption impossible to point to. Small things, like a laugh that came too late, or touches that felt like it came from someone with an absent mind, were your only indicators.

You’re not sure why you’re so sure that Eddie’s change in mood has nothing to do with you. What you do know is Eddie gives you a feeling steady enough to stand on, and the deep assurance that he’ll come to you when he’s able.

Plus, this whole setup is still rather new, and as much as you’re curious and anxious to know what’s up, poking holes into a still-tender relationship doesn’t seem like the right call. 

You’ve endeavored to be as supportive as you can this past week, Eddie subtly letting you take more on than he normally allows (or tries to spare you from having to do). 

The last three evenings have had you over at Eddie’s, your offer to walk the dog met with a kiss to the forehead and a murmur of thanks each time. 

Said dog brings you back to the preset with a wet thwap of his tail against the calf of your jeans. With an amused sigh, you bend to one knee.

“Okay, Frankie,” you say, unclipping his leash before turning to loop it around the hanging wall hook. “You’re all wet so you gotta let me find a towel to-”

As if activated by a sleeper word, Frank turns tail and beelines down the hall, moving faster than your hand that flails out to catch his collar.

“Frank!” You whisper-shout in agitation, standing to speedily kick off your boots, then following the trail of watery mud-prints that now line the wood floor of the hallway. 

The culprit is found pawing at the almost-shut bedroom door, big nose snuffling between the crack of space until the hinges allow enough room for his head.

“Frankie, seriously.” Your voice is still low- not that you think Eddie would be mad at a mess, but you’re uneasy at the thought of only your fifth walk with the dog going awry. “I gotta wipe you down before you can go anywhere. Frank-!”

The dog shoulders his way into the room, lamplight spilling into the hall as you round the corner to catch up, exasperated- the sight of Eddie on the bed, however, shocks you into stillness.

He’s lying face-down, cheek smushed against the cradle of his crossed arms, body stretched along the length of the duvet. One sock foot hangs off the edge, rib cage expanding under his t-shirt with slow, sleep-laden breaths.

The sleeping part is what surprises you. Eddie never takes naps, prides himself on it- you’ve come over many a time to cuddle and inevitably fall asleep in his arms, only to wake and realize he’d been reading or otherwise occupying his time waiting for you to wake up.

Think I might just be built different, he’d said once, jokingly, trying to absolve you of any guilt you felt at leaving him behind, however brief. Never been able to crack the code on day-sleeping.

Apparently, the code’s been broken- and while you’d love nothing more than to let the man sleep, a doggy snort from the other side of the room freezes your veins.

“Frank.” There’s desperation in the whisper this time, hands lifting slowly from your sides as you take a careful step into the room. “Please don’t.”

If you make a move to grab at his collar, Frank’s gonna end up in the one place you don’t want him, so you force your actions to be as smooth and unobtrusive as possible, biding your time while the dog presses his wet nose into the arch of Eddie’s hanging foot. 

Eddie twitches but luckily doesn’t wake. You’re a breath away from leaping forward when Frank lowers to his haunches, preparing to jump, pausing when he hears your frantic whisper of “No no no nono-”-

-but the pause is short-lived, just a perk of his ears and tilt of his head, playing confused at the command, mouth dropping into a dopey tongue-out smile as he launches all 75-pounds of himself upwards.

Frank lands in the space between Eddie’s legs, and for a second, you think the coast is clear enough to try and drag him towards the bathroom- until one of his big paws clumsily steps directly onto the back of Eddie’s bare thigh.

Eddie jolts, and the movement throws the upper half of the barrel-chested dog against Eddie’s back; Frank, overjoyed to have woken his favorite person and likely imagining himself much smaller, begins to walk his way up, wet paws sticking to the fabric of both t-shirt and duvet.

Eddie’s barely got time to blink blearily awake before The Beast is upon him; he lets out a sleepy “Whuh-?” then an indignant squawk as Frank shakes the whole bed with the force of his panting and tail-wagging.

“I’m so sorry,” you start, hands cupping elbows, feeling helpless as you stand at the edge of the carpet. “He was- we got caught in the rain on our walk, and I should’ve checked the weather, but I just didn’t think- and then you were sleeping and he jumped up before I could-”

Your voice wavers. At this, Eddie pushes up into his arms, his own voice husked with sleep as he says, “Hey, whoa- okay, Frank, off, for fuck’s sake.”

He gives a firm pat to the dog’s side and successfully shifts his big weight, enough to sit up fully; one arm curls around wet fur to keep Frank at bay while the other reaches for you.

“It’s okay,” Eddie affirms, eyes on you and pleading for your touch. “Honey. I promise it’s okay. Frank’s just a butthead.”

“Oh my god.” Your brows pinch together, surveying the mess as you step forward into the open V of Eddie’s legs, hands still worrying at the jacket around your elbows. “I’m so sorry.”

“No more of that,” Eddie murmurs. His hand rises to cup your cheek, thumb smoothing over the apple before dropping to squeeze your upper arm. “Don’t worry about it. Okay? I needed to clean these sheets anyways.”

“But not your shirt,” you whisper with conviction, arms unfolding to rest gingerly around the tops of Eddie’s shoulders. “He got you all over.”

There’s a rosy sleep-flush across the bridge of Eddie’s nose, an indent from sleeping on tented arms against the right side of his jaw. Dimples spring up with his smile when your arms make contact. 

