#Jack Chandelier

[princessacexsnake]

The Gangreen Gang all enjoying a Halloween party in a ballroom!

Made by me! (x)

[wrongydkjquotes]

“You had one job, and you couldn’t even do that right. Oh well. You’ve got bad enough taste as it is, we weren’t really gonna put much stock into you putting that in the center of anything now, were we?”

- Cookie Masterson

(Source: @emkay, r/mildlyinfuriating, Delete this 🙂)

[thepencilnerd]

Echo

pairing: Jack Abbot x doctor!Reader summary: Under the bright lights of a fundraising gala, what began as polite smiles and veiled jabs unravels into something far more intimate. Between rooftop confessions, quiet grief, and a night neither party can take back, something buried for years finally comes undone. warnings: 18+ MDNI, explicit sexual content (semi-public sex, f!reader), blood and trauma in a hospital setting, description of medical procedures and deaths genre/notes: slow burn, frenemies to lovers (much banter), robby cameo + being a father figure, heavy angst + heavy fluff, hurt/comfort, emotionally repressed idiots in love, non-linear timeline, one (1) very touch-starved man, abbot down bad for his s.o. and def has a pain kink, balcony sex + confessions, pwp word count: 9k a/n: love letter to grief, rooftop confessions, and all the things left unsaid (+ shameless, self-indulgent smut), basically i saw this dress on pinterest and i—

The hospital’s annual fundraiser was all overpriced wine and board member schmoozing—the kind of thing Jack Abbot usually avoided. He and Robby had spent the better part of the week arguing with Gloria about why they really didn’t need to be the ones attending.

“But who better to represent the emergency department than its finest?” Gloria had smiled with teeth. "Unless, of course, you'd prefer we reallocate your trauma bay supply order for next fiscal quarter?"

Abbot had muttered something under his breath. Robby had called it extortion. Gloria had walked away victorious.

“If she reassigns our trauma supply budget one more time, I swear to God I’m quitting,” Robby had muttered, though they both knew he wouldn’t.

“Right there with you, brother,” Jack had said dryly.

Which was how he ended up in a suit, lingering by the bar with his tie already loosened.

The gala was obscene in its extravagance. A live string quartet played near the grand staircase. Crystal chandeliers caught every glint of champagne. Rich donors floated from one hors d'oeuvre table to the next, laughing politely and stuffing their faces with canapés that probably cost more than a full day of supplies for the ER.

It made Jack sick.

Not the donations—he appreciated those. Hell, the hospital needed them. But the tone of it, the way money moved through the room like perfume: thick, cloying, and designed to mask something rotten underneath. The people here didn’t know what a trauma bay smelled like at 3 a.m. They didn’t care. They were here to write a check, slap their name on a wing, and pretend it made them saints.

Jack took a sip of his club soda and stared at the bottom of his glass.

He wanted to gouge his eyes out. He just wasn’t sure which fork to use.

Scanning the room, his eyes landed on Robby across the space, mid-conversation with a bejeweled donor who looked like she’d never set foot inside a hospital ward. Robby’s eyes caught Jack’s for the briefest second and widened—just enough to scream help me. Jack raised his glass and shot him a wink.

Then he saw you. He'd recognize your stride anywhere. 

What he definitely hadn’t expected was the red satin dress.

Floor-length, plunging back, slit high at the left thigh, the kind of fabric that caught the light like it was trying to start a fire. When you walked into the room, it was almost as though time stopped. You were across the room, charming some rich donor, laughing politely as he fumbled through a question about pediatric trauma outcomes.

Jack didn’t hear the question. He didn’t hear your answer either.

As you turned away from the donor, your bright smile dropped like a mask torn off. Your jaw clenched. You let out a tight breath through your nose, barely more than a sigh. It was the kind of reaction only someone who’d seen you under a hundred different kinds of stress might catch.

Then you looked up and locked eyes with him. You froze.

Goddamn did Jack Abbot look good in a suit.

Salt-and-pepper curls styled just enough to look deliberate, not overdone. The tux hugged his frame perfectly—sharp at the shoulders, tailored at the waist, cutting the kind of silhouette that belonged on a magazine cover instead of an ER floor. He’d even opted for a close shave, his normally stubbled facial hair absent. And his tie—loosened just a touch too much—left a sliver of his throat visible, collar open like he’d tried to behave and gave up halfway through the evening.

You didn’t smile. Neither did he.

But neither of you looked away.

The first time you met Dr. Jack Abbot, you were fresh off your fourth twelve-hour day shift that week. For the first two years of your residency, you’d been under Robby’s wing—solid, day-shift training, plenty of first-time experiences, and a support system that kept you steady. But when it came time to switch rotations, it was Robby who recommended you move to nights.

"More fast-paced," he’d reasoned. "Higher stakes. They could use your skills. You’re ready."

You’d heard about Jack Abbot by then. Everyone had. Ex-military. Brilliant. Demanding. A damn good trauma attending, and an even tougher mentor. You were equal parts intrigued and warned.

The ED hallway was buzzing, but you didn’t miss the way Jack paused as you approached. He glanced at your badge, then at your posture—upright, composed, betraying none of the exhaustion you carried—and finally at the trauma board.

“Hope you’re fast,” was all he said, voice low and dry, like a test he didn’t expect you to pass.

Turns out, you were more than fast. You were precise. Efficient. Clinical.

When a GSW came in thirty minutes later—a young man with a single penetrating wound to the upper abdomen—you and Abbot stepped in together. He hung back just enough to supervise, giving you space to lead the resuscitation while staying close.

You scanned the vitals: hypotensive, tachycardic, altered mentation. “GSW to the upper abdomen, likely mesenteric involvement. Initial BP was 80/40 with HR in the 130s, GCS at 13 but trending downward. Type and crossmatch. Two units O-neg. Prep for a laparotomy?” you asked, assessing quickly as you reached for gloves. Abbot nodded once, already handing you a sterile gown without a word.

He didn’t stop you, but he didn’t let you coast either.

“What’s your plan if the pressure doesn’t stabilize after the second unit?” he asked as you both finished gowning up.

“Call for a third, reassess fluid responsiveness, consider vasopressors if no improvement,” you replied, already focused.

“And if there’s massive hemoperitoneum?”

“Prioritize source control. Suction, pack, find the bleeder.”

Jack gave a small, approving hum. Then you glanced back at him, sharp, poised. He was holding out the handle of a blade to you—steady, without fanfare.

“I’m not handling it,” he said matter-of-factly. “You are.”

You blinked once, then reached for the blade. Gloved fingers curled around the handle as the rest of the room faded into peripheral noise. It was your show now—and he was trusting you to lead it.

The team moved quickly. You made the incision, suctioned blood, clamped the bleeder—a mesenteric vessel torn clean. Laparotomy pads soaked in seconds. Abbot kept an eye on the monitor, watching your hands. You found the source and controlled it, methodical and focused, with Jack’s quiet presence steady behind your shoulder.

Jack nodded once, the faintest glimmer of something like approval in his eyes. After the patient was wheeled off to the OR, gloves off and adrenaline still thrumming beneath your skin, he tossed you a saline flush and a towel. The rest of the team was still moving in organized flurries, cleaning up the bay, resetting trays, pulling down blood-streaked drapes. You peeled off your gloves slowly, breath catching up to you now that the adrenaline was fading.

The smell of antiseptic, blood, and sweat clung to everything. Your scrub top was damp with effort. And still, Jack hadn’t said anything else. Just watched you like he was recalibrating something in his head. Taking the measure of you.

“Not bad,” he said.

You raised a brow. “Not bad?”

He smirked. “Guess we’ll keep you. Though I should probably check the return policy with Robby before the trial period ends.”

Then, lower—just for you: “Though going nipples to navel on that first cut? That’s no man’s land. Bit too risky of a procedure for me to do myself.”

You blinked, thrown off your axis, trying to decide if he was being sarcastic or sincere—or both. “What?”

But Jack was already walking away, gloves off, like he hadn’t just left you standing there like a deer in headlights.

You weren’t expecting to see him either.

Jack Abbot in a tux. Sharp lapels. Cuffs neat. Hair styled but slightly tousled like he hadn’t quite figured out how to look formal without messing it up on purpose. Heat rose to your face, tinting it the color of the rosé being served tonight. 

Turning around, you reached for a flute of champagne to occupy your thoughts. He’d just crossed the room, weaving past a pair of donors discussing their latest golf fundraiser, his eyes never leaving you. The clink of glass and silver faded just enough for you to hear the soft brush of his dress shoes stop beside yours.

“Red,” he said, nodding toward your dress. "Didn’t think it was in your rotation." He caught the soft trace of your perfume just as you inhaled the quiet warmth of his cologne. 

You arched a brow. “Tux? Let me guess—last worn at prom?”

He huffed a laugh. The corner of his mouth tilted. "Wouldn't you like to know."

“Not really,” you smirked.

He leaned a little closer, voice low. "How’d Gloria rope you into this mess?"

You took a sip of champagne, letting the bubbles fizz on your tongue before replying, “She said the hospital needed a pretty face for the press photos.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “And you volunteered willingly, I assume?”

“I did. She said she wanted someone who wasn’t going to mention sock puppets in his opening speech.”

Jack tilted his head. "So you pointed her to literally anyone but me and Robby."

You smiled into your glass. “You and Robby are very pretty. Just not ‘donate-millions-of-dollars’ pretty.”

He cracked a grin. “Fair enough.”

You both leaned back slightly, falling into a rare pocket of easy quiet.

“If I'm being honest,” he said after a breath, “these things make my skin crawl. Donors patting themselves on the back for saving lives they’ve never seen.”

“Agreed,” you murmured. “It’s like they want the moral gold star without the 2 a.m. trauma call. Or the third straight shift without sleep.”

Jack glanced sideways at you. “Or the resident paycheck that barely covers rent.”

You let out a dry laugh. “And definitely not the part where we spend a decade training, rack up six figures of debt, and still have to fight for safe staffing ratios.”

He nodded once, quiet. “But hey, at least they get their name etched onto a plaque of a hallway they'll get lost in.”

"God," you sighed. "I'd love to switch places with them for a day." 

Jack snorted. “Five minutes in a trauma bay and they’d be crying into their cufflinks.”

You were about to take another sip when you paused. “You realize you’re wearing cufflinks.”

“Which is why I’m drinking soda instead of champagne. Keeps me grounded.”

A quiet breath escaped you, the corner of your mouth twitching. “Your commitment to moral superiority is truly inspiring.”

He gave you a narrowed look, not quite smiling but close. “Someone’s gotta keep the place honest.” 

You smiled to yourself, looking down and shaking your head, before excusing yourself to go charm another cluster of donors. “See you around—Jack.”

You’d only ever said his first name once before.

He noticed.

Jack stood there a second too long, stunned, watching your retreating back like he wasn’t sure what just happened—or why it mattered so much.

The patient was coding. Jack was tied up in Room 3 with a liver lac. You were alone when Trauma 2 rolled in—blunt trauma, hypotensive, bleeding out.

You didn’t wait. “I need two large-bore IVs, rapid sequence intubation kit, and thoracotomy tray—stat,” you barked to the team, already moving. “Start the MTP now.”

You slid the laryngoscope in cleanly, tube placed with practiced precision.

“Vitals are dropping,” a nurse called out.

“I know,” you forced out. “Keep pushing the units.”

The tray snapped open beside you. You didn’t hesitate. Just in case.

Abbot walked in right as you pulled your hands back, already prepped.

His eyes flicked from the open thoracotomy tray to the line placement to your gloved hands, bloody up to the wrists. He froze mid-step.

Then, without missing another beat, he stepped in beside you. “What the hell?” he muttered, voice low and calm. He didn’t raise it. He never did when it really mattered.

His presence was immediate—like someone flipping a switch—and suddenly the entire bay adjusted to him, calibrated around the two of you.

You didn’t look at him. Just adjusted your grip and said, “Vitals holding. Pressure’s up.”

“Balloon’s a little high,” he murmured, his voice almost too soft to hear over the hum of monitors.

You didn’t flinch, but your pulse jumped. “Adjusted,” you said, fingers tightening slightly on the handle as you recalibrated, eyes glued to the screen.

A beat passed. Then another.

The pressure crept upward. Slowly. Steadily.

The patient stabilized.

You exhaled quietly through your nose, trying to ignore the chill of adrenaline threading down your spine. Jack was still watching you—too closely. And you couldn’t tell if he was impressed or pissed or both. He didn’t say anything for a long moment.

When you finally looked up, his eyes locked with yours—steady, unreadable, searching like he was still deciding how angry he was allowed to be.

“You never should’ve done that without approval from an attending,” he said quietly, the words measured but firm, laced with something heavier beneath the surface.

You nodded, jaw clenched. “Understood.”

Jack stepped closer. Lowered his voice.

“But that was pretty badass. You just saved a life. Good job.”

Then he turned and left the trauma bay. The moment lingered—his words echoing in your ears louder than they should have.

Every pair of eyes seemed to shift away once he left, the noise of the trauma bay gradually returning to its usual rhythm. Monitors beeped. Carts wheeled past. Gloves peeled off with a quiet snap and hit the bin. Hands—steady during the crisis—now trembled faintly.

Pride lingered. So did fear. And you weren’t sure which feeling was winning.

Outside by the nurses' bay, Jack was leaning against the wall, one foot braced behind him, chart in hand but not moving. His gaze was distant—somewhere far beyond the clipboard. A crooked smirk ghosted across his lips, then faded as quickly as it had come. He was still thinking about what you'd done. How steady your hands had been. How much you'd grown.

He’d been impressed. He’d also been scared.

That kind of procedure… it wasn’t something he’d ever do lightly. And you? You hadn’t hesitated. Not out of recklessness, but because you’d known it was the right call. The only call.

"Ballsy," he muttered under his breath. "Damn near reckless."

But his chest swelled—quietly, privately—with something that felt a lot like pride.

The third time you ran into each other that night, it wasn’t by accident.

You were leaning against a balcony railing, champagne nearly gone. One glass hadn’t been enough to drown out the unbearable jargon and vapid conversations—but you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t go overboard tonight. Just enough to appear socially well-versed. 

The night had cooled, the breeze brushing goosebumps along your bare arms. Jack found you there, hands in his pockets, jacket unbuttoned, eyes catching on the subtle shiver that moved through your frame.

“You always hide from donors this early?” he asked.

You didn’t need to turn to know it was him. You’d heard those footsteps enough times to recognize the rhythm—the soft, sure cadence of someone who never rushed but never wandered. A grin tugged at the corner of your mouth before you could stop it. Subtle. Reflexive. Familiar.

“Only the boring ones.”

He smirked and stepped beside you, pulling his jacket off with one fluid motion.