Eddie fits an arm around your low back, pulling you closer while simultaneously angling you both away from the eager wet creature lapping at his other arm.

“One summer, I took Frank to work with me on my uncle's farm- and this jackass literally rolled in a mud puddle, stepped in horseshit, and took a snooze on Wayne’s handmade deerskin rug.”

One of your hands leaves Eddie’s shoulders to fly to your mouth, covering the gasp. “No he didn’t.”

“Sure fuckin’ did. Thought my old man was gonna write me out of the will, all ‘cuz of Frankie Boy.” 

At the mention of his name, Frank leans into the restrictive belt of Eddie’s forearm to lick anywhere his pink tongue can reach. You giggle, all the tension going out of your frame as you offer the back of your hand for the dog to lick.

“He smells awful.” With a wrinkle in your nose, you sit more of your weight on Eddie’s thigh, elbow hooked around your boy’s neck regardless of the damp probably seeping into his jeans.

“Ain’t worse than shit,” Eddie says with an exaggerated Southern drawl, wincing when Frank gets a face-lick in. 

Another laugh, and Eddie squeezes your thigh, leans in to kiss just under your jaw. 

It doesn’t feel like the right time to bring up his recent mood, so you content yourself with busywork- while Eddie manhandles the wily creature into the tub, you strip the sheets and start up the washing machine, running a towel over the rain-wet parts of your body and tossing in the coat you’d borrowed for good measure.

Based on the thunking and swearing coming from the bathroom, Eddie will be occupied for a bit longer. You take the opportunity to assess the contents of his fridge, putting together an easy meal in your mind as you line up the ingredients on a kitchen counter.

A can of pesto, some leftover rotisserie chicken, and a box of dry pasta from the pantry will do just fine. Eddie is not in the habit of letting you make meals for him- he always manages to beat you to the cooking portion, a mutually beneficial set up.

Tonight, though, you want to bring him some comfort- and a bowl of carbs seems like the way to go.

The pasta’s at a rolling boil by the time Eddie reappears, Frank a streak of black as he escapes the torture of the shower, intent on rubbing off the clean feeling against the couch.

“Weirdo,” Eddie declares, too much fondness in his voice for either you or Frank to believe the insult. 

When Eddie sees you at the stove, he blinks, like the sight is totally abnormal. “Hey. What are you- honey, if you were hungry, I could’ve-”

“I know!” You interject, trying to keep your voice bright. “But you always do the cooking. I want it to be my turn.”

Got him. Eddie finds it near-impossible to tell you no, especially if it’s something you want.

He sighs like it pains him to see you do any sort of work, sidles up behind you at the stove and drops his chin to your shoulder. His arm wraps around your waist, and you allow yourself a slight lean even as you give the pasta a stir.

“I wanna make sure… you don’t have to say sorry again. You’ve got nothing to make up for.” Eddie’s voice is low and sincere. “Is there an apology in these noodles?”

The smile that pulls at the corner of your mouth is gradual but fierce, heart tender with something close to love as you turn in his arms.

Chocolate-brown eyes watch your face closely as you say, “Not Apology Pasta. I promise. Just regular ol’ I Want To Feed You Pasta. Scout’s honor.”

You’d meant to do the salute for effect but the wooden spoon in your hand hinders it; Eddie chuckles and kisses your cheek, but upon pulling back and seeing your scrutinizing expression, exclaims “What?”

“You took a nap.” The tip of the now-dry spoon pokes Eddie’s cheek as you squint at him.

“Guess I did,” Eddie says, a slight shake of his head, dismissive.

“You never take naps.”

With a shrug that you can feel against your own body, Eddie gives a long suffering sigh. “Was dog-tired today- if you’ll excuse the expression.”

This, aimed at Frank, now on the giant dog bed in the corner of the living room- apparently tuckered out from a day of mess making and post-bath zoomies. His head rests on clean paws, ears flicking back at Eddie’s interruption from his personal slumber.

“Am I only allowed to nap with you?” Eddie’s teasing now, making a joke of it- you twist in his arms to give the boiling pot another stir as he hums, “I’d be down to make that a rule…”

“That’s not what I meant.” You set the spoon to the side, hands resting at the countertop edge as Eddie’s chin slots into your shoulder again. “I just- just wanna make sure you’re okay, I guess. You’ve been a little… not here, lately.”

It’s out in the air now, and you can’t take it back. Eddie’s hand pauses in its path up your arm, a subtle disruption as his stare goes vacant. 

You count the beats in your head, anxiousness rising with each delay. Twelve, thirteen-

“It’s not you.” His voice sounds hollow but convicted, hand tracking north to thumb over the line of your upper arm. “I promise. Just… extra-tired today, sweetheart. Side effect of gettin’ old. Nothing to worry about.”

With a final kiss to your shoulder, Eddie retreats, taking the warmth with him. You nod, becoming absorbed in the task of draining and fixing up the pot of noodles while Eddie pulls a pair of bowls and glasses from cupboards.

The last thing you want to do is push him into answering, but you can’t lie to yourself- the tides of peace are starting to turn into unease. 

Despite this, a pleasant dinner is spent in each other’s company, your sock feet cozy in Eddie’s lap under the small wood table. He gives you a one-handed foot massage between bites of pesto pasta while proclaiming you the best cook in the world.

There doesn’t seem to be anything amiss in Eddie’s manner during the meal, and you wonder if it was a mistake to mention it, at all- maybe he’ll feel like he has to hide his moods from you, now; maybe he isn’t into you enough to be honest; maybe-

“Got a preference?” Eddie’s voice snaps you out of the worry spiral as he points the remote at the TV. “Looks like Jeopardy, more Jeopardy, and some 80s reruns.”

“Christ, you really are old.” 

Eddie chuckles as you abandon the clean dishes in favor of the couch, dropping into the cushions to stretch out on your back. “Old reruns sound good. So long as you lay with me.”

“Done deal. 80s fest it is, then.” He clicks the proper channel, then tosses the remote to the coffee table.

When Eddie turns and sees the position you’ve taken, he makes to lay sideways, meaning to spoon you - but you stop him before he can settle.

“Should’ve been more specific,” you murmur, Eddie poised in a hover, waiting for your word. “Lay on me.”

It’s almost funny how quick he goes down- careful not to hurt you, but gratefully and heartily sinking his weight against your lower half. His legs twine with yours, head nestling into the soft of your stomach.

One ringed hand comes to rest on your thigh, another arm fitting itself between the back of the couch and your side. Eddie breathes a long, contented sigh, breath warm through the fabric of your shirt.

Wordlessly, your hands go to his hair, strands wrangled into a low bun with an elastic. You slip the tie over your own wrist, unwinding the locks to free them from their confines. 

There are a few salt-colored streaks that you pay special attention to first, running just the tips of your fingers over the grey; Eddie’s eyes flutter shut when your fingers plunge fully into the thicket, rubbing against his scalp in gentle circles.

“Feels s’good,” Eddie slurs, brows pushing together; you pause to smooth the line with your thumb.

“Good,” you whisper back, pleased when he hums and sinks further into the support of your body.

The TV switches from commercial to the opening credits of a film, but stays on mute- neither of you reach for the remote. In the corner, Frank stretches with a grumbly groan before resettling on his side to take a nap.

Your fingers don’t stop sifting through the silky locks of hair, even when Eddie speaks. 

“I meant it, sweetheart.” His eyes are still closed, but his thumbs sweep soothingly- one at your side, the other over your thigh. “My funk isn’t about you. This day- this week, really, is a hard one for me. But, uh… especially today.”

In response, your own thumbs travel to either side of his temples, a silent encouragement, a small I’m here.

The breath that shudders through Eddie is felt most at his ribs, a brief, bumping spasm against the inside of your legs, before he says, “It’s the anniversary of my mom dying. I was six. Took it pretty hard.”

“Oh, Eddie.” Your own breath punches out, hands sliding down to the plane of his shoulders, his broad back, wanting to be closer, to provide him with as much warmth and comfort as he always gives you. “I’m so sorry. That must be so hard.”

Eddie presses a kiss to the side of your thigh, grounding himself. “Yeah. It blows. A long time ago, but still. And I’m sorry I didn’t say anything until now- I didn’t wanna worry you, but I’m not… not used to sharing it, yet. Or letting my guard down this much.”

The warmth of your palms seep through his shirt as your hands move again, one to draw patterns at the tops of his shoulders, the other cupping the back of his skull. “You don’t have to apologize for that, Eddie. I’m so grateful you told me when you were able. Thank you.”

Your voice feels tender and raw, words steeped in acknowledgement and empathy. The both of you breathe out in tandem, realigning, Eddie resting more solidly against your stomach which gives you strength enough to speak.

“My week is in November. It’s not even, like, attached to a specific memory- I just remember feeling the most lonely I’ve ever felt, stuck in a house with an animal I was scared of, and Jamie-”

But you don’t want to bring your shitty ex into this sacred moment, probably any more than Eddie wants to hear about the awfulness you went through. You clear your throat as if the name could get lodged in there, freeing your airways to suck in another breath.

“-anyways. It wasn’t a good time, and as much as I’d like to forget it, I think some part of me needs to remember. To feel the hurt and shittiness all over again, like an antidote to the poison of the memories.”

“Jesus,” Eddie swears softly. “It’s like you’re in my brain.”

An exhale of a laugh from you, and Eddie’s on his elbows, head tilting up to meet halfway even as you bend forwards. His breath fans across your lips as he whispers. 

“Thank you, for telling me about something so hard. Usually I’m bed-bound for the whole day, but you came and let the light in, without even knowing. I’m so grateful.”

Tears spring to the corners of your eyes when Eddie presses his lips to yours- a kiss of deep intent and unwavering caring.

It makes your heart physically ache, fists balling the back of his t-shirt, a tear slipping down your cheek- when Eddie pulls away, he catches it with his thumb, brow furrowed.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, and you laugh through your tears.

“Say it again and you’re gonna owe me a whole bowl of Apology Pasta.”

Eddie joins in on your laughter, and the feeling of those joyful vibrations releases the tension around your heart. 

The two of you resume the former comfy position, Eddie planting another kiss to your tummy before the side of his face gets planted there, too.

You stretch to hit the unmute button, bass-heavy theme song playing over the speakers as your hands return once again to the softness of Eddie’s hair. 