Before you could say anything, he draped it over your shoulders—slow, deliberate. His fingers brushed your bare arm on the way down. The heat of him lingered even through the fabric. And then there was the scent of his cologne—clean, sharp, and grounded by something warmer beneath it. The scent made your chest ache with something unnameable—familiar, steady, a little too easy to lean into. It curled in your lungs, lingered in the back of your throat. Your knees dipped slightly, an involuntary response you buried with practiced ease. You’d never admit that, of course. Not even to yourself.

“You’ll freeze,” he said, voice quiet, almost an afterthought.

You didn’t correct him. Just glanced up. He was already looking at you.

“You look good,” he said finally.

Your brow raised.

“In red,” he added, softer this time.

You didn’t say thank you. Just looked at him. Let it sit there for a moment—heavy, a little too charged to touch.

"If you keep being nice to me, people are going to start wondering if the sodas were spiked."

That earned you a low chuckle, the corner of his mouth tugging upward in that infuriatingly subtle way he smiled when he actually meant it.

"Guess I'll have to ruin it with a sober insult later," he said.

You gave him a dry stare. "Looking forward to it."

The air between you tightened, warm and brittle. He shifted just slightly closer, like something unspoken pulled him there.

You shot him a sidelong glance, trying to smother the tension with humor. “Don’t you have some attractive widows to go butter up?”

His lips twitched. “Already secured donations from all of them,” he said, only half joking. Then, quieter, with a faint shrug: “None of them were interesting.”

That gave you pause.

“I prefer women with poor work-life balance and sharp comebacks.” He looked at you again, the curve of his mouth bordering on a real smile now. "You?"

"Hm," you hummed to yourself. "I prefer women with competitive streaks and sharp eyeliner. And men with stress-induced insomnia, commitment issues, and the emotional availability of a damp dishrag."

Jack huffed out a quiet laugh. "Bold of you to describe my entire personality like it's a turn-on."

"If the shoe fits," you murmured, toying with your empty glass.

He looked at you then—really looked. Head tilted just enough to feel like he was trying to read something between the lines.

"It’s always the sharp ones," he said. "Cut deepest, don’t they?"

Your lips twitched. "Funny. I was just thinking the same about emotionally repressed men in positions of authority."

"Touché." 

But neither of you moved further.

Jack’s voice lowered, something quieter threading through. “You know, for what it’s worth… I notice. How hard you work. How much you give.”

That caught you off guard. The words settled in your chest, raw and warm. You swallowed around them.

“Then I hope you notice how often it gets overlooked,” you said, voice softer now. “By everyone else.”

His eyes flicked toward yours, something unreadable in them. Like he wanted to say something else. Like maybe he would.

“Hey!”

Robby’s voice cut through the air like a 10-blade.

You turned, blinking back to the present. Robby's head was poking out of the curtains, waving a hand. “Sorry to interrupt your… mood lighting, but I need to help charm this silver fox donor who won’t stop talking about his golf handicap and yacht collection. Won’t stop asking for the 'hot doctor with attitude.' So naturally, I assumed he meant you.”

You glanced back at Jack, reluctant.

He gave you a nod, but didn’t say anything. Just watched you go.

Before you turned to leave, you slid the jacket from your shoulders and held it out to him. Jack stepped forward to take it, but his fingers brushed yours—warm, lingering, just a second longer than necessary. 

His jaw tightened for half a breath—barely perceptible—before he masked it, reaching to take the jacket with a small nod. His fingers brushed yours again as he pulled it into his arms. The warmth still clung to it—so did your scent. Subtle, familiar, something floral and grounding. It curled in his chest as he inhaled, slow and quiet, like he didn’t mean to. As you walked away, you felt the weight of his gaze follow you—sharp, lingering, impossible to shake. Like he was still holding something back—he wasn’t quite ready to let you go.

Once you were gone, he allowed himself to bring the jacket up to his face and breathe in lightly, letting the remaining trace of you settle in his lungs. It lingered—clean, unmistakable, and quietly devastating.

With each year, the line between rivalry and familiarity blurred just a little more.

It wasn’t just that you were the senior-most resident anymore—it was that you were his senior-most resident. The one who matched him pace for pace in trauma bays, who called out orders with the same clipped authority, who rolled your eyes at his sarcastic one-liners only to throw them right back at him.

Jack gave you a hard time. You gave it right back.

It started as cold professionalism. Then it turned sharp. Competitive. Then somehow... comfortable.

“Think you can manage this without slicing through the aorta this time?” Jack murmured once during a late night thoracotomy.

“Only if you don’t pass out from blood loss first, old man,” you replied smoothly.

“Old man,” he repeated under his breath. “Remind me why I let you lead in my trauma bay?”

“Because I’m the best.”

He didn’t respond. Just passed the next instrument with a soft, resigned smirk.

There was a night Shen caught you both bickering over a chart like a married couple.

"The guy had a fever and a murmur—of course I’m thinking endocarditis," you said, exasperated, scribbling into the margins.

"And I’m saying we still need to rule out pulmonary embolism first," Jack shot back, arms crossed, watching you like a hawk.

"I’m writing the note," you reminded him.

"Are you going to type it up for me too?"

"If you want it to be legible."

Jack scoffed, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

That’s when Shen passed by, shook his head, and muttered under his breath, "Just kiss already."

Neither of you responded. Jack’s pen stilled in his hand. You didn’t look at him. He didn’t look at you.

But later that night, as you leaned against the med station reviewing labs, he passed behind you, fingers grazing your lower back as he brushed by.

Casual. Too casual. And yet, your breath caught anyway.

You didn’t talk about it.

You never talked about it.

But it was there, all the same.

Back inside, the ballroom lights felt too bright. You smiled at a passing donor, glass still in hand, but your mind was still outside—on the breeze, on his jacket, on the way Jack had looked at you like he wasn’t ready to let you go.

You found yourself drifting toward the edge of the room, eyes scanning unconsciously. Jack had disappeared into the crowd.

Or so you thought.

“Looking for me?”

You turned to see him at your side again, now holding two drinks—one club soda, one bubbling glass. 

You raised an eyebrow. “Trying to get me trashed on overpriced spirits, Dr. Abbot?”

“I would, if this were alcohol.” He offered the glass to you. “It’s ginger ale.”

You eyed it suspiciously, then took it anyway. “Classy.”

He tilted his head, lips twitching. “You called me Jack earlier.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.” The bubbles soothed your stomach, uneasy from all the talking and dizzy heights of empty small talk. 

The quiet pressed in, heavy and hesitant, neither of you quite ready to fill it—but neither willing to walk away. 

“Well, Dr. L/N,” he said, tone dipping into something light but curious, “how do you plan on spending the rest of your evening?”

You gave him a half-smile. “Getting some sleep. Or trying to.” You looked back out across the ballroom, then added, “I talked to Robby earlier—offered to be on-call for day shift tomorrow. Filling in for Langdon.”

Jack’s brows lifted. “Aren't you supposed to be off?”

“Yup. So are you,” you said, glancing at him.

His mouth twitched, but he didn’t deny it. You both knew the pattern by now—same days off, same shifts. Neither of you had ever pointed it out.

“What else would I do on a Friday?” There was something brittle in the joke, something quieter under it. “Work keeps me occupied.” 

Jack watched you for a second longer, then said, softer this time, “You shouldn’t have to keep yourself occupied. It's okay to take a breather.”

You let out a dry breath of a laugh, the edge of a smile curling—biting, but small. “That’s rich coming from the only other person who works as many shifts as I do.”

Jack didn’t answer. He just stepped a little closer.

“You could’ve said no to being on-call,” he said. “Could’ve said you had plans.”

“I do,” you retorted. “Sleep for three hours. Chug coffee. Go back.”

Jack tipped his head, like he was trying to read more into your tone than you meant to give away. “Y/N—”

The name stopped you cold. You took a half-step back before you could think better of it, reflexive and immediate, voice clipped and low. “Don’t.”

That caught him off guard.

“I—sorry,” he said, brows furrowing slightly. “I just—”

“It’s fine,” you said quickly, too quickly. 

Jack looked at you then, something close to understanding flickering in his eyes. As though he remembered, too. How could he forget? 

The first time he'd said your name.

Blood on your scrubs. Tears in your throat. A patient you couldn't save.

He didn’t say anything else. Just nodded once, slowly, and let you go.

Then, just as his mouth parted to say something else—

“Dr. Abbot!” Gloria’s voice rang out from the other end of the ballroom, hand ushering him to come over. “The donor from Penn wants a word before he leaves!”

Jack clenched his jaw. His eyes lingered on yours.

“Rain check,” he said, voice low.

You didn’t answer, just gave a small nod as he walked away. And for a long moment after, you stayed where you were, ginger ale sweating in your hand.

You didn’t know it at the time, but this was the moment you’d remember whenever someone asked when medicine stopped being just medicine.

The trauma call came in: car accident, two parents and a child, maybe 8 or 9. The parents were in rough shape but still awake, still responsive—moaning through cracked ribs and splintered glass. The kid, though—blunt force, GCS 3 on arrival. Completely unresponsive. You felt it in your gut before the vitals even came in. 

Jack was across the bay when the doors opened. He looked up once—nodded at you. “You’re lead. I'll stabilize the parents." 

You didn’t hesitate. Airway, trauma labs, two large-bore IVs. Portable chest. Fast scan. You called it all before the stretcher stopped moving.

The child’s body was limp. Small. Already pale. The pressure in your chest felt like a dam ready to burst. 

You intubated with steady hands, but your voice faltered—just slightly—when you called for epinephrine. Jack appeared beside you somewhere around the second round of compressions, gloves on, silent. Watching. Present.

“Vitals still unstable,” someone called from behind you. “BP 62 over palp. Pulse weak. We’re pushing TXA now.” At least he'd stabilized the parents, you thought. If he could save them, you could save their little girl. 

Four bags of blood and 18 minutes of chest compressions. The monitor stayed flat.

Still, you kept going. Pushing meds. Calling for another round. Someone offered to take over for compressions, murmured that you needed a break. You shook your head. “I’m fine.”

Then again, more firmly. “I’ve got it.”

No one tried to argue. You were lead. You had it.

Even as your arms began to ache. Even as the blood kept pooling, the compressions rhythmically jarring through your bones. You wouldn’t stop. Couldn’t. The team was moving around you, quiet, reverent.

Then Jack stepped in closer.

“Monitor hasn't picked up a rhythm in 12 minutes,” he said gently. “We can't keep up with the blood loss. There's too much internal damage. You know this.”

You shook your head, barely perceptible, and kept going. Compressing, counting, calling for another round of epi.

Jack’s voice stayed level. “Anyone else would’ve been pronounced dead at the scene.”

You ignored him. Just a few more compressions and transfusions and she'd come back. 

Then—

“Y/N.”

That made you freeze.

Your name. His voice.

Your hands were still trembling against the child’s chest.

You looked at the monitor. Heard the continuous tone. Flatline.

No pulse.

“Call it,” Jack pleaded softly.

Your voice was quiet. Hoarse. Cold.

“Time of death, 03:17.”

You stepped back, stripped your gloves off slowly. Fingers stained with blood you couldn’t stop from spilling. Jack said nothing. He didn’t leave.

You swallowed hard, trying to force the tears down. To breathe through the break in your chest.

Jack didn’t touch you this time. He just stood there.

Let you fall apart, silently.

Then you ripped off your gloves and threw them hard into the bin, the sound louder than it had any right to be. You turned and stormed out of the trauma bay without looking back, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

That was the first time he said your name.

And it pulled you back. You never forgot it.

Sometimes you wished you had.

Back inside, the music had changed.

You’d barely rejoined the crowd when the lights dimmed and the emcee called out for the first dance of the evening.

Across the ballroom, Jack saw you before you saw him. You were standing near the edge of the crowd, nursing the last of your drink, the weight of something invisible pressing into your posture.

But you weren’t alone. A tall man—one of the younger donors—had his hand on your arm, leaning in to say something. He offered you his hand.

Jack’s jaw tensed.

He didn’t move—at first. Just watched as you smiled politely, took the man's hand, let him lead you to the dance floor.

It was brief. Chaste. Just a dance. But Jack hated the way the guy's hand lingered at your waist. Hated how close he stood, how you nodded along to something he said, even if your smile didn’t reach your eyes.

A minute later, you gently swapped out with Robby, excusing yourself from your first partner. Robby took your hand with a flourish and spun you once like a game show host. You smiled for the first time in hours. 

"You okay?" he asked gently, settling into a slower sway with you.

You shrugged. "Long week."

Robby gave you a dad-look. "Anything in particular on your mind, or just the usual existential dread?"

A quiet laugh escaped, softer than you meant for it to. "Just the usual, I guess."

For a while, the two of you swayed in silence. Robby’s gaze stayed soft. "You’ve been a little quiet lately. Even more than usual. You sleeping okay? Eating?"

Instead of answering right away, your eyes drifted to his shoulder. "I’m fine."

"You always say that. Doesn’t mean I believe it."

A small, grateful smile curved your lips. Robby always knew how to make space—never too much, never too little. He left the door open without pushing you through it.

"You know I’ve got your back, right kid? You ever need to talk, about anything, even the stuff you think you’re not supposed to say out loud—come find me."

"Thanks, Robby. I mean it."

He gave your hand a gentle squeeze. "I know you do."

A voice cut in—low and smooth.

"Mind if I cut in?"

You turned.

Jack stood there, one hand extended. He didn’t look at Robby. He didn’t need to.

Robby chuckled under his breath and stepped aside. "She’s all yours."

Jack’s eyes met yours, steady and unreadable.

“Dance with me?” he asked, softer than you'd expected.

For a second, you didn’t answer. Your breath caught, mind still echoing with the last time you’d heard him say your name.

But then you nodded—slow, tentative—and slid your hand into his.

He guided you gently into step, the rhythm of the music slower than your pulse. His hand settled against your waist, warm and sure, like it had always belonged there. The other laced with yours, a silent tether.

You moved together with a surprising ease, like muscle memory forged in proximity, not practice. It wasn’t just a dance—it was a conversation. A quiet exchange, careful and cautious. Every shift of weight, every brush of fingers was a sentence neither of you dared speak aloud.

You didn’t look up right away. Couldn't. The proximity was dizzying. It wasn’t the champagne. It was him.

Jack’s voice came, low and even. “You always this good at pretending everything’s fine?”

You finally glanced up, something caught between a smile and a flinch playing on your face. “Only when I’m trying to impress a colleague.”

His mouth twitched, barely. “That why you always pull it together when I’m around?”

You didn’t answer.

Gliding across the floor, you felt like you were floating. And still, the weight of his hand at your waist grounded you.

You weren’t sure which was more dangerous: the silence, or the closeness.

“I used to think if I kept moving, I wouldn’t have to feel any of it,” you said, voice barely above the swell of the music. “But some things catch up to you anyway.”

Jack’s grip shifted slightly, not tighter, just… more present. “Running works—until it doesn’t.”

A beat passed.

“I don’t run,” you said quietly.

He met your eyes. “No. You bury it. Same result, different damage.”