[polaroidcats]

hello dear cat, can you please share with the dash your thoughts on little remus borrowing hope’s old dresses to match lyall’s wizard robes!!! 🥰

ahhhh yess i love this so much em!!! baby remus sees lyall wear his wizard robes and he wants to look as cool as his dad so he goes into his parents' closet to get some of hope's dresses!

or maybe he has a little dress-up suitcase in his room anyways with various old clothes to use for fun dress up games anyways so he diys the most beautiful robes out of some of those and one of hope's old dresses, he's sooo proud of his creation when he comes down for dinner wearing a bright orange dress with green and pink accents that drapes on behind him because he's way too small for it.

his parents both think he looks adorable and he asks if he can get some proper wizarding robes just like his dad? ofc he can, so lyall takes him shopping (to the big city!!!!) but before they even get to diagon alley, where they were meant to go for the robes, remus sees some dresses in a muggle shop window and neither lyall nor remus have been in muggle children's clothing stores before but lyall has some muggle money "just in case" so they go in and remus tries on all the robes (dresses) and chooses a brown corduroy pinafore dress, a mossy green flowy long skirt with a matching blouse and a bright pink princess dress that comes with sparkly shoes and glittery tights.

they are both very happy with these purchases and the cashier definitely thinks lyall is a very excentric gay uncle taking his little nephew shopping for costumes or something.

they're both soso happy and proud of their purchases when they show them to hope, she decides not to tell them about silly gendered muggle clothing norms because really, why does it matter what remus wears at home? they live in a remote cottage on the welsh countryside and remus has had so many struggles in his short life already, if the dresses make him happy then he gets to wear his dresses ("wizard robes just like dad!" "i look so prettyyyy!!" as he spins around in his new dresses happily)!

he never grows out of wearing them and goes to hogwarts wearing mostly skirts and dresses, gaining looks of approval from purebloods who don't know anything about muggle fashion but also many confused looks from muggleborns who maybe clock him as queer long before he knows it himself.

[moonlitconfessions]

Episode 2 — A New Beginning

You didn’t expect to see him again.

After that rainy night, you thought it was a moment meant to be forgotten — a kind gesture from a stranger, a fleeting moment of grace. But Zayne Li wasn’t the type of person you could forget.

And apparently, neither were you.

It had been four days since you left the set. Your phone stopped buzzing after the first twenty-four hours, and your inbox, once cluttered with urgent staff emails, was now blessedly empty. You tried to tell yourself the silence was freedom.

But bills don’t care about dignity.

So when your old college friend texted you — “Hey, one of the big studios needs an emergency fill-in assistant. Just two weeks. High-profile set. You in?” — you said yes before you could talk yourself out of it.

That’s how you ended up walking through the glass doors of Studio Apex at 6:45 a.m., clutching a borrowed clipboard and fighting the urge to throw up from nerves.

You were briefed in the hallway by a PA who barely looked at you. “You’ll be helping with Actor Zayne Li’s schedule. Don’t speak to him unless he speaks to you. Don’t touch him. Don’t hand him water unless he asks. He doesn’t like noise. Stay out of the way. Got it?”

You nodded mutely, your heartbeat picking up speed. Zayne Li?

Surely not the same set. The universe wasn’t that cruel. Or was it?

You followed the PA through a maze of white hallways and studio lights until she suddenly stopped and knocked twice on a dressing room door. “Your assistant’s here,” she called.

The door opened.

And there he was.

Zayne stood by the mirror, shirt collar half-buttoned, silver cufflinks glinting on his wrist. He looked up slowly, dark eyes meeting yours.

You stiffened. Please don’t remember me.

A brief pause.

Then he blinked once. “It’s you.”

The PA turned, confused. “You two… know each other?”

You opened your mouth, panicking, but Zayne answered for you. “We’ve met.”

His voice held a calm certainty, and for the briefest second, something almost like amusement flickered in his gaze.

You didn’t know what to say.

Zayne turned back to the mirror, smoothing down his collar. “You’re early.”

“I—um. Yes.” You looked at the floor. “Sorry. I wasn’t sure how long security would take.”

A pause. You could feel his eyes on you again, but when you looked up, he was already tying his tie in the mirror. “You’re fine.”

The rest of the day passed in a blur of nerves and awkward hovering. Zayne’s set was nothing like Minji’s. People moved fast, but not frantically. The director gave clear instructions. The staff… smiled.

Zayne, for his part, remained cool and composed. He didn’t speak to you often — a soft “thank you” when you handed him a warm pack for his hand between takes, a nod when you updated his call sheet. But not once did he snap or complain.

When you accidentally bumped into a light stand, nearly knocking it over, your heart nearly stopped. You were waiting for someone to yell.

But instead, Zayne looked up from his script and calmly said, “Careful.”

That was it.

Later that evening, you were sorting out props with one of the art staff when you heard it.

“Hey, new girl.”

You turned to see the second assistant director, arms crossed. “You messed up the prop layout. The medical bag was supposed to be on the left side of the table, not the right. You moved it, didn’t you?”

“No, I didn’t—” you began, panic flaring in your chest.

“Then who did? Because I know it wasn’t—”

“She didn’t touch it,” a voice cut in.

You turned.

Zayne was standing behind the AD, a bottle of water in hand, brows slightly raised. Calm, but firm.

“She’s been with me the entire time. If it was moved, it wasn’t her.”

The AD froze. “O-oh. I see.”

Zayne didn’t say anything else. He just looked at you, nodded once, then walked back to set.

Your heart thundered.

You stood in stunned silence as the AD mumbled an apology and shuffled away.

That night, after everything had wrapped, you walked out of the studio feeling something you hadn’t felt in a long time.

Seen.

And as you stepped into the chilly air, you remembered the rain, the umbrella, and the quiet voice that had said, “You’ll catch a cold.”

Maybe fate wasn’t so cruel after all.

taglist: @nezuswritingdesk @regalillegal @zainaaryam @bidisasterforevermor @iisjihye @yourcaleb @zaynessbeloved

[50calmadeuce]

EOL - Chapter 9

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction using characters from the Top Gun: Maverick world, trademarked by Paramount Pictures Corporation. I do not claim ownership of the characters and the world that I am borrowing.

The story and situation I am creating are a work of my imagination and I do not ascribe them to official story canon. This work is for entertainment only and is not a part of the storyline.

I am not profiting financially from the creation and publication of this story, but I do hope it gives you happy thoughts.

These stories are my own, so please do not take them and use them for yourself without my permission. If you see them somewhere else, please let me know.

I also do not own the right to 'In Case You Didn't Know' by Brett Young. This song just fits the mood perfectly.

It was late when you arrived home, the house nearly dark except for the faint glow of the lights your mom left on for when you kids came home late.

You climbed the stairs, your mind replaying the events of the night. You’d shared everything with Nolan—Jake, your history, the complexities of it all. You learned more about Nolan and his family, and though he was a great guy, he wasn’t your guy.

You opened the door to your bedroom and flipped on the light. The sight that greeted you was unexpected—a pile of letters and a few boxes stacked neatly on your desk.

“What the fuck?” you muttered to yourself, walking over to the desk and picking up the top envelope.

They were all addressed to you...from Jake.

Your heart skipped a beat as you stared at the familiar handwriting on the envelope—Jake’s handwriting. It had been years since you’d seen it, and the sight of it brought a wave of memories crashing through your mind. You set the envelope down for a moment, your fingers trembling as you glanced over the stack. There were at least six or seven letters, each one sealed, each one waiting.

You could feel the pull of them, the weight of what they represented—the years, the silence, the unanswered questions. Jake had written you. All this time, he had been reaching out in a way that you hadn’t known about.

You couldn't take it anymore, so you reached out, grabbed a letter, tore it open and unfolded the letter.

You carefully unfolded the first letter, your fingers trembling slightly as you began to read.

Y/N,

I’m writing you this letter because I don’t know how else to say what’s been on my mind for the past few months except that I miss you.

I know. I probably sound desperate and probably even pathetic, but you're the only one I've ever showed that side to, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I've tried asking where you are, but all I get is that you're busy with school. Which is what I know you wanted to do.

I've been busy with school as well. I'm currently stationed at Naval Air Station Kingsville in Texas.

I drove home on some vacation and drove to your school. They said you were gone on an internship.

Your heart squeezed as you continued reading, each word heavier than the last.

I don’t know if you ever think about me anymore, but I think about you every day. I think about the days we spent together, and the way we talked about the future like it was something that belonged to us. And I think about how, when I left, I told myself I’d come back and everything would still be the same. But nothing’s the same anymore, and I don’t know what happened.

I can’t change the past, but I can’t stop thinking about the future, either. If you can’t forgive me, I understand. I just needed to get this off my chest.

I miss you. I miss us.

-Jake

You blinked back the moisture in your eyes, trying to steady your breath. The ache in your chest was overwhelming. You’d spent so many years convincing yourself that the past was behind you, that you were moving forward. But now, with every word in this letter, it felt like everything you’d worked so hard to bury was clawing its way back to the surface.

As you read the letter, the memory of the kiss in the stables came rushing back—how his lips had felt against yours, the way he held you close while dancing, as though time itself had momentarily stopped.

A knot tightened in your chest as the realization hit. Why were you running from him? This man, despite everything—the loss of your child, the years of silence—still loved you. He had never stopped, even after all the pain, even after six years of distance.

The weight of it all made your mind spin. Could you truly continue to hide from this, from him, when he was still so clearly holding onto you?

The letters in your hands trembled as you placed them down, the weight of their words sinking deeper. You couldn’t escape the feelings they stirred, feelings you thought you’d buried, tucked away under layers of time and distance. Jake’s voice—his words, his longing—were so tangible, so real in the letters. They wrapped around your heart like a thread you couldn’t untangle.

You pressed a hand to your forehead, trying to clear the storm of emotions swirling within you. Every question, every "what if," seemed to batter at you, impossible to answer. It was so much easier, so much safer, to pretend that you had moved on. To convince yourself that you had built a life, a future, that didn’t revolve around the man whose heart you had broken—and yet, every step away from him had always felt incomplete.

And now, standing here in the quiet of your room, surrounded by these letters, you realized how much you had longed for closure. Not just for the past, but for the possibility of what could have been. What could still be.

"Why am I running?" you whispered, the question falling into the stillness of the room.

It was a question you didn’t have an answer to. You knew the past wasn’t easy, that there was hurt there that couldn’t be undone. But Jake’s return, his presence, his vulnerability—it brought the possibility of something new, something different, despite everything that had happened.

The stables, the dance, the words he had spoken—they hadn’t just been memories; they had been a reminder of the deep connection between you. The connection you’d once shared and, despite everything, still seemed to have.