You exhaled through your nose, something between a laugh and a sigh. “Funny. Thought we were dancing, not diagnosing.”

“We can do both,” he said, dry but not unkind. “I go to therapy. You slow dance at charity galas.”

Your gaze flicked to his lips, then away. “Guess my way is cheaper since I'm not paying for any of the wine or dine.”

Jack’s hand at your waist didn’t budge. If anything, it steadied you more.

“Y/N,” he said after a moment, voice gentler now. Like he was handing something over. Like he wanted you to take it.

Your shoulders tensed. Jaw muscles flexed. 

He noticed.

You looked up, met his gaze, and said, quieter than before but with unmistakable weight, “Jack, you’re walking on thin ice.”

He didn’t flinch. But something flickered in his expression—something equal parts affection and surrender.

You only used each other’s names when it mattered.

The only difference was: he loved it. You hated it.

The hospital had quieted for the night, but the kind of quiet that screamed underneath.

You assisted on his last case—another loss, but this one had cut deeper than usual. Maybe it was the way Jack had gone cold, all clinical control and efficiency… until the voice crack. Just a flicker. A tremor. He’d kept going, ordering transfusions, calling vitals, his tone even until it wasn’t. You saw it—behind the focused eyes, there was fear.

You were the one standing next to him when he finally called it.

You found him up there—on the roof—where the city lights couldn’t quite wash out the weight in his shoulders. Jack was staring out past the edge, hands in his coat pockets, the wind catching just enough to make his scrubs flutter at the hem.

You didn’t speak right away. Just stood a few paces behind him, letting your presence fill the space before your voice did.

“I figured I’d find you up here.”

Jack didn’t turn. “Shouldn’t you be home?”

“I had to wrap up some charting.”

A beat.

“They were a veteran,” he said. “Had a daughter who just got into college.”

You took a step closer. “That wasn’t your fault.”

He let out a quiet, humorless sound. “I know. Doesn’t help.”

You hesitated, then moved beside him, standing shoulder to shoulder.

“I must have had a reason at one time to keep coming back," he murmured, “but I can't think of it right now."

You didn’t have an answer.

But you said his name.

“Jack.”

It was the first time you’d said it out loud. Not Dr. Abbot. Not anything guarded. Just him.

He turned then, slowly.

“Don’t shut down on me,” you said. “Not tonight.”

The wind carried your words away, but he heard them. You saw it in the way his jaw tightened. The way his shoulders dropped just slightly.

“I don’t know how to stay,” he said, voice rough. 

“You don’t have to stay alone.”

He glanced at you then—just briefly, like eye contact might split him open.

You searched his face, thinking back to the moment in the trauma bay where he called it. Where his voice cracked but didn’t waver. Where his gloved hands were steady even though his eyes gave him away. You’d never seen him look like that before—so composed, so clinical, and still, so unmistakably human.

The memory stuck to your ribs.

“I know it’s not fair,” you said, voice low. “That we carry the worst of them home. That we never get to know if we were enough.”

Jack didn’t speak. But he didn’t move either. That was something. So you added, a little too soft, “But you are. You are enough.”

A long silence.

Then, to break it—because it felt like too much—you rolled your shoulder and said, “Robby’s gonna kick your ass if you jump off during his shift.”

Jack huffed, the sound barely audible but real.

“Come on,” you added, nodding toward the stairwell. “Let’s get off this roof before someone reports us for loitering.”

You didn't move.

Not yet.

Just stood there in silence, waiting—not because you needed him to follow, but because you weren’t going anywhere without him.

And Jack came. Eventually. Quiet and heavy and slow, the shuffle of his shoes steadying against the roof's concrete.

He didn’t say anything. Just stepped beside you, close enough to share warmth but not break space.

Then you walked. Together. Not quite brushing shoulders, but close enough to feel it. Close enough to stay.

The night had grown heavier.

Somehow, you and Jack had found your way back to the balcony—again. It was quieter out here, the city humming beneath you, wind tugging softly at your hair. Your skin still held the memory of his hand at your waist. The music inside was muffled now, like the two of you had stepped out of the narrative entirely.

Jack leaned against the railing, but his gaze never left you. Something about the way he was looking—like he’d been holding back something for far too long.

You crossed your arms, more to anchor yourself than anything. “You’re staring.”

“You said my name,” he replied, voice low.

Your throat tightened. “You started it.”

He pushed off the railing, slow and deliberate. “You know what I mean.”

You didn’t back away. But your voice came sharper this time, more breath than warning. “Don’t. Don’t start something neither of us can come back from.”

That gave him pause. He looked like he wanted to say something—maybe everything—but bit it back. Jaw tight. Shoulders tense.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” Jack said. “But I can't keep pretending this is nothing.”

With a quiet breath, he confessed. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Your heart tripped.

“I try,” he continued, voice cracking. “God, I’ve tried. But you show up in every shift. Every damn quiet moment. I hear your voice when I walk through those doors. I look for you at every trauma call. And when you’re not there, it’s worse.”

You didn’t speak.

“I’ve been through hell,” he went on, stepping closer, “seen things I still don’t have names for—but none of it scares me the way you do. Because this?” He gestured between you. “This is real. And if I say it out loud, I don’t get to pretend anymore.”

Your breath hitched. “Jack…”

He looked at you, eyes tired and wide open. “Say something. Please.”

Your voice came out thinner than you meant. “You're my attending, we’re not supposed to—”

“I don’t care.”

The silence cracked wide open between you.

You let out a breath—shaky, exasperated.

"Fuck," you said, voice breaking. "What do you want me to say? That I can't stop thinking about you either? That I see your eyes every time I close mine—your smile, rare as it is, stuck in my head like a damn echo? That I come home and swear I can still smell your cologne because it’s the only thing that brings me any sense of comfort?"

Your hands were trembling now. You didn’t stop—couldn't.

"Pretending this means nothing is easier than risking what happens if it actually matters. Because if it does—Jack—"

Jack caught you before you could even get the words out. His mouth was on yours, rough and unyielding, and you didn’t stop him. Didn’t want to. You kissed him like you meant it, because fucking hell, did you mean it. 

When your back hit the wall beside the balcony doors with a quiet thud, he pressed closer, hands framing your jaw like you were something to be memorized.

There was nothing polite in the way you touched each other now. Just years of tension, unspoken things, and the desperate need to feel something real.

You didn’t let go.

Neither did he.

His lips trailed lower, brushing the hinge of your jaw before nipping gently at your neck. The sound you made—half breath, half shock—only seemed to spur him on.

“Then don’t pretend,” Jack whispered against your skin, voice rough and reverent. “Let yourself have this. Let us have this.”

Your hands cradled the sides of his face, fingers brushing across his cheekbones. All these years spent by his side and you hadn’t taken the time to admire his freckles.

You leaned in again, pressing your lips to his—slower now, deeper. One of his hands slid down your back, splaying across the small of it as if anchoring you in place. The other tangled into your hair, careful but needing.

You gasped when his hips met yours again, your breath catching between kisses. He pulled back just enough to look at you, cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide.

"I need you," you finally said.

And that was all he needed.

He rushed to close the curtains on the inside and lock the balcony doors before returning to you. 

Your world narrowed to the way his mouth reclaimed yours, the press of his body, the heat building like a fuse lit too close to the end. Somewhere in the distance, the city kept moving. But here, in the quiet shelter of the balcony, there was only this.

Jack dropped to his knees, the motion fluid. You sucked in a breath as his hands slid up the backs of your thighs, coaxing one leg upward until your heel hooked over his shoulder. Your foot pressed gently against the curve of his back.

He tugged at the hem of your dress. You were already holding the hem of your dress, bunching it at your hips with practiced ease. The lace of your underwear was delicate, barely in the way—he hooked a finger around the side, sliding it with a slow, deliberate motion that made your breath hitch.

You were already soaked, and the way his eyes flicked up confirmed he knew it. He looked up at you once, eyes dark and unwavering, before leaning in.

His mouth was slow at first—exploring, learning you. The way your breath stuttered when his tongue found a sensitive spot, the way your fingers clenched in his hair. “You taste just as incredible as I imagined,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. When he inserted a finger and curled towards himself, you nearly buckled.

You didn’t mean to cry out, but it slipped past your lips, helpless and raw. Your hand flew up to cover your mouth, which made him smirk. He caught your elbow with his free hand, gently but insistently, pulling your hand away and intertwining your fingers into his hair. You gave his curls a tug and were met with a moan. It was impossible to hide the smug grin that painted your face.

“I want to hear you,” he murmured, voice thick with heat. His voice dipped lower, rougher.

You felt the press of the marble wall cool behind you as your back arched. One hand flew to the wall, the other gripping his shoulder as he kept going—steadfast, focused, like you were the only thing that existed. Like this was something he'd been starving for.

And maybe you had been too. Because every sound, every gasp that left you was honest.

You hiked your knee higher, anchoring your heel along the dip of his back. The dress had long since stopped mattering.

Jack’s grip tightened, one hand digging into the curve of your ass as he anchored you against the wall. His other hand slipped between your thighs, fingers sliding inside you with precision, curling until your legs nearly gave out.

"Jack, I'm—" You moaned into your clenched teeth, the sound too loud, too needy—but he wanted it, taking it in like oxygen.

Your head fell back against the wall with a soft thud, eyes fluttering closed as your breath came in shallow, stuttering waves. He didn’t let up. The rhythm was relentless, mouth and hand working in tandem, dragging you closer to the edge with every sweep, every flick, drinking you like water from a desert oasis. He stopped only when you tapped his cheek twice, silently begging for mercy. 

Your skin glistened, painted with heat. Before he pulled away, Jack leaned in again, his tongue tracing the trails of your release up your inner thigh with slow, savoring strokes. Each pass of his mouth made you twitch, gasp, overstimulated but unwilling to stop. He kissed the soft skin in their wake.

When he finally looked up, his face was just as wrecked, jaw set and glistening with you. And the look in his eyes when he glanced up—hungry, worshipful—was enough to ruin you.

His lips were parted just slightly, chest rising and falling in quick, uneven bursts. “God, you’re perfect.” His eyes lifted to meet yours with something close to divine awe.

It came out quiet—like a confession he'd finally allowed himself to say out loud.

You leaned down and kissed him, tasting yourself on his tongue. He let out a low, contented sound against your mouth, one hand tightening around your thigh, the other still steadying your hip. You could feel the tension in him—tender, aching—as if the moment might slip through his fingers if he didn’t hold it close.

Your fingers slipped into your dress, pulling free a small foil square tucked just inside the cup of your bra. Jack blinked down at it, then back up at you, clearly caught off guard.

He raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

You shrugged, breathless. "Was holding it for a friend."

Jack smirked, eyes dragging down your body. "Sure you were."

You made quick work of his belt, unbuckling it and pushing his pants down just enough.

“He talks too much,” you muttered, smirking.

You looked down.

And stopped.

He was perfect. Cut, trimmed, thick, just the right length. The kind of sight that made your breath hitch. Your hand slid along his length with a few firm pumps—just enough to make him hiss between his teeth.

You couldn't resist. Lowered to your knees, gave him a few languid licks, savoring the taste. He whimpered, his hand gently gripping your hair—but not pulling, not yet.

After a few more pumps, Jack pulled you up by the chin with a bruising kiss, swallowing your gasp.

“I’m not coming anywhere but inside you,” he growled against your lips.

You smiled, teasing. “Maybe next time, then.” Your fingers trailed down the front of his dress shirt, feeling the heat of his body even through the fabric—muscles taut and firm beneath your touch.

Then you turned, facing the wall—cheeks hot, breath short. One hand braced flat against the cool marble, the other gathering the bunched fabric of your dress. You looked over your shoulder, eyes dark with want.

Jack swore under his breath. He moved behind you in a blur, hands rough on your hips as he lined himself up. The heat of him pressed against you, teasing, maddening.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice lower than gravel.

You pushed back, just enough for him to sink in, slow and deliberate. He filled you up inch by inch, warm and hot and perfect, making you gasp as your forehead pressed to the wall.

His hands wrapped around your hips as he bottomed out, his mouth dragging along your neck, teeth grazing your skin until he whispered a sharp, broken "fuck"—more to himself than to you. Like he was trying not to explode.

You tried to move, just a little forward, a little back—restless with need—but his hands tightened.

“Don’t,” he breathed. “Just—just give me a second. You feel fucking incredible.”

“Jack,” you whimpered.

If he clenched his teeth any harder, he might've popped his jaw. "Fuck, I love when you call me by my name."

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “Please.”

That undid him.

He gripped your hips tighter, fingertips digging into your supple flesh—just shy of bruising. The pain was delicious, grounding you to every thrust, every second of connection, hips rocking forward, slowly at first—deep, deliberate, like he wanted to feel every inch of you from the inside out. Each thrust sent a spark up your spine, your moans echoing softly. His mouth returned to your neck, biting just enough to leave a mark, his breath hot against your skin.

"You feel too good," he muttered, almost like it hurt. "Too good."

You tried to respond, but the words got lost somewhere in your throat as his pace picked up—harder, deeper, everything building.

Your hands flattened against the wall, bracing yourself as your body rocked with his rhythm. It was dizzying—overwhelming—in all the best ways. Every drag of his hips made your knees tremble, every grunt and growl in your ear pushed you closer to unraveling.

Without warning, he turned you around to face him. His eyes were blown wide, pupils dilated, chest heaving. He lifted your left leg with his right hand, supporting your thigh against his side as he surged forward again.

The angle had you seeing stars—vision spinning as he hit that spot inside you with maddening precision. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders as your head dropped forward against his.

Your hands clasped behind his neck, holding tight, desperate to keep him there. You raked your fingers through his curls, tugging hard enough to make him moan—and dragged your nails lightly down the back of his neck, leaving a faint trail of heat in their wake. His mouth found yours again—tongue hot, hungry—kissing you like he needed it to breathe. His left hand anchored you by the hip, grinding you against him as his rhythm deepened, pulling another cry from your throat.

There was nothing left but heat, hands, breath. And the way he looked at you like you were the only thing he'd ever wanted—needed.

"I'm yours," he whispered, forehead resting against yours, voice ragged. It wasn’t a declaration—it was a truth. Raw and full and real.

Your lips brushed his, trembling. “And I’m yours.”

The moment cracked open between you. You kissed him—desperate, hungry, chasing the high you were both barely holding onto.

You felt yourself teetering, the peak just within reach. Jack looked like he was holding back, focusing on keeping every muscle drawn tight with restraint—putting your pleasure before his. But you needed him there with you, completely.

You leaned into his ear, breath hot. “I need you to cum for me, Jack.” His fingers dug deeper into your hip. "I need you to fill me up."  Your knee wrapped tighter around his torso, drawing him impossibly closer as you held him to you, clinging like he was the only thing keeping you grounded. You bit the curve of his neck, sharp and claiming.

That was all it took.

He let out a guttural sound, hips stuttering as he came undone, pulling you with him into a release that felt like freefall—earth-shattering and unrelenting.