You carefully placed the letters back on your desk, the weight of Jake's words lingering in the air. You glanced at the pile of envelopes and boxes, your mind racing. Where the fuck did these letters come from?

You took a deep breath, exhaling slowly as the weight of everything swirled around in your mind. You’d figure it all out tomorrow. For tonight, you needed to let the silence of your room settle over you, to let everything sit before you confronted it.

You turned away from the desk, walked to your dresser, and began getting ready for bed, your movements slow, your mind still a million miles away. The soft rustle of your clothes and the quiet of the house seemed like a temporary escape—just for tonight.

"Morning, baby. You ready for another day at the rodeo?" your mom asked, her voice warm and steady as she moved around the kitchen.

You walked over to the cabinet, grabbed your favorite coffee cup, and then made your way to the coffee pot. You poured the dark, steaming liquid into your mug, the warmth comforting as you took a moment to gather your thoughts.

"Yeah, I think so," you replied, your voice still a little distant as you stared into your cup. The events of the night before still weighed on your mind, but you couldn’t avoid facing it much longer.

Your mom smiled, seemingly noticing the change in your mood as she moved to the stove to finish preparing breakfast. She didn't press you for details, but the concerned look she shot your way was enough to let you know she was paying attention.

"Rumor is you looked great as the Flag Girl," she said gently, a proud smile in her voice. "But, you know...I just said, 'That's my girl.'"

You couldn't help but smile softly, the warmth of her words soothing the tension that had been building inside you. "Thanks, Mom," you replied, taking a sip of your coffee. It was just what you needed to start the day, even if your mind was still tangled in everything that had happened.

"Momma? Remember how I asked about letters from Jake?" you asked, your voice hesitant, unsure of what you were about to uncover.

"Mmhm," she replied, her voice steady but laced with something you couldn’t quite place. She turned to face you, a knowing look in her eyes.

"They were on my desk in my bedroom when I got home last night," you stated, your voice a little more strained now as the weight of the situation settled in.

Your mom set the spatula down with a soft clink, her expression unreadable for a moment. She looked at you, her gaze soft but piercing, as if she were weighing her next words carefully.

"Oh, Y/N. I don't know what to say," she said, her voice tinged with concern as she glanced at you.

Puzzled, you looked at her, trying to make sense of it all. "You don't know where they came from?"

"Why, no," she replied, her eyes avoiding yours for a brief moment before meeting your gaze again. Then it hit her. "Y/N. I would never..."

She trailed off, her face softening with the realization, as if she understood the implications of what was being said. Her voice became quieter, more sincere. "I would never have kept them from you. If I knew, I would have told you. You know that, right?"

You stared at her, trying to process the layers of confusion that were rapidly piling up. The thought that your mom might have had a hand in keeping something from you felt like it didn’t fit. She had always been open with you—supportive, understanding. This was different, and the fact that she seemed just as confused and concerned as you only deepened the mystery.

You drew in a deep breath, the weight of your mother’s words sinking in. “Yeah. I know.”

You took another deep breath, the fog of uncertainty clouding your thoughts. "Then where did they come from?"

Just then, Cole came in from outside, his boots heavy on the floor as he noticed the tension in the room. He paused, his gaze flicking between you and your mom, a quiet concern in his eyes. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Everything's fine," you said quickly, forcing a smile as you tried to ease the atmosphere. But the weight of the conversation lingered, and you could feel the questions still swirling in the air.

"Did you want some breakfast?" your mom asked, her voice warm as she tried to shift the focus.

You glanced at your watch, realizing you were running short on time. "Actually, I'll grab something at the rodeo. I have to go. Some meeting," you explained, offering a quick smile as you grabbed your keys from the counter.

"Alright, sweetheart. Take care," your mom said, watching you with a mixture of concern and understanding.

Cole gave a nod but didn't push any further, sensing you needed space. You grabbed your coffee to-go and headed out, still feeling the weight of everything hanging over you as the day started.

The day at the rodeo was a whirlwind—loud, dusty, and full of energy. Time seemed to slip through your fingers with every handshake, every laugh, every thundering gallop. You’d ended up placing third in the barrel racing, which, all things considered—six years out of competition and only three days on a horse like Skunk—was nothing to scoff at. You were proud, even if you didn’t say it out loud.

After more meet and greets and a few congratulatory hugs from familiar faces, the golden light of evening began to spill across the rodeo grounds. The crowd had thinned, and a new band had taken the stage at the bandstand, their twangy chords floating into the warm dusk air.

You found an empty picnic table near the edge of the crowd and sat down, letting the music wash over you. It was peaceful now—soft strumming, the smell of kettle corn in the distance, the hush of voices carried on the breeze. You exhaled, finally still.

Then you heard the sound of approaching footsteps—measured, purposeful.

You looked up and there he was.

Jake.

“This song goes out to Y/N Travers,” the lead singer said, his voice carrying easily over the mic. A few people turned their heads, curious, but the crowd stayed mellow, swaying to the slow change in rhythm.

Your brows lifted in surprise just as the opening notes of In Case You Didn’t Know by Brett Young drifted through the evening air. You looked toward the bandstand, heart skipping once, then twice.

Then Jake stepped closer, hand outstretched, his voice barely above a whisper. “Can I have this dance?”

You looked at him—really looked at him. The softened expression, the way he held his hand like it wasn’t just about the dance, but everything that came with it. The years. The silence. The weight of all the things neither of you had said.

Slowly, you slid your hand into his. “Yeah,” you said quietly, “you can.”

He led you out into the open space near the stage, not quite a dance floor, but enough. You slipped into his arms like it hadn’t been years, like the rhythm had never broken.

Jake’s hand settled at your waist, firm and familiar, and yours rested against his chest where you could feel his heart thudding steadily beneath your palm.

You started listening to the lyrics of the song:

Baby, I know you've been wonderin' So here goes nothin' In case you didn't know Baby, I'm crazy 'bout ya

Jake's thumb brushed gently along your waist, a subtle reassurance in the middle of the song’s confession, like he needed you to hear the lyrics not from the band—but from him.

I would be lyin' if I said That I could live this life without you…

Each word hit like a wave—soft but strong, reshaping everything you thought you had packed away in a neat box labeled past.

You had my heart a long, long time ago In case you didn't know...

Jake leaned in just a little, close enough that his breath tickled your temple as he whispered, “I told them to play it… I didn’t know if I’d get the chance.”

You blinked, looking up at him. “Jake…”

“I never stopped, Y/N. Not once. I just didn’t know if I’d ever get to tell you again.”

The tears threatened again, but you held them back, resting your cheek against his shoulder, his arms tightening slightly as if anchoring the two of you in place.

The crowd melted away. The smell of dust and barbecue and worn leather boots faded. All you felt was him. The way your bodies still knew how to move together. The way the world quieted when he held you like this.

And as the chorus came back around— “In case you didn’t know… Baby, I’m crazy 'bout you…”—

You whispered the words against his chest, more to yourself than to him, but loud enough for his heart to catch it.

“I know, Jake. I think I always did,” you said, your voice barely louder than the music as the final chords began to fade.

You looked up at him, eyes catching the last traces of fading sunlight in his. He stilled, the weight of your words settling between you like dust in a quiet room.

You took a breath, steadying yourself. “Your letters… they ended up on my desk last night.”

Jake froze, his hand still gently holding yours, the other resting against the small of your back. His expression shifted—hope, regret, maybe even fear—all chasing each other across his face.

“You read them?” he asked, his voice rough.

You nodded slowly. “I read a couple of them. Six years is a lot of letters, but I think they pretty much summed up how you felt.”

Jake let out a quiet breath, almost like he’d been holding it in for years. His gaze searched your face, uncertain. “And… how did they make you feel?”

You looked down at your joined hands for a moment, thumb brushing over his knuckles. “Like time stopped every time I opened one. Like I never really let you go… even when I told myself I had.”

He didn’t say anything right away, just pulled you a little closer, the space between you almost nonexistent now.

“You should've told me,” he said finally, the words thick with regret.

You met his eyes again, steady and honest. “Maybe. But I wasn’t ready then. And maybe you weren’t either.”

A soft smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, bittersweet. “And now?”

You exhaled slowly, heart beating a little faster. “Now… I’m still figuring it out. But I didn’t walk away from that dance, did I?”

Jake’s smile deepened, something softer settling behind his eyes. “No. You didn’t.”

“And you’re not upset about losing the baby?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, eyes shining with sadness.

Jake’s expression shifted—pain flickering behind his eyes, jaw tightening for a brief second. He took a deep breath, steadying himself.

“Darlin’,” he said softly, “I’m more upset that you didn’t tell me.”

You looked away, blinking rapidly. “Jake, you had your whole life ahead of you. The Academy… the Navy… I didn’t want to be the thing that held you back.”

Jake reached out, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Y/N. You were never the thing that held me back. Not once. You were the reason I kept going.”

Your lips parted, but no words came. The ache in your chest had nothing to do with the years you lost, and everything to do with how he was still here. Still looking at you like nothing had changed—even though everything had.

“I have faith that we would’ve figured it out,” he said, his voice low but unwavering.

You looked at him—really looked—and for a second, it was like no time had passed at all. Just the two of you, hearts a little bruised, lives a little tangled, but still standing here in the same quiet orbit.

“I used to imagine it, you know,” you said softly. “What it would’ve been like. You, me, the baby. Some version of normal.”

Jake nodded, his thumb grazing the back of your hand. “I imagined it too. More than you probably think.”

You swallowed hard. “But it didn’t happen.”

“No,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean everything else has to stop too.”

Your eyes met his, full of years and heartache, but also something fragile and blooming—hope.

“You really think we could start over?” you asked.

Jake gave the faintest, wistful smile. “I don’t think we ever stopped.”

Another song started to play—upbeat, with a familiar rhythm—and the dance floor filled quickly with couples, laughter, and the shuffle of boots on packed earth.

Jake leaned in a little closer, his voice warm against the shell of your ear. “You wanna get out of here?”

You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. That sparkle in his eye—mischief wrapped in affection—hadn’t changed one bit.

You smiled, soft and sure. “Yeah.”

Without another word, he laced his fingers through yours, the way he used to, like it was second nature. He gave your hand a gentle tug and led you off the edge of the crowd, away from the noise and the lights and the hum of voices.

The cool evening air wrapped around you as you walked, but your hand stayed warm in his, steady. Safe.

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel the need to look back.