Your release crashed through you moments after his, drawn out and all-consuming. Every nerve lit up, your body shaking with the intensity of it. It wasn’t like anything else—no drug, no high. Just him. You. This.

For a long beat, neither of you moved. Your breath came in broken gasps, foreheads pressed together, bodies trembling in the aftermath. Sweaty. Beautiful. And quiet.

Jack’s hand smoothed up your spine, grounding you. His lips brushed your temple, and the world finally began to settle back into place.

He gently brushed strands of damp hair from your face, fingers tender where they swept against your skin. The breeze caught a few pieces, but they clung to the sheen on your cheeks. When you finally let your leg down, your knees buckled slightly. Jack caught you without hesitation—arms strong, sure, keeping you steady as your weight shifted. You clung to him without thinking, hands gripping his shoulders like a lifeline. When you finally loosened your grip, he didn’t let go right away—his arms still braced around you like muscle memory, like instinct.

Pulling back, you realized what a disheveled mess the two of you were. 

You reached up and smoothed down the front of his shirt, fixing the lapels of his suit, tugging the hem of his jacket into place. Thankfully whatever hair gel he used was bulletproof, only a curl or two out of place. He brushed his fingers along your hairline, gently tucking back strands that had come loose, then adjusted the strap of your dress where it had slipped off your shoulder.

There was a beat of silence—comfortable, but heavy.

Clearing your throat, you tried to gather your thoughts. “I, uh…”

Jack’s eyes remained a little dazed, as if he was still anchoring himself to the moment.

A breath escaped you—half-laugh, half-exhale. “Tea. I was gonna ask if you wanted to come back to mine for tea.”

He blinked once, then his lips quirked.

“Tea?”

“Yeah,” you said, half-smiling. “Or, like… whatever. Just to wind down. You don’t have to.”

Jack shook his head once, slow. “Only if you’re not just holding it for a friend.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too. “You’re welcome anytime, Jack. You know that, right?”

His gaze softened. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I do.”

You nodded once, awkward and earnest. “Cool. Good. Great.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “You always this smooth after balcony sex?”

You shot him a glare filled with playful menace. "Depends. You always this cocky after someone invites you over for tea?”

He smiled—one of those rare ones, small and sideways. “Only when it’s not just for the tea.”

You groaned. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah,” he said again, softer this time. “But I’m yours, remember?”

You tilted your head, smirking. “Return policy on that is… nonexistent, right?”

His smile widened just a touch. “For as long as you’ll have me.”

“Careful, Jack. That almost sounded romantic.”

He chuckled, then sobered just enough to meet your eyes. “Maybe it was.”

The breeze danced around you both again, brushing cool air against warm skin. Still, the embers between you remained.

“Come on,” you said, tugging gently at his hand. “Let’s go before someone realizes we’ve been out here defiling the sacred balcony.”

He followed without hesitation. Fingers laced with yours.

This time, neither of you looked back. 

<3

[jiarkives]

julia’s favorites ! (vii)

♡ - fluff ; ♤ - angst ; ☆ - series

criminal minds

♡ can we have one? - spencer reid, wife!reader ft. platonic!aaron hotchner, platonic!jack hotchner

↳ @qlossytbh

♡♤ cryptic - spencer reid

↳ @pathologicalreid

♤♡ it’s not your fault - spencer reid

↳ @dreamsontheirway

♡ in the mirror of your eyes, my love, my life - spencer reid

↳ @cerisereids

♡♤ 24 hours - spencer reid

↳ @radiant-reid

♡ blurb - derek morgan

♡ blurb - aaron hotchner, pregnant!reader

↳ @luveline

♡ sweet and right and merciful - spencer reid

↳ @januaryembrs

~

a court of thorns and roses

☆ just a little bit of your heart - azriel, pregnant!reader

↳ @fieldofdaisiies

☆ not again - azriel (throne of glass crossover!)

↳ @fanwarriorfictions

♡ take it off - azriel ft. platonic!cassian

↳ @florencemtrash

♡♤ shadows entwined - azriel

♡♤ shadows of secrets - azriel, archeron!reader

♤♡ secrets with the shadowsinger - azriel, tamlin’s sister!reader

↳ @small-z24

♡♤ take it slow - azriel, cassian, rhysand (poly!)

♡ late night drive - modern!cassian

↳ @danikamariewrites

♡ finally found you - eris vanserra, stark!reader (marvel crossover!)

↳ @marvelsmylife

♡ head in the clouds - rhysand

↳ @serpentandlily

♤♡ the time traveller’s husband - rhysand

↳ @utterlyotterlyx

♤ we lay here - cassian

↳ @invisible-lint

♡♤ (what if?) all i need is you - azriel

↳ @empiresofstorm

♡ azriel’s girls - azriel

↳ @daycourtofficial

♡♤ long story short - single dad!cassian, best friend!reader

↳ @flickering-chandelier

♤♡ here without you - azriel

↳ @readychilledwine

♡ body count - azriel

↳ @illyrianbitch

♡ scratches - azriel

↳ @padyprongs

♡ i’ve been waiting for you — azriel, seer!reader

♡ i’ve been waiting for you (bonus) — azriel, seer!reader

↳ @prythianpages

~

marauders

♡♤ thank you, mclaggen - james potter

♡ whimsical!reader - james potter, remus lupin, sirius black (poly!)

♡ peace & quiet [& sirius] - regulus black, mute!reader

↳ @ellecdc

♡ blurb - remus lupin

↳ @ahqkas

~

marvel

♡ finally found you - eris vanserra, stark!reader (marvel crossover!)

↳ @marvelsmylife

♤ 1 missed call - tasm!peter parker

↳ @liz-allyn

♤♡ the last time - tasm!peter parker

↳ @wokeupinmars

♤♡ he hates me, doesn’t he? - bucky barnes

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♡ drunk!reader - bucky barnes

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♤♡ you were my sunshine - bucky barnes

↳ @literaryavenger

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dc

♤ through the fire - jason todd ft. batmom!reader

↳ @hannibals-favourite-meal

~

jujutsu kaisen

♡♤ college boy!sukuna accidentally knocking you up - modern!sukuna, pregnant!reader

↳ @yuujispinkhair

♕ divider — @bunnysrph

[bullet-prooflove]

Champagne Gold: Jack Abbot x Reader (NSFW)

Tagging: @kmc1989 @cosmic-psychickitty @ilariyalavorowrites @spooky-librarian-ghost

Companion piece to:

The Asshole King - Jack discovers you have an unusual technique for dealing with patients.

Bob Dylan - You help Jack to relax after an incident at the hospital leaves him temporarily blind.

Because Of You - Jack realises he's starting to heal in more ways than one after you spend the day taking care of him.

Balance - Jack reveals his feelings for you but they come with complications.

Off Limits - An awkward start to the day leads Jack to make a claim on your affections.

Hawaii - Jack discovers who he really is when you book a trip to Hawaii.

Silk (NSFW) - Jack loves the sight of you in silk.

Boston - You reflect on the past after your ex-husband makes an appearance on a trying day.

This God Damn Fucking Day - Jack steps into the fray with things get messy between you and you ex-husband.

Misdemeanour - Jack's forced to step in when you get arrested because of your ex-husband.

Fishtail - Jack helps you decompress in the aftermath of your ex-husband.

Love Language (NSFW) - Jack has his own unique love language.

What Puts You On That Ledge - Jack finds away to pull you off that ledge.

After Maria died, Jack never thought he’d get married again.

He never thought he’s stand at the end of another aisle watching the most beautiful woman he’s ever laid eyes on walk towards him in a champagne gold wedding dress, one that shimmers as she walks. You look ethereal with a matching laurel wreath head piece threaded through your hair.

“Christ.” He says to Robby who stands beside him, his hands clasped together in front of him. “She’s goddamn beautiful.”

Robby doesn’t respond, he simply clears his throat because you’re already there standing in front of Jack and he’s completely in awe of you.

“You sure you wanna marry me?” He asks gruffly as you take his trembling hands in your own and you give him that sweet smile, the one he fell in love with that morning he gave you a ride home, Bob Dylan playing over the speakers in his car.

“Jack.” You say squeezing his hands lightly. “I’ve never wanted anything so badly in my life.”

***

When Jack recounts his wedding day, he tells people the reception was his favourite part. Everything from the first dance to Bob Dylan’s ‘Wedding Song’ to the casino that was hosted on the lower floor of the venue, where he won a shit load of money.

The truth is it was the wedding night. Him sitting before you on the edge of that bed in the bridal suite, watching you undress for him.

It’s as the material falls into a pile at your feet that he gets one of the biggest surprises. A tiny champagne gold G-string and the prettiest heart shaped pasties covering your nipples.

“I wanted something special for you.” You whisper as he reaches up, his thumb chasing over the tiny rhinestones that decorated them. “And I know how much you like fucking my tits.”

You are a goddamn gift from heaven, he thinks as you sink down onto your knees and help him out of his trousers. He’s already leaking by the time his cock springs free. You arch your back, thrusting your tits out, trapping his dick in the space between. That drop of pre-cum smears across the top of your breasts and his breath catches as you squeeze your tits together and start to move.

“You gonna let me have all the fun tonight?” He mutters, his palm cradling your face, his thumb tracing over the pert shape of your mouth. The light from the chandelier above glints off those rhinestones and already he can feel the ecstasy chasing through his nerve endings as he ruts against your chest. “We keep going like this we’ll be seeing fireworks before I get to enjoy the rest of you.”

“Well let’s change that up shall we?” You murmur as you shift positions, straddling his lap instead. That tiny scrap of fabric you call a G-string rubs across the tip of his cock, separating the two of you. He grabs the tiny strap in his fist, snapping it before he tosses the panties off to one side.

“Opps.” He smirks before his gaze strays to your pussy and he huffs out a laugh. He reaches between the two of you, his fingertips tracing over the gold speckles of glitter and the rhinestones that decorate your bareness. “You really are just full of surprises aren’t you?”

“Oh Jack baby.” You whisper in his ear, your teeth grazing his earlobe, tugging it lightly between your teeth. “I just wanted to make sure you remember this night for the rest of your life.”

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[freeabortionslol]

don't marry him (quinn hughes x bsf!reader) ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

summary: angst, quinn talks reader out of engagement, unrequited love (kinda), reader is a lawyer, lots of flashbacks, italics mean flashbacks, not a single y/n used (yay!) warnings!! anxiety, panic attacks, cursing, intense argument a/n: okay so I rly didn't know what to do with this bc it honestly felt wrong to have him confess his feelings in this moment LMAO so I think I'm def gonna do a pt 2. anyways this was the fic from my drafts that the people voted for so here it is!! hope u enjoy :)

wc: 4.1k

“You lost.” Quinn said, staring out at the Lake, not making eye contact with you.

“What?” You asked, twirling your flashy engagement ring around your finger. 

Max had come into your life at a time when everything felt uncertain. You were fresh off a series of career setbacks, questioning your worth and your ability to build the future you had always dreamed of. He was steady, charismatic, and above all, ambitious. Qualities you admired and felt you needed to anchor yourself. He made you feel secure in a world that often felt chaotic.

Quinn sighed, turning to face you slightly. “At life. You lost.” He mumbled out, taking a sip of his beer before turning back to the lake. Your face quickly softened with a hint of sadness.

“I-I didn’t lose. I’m happy and successful.” You said, your tone coming off with a hint of anger. 

You and Max met at a work conference, one of those overly formal events where you spent half the time pretending to be interested in panel discussions and the other half networking. Max had approached you during a coffee break, his easy confidence setting him apart from the crowd. His suit was perfectly tailored, his smile sharp but not unkind.

Quinn took one look at you, shifting in his seat slightly. “Y-You…you don’t want this.” Your heart thumped slightly, cracking your knuckles to drown out the sounds of your own thoughts. “I’m scared for you.” 

Max’s love came with conditions. He valued success above all else, and he expected you to do the same. Work always came first, even if it meant skipping family events or cutting vacations short for a meeting. He didn’t understand why you needed to spend time with Quinn, Luke, and Jack.

“Quinn, I love him. You know that.” Your brows furrowed in an attempt to make him understand. 

The engagement came as a surprise, even to you. It was during a charity gala, one of those glittering events Max thrived in. He had pulled you onto the stage during his speech, getting down on one knee in front of hundreds of people. The ring sparkled under the chandeliers, and the applause was deafening. You had said yes because saying no didn’t feel like an option. Not with Max’s expectant smile, the cameras flashing, and the weight of the moment pressing down on you.

“But do you like him?” His words sent a shiver down your spine as you continued to fidget with the ring on your finger. The ring that was far too heavy to be wearing constantly, its band made of gold instead of your preferred silver. His words hung in the air, the weight of them sinking in your chest like a stone tossed in the still waters of the lake. His gaze remained fixed ahead, unwavering.

Max wasn’t a bad man. He wasn’t cruel or unkind. But he didn’t see you, not the way Quinn did. He saw your potential, your ambition, but not the person you were when all the noise fell away.

“I-I…I don’t- of course I like him. What are you getting at?” You stuttered, confused about your own feelings on the matter. Quinn glanced at you with a side eye, taking another swig from his bottle before speaking.

“Really?” He asked, his heart shattering at the sight of tears welling in your eyes. “I see the face you make when he talks. It’s blank, unreadable. And when he laughs? Your eyes scrunch up like when we would drag you out of bed to get on the boat.” Quinn lets out an uncomfortable chuckle. “You really want to wake up next to his mustache every morning for the rest of your life?” You roll your eyes, posture slumping.

“Don’t make fun of him.” You warned, your voice becoming stern. Quinn bites the inside of his mouth before turning away. “I’m successful, Quinn.”

“Yeah-yeah, that’s great. You have all the fuckin’ money you could’ve wished for.” He huffs out with a sarcastic smile.

“Don’t do that. Don’t make me sound materialistic-” You crossed your arms, Quinn cutting you off quickly.

“Well it’s kind of hard when all you do is work and work-” His voice raises significantly.

“This is my dream! If you can’t accept the fact that i’m happy-”

“Yeah! And you’re so damn caught up in it that you don’t have time for us anymore!” He yells, sending you a look of anger. One you’d never seen before. He breathes heavily, trying to calm himself down as he moves to the edge of his seat. His eyes soften when he catches your expression, scared. He sighs reluctantly before he speaks again. “Luke notices the way you brush him off when Max is around. He notices how you never fly out to Jersey to see him and Jack like you used to.” Your breath hitched as Quinn’s words pierced through the air. His voice had calmed, but the raw emotion in his eyes cut deeper than his raised tone ever could. You looked away, not able to face the weight of his gaze, and stared at the rippling water instead. The golden light of the setting sun shimmered on the surface, mimicking the perfection you thought you’d built. 

“Luke said that?” You whispered, your voice barely audible. A lump formed in your throat, but you swallowed it down, refusing to let it show. You didn’t want this, not here, not ever. 

“Yeah.” He replied softly. “Jack see’s it too. They miss you.” Quinn turned his head to face you, your gaze still not meeting his. “I miss you.” You turned to glance at him, tears bubbling as you brushed a strand of hair from your face. You continued playing with your ring, biting your lip to hold the cries. 

You sniffled, wiping your nose with the sleeve of your sweatshirt. “This is my life. I won.” You croaked out. Quinn sighed, leaning back in his seat as he swirled the beer bottle in his hand.

“When we were kids, my Aunt Julia came over to visit us during christmas. Do you remember that?” He asked quietly, catching you off guard in a moment of vulnerability. You nodded your head, continuing to bite your lip. “She asked all of us- Me, you, Jack, and Luke ‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’” Your eyes softened quickly, bringing your knees to your chest. “Do you remember what you said?” He asked, his tone empathetic.

“Yeah, a lawyer-”

“A mother.” He interrupted. The words hit you like a punch to the chest, knocking the air from your lungs. You froze, staring at Quinn as the memories hit like a tidal wave.

“I…I don’t remember that.” Your voice barely above a whisper.

Quinn gave you a sad smile, his eyes softening. “You do. You just don’t want to.” He brought the bottle to his mouth, looking out at the lake again. The two of you sat in the thick silence. Quinn, knowing he was winning this conversation and you, overthinking every little moment from the past two years. Tears began to escape your eyes as you stared out at the lake, refusing to look at Quinn. He turned to you, seeing how hard this conversation was for you. He wanted to pull you into him, let you cry into his shoulder until all the pain went away, but that wasn’t his job anymore. It was Max’s. The pain burned deep into Quinn’s chest as he recalled every memory he shared with you at this house. Jumping off the boat together on hot summer days, neighborhood barbecues where you would wear those short little sundresses he liked so much, your first kiss while playing spin the bottle together, and of course every deep conversation you shared on this back deck, in these exact chairs. When he was thirteen, he was sure of the fact that he would marry you. He never expected to be sitting here, watching you fiddle with an engagement ring that he didn’t buy. 

You blinked, wiping the tears from your face as you decided to face your fear of confrontation. “I-If I don’t work hard now, I won’t have anything left when I'm old and burnt out.” Quinn’s jaw clenched as he processed your words, his gaze fixed on the lake but his mind clearly elsewhere. He tilted his head back slightly, exhaling through his nose like he was trying to suppress his frustration. Your lip trembled, more tears falling by the second as you looked away. 

“H-He um-” You paused, taking a long sigh as you looked over at Quinn. “He says there’s no time for children in our career.” Quinn whipped his head over to you, his expression softening as he got lost in your words. 

“He’s a piece of shit.” Quinn mumbled, shaking his head as he returned his gaze to the lake. 

You licked your lips as you rolled your eyes. “He’s not a piece of shit, okay? He’s a good guy, you just don’t know him.” You said, your tone growing in frustration. Quinn looked over to you, mouth open, brows furrowed as if you’d just said the most unbelievable thing. 

He huffed out a small laugh before returning his eyes to the bottle in his hand. “You’re fuckin’ delusional.” He let out quietly, taking another sip. You whipped your head to him, your frustration quickly bubbling over. 

“Excuse me-”

Quinn was quick to interrupt you, his voice raised slightly. “You heard me. You’re fucking delusional if you think that’s love.” He rolled his eyes, looking back at you. 

You scoffed, licking your bottom row of teeth as you let out an uncomfortable laugh. “You’re an asshole, you know that?” Your expression had become serious, your tears stopping in their tracks. “This is love!” Your voice carefully rose in volume. “I fell in love,” You laughed slightly, letting a slight smile escape your lips out of frustration. “You’re just jealous.” 

Quinn’s face turned bright red as he took in your words. He looked down at his lap, then back to you. He bit the inside of his cheek, letting out an uncomfortable chuckle before speaking. “Jealous?” He asked, brows furrowed. “My god, you're so full of yourself sometimes.” He didn’t mean that and he knew, but you didn’t. You bit your lip, trying to hold back tears as your best friend tore you apart. “You seriously think i’m jealous of him?” He asked, his voice just below a yell.

“No, of me!” Quinn froze, his beer bottle mid air as the words echoed between the two of you. “You’re jealous because I found love and-”

Quinn slammed the bottle on the wooden deck, the sharp sound making you flinch. “Don’t.” He snapped, his voice shaking with anger. “Don’t twist this into me being the bad guy for giving a shit about you.” 

“You don’t give a shit!” You shot back, standing up as your emotions boiled over. “You just can't stand the fact that i’m not following you around like a fucking puppy anymore!” Quinn stood too, his frame towering over you, but his expression wasn’t filled with intimidation. It was filled with raw, unfiltered pain. 

June 23rd, 2012

Dear diary, today was pretty good. In the morning, Jack and Luke jumped on my bed to wake me up which sucked, but when are they not annoying? Anyways, they dragged me down to the lake for a boat day. We went with their dad and their brother Quinn (my future husband). Jack and Luke were doing this wakeboard surfing thingy so I decided to stay close to Quinn. He’s just sooo perfect. His hair is amazing and he smells so good. I wanna be his girlfriend like literally so bad but I can’t tell if he likes me or not. He held my hand when we jumped in the water which was literally the best thing that has EVER happened to me. Anyways, that was the most important thing that happened today.

“What are you reading? You don’t read.” Jack’s piercing voice pulled Quinn straight from focus. He quickly turned around, shutting the book immediately.

“Nothing uh- just something for school.” He stammered out. Jack furrowed his brows, crossing his arms. 

“It’s summer.”

“Yeah, summer reading.” Only it wasn’t summer reading. It was your diary, something personal and private. Quinn was only reading it to find out where you hid the hockey puck you stole, but he stumbled upon a catalog of entries about himself. Do you expect a thirteen year old boy to not read it? 

“Okay well, dinner’s in five minutes.” Jack said before spinning on his heel to exit the room. You liked Quinn, like really liked him and now he knows it.

“You need to think about what you just said.” Quinn said, his voice low. “Think about that and then compare it to every time I talked you through your panic attacks, or every time I picked you up at three in the morning when we were sixteen because you were too drunk to drive home, or every time I offered you a place to stay when your parents were fighting. Then, you can tell me if you think I give a shit or not.” He stared you down, his eyes becoming tense as your bottom lip began to tremble. 

“I didn’t-”

Quinn huffed out his breath, interrupting your speech. “Do you know how hard it’s been to watch you? To see you become someone I don’t even recognize anymore?” His voice became stern, raising in volume. “You don’t smile the same way anymore. You don’t laugh like you used to!” Your breath hitched, the weight of his words suffocating. You looked down at the ring on your finger, the glittering diamond that once felt like a prize but now felt more like a shackle. “You think I don’t care?” His voice was quiet, but the pain in his voice was unmistakable. “I’ve always cared. A-And seeing you like this, wearing that ring, in this life that’s clearly eating you alive? It kills me.” 

You licked your bottom lip, tears spilling down your face as you looked up at him. You swallowed the lump in your throat, letting out a shaky breath as you gathered your thoughts.

“Hey, babe. You almost ready?” You heard Max’s voice shout from the living room as you finished putting your earrings on. 

“Yeah, just a second!” You yelled back, fluffing your freshly blown out hair in the mirror. You took a deep breath as you looked yourself up and down in the dark green bodycon dress that Quinn had gotten you for your 21st birthday. You’d never put it on, but you assumed it was fitting for a work Christmas party. Was it too much? You thought to yourself as you ran your hands down the sides, seeing that the length was about an inch above your fingertips. You decided it was fine and made your way out of the bedroom, purse in hand as you walked to the living room. Max sat on the couch in his tailored Prada suit, a bit pretentious to wear to a work party. His legs were spread wide as he had one hand on his phone, and the other on the back of the couch. He looked up from the screen to glance at you in your dress. You gave him a soft smile, your shoulders tensing up as he furrowed his eyebrows. 

“It’s a bit short, don’t you think?” He asked as he ran a hand through his blonde hair. You looked down at your dress, then back up at him. 

“W-Well, I was thinking that a little. Should I change?” Your voice was shaky, filled with nerves at Max’s disapproval. 

He shook his head, standing from the couch with his hands in his pockets as he made his way to the door. “No, no. We're already gonna be late with how long you took to get ready.”

There were little moments like that that clouded your mind as you stood in front of Quinn. Your breathing was shaky, your face now fully engulfed in hot tears as he stared into your eyes. “You don’t get it.” You let out, your voice just barely above a whisper. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to find stability. To feel…safe.” Your voice cracked on the last word, and you swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself. 

“Safe?” Quinn repeated, his eyes locking with yours. “Is that what this is? Because it doesn’t look like it. You’re not safe. You’re trapped.” He gestured to the ring on your finger, his voice lowering at the depressed sight of you. Your lips parted, but no sound came out. You stared at him, your chest tightening as his words dug into the thoughts you’d been trying so hard to suppress. Quinn softened, stepping closer. “You deserve more than this.” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “And I think, deep down you know that.”

You bit your lip, sniffling your nose before wiping your tears with your sleeve. “I’m in too deep. I can’t get out.” You whispered, finally bringing yourself to the point to admit it. You weren’t happy, you knew that, but you couldn’t tell anyone. Well, you thought you couldn’t until Quinn finally pushed you to the point where there wasn’t another option. 

Quinn let out a sigh mixed with exhaustion and a hint of relief. He sent you an empathetic smile as he absentmindedly grabbed your hand, rubbing his thumb against the back of it. “You can.” He said, his voice quiet. “You’re not alone. I’m here…if you need help. I’m always gonna be here.” Your breath caught in your throat as Quinn’s hand enveloped yours, his warmth cutting through the icy wall you’d built around yourself. His touch was steady, grounding, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt a flicker of hope. His words echoed in your head, soft and firm. You stared down at his hand, the calluses on his fingers brushing lightly against your skin as his thumb moved in slow, soothing circles. It felt so familiar, so safe, and the contrast to Max’s cold indifference hit you like a wave. You couldn’t help but let all the emotions running like a swarm through your head push you to the point of breakage. You began to sob, your eyes still looking at your hands intertwined as your breath came out in short, stammered increments. Quinn didn’t waste any time before pulling you into his chest, allowing your sobs to escape into his shirt as he wrapped his arms around your body. He held you tightly, his arms wrapping around you like a shield against everything that had been weighing you down. His chin rested on top of your head as your tears soaked into his shirt, but he didn’t seem to care. His hand rubbed slow circles on your back, grounding you in a way you hadn’t felt in ages. 

“It’s okay,” He murmured softly into your hair. “I’ve got you.” You clung to him, your fists gripping the fabric of his shirt as if letting go would mean losing the only thing tethering you to solid ground. 

The room began to shrink in an instant, reading the text from your mother. “It’s final. Dad and I are separating. You and I are moving to Gran and Pop’s when you get back from the lake house, so I need you to pack up everything.” 

The tears came almost immediately, but that didn’t scare you. It was the feeling you got in your chest, like your heart was radiating pulses all over your body. Pounding over and over again, like the beating was the only thing you could hear. The sound of Quinn shooting pucks only made it worse, like each shot was another banging ache to your head. You tried to slow your breathing, but it felt like the most difficult challenge at that moment. Your breaths were short and hitched, gasping for air at any chance you got. Your hands shook as your phone fell out of them. You were terrified, you didn’t know what was happening. You couldn’t die, you were only sixteen. You still had so much to do in life. You tilted your head up, staring at the ceiling light, but that only made it worse. Quinn noticed when you didn’t say anything about the shot he’d just missed, immediately dropping his stick to run over to you.

“Hey, Hey. What’s wrong? Are you okay?” He said frantically as he leaned down to where you were sitting on the floor. You tried to tell him, tried to speak, but your head was stuck looking up, and you felt like you couldn’t move it. Quinn placed his hand on the back of your neck, pulling your head down to face him. Your face was covered in tears, completely red as your mouth parted slightly. “Talk to me.” He said gently. “Please?”

You licked your quivering lips, trying your hardest to breathe. “I-I…I c-can’t. I can’t b-breathe.” His heart dropped at your words, the panic in your voice cutting through him like a knife. His hands moved to gently cradle your face, his thumbs brushing away your tears even as more fell. 

“Okay, okay,” He said softly, his own voice trembling but steadying for your sake. “You’re having a panic attack. You’re not dying, I promise.” You gasped again, your breaths shallow and uneven, your chest tightening with each attempt. “Look at me.” He instructed. “Breathe with me. In through your nose, out through your mouth.” He blew out softly, his eyes locked on yours as he repeated the motion.

You tried to mimic him, but your breath was quickly caught in your throat, sending you a fresh wave of panic. “I c-can’t Quinn, I can’t!” You cried.

“Yes, you can.” He reassured, his hands never leaving your face. “I’ve got you. I’m right here. Just take it slow.” You managed a small, shaky inhale, your body trembling as you followed his lead. “There you go.” He said, his voice laced with a small flicker of relief. “Now, out through your mouth.” Quinn stayed with you, guiding you through each breath as the pounding of the room began to dull. Finally, your breaths came easier, the crushing weight on your chest lifting little by little. You looked at Quinn, your face still wet with tears.

“Thank you.” You whispered, your voice hoarse.

His thumbs still traced circles on your cheeks as he sent you a soft smile. “I’ve got you. You’re not alone.”

You stayed, sobbing into Quinn’s shirt as his grip around you tightened. He listened to your breathing patterns, looking out for a sign of a panic attack. He’d memorized you at this point. He knew the exact time to jump in, and he knew how to calm you down. 

“Quinn, I’m so scared.” You cried out, wrapping your arms around him to pull him closer. 

Quinn moved his hand from your back to your head, running his fingers through your hair. “I know.” He whispered. “I’m sorry.” He leaned back just enough to gently tilt your chin up with his fingers, his blue eyes meeting yours. They were soft, but filled with an intensity that made your heart ache. “You thought you had to want this.” He said, speaking the words you never had the confidence to say. “Doesn’t mean it’s right. It doesn’t mean it’s what you deserve.” You looked up at him, not seeing Quinn Hughes, captain of the Canucks, but your childhood best friend, Quinny, who talked you through every panic attack, walked you home from every party, and gave you a bed through every fight between your parents. That’s what you deserved. Someone willing to give you that much dedication, not some pretentious lawyer who only loves you for your accomplishments. In a moment of determination, after wiping your tears, you dramatically pulled off your engagement ring, slamming it on the railing of the deck. The sound of the ring hitting the wooden railing echoed in the stillness of the night, sharp and final. Quinn’s eyes darted to it, then back to you, his lips parting in surprise. You stood there trembling, not from fear but from the sheer weight of the decision you’d just made. Your chest heaved as the tears continued to fall. This time they weren’t from sadness, they were from release. Quinn hesitated for only a moment before stepping closer, his hand hovering over yours as if to silently ask for permission. When you didn’t pull away, he took your trembling hand in his, holding it like it was the most fragile thing in the world.

“You-” He started, his voice breaking slightly before he cleared his throat. “You did it.”

“I did it.” You whispered, almost in disbelief yourself. You stared at the ring, gleaming under the soft glow of the porch light. It had once symbolized everything you wanted, but now it felt like a chain you’d finally broken free from. 

[tiktaalic]

gay! taylor swift just released a new song, and she's COMING. OUT. as a lesbian? yes as a lesbian! okay. which she's always been! okay alright jesus. it's called rainbow dress. hot summer june. sleepless afternoons. june. wearing my rainbow dress. is this taylor? she sounds bad. so full of pride. listen! what's hidden inside. like the vocals sound bad. jonathan van ness. jonathan van ness! okay. yeah he's gay. her best friend. i wanna have straight sex. she wants to have straight sex? at the gay pride parade. that's not so gay is it? this doesn't sound that gay. just normal sex. she's at the gay pride parade. nothing too weird. it's very confusing this song. yeah. a regular hunk with a beard. i wish there was straight pride. come on. at the gay pride parade. it's like a right wing talking point. if you guys aren't gonna listen? no no no. i'm gonna stop playing it. alright we'll listen we'll listen. we're gonna listen. she's talking about being at the gay pride parade. if this is supposed to be her song where she's coming out like why does she talk so much about straight pride? you have such a limited view of gender. oh yeah. you sniveling fuck. listen to the next verse. the second verse is gayer. i - you guys are gonna like it. who produced this? i think it was jack antonoff. i dream about your sweat. it sounds really bad. dripping down your balls. a sparkling chandelier. does she like this? she's really good at allegory. inside your shorts. julia are you okay? it's an ALLEGORY for QUEER LOVE. the balls line? i'm lost without a compass when i can't smell your balls. jesus ew that's like digusting. your balls are like a compass to my nose. what is this? pause - pause this. julia. what the fuck is this. are you guys gonna talk the whole time? i dont get it! i dont get what you're trying to do with this! where is she jt in the song. ... she's at the gay pride parade. alright yeah let's listen to it. it's fucking gay this next part? okay you're gonna love this part. i hate all vaginas. aaaaalright. it's an allegory! it's not gay at all! this was written by a maniac! no it's gay. even the one i got. dudes go down on me then they wanna kiss. this seems really like gender essentialist and hateful. that's disgusting gay shit. she has internalized homophobia. i am heterosexual. how are we supposed to interpret that? you guys are fucking assholes. yeah you know what we are being a little bit negative. i agree. she's gay. uhhh. you know. maybe she just wasn't like that outward about it with this one song.julia? julia? julia? she's gay! i'm sorry! i'm sorry! i'll kill you!

[long-live-astronerd-ghost-king]

DPxDC prompt: Laughter is the best way to deal with a trauma! Or to create a new one...

Maddie and Jack had a little tradition of celebrating the first day of work of Fenton portal every year. But Danny said that this year he and his friends decided to arrange a video call and they will be watching vines and other teenage funny things that they filmed and edited on his last visit to his new friends, Waynes. In general, Danny preferred a company of other teens to the family party. How typical for a boy of his age. 

There was a lot of laughter in Danny’s room, and Maddie was curious. So when her son went out for a break and Maddie noticed that they had forgotten to stop playing the video she decided to just take a quick look.

When Danny comes back to the room and sees his mom frozen in shock in front of the computer, he immediately leaves and closes the door.

Danny *calls Tim*: Tim, what was in the playlist after the mix of Dick’s falls from the chandelier? Danny: Oh. Uh-oh. Okay. Up to my neck I'm in the shit. Pass your phone to Jason, please. Danny: Hey, bro, is your offer to share the grave still on the table?

~~~~~

~Dumb ways to die, so many dumb ways to die~

Damian: Keep a rattlesnake as pet

(Damian smuggling contraband into the manor)

Tim: Sell both the kidneys on the internet

(Thoughtful Tim is in front of the laptop)

Dick: Eat a tube of superglue

(Jason looks at Dick's breakfast in horror)

Danny: “I wonder what's this red button do?”

(Danny who’s standing in Fenton Portal appears on screen)

*bright flash*

[crystalrabbit246912]

First-Year Overblot pt. 2

The battle's over. The Overblot's been defeated, even if it was completely unexpected.

How did they get here? Why did they Overblot together, when it's something done alone?

Ortho was Idia's Phantom, but their circumstances were unique.

So how did they get here?

At the end of the day, it was really their faults. They didn't see the stress that all of the Overblots piled on their first-years. They didn't see how hard they worked together so that they wouldn't lose each other.

They didn't see how close they were to each other, how much they grew to love each other, how their greatest fears were all losing each other.

They didn't see the first-years, and that was their mistake.

At the end of each Overblot is a memory sequence. A monologue. A reveal of how they got to this point.

Yuu's the only one who knows what happened in everyone's memory sequences, but they all know that they exist. The Overblotters remember them and whisper what happened to their trusted ones in the middle of the nights when they can't sleep.

How did they get here?

For the others, it was years upon years of culminated trauma. Of everything piling up until that one moment when everything broke and came crashing down.

For the first-years, it's one singular year. The best and worst years of their life.

It started with Ace, Deuce, and Yuu. A few bad choices, a broken chandelier, a mine, a monster, an adventure that leads to life-or-death from a school director.

Something that should have been safe.

The first cracks started.

Then came Riddle. Sure, it was Ace's bad choices that led to him getting kicked out and Riddle's mother's fault for Riddle's complex about the rules, but still.

This was a place that should have been safe.

Leona. Yuu getting blackmailed by the director. People who should have been safe being not. Riddle apologized, yes, but that doesn't erase the red in Deuce's nightmares, the rose bushes that would have killed Ace if not for Trey's timely intervention.

Somewhere along the way, Yuu's hands find their way into Ace and Deuce's and just stay there.

They meet Jack. They don't know if Leona and Ruggie know this, though they suspect they do, but Jack overheard their conversation after he was dismissed. Where they talked about what they should do about him, as if he wasn't someone that they were supposed to keep safe.

The world feels so dangerous, but it feels a little safer when they're together.

Azul. Ace and Deuce made bad choices, again, but they remember what happened the last time they got Riddle angry. The red lingers in their nightmares and on their clothes and the rose bushes sometimes make them flinch when they see them out of the corners of their eyes.

Jack helps, even though he wasn't obligated to. Yuu's hand clings to his when their other sources of stability are gone. He never complains and sometimes, when it feels like neither of them can breathe, he squeezes back.

Jamil. They weren't there because they couldn't figure out what to tell their families, but Yuu felt like they were drowning the entire break. Like they couldn't breathe without their anchors.

Ace and Deuce race back as soon as they hear that Yuu's in trouble, even through all of the transport issues that they have to go through. They come back after everything is over, yet it finally feels like they can breathe again.

Vil. The poison still lingers slightly in their veins. They look darker, a shade or two slightly darker than before. Sometimes, they feel weaker than they were before.

They wonder if Vil knows that, if he knows that he left a lasting effect on them even when the others didn't.

Somehow, they don't think he does.

They meet Epel and he slots right into their group like a missing piece. Like he was supposed to be there the entire time. His hands squeeze back even with Vil's displeasure about how close they are and the PDA they show.

They don't care. It helps them breathe and it loosens the tightness in their chests and the world feels less harsh, less dizzying, less dangerous when they're not alone.

Idia. The Overblotters are missing, but the only thing they really care about is that Ace and Deuce are in the Infirmary. It feels like they should care about the Overblotters, but they know that all of them still have nightmares of red staining their clothes.

Why should they care, when they made them like this.

Yuu's hand squeezes Epel's as tight as they can and he squeezes back just as hard.

They were looking for Jack when they found Rook, and it was too good of an opportunity to leave. They write a note for Jack and wish that they could speak to him before they're off to save people who leave red, red, red and black blot hanging in their dreams.

Ortho. He says he has a soul after he got fixed by Idia and he starts hanging out with them. They wonder if it's because he's tired of the expectations he has from everyone else on how he should act.

It doesn't matter. At the end of the day, he fits right in. His hands are warm from all of the energy he's using to keep himself powered and he squeezes back every time.

Malleus. They're all in each other's dreams because they care enough about each other at that point. It hurts to leave each one behind but they're not real and the lack of red and black shows as much.

Yuu doesn't think they've ever squeezed so hard when they reunite with Ortho.

Sebek. He was resistant to their efforts at first, but the red and black got to him too. Sometimes, he's shaking in the middle of the night and it feels more familiar than it should.

Somewhere along the line, they started training. Started practicing, because when was the next one going to come? When was the next threat to their little unit, their little family coming?

They just didn't expect it to extend to their schoolwork as well. Their magic is honed, perfected, made as powerful as possible. Is it any wonder that their grades are perfect too?

It just... hurts, when they realize that they haven't been paying attention. That they haven't been seen. That no one notices the bags under their eyes and the way they squeeze each other's hands tightly.

They crumble when they see each other. Because as much as it hurts that they're not seen, it hurts even more that none of them are. Because it just proves that they're not good enough to pay attention to.

The world starts to crumble and black fills everything despite how much they hate it.

This is their seniors' fault.

Everyone's fault, for not paying attention, for not noticing the way they squeezed each other's hands tight enough to break bones, or the way they relaxed whenever they saw each other.

Even in their sleep, their hands find their way together and squeeze and they look more peaceful than they've ever looked before, piled on top of the same hospital bed because they insisted, unconsciously, on not being apart.

They wake up muttering about black and red and all of the Overblotters know it's their fault.

[yvaineseleneposts]

Midnight on Ice

A/N: Next Wednesday there will be another requested piece! So look forward to that one. Also this has nothing to do with anything, but my students are off the hook. They always get like this the closer we get to summer but man...

Requested: no

Pairing: Jack Hughes x reader

Words: 5k

Warning(s): none

The invitation shimmered in your hand, embossed in silver and sealed with the crest of the NHL Players’ Foundation. It had arrived unexpectedly, slipped into your mailbox by mistake—or so you thought. But it had your name, your address, and something in your gut told you: this was meant to happen.

The ballroom was a dream come to life. Draped in velvet and crystal chandeliers, every guest in a mask, you felt anonymous yet alive. You wore a navy gown that sparkled faintly under the lights, your mask feathered and delicate, like something out of a fairytale.

Across the room, Jack Hughes adjusted his cufflinks, pretending not to be bored out of his mind. He hated events like these—forced smiles, small talk, and the weight of his last name. But tonight, something felt different.

He spotted you near the centre of the room, laughing softly as you tried a chocolate fountain, totally unaware of his gaze. You didn’t look like the kind of girl who craved the spotlight. That made you more intriguing than anyone else in the building.

“Mind if I cut in?” Jack asked, offering his hand as the music shifted to a waltz. You blinked, surprised, but accepted. His grip was warm, confident.

“I don’t really know how to dance,” you admitted.

“Good,” he grinned. “Neither do I.”

You danced anyway.

The two of you moved like you’d known each other longer than a single night. You talked about anything but hockey—your love for dogs, his obsession with terrible reality TV, your shared hatred for pineapple on pizza. You still didn’t know who he was behind the mask, but something in his voice, the way he looked at you like you were the only one in the room, made your chest ache in the best way.

“Why do I feel like I’m going to remember this night forever?” you whispered.

“Because I will too,” he said, almost under his breath.

But time, like magic, doesn’t stand still. The grand clock above the fireplace struck midnight. You panicked, remembering the train you had to catch, the early shift you couldn’t miss. You pulled away, apologizing.

“Wait!” he called, following you halfway across the ballroom. “I didn’t even get your name!”

You turned, heart pounding, and smiled behind your mask.

“Maybe you’ll find me,” you said.

Then you vanished into the night, leaving only the faint scent of jasmine and a silk ribbon from your mask caught in his fingers.

Jack stared after you, stunned. He didn’t even know what city you were from but he’d find you. Because even NHL stars believe in magic sometimes.

The days following the charity ball were a blur of interviews, practices, and endless media obligations for Jack. But no matter where he went or how many questions he answered, his mind kept drifting back to that night—to you. The girl with the soft laugh, the sparkling eyes, the one who made him feel like he was just a regular guy, not a hockey star.

He couldn’t get over it. He hadn’t even gotten your name.

But he had your mask. It was tangled in his coat pocket, wrapped in the ribbon you left behind. The small, intricate feathers still held your scent—jasmine and something sweet, like sugar cookies. It felt like a secret he was desperately trying to hold on to.

For weeks, Jack couldn’t stop thinking about you. He tried searching through the guest list of the ball, but the invitation only listed a vague address for the location of the event, no names. His teammates teased him, calling him "the mystery girl hunter," but they didn’t understand. He had to find you. He just had to.

One evening, as he sat in the locker room after practice, Jack's phone buzzed. His fingers hovered over the screen as he saw a familiar notification pop up: the NHL Players’ Foundation had posted pictures from the charity event.

He scrolled through, scanning the photos of glamorous guests, but then he saw something. A picture of the ballroom, mid-dance, and there you were. He could see the curve of your gown, the way your mask caught the light.

Jack’s heart skipped a beat. He clicked on the image and zoomed in. There it was again—the ribbon you had left behind, still caught in the folds of your dress. It was you.

But the caption under the photo was more helpful than he’d hoped—it listed a few donors who had attended, some names Jack didn’t recognize, but there was one person whose name stood out: Y/N L/N.

He froze. He finally had a name. The woman who had haunted his thoughts was real. You were real.

The next day, Jack pulled up your name on social media, hoping to find a trace of who you were. Your profile was modest—no flashy selfies or over-the-top posts, just a few pictures of you with friends, your dog, and an occasional throwback to a family vacation.

He felt a little relief seeing that you weren’t some unattainable socialite. You were grounded. And in a world that always felt a little too loud, Jack found that incredibly refreshing.

He saw a post where you’d tagged the foundation, mentioning the charity ball. There, in the comments, was a simple line from you: “Grateful to have been part of such a wonderful cause.”

He smiled to himself.

A few days later, Jack stood outside the café you’d tagged in one of your recent photos. He was nervous—he’d been to dozens of media events, and the spotlight didn’t phase him. But this? This was different. He wasn’t playing for the camera. He was trying to find a real connection.

When the door chimed and you walked in, Jack's breath caught in his throat. You wore jeans and a simple sweater, your hair cascading in soft waves down your back. You didn’t wear your mask, but for some reason, you looked just as magical.

You saw him, and for a moment, time seemed to stop. Jack took a deep breath and stood up, his heart racing.

“Hi,” he said, a little awkward, but with a smile that was all warmth. “I’m Jack.”

You froze for a second, then smiled softly. “I know.”

He was stunned. “You... do?”

“Yeah,” you said, walking toward him slowly. “You left quite an impression that night. I... I was hoping you’d find me.”

Jack felt a wave of relief, mixed with a burst of happiness he didn’t know he needed. “I was kind of hoping for that too.”

You laughed, and that sound—it was just as beautiful as he remembered. “What made you come here?” you asked, sitting down across from him.

“I wasn’t sure how to start,” Jack admitted, “but when I saw your name in the comments, I figured this was as good a place as any.”

“I’m glad you did,” you replied, giving him a soft look. “I didn’t expect to meet you again.”

"Yeah, neither did I," he chuckled. Then, in a quieter voice, "But I couldn’t stop thinking about that night. About you."

A comfortable silence fell between you, neither of you needing to rush to fill the space. It felt as though you’d known each other for years, and suddenly, everything clicked.

“You’re not like the others,” Jack said softly, leaning forward. “You made me feel like I wasn’t just... Jack Hughes. You made me feel like just Jack.”

You smiled. “I think I know what you mean.”

For the first time in a long time, Jack didn’t feel like he was living in the public eye. He felt like he was finally seen for who he truly was—a guy who was just trying to find someone who understood him.

“I’d like to get to know you,” Jack said, “properly this time. Without the masks.”

You smiled back, a glimmer of hope in your eyes. “I’d like that too, Jack.”

Days turned into weeks, and what began as a night of magic and mystery slowly turned into something deeper. Jack found himself looking forward to every second spent with you, from quiet walks in the park to midnight ice-skating sessions. It wasn’t just the star athlete meeting a fan—it was two people, finding their way through life, connecting in a world that always felt a little too fast.

But as the season went on, Jack realized something he’d never known about himself before—he wasn’t just chasing a fleeting fantasy. He was chasing something real. Something worth holding on to. And with you by his side, he felt like he was finally living the fairytale.

The days that followed Jack’s spontaneous visit to the café were a blur of nervous energy and new beginnings. At first, it felt like a whirlwind—just the two of you, getting to know each other in little stolen moments, always a quiet hum in the back of your mind, knowing that something was blossoming that felt completely natural and yet utterly extraordinary.

You’d find yourself laughing with Jack in a way that felt entirely effortless. Whether it was watching him awkwardly fumble through cooking dinner in your small apartment, or on the ice, where he tried to teach you how to skate but kept tripping over his own feet, the connection you shared was undeniable.

But as the weeks passed, the reality of Jack’s life began to settle in. He was an NHL star, constantly under the spotlight. His life was filled with endless games, media obligations, and travel that stretched across the country. You found yourself wondering whether it was possible to keep something real and beautiful alive in the midst of all the chaos.

One evening, Jack invited you to one of his games. It was a typical rink—cold, packed with excited fans, and charged with the electric energy of competition. The arena buzzed, and you took your seat, your eyes scanning the crowd. But your heart wasn’t in the atmosphere of the game; it was entirely focused on him.

You’d seen Jack’s skills on TV, but seeing him live—he was mesmerizing. The way he moved on the ice, the speed and precision with which he handled the puck—it was like watching poetry in motion. But what struck you most was how he always seemed to be looking toward the stands, as if searching for you in the crowd. It warmed your chest, knowing that he was as eager to see you as you were to see him.

After the game, Jack found you amidst the sea of fans, his smile wide and genuine. “Did you see that goal?!” he asked excitedly, as if the game had been a personal victory, not just another notch in his successful career.

“You were incredible, Jack,” you said, grinning. “You made it look so easy.”

“Well,” he shrugged, “I’m a little out of practice, but I’ll take the compliment.” He gave you a playful wink and offered his hand. “Dinner? I’ve got a craving for something that isn’t just pizza or fast food.”

“Sounds perfect,” you agreed, taking his hand, warmth spreading up your arm as he led you away from the crowds, just the two of you, outside the glare of cameras.

As you sat in the quiet, dimly lit restaurant, Jack couldn’t help but study you. He was used to all sorts of attention—cheering fans, flashing cameras, glowing lights—but there was something about being here with you, sharing these quieter moments, that made everything else feel less important.

“Y/N,” he started, breaking the comfortable silence between you. “I’ve been thinking a lot about us lately. I don’t know how we keep doing this—keeping it so... normal.”

You smiled softly, tilting your head. “I like the normal, Jack. It’s the real stuff. The moments we get to have without everything else distracting us.”

“I know,” he said, his voice dropping slightly. “But sometimes I feel like I’m living in two different worlds. There’s hockey, the spotlight... and then there’s this—us. And I don’t know if you want to keep doing this while I’m constantly traveling, being in the media...”

You took his hand gently across the table. “Jack,” you whispered. “I don’t care about the media, or the schedule, or any of it. I care about you. And I’m here for all of it, if you’ll have me.”

The sincerity in your words stopped Jack dead in his tracks. He hadn’t expected you to understand, to be so real in a world that so often felt fake. But here you were—this person, sitting across from him, looking at him with warmth and trust, offering him a chance to have something real.

“I don’t know what the future holds,” he said, his voice barely audible. “But I’m willing to find out... with you.”

As the season progressed, Jack found the balancing act more challenging. There were days when he couldn’t be with you because of away games or media commitments. There were nights when you would send him texts, wishing him good luck, and he’d reply with a single heart emoji.

But in those rare, quiet moments when he was home, with no cameras or reporters to please, Jack would drive you to the rink at midnight. He’d grab your hand and skate with you under the glow of the overhead lights, skating just the two of you in the empty rink. It was moments like these that made all the noise and chaos of the world seem distant, as if nothing mattered except for this connection between you.

One evening, as you skated together, Jack pulled you to the centre of the rink, breathless, the cold air hanging around you both like a secret. He stopped and held you in the middle, his fingers curling around your waist, his eyes locked onto yours with the intensity of someone who had made a decision.

“I know we’re taking this one day at a time, Y/N,” he began, his voice barely more than a whisper against the silence of the rink. “But I want you to know that I’m in this... for the long haul. Whatever happens, wherever this takes us, I’m with you.”

You smiled, your heart full, knowing he meant every word.

“I’m with you too, Jack,” you said, squeezing his hand. “Every step of the way.”

And in that moment, the weight of the world seemed to fade. All that mattered was the two of you, together, sharing something real in the quiet of the rink—their own fairytale, still unfolding.

A few months later the media had begun to take notice of Jack's new relationship. At first, there were whispers, speculation about who you were. But Jack never shied away from it. He wasn’t hiding you anymore. The story of the NHL star and the girl who didn’t care about the fame? It was one that Jack wanted the world to know about.

And when Jack’s team made it to the playoffs, there was no hesitation. You were sitting in the stands, front and centre, cheering him on as the crowd roared around you. But there was something else—whenever Jack scored, whenever he landed an assist, or even just when he looked your way in the crowd, he was playing for something beyond the game. He was playing for you.

The days after Jack's declaration of commitment felt like a dream. You both fell into a rhythm, adjusting to the highs and lows of his career. The distance wasn’t easy—there were times when he was on the road for games, times when you missed each other so much it physically ached. But when he was home, the world outside the two of you seemed to disappear.

It was the small moments that made everything worth it: Jack calling you on his off-days when he was lying on his couch, bored and craving a familiar voice; you sending him playlists of songs that reminded you of him—songs that played softly when you cooked dinner in your apartment. It wasn’t about the grand gestures, but the quiet, simple ways you both made each other feel known and cherished.

It was a particularly chilly night when you found yourself once again sitting in the stands at one of Jack’s home games. The New Jersey Devils had been on a hot streak, and the energy in the arena was electric. The fans were roaring, and you could barely hear yourself think as they cheered for their star player.

But amidst all the noise, your attention was focused solely on Jack, his dark eyes scanning the stands briefly before locking on yours. There was a moment of connection, a silent acknowledgment that felt like everything in the world had just paused.

Then, as if to confirm that connection, Jack did something unexpected. In the middle of the game, when the puck was just a blur of motion, Jack took a shot, scoring a beautiful goal that had the crowd erupting into applause.

He skated toward the boards, raised his stick in the air, and then, in one bold, spontaneous move, pointed straight to you.

The crowd went wild. The arena filled with shouts, but you barely heard them. Your heart skipped a beat as your face flushed with heat, the recognition of the moment crashing over you. You knew it wasn’t just a goal he was celebrating. He was celebrating you.

You sat there, stunned, watching as Jack flashed you a smile so genuine, so full of affection, that it made the rest of the world fade into the background. The message was clear: this was no longer just a secret. This was real.

Later that night, Jack texted you: "I scored that goal for you. Every single time I look at you, it feels like I'm winning."

Your heart melted at the words, the simplicity of it, and the sincerity behind them. It wasn’t about the headlines, or the victories. It was about him and you, together, in this crazy whirlwind of life.

But not all moments were perfect. With the season in full swing, Jack’s schedule became increasingly hectic. One afternoon, he’d called you, his voice tense, a rare crack in his usually calm demeanour.

“Y/N, I—uh, I think I’m going to have to cancel tonight. I’ve got a meeting, and they’re pulling me in a thousand different directions.”

You tried to hide your disappointment, your fingers curling around the phone. “It’s okay, Jack. I understand. You’ve got a lot going on.”

“No, I—” He paused, his voice softening. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to cancel. I just... I wish I could be in two places at once.”

It was moments like these when you had to remind yourself that while Jack’s career was demanding, his heart was with you. “We’ll figure it out,” you said with a quiet smile. “I’m always here when you need me. You’ve got enough people pulling at you. I don’t want to add pressure.”

“I know,” he replied, his voice full of relief. “But I still want to make time for you. You’re important to me.”

The next day, Jack had a surprise for you. After his practice, he showed up at your door—on his bike, with his jersey on and a big grin on his face. You laughed as you opened the door.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, surprised.

He shrugged, unbothered by the chilly breeze. “I had some free time. And I figured, what better way to spend it than with you?”

Before you could respond, he gently pulled you outside, towards the backyard of your apartment building, where a small rink had been set up for the residents. You blinked in surprise—had someone else done this?

Jack grinned as he handed you a pair of skates. “You said you wanted to learn, right? I figured this was a good opportunity to give it another try.”

“Jack, you’re crazy,” you laughed, eyeing the rink. “You just got off the ice. You’re exhausted.”

But Jack was already strapping his own skates on, a playful glint in his eyes. “I’m not the one who’ll be falling all over the place. Ready to try again?”

With a deep breath, you agreed, and together you glided onto the rink, Jack’s arms steadying you as you found your footing. He was patient, guiding you with careful steps as you both laughed in the chilly night air. The simple joy of skating under the stars, with Jack by your side, made you feel as though the world had slowed down for just a moment.

As the weeks went by, their relationship became even more intertwined. Jack was still the NHL star everyone adored, but when he was with you, he was just Jack—the guy who loved spending quiet nights cooking dinner with you, the one who showed up at your apartment unexpectedly with a cup of coffee and a sheepish grin.

The media may have been constantly at his heels, but the truth was, he didn’t mind it when it meant he could share a quiet evening with you. You weren’t a distraction—you were his anchor.

But life in the public eye meant that there were always new challenges. Rumors swirled about Jack’s personal life, people speculating about who you were and whether this was just a fleeting romance. There were nights when you saw headlines questioning your relationship, calling it “just another fling,” and it made you wonder if the world would ever understand what you and Jack shared.

On one of those nights, after seeing a particularly hurtful headline, you sat quietly on your couch, staring at your phone. Jack had caught wind of it through his team, and you knew what was coming next. He came over that night, his face serious but his eyes soft, as he sat next to you, placing his hand over yours.

“Y/N…” He trailed off, not sure how to phrase what he was feeling. “I know this isn’t easy. The public side of things—it’s not always the dream everyone thinks it is.”

You looked at him, the sincerity in your eyes clear. “Jack, I’m not afraid of the headlines. I’m not afraid of what people say about us. I care about you, and that’s all that matters.”

He nodded slowly, a relief washing over him. “I’m glad you’re saying that, because I feel the same way. We’re in this together.”

And you were. Together, through the noise, the pressure, and the uncertainty, you found a love that was undeniable, even when the world seemed intent on pulling you apart.

A few months later, just before the playoffs, Jack knelt down on the rink after the team’s final practice before the playoffs, the weight of the season bearing down on him. The crowd outside the arena was already beginning to gather, the anticipation thick in the air.

But his heart wasn’t on the game. It was on you. He had a ring in his pocket.

The playoffs were in full swing, the excitement and pressure of every game mounting as Jack’s team fought for a spot in the finals. The arena was electric with the sound of thousands of fans chanting and cheering, the intensity of the competition unlike anything you had ever experienced.

But despite the noise, the lights, and the high stakes of the game, Jack’s mind was elsewhere. Every time he stepped on the ice, he found himself thinking of you. You had become his constant, his grounding force in a world that often felt too fast and too loud. The way you made him laugh when he needed it most, the way you supported him through every win and loss, the way you believed in him, even when the world doubted.

It wasn’t just about hockey anymore. It was about you.

The night before Game 7 of the Eastern Conference Finals, the team had a brief meeting, followed by a light practice session. The pressure was on, but Jack knew what he had to do. There would be no distractions, no second thoughts. He had made up his mind weeks ago, and now it was time.

You were sitting in the stands, as you always did, giving him your quiet, unwavering support. He spotted you through the crowd, your eyes locked onto his, your smile soft and full of trust. And at that moment, he knew this was right. He didn’t need any more validation from the world. He needed you, and that was enough.

After practice, as the team dispersed and the arena began to empty out, Jack made his way to the locker room, his thoughts racing. His teammates could tell something was different, but they didn’t ask. They were used to Jack’s quiet intensity before a big game, but this was different.

Jack quickly showered and threw on his hoodie, but instead of heading straight for the team bus like everyone else, he pulled out his phone and sent you a quick text: “Meet me at the rink? I’ll be waiting.”

You didn’t ask questions. You knew Jack well enough to understand that when he asked for time alone with you, it was something important.

When you arrived at the rink, the lights were dimmed low, the arena nearly empty except for a few staff members wrapping things up. Jack stood near the centre of the ice, his skates laced up and his hands in his pockets. As soon as you walked in, his eyes found you instantly, his whole demeanour softening.

You smiled at him, walking down to meet him at the boards. “I thought you’d be resting for tomorrow's game?”

He chuckled, a nervousness in his voice that you hadn’t heard before. “I couldn’t rest, not with this on my mind.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What’s going on, Jack?”

Jack took a deep breath, and for the first time, he seemed a little uncertain. But then, he smiled that familiar grin—the one that had stolen your heart all those months ago.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about us,” he started, his voice steady now. “About how this whole thing started—how we met at that ball, how everything felt like a fairy tale. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized something.”

You felt a wave of warmth spread through you, your heart quickening as you took a step closer to him. “What’s that?”

He knelt down onto one knee, and your breath caught in your throat as his eyes locked onto yours with unwavering sincerity.

“Y/N, these past months with you have been the best of my life. I’ve played in front of thousands of people, achieved dreams I never thought possible, but nothing—nothing—compares to the feeling I have when I’m with you. You make me feel like I can be me, without all the pressure, without the cameras. You’ve given me something real in a world that’s often far from it.”

Your chest tightened, your eyes starting to well up as the reality of what was happening settled in. But Jack wasn’t done yet.

“I don’t want to live in a world where you’re not a part of it. So,” he took a deep breath, “Y/N L/N, will you marry me?”

You froze. The world seemed to stop for a moment. The noise of the arena, the bustling of staff, even the ice beneath your feet—everything faded away, leaving just you and Jack. The man who had not only captivated your heart but made you believe in the kind of love you’d always dreamed of.

You nodded, a smile breaking through your stunned expression as your voice shook slightly. “Yes. Yes, Jack, I will.”

Jack’s face lit up, and he carefully slipped the ring onto your finger—a simple, elegant design, the diamond catching the light from the dimmed arena lights. He stood up, pulling you into his arms as the two of you shared a kiss that sealed everything—your love, your promise, your future.

The next few weeks were a whirlwind. The team’s playoff journey continued, but Jack had a new focus. When he wasn’t on the ice, he was planning, talking to you about your wedding, about how to make it special, even amidst the chaos of his career. You made the decision to keep things small, intimate, just close family and friends, away from the media circus.

The night of Game 7 arrived. The arena was louder than it had ever been, the tension thick in the air. But Jack felt a calmness that had eluded him in previous games. His heart was full, and no matter what happened on the ice, he had everything he needed.

As the game ended with a nail-biting victory for the Devils, Jack felt the weight of his dream coming true. The roar of the crowd was deafening, but all he could hear was your voice, your support, your love.

That night, as the team celebrated, Jack found you amidst the chaos of victory. He pulled you close, his lips pressing softly against your forehead.

“I don’t care what happens tomorrow, or the next day, or a year from now,” Jack whispered. “As long as you’re with me, nothing else matters.”

You smiled up at him, your heart full as the sound of the crowd cheered around you.

“I’m with you, Jack. Always.”

And in that moment, everything felt perfect. They were no longer just two people trying to make it work in a world that demanded so much from them. They were a team, ready to face whatever the future held, together.

[estellan0vella]

More Than Enough Time: L. Mh Lee Minho x fem!reader (College AU)

WC: 11.6K

CW: Anxiety, Menace Jisung, Secret Simp Minho

General Masterlist SKZ Masterlist Part II

The room is alive with the sound of clinking glasses, murmured conversations, and the occasional burst of laughter that slices through the warm air of the grand banquet hall. The dim, golden glow of chandeliers drips overhead, casting a soft light across the elegantly dressed guests.

You sit at the round table, nervously smoothing your hands over the silk of your champagne-coloured gown. Every so often, your fingers toy with the sapphire-encrusted hairpin holding your hair in place, a gift from your grandmother. It's more than a piece of jewellery; it's a talisman tonight, something to cling to.

Beside you, Jisung, your best friend, fidgets in his seat, drumming his fingers on the table. He's dressed in a sleek black suit that contrasts nicely with his hair, but despite the confident exterior, you know he's just as anxious as you are. But for once, it feels like your nerves are trying to outdo his.

"Fuck, why did I agree to this?" Jisung mutters under his breath, glancing at you with wide eyes. "I swear to God, Y/N, if I have to stand up there and give a speech, I might just throw up all over the stage."

You force a chuckle, though it feels weak in your throat. "Join the club. I feel like my stomach's doing backflips. What if I trip in these shoes? What if I can't say anything at all and I just stand there like a fucking idiot?"

Jisung snorts, giving you a sympathetic look. "We're both fucked."

Across from you, Bang Chan, the Alpha Phi fraternity president, leans back in his chair, sipping on a glass of whiskey. His black hair is slicked back, giving him a polished, suave look that almost distracts from the fact that he's one of the rowdiest guys you know. He gives you both a grin that's way too confident for your liking.

"Relax," Chan says. "You guys are gonna crush it. You wrote that article like badasses, now just get up there and take the damn award."

Jisung glares at him. "Easy for you to say, Mr. Football Star. You literally thrive on people staring at you."

"Exactly," Chan grins wider. "Which is why you should listen to me."

You shift in your seat, glancing around the table. You're surrounded by Alpha Phi members tonight, all of whom seem a lot more comfortable in their skin than you feel in yours.

Hyunjin sits next to Chan, looking ridiculously perfect as always. His long black hair falls just past his shoulders, and he's tapping his fingers rhythmically on the table while staring off into the distance. He's receiving an award tonight too, for something in the arts, and though he looks calm, you can see his jaw clenching every few seconds.

"Stop staring at the program," Hyunjin mutters to you without even glancing your way. "It's not gonna change."

You blink, realizing that you've been staring at the folded piece of paper in front of you, the one listing all the awards for the night. Yours and Jisung's, The Innovative Journalism Award, is still about fifteen minutes away, and the waiting is fucking killing you.

"Fuck," you whisper under your breath, more to yourself than anyone else.

Felix, sitting on the other side of Jisung, notices your stress. He gives you a soft, warm smile, his freckles standing out against his fair skin. "You'll do fine, Y/N. We all believe in you."

"Yeah," Jeongin chimes in from the end of the table. His hair falls slightly into his eyes as he leans forward, resting his chin in his hand. He's getting an award too, something for fashion design. "We all know you're the smartest one here, so just relax, okay?"

You nod, but the knot in your stomach refuses to untangle. It's not just about the award. Sure, winning an award for the article you and Jisung wrote, a deep dive into the theory that Jack the Ripper might have been a woman, is huge.

It's the culmination of months of research, late nights, and too many cups of coffee. But the idea of standing in front of a room full of people, having all eyes on you, waiting for you to say something intelligent... it's suffocating.

Minho, who's been quiet up until now, finally speaks. He's seated directly across from you, his deep cherry red hair gleaming under the soft light of the chandeliers. "You'll be fine," he says simply, his voice calm and steady. "Just breathe."

You meet his gaze for a second longer than you intend to, feeling the weight of his words. Minho is always like this. Quietly confident, never too loud or overbearing. He's the type who can make you feel like everything's going to be okay, even when you're pretty fucking sure it's not.

"You make it sound so easy," you mutter, breaking the eye contact and taking a quick sip of your drink, trying to focus on something else. Anything else.

Hyunjin shifts beside you, his gaze flickering to the stage. "It's easy for Minho because he's never nervous. Must be nice to be so fucking chill all the time."

Minho shrugs, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly in a half-smile. "Just a talent, I guess."

Jisung rolls his eyes. "Well, share some of that talent with us because I feel like I'm about to shit myself."

There's a round of laughter at the table, but you can't join in. The knot in your stomach tightens as the minutes tick by. Your hands, now resting on the table, feel clammy. The silk of your gown is suddenly too heavy, clinging to your skin in a way that makes you feel trapped. You know no one else can hear your heart pounding, but it feels deafening in your own ears.

You glance at the stage again, watching as the current award is being presented to some group for their contributions to environmental science. You're not even paying attention to the speech, just counting down the minutes, waiting for your turn. You can feel it creeping up on you. The anxiety. The tightness in your chest, the shallow breaths, the overwhelming need to get the fuck out of this room.

Suddenly, it's too much. The noise, the lights, the heat. You need air. Now.

"I—uh—I need to use the restroom," you stammer, pushing your chair back.

Jisung glances at you, concern flashing in his eyes, but he nods. "You good?"

You nod quickly, too quickly. "Yeah. Just nerves."

Before anyone can stop you, you're on your feet, weaving through the tables and out of the banquet hall. The moment you step into the hallway, the cool air hits your skin, and it's a relief, but only for a second. Your heels click against the marble floor as you make your way down the corridor, your breath coming in shallow gasps now.

You find a small side room and slip inside, closing the door behind you. The silence is almost jarring after the noise of the banquet hall, but you're grateful for it. You lean against the door, pressing one hand to your stomach and the other to your forehead. The room feels like it's spinning, and you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to focus, trying to breathe.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," you whisper to yourself, feeling the panic rising in your chest.

You yank the sapphire hairpin out of your hair, letting your carefully pinned-up style fall apart, the soft strands brushing against your bare shoulders. The pin feels cold in your hand, a grounding sensation, but it's not enough to stop the wave of anxiety crashing over you.

Your stomach twists painfully, and you press harder against it, as if that will somehow make it stop. But it's not working. Nothing's working.

You lean over slightly, bracing yourself on your knees, trying to remember what the hell you're supposed to do in moments like this. Breathe. You're supposed to breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Simple. Easy. Except it's not.

Back in the hall, the crowd shifts with anticipation as the MC steps up to the podium, smiling widely at the gathered guests.

"And now, the recipients of this year's Innovative Journalism Award. For their brilliant work on the investigative article delving into the theory that Jack the Ripper may have been a woman, please welcome Han Jisung and Y/N L/N!"

There's a pause. Jisung's heart nearly jumps out of his chest as he hears your name. He looks over to the seat you left empty minutes ago, feeling the weight of everyone's eyes turning to him.

"Fuck," Jisung mutters under his breath, pushing his chair back and standing up.

The nerves that were already gnawing at him double in intensity. His best friend isn't there to share the load, and now, he's completely on the spot. He glances over at Minho, who's been silently watching him.

Minho, though still seated, leans over slightly. "Where the hell is Y/N?"

Jisung runs a hand through his hair, his heart racing. "She, uh... she went to the restroom or something. She's been freaking out all night. I think she might be having one of her moments, man."

Minho's expression darkens slightly with concern, and he pushes his chair back. "I'll go find her."

"Wait, wait," Jisung hisses, grabbing Minho's wrist as he's about to stand. "What the fuck do I say to them up there?"

Minho glances toward the stage where the MC is starting to look a little confused, waiting for someone to approach. "Make up some bullshit. Tell them she had to take a phone call or something, just so they don't start asking too many fucking questions."

Jisung frowns, his anxiety doubling. "Dude, I can't do this shit on my own."

Minho's eyes soften for a second, something almost rare to see from him. "I know. But you've got this. Just give her the credit she deserves, take the award, and make sure someone films it so she can see it later. Chan will do that. I'll make sure she's okay."

Jisung clenches his fists for a moment, feeling the pressure crushing him. The thought of going up there alone, without you, makes him feel like he's about to pass out. But when he looks into Minho's eyes, he knows he's right. You're the priority right now.

"Alright," Jisung says finally, his voice tight with nerves. "Just... just make sure Y/N's okay, alright? You know how she gets with this kind of shit."

"I'll handle it," Minho nods, his voice low but firm. He claps Jisung on the shoulder. "Now go get the fucking award."

Jisung exhales sharply, watching as Minho slips away from the table, moving swiftly through the hall. He takes a deep breath, feeling the weight of what he has to do next.

"Chan," Jisung mutters to his friend, who is still seated at the table, looking between him and the stage.

"Yeah?"

"Film this for Y/N, alright? Minho's going to find her."

Chan raises an eyebrow but nods, pulling out his phone without a word. Jisung swallows down the rising panic and heads toward the stage, his steps feeling heavy as the crowd watches him.

Minho doesn't waste time as he leaves the banquet hall, moving swiftly down the corridor. His steps echo softly in the quiet hallway, the muffled sounds of the award ceremony still filtering through the door behind him.

He's seen you spiral like this before, and his heart tightens in his chest. You're tough as hell most of the time, but when the anxiety hits, it hits hard. Minho knows that look in your eyes all too well. The panic, the overwhelming urge to escape. He's watched you, time and again, try to fight it, to shove it down, but sometimes, it's just too much.

You're not the type to cry during these moments; that's not how your panic works. Instead, you go silent, withdraw, pull yourself in so tight that it's like you're trying to disappear. Minho's learned to recognize the signs, the little tells. Like how you start fidgeting with your hair or that sapphire hairpin you always wear when you're stressed. The one that belonged to your grandmother. It's your good luck charm, though tonight it seems like it's doing little to stave off the rising storm inside you.

As Minho searches for you, he opens door after door, moving quickly but not frantically. His mind stays focused, methodical. He doesn't need to be panicked; that won't help you. He knows you well enough to know where you'd go in moments like this. Somewhere quiet, somewhere empty.

Finally, he reaches a small room at the end of the hallway, and when he pushes the door open, he sees you.

You're pacing back and forth, your gown swishing gently as you move. One hand is pressed to your forehead, the other to your stomach, like you're trying to physically hold yourself together. Your breathing is shallow, quick, and your eyes are wide with that familiar look of dread.

Minho's heart breaks a little as he watches you. You look so vulnerable, so unlike the confident woman you usually are. Yet, at the same time, there's something undeniably beautiful about you, even now. Even in the middle of your anxiety, you manage to carry a grace that makes his chest tighten for entirely different reasons. But now's not the time for that.

He steps into the doorway and knocks gently on the frame. "Hey, sweetheart," he says softly, using the nickname he's reserved just for you.

You look up, startled at first, but then you see it's Minho. A small, shaky breath leaves your lips. "Hey, Minho," you murmur, your voice quieter than usual.

Minho takes a few steps into the room, closing the door behind him, sealing off the rest of the world. "You doing alright?" he asks, though he already knows the answer.

"Yeah... I'm fine," you lie, but the strain in your voice gives you away. "I just... I don't want to go up there."

He nods, stepping closer to you, not crowding your space but just enough to make sure you know he's there. "I know," he says quietly.

He reaches out, gently placing his hand on the back of your neck, his fingers lightly brushing the soft skin there. His thumb traces over your pulse point, and he can feel how fast your heart is racing.

"It's okay. Jisung's up there right now, telling them you had to step out for an important phone call. No one's gonna make a big deal about it."

You blink at him, processing his words. "He did?"

"Yeah," Minho confirms, his voice soothing. "Chan's filming it too, so you'll still get to see the moment you're credited for the work. Don't worry about it. You don't need to put yourself through that shit."

You let out a small breath, your shoulders sagging with relief. The pressure in your chest eases slightly, though the tightness in your stomach remains. Minho's thumb continues its gentle rhythm on your neck, grounding you, pulling you back to the present.

Suddenly, Minho pulls you into a hug. His arms wrap around you, firm but gentle, and he presses his cheek against yours. The warmth of his body, the solidness of his embrace, catches you off guard for a second, but then you relax into him. He smells like something warm and comforting, and you breathe it in, your arms coming up to grip his shoulders as you rest your head against his.

He holds you tightly, his cheek still pressed against yours, and rocks you slightly, back and forth. It's the same thing he does for Jisung when he's panicking, the pressure of the hug helping to suppress the nervous system, calming everything down.

Minho doesn't say anything for a while, just keeps holding you, his cheek brushing yours, his thumb still moving gently on the back of your neck. His breathing is calm, steady, and before long, you find your own breathing starting to match his.

The scent of your mango and passionfruit body spray lingers in the air, and Minho can't help but smile a little to himself. He's always adored that scent