Tags: @tylers-twister-gal @smoothdogsgirl @tgmreader @crashingwavesofeuphoria @lunatygerqueen @illisea @findthebeautyinbreakdowns @untitled-document-95 @mrsevans90 @djs8891 @justwaveandsmile @kmc1989 @fantasyfootballchampion @khouse712 @literal-tv-menace @malindacath @jackiehollanderr

[dreamsy990]

TELEMACHUS AND ANTINOUS. FINALLY

[sforzesco]

I love how much Lucullus can't stand Pompey, and also this

Pompey the Great: A Political Biography, Robin Seager

with something from this thrown in for extra flavor

Crassus and Pompey, on the other hand, ridiculed Lucullus for giving himself up to pleasure and extravagance, as if a luxurious life were not even more unsuitable to men of his years than political and military activities.

Plutarch, Lucullus

⭐ places I’m at! bsky / pixiv / pillowfort /cohost / cara.app / tip jar!

[sanestlunaticyouevermet]

@robophantom

how am i meant to show my love when i peel an orange but need a shovel to give you a slice

[cloudinal]

We're all in love tonight

[mishy-mashy]

Probably not gonna match with when this comes out translated, but still—just a few things I liked about BNHA 423

WE GOT TO SEE THE VESTIGES AGAAAAINNNNN!!! HI BRUCE!

I think Bruce gets a lot of bad angles. This is an example (but it's okay honey, you're still hot stuff)

Unfortunately, I have a favorite. It's Bruce. The most Normal Guy™ in the vestige line up. And the special-est sopping wet cat for Kudo ever (Yoichi is a dry cat because at least Kudo remembered to take Yoichi inside).

The vestiges were all gearing for a punch, but Tomura/Tenko is reaching out.

The rest of the users usually use OFA to punch, is the general idea we see. But Tomura/Tenko's Quirk isn't that.

Tomura/Tenko reaching his hand out to grab, and the vestiges readying a punch—it's their ways of putting the hurt on.

And Tomura/Tenko knows what happens if he puts his fingers on someone. He was aiming for AFO's head too. Guy was pissed.

I like that the vestiges look like they're crawling out of hell (or the depths) here. Technically for OFA itself, which they embody, being in AFO's realm was hell. It meant they failed their collective goals to win against AFO, and keep OFA [Yoichi] out of his possession

Also, they're all embers of who they once were. If Factors embodied their personalities, these embers are the leftovers of that embodiment. Their eyes are blank.

And even when they're only shattered fragments of themselves, they came for AFO to take him down.

They really embodied that purpose. Even as husks of themselves, or sad leftovers that scattered from their destroyed Factors, they still reached forward to clock AFO one last time.

They were that determined, and that determination was all that was left of them.

Meanwhile, with Yoichi, his itty bitty remains continued trying to talk sense into his brother till the end.

Yoichi has such a bleeding heart. But he also loved his brother.

AFO is standing in the dark. But in that dark, there's a light. It's Yoichi, as if he were the light at the end of the tunnel.

AFO chased OFA for decades, and ruined a lot of lives, just to have Yoichi by his side again.

Joining hands with Garaki; killing Banjo, En, Nana; forcing the creation and upbringing of Tenko; the whole Shimura incident; everything he did to UA and the Aoyamas to get close to the wielder of OFA [Yoichi]. He did all that, and more.

He just wanted the chance to have Yoichi with him again. That was his purpose in obtaining OFA this whole time.

Yoichi was AFO's light at the end of the tunnel.

Too bad for AFO, the light at the end of the tunnel was an oncoming train.

Yoichi is telling AFO what happened, but I love that in front of Yoichi, AFO became himself. I mean, not a mass of scar tissue, but who he originally looked like

Idk, there's just something symbolic about it?

Midoriya calls AFO a lonely man. And Yoichi comes to him, and AFO says he wants Yoichi by his side. He wouldn't be lonely if that were the case. Yoichi could make him not lonely anymore.

And the lonely man, a bundle of scar tissue from his warpath to see Yoichi again, reverts to a time he had no injuries or scars. He looks like the period of time where he and Yoichi lived in the same era.

In front of Yoichi, he's just.. himself, I guess is how to put it. Not a mass of scar tissue, or the evil villain everyone feared: he's literally just Yoichi's "Nii-san".

It's like, the scar tissue shed itself to reveal AFO's true face.

He wants to see Yoichi's face, and ended up showing his own without even meaning or thinking to.

He's finally looking straight at Yoichi, trying to see his face. It's not like when Yoichi was alive, when AFO always looked down on him, and just waited for him to bend to his will.

Now, AFO has little time left with Yoichi, and he's lost his composure for it, wanting to see Yoichi as more than an ember. But maybe he got to the point he only ever saw Yoichi for his Factor, rather than the Factor for Yoichi: how often has he said he was chasing One For All, instead of his younger brother?

AFO wanted to see Yoichi's face, but when he saw Yoichi next to Kudo... yeah, he lost his mind a bit there. Probably (Definitely?) because he saw Kudo's Ability, and Kudo with Yoichi. And Kudo is "to blame for everything".

Maybe he lost it seeing Kudo and Yoichi together, because it was a repeat of the past, I suppose?

(Technically, he did see Yoichi's face one last time already. Just that he also saw the bastard Kudo's face again too. And AFO did not like that.)

[gideonnavsenormousbiceps]

think part of the reason I love loz is that it allows me to indulge my urge to explore ruins, finding treasure. and also have a sword. the sword is good too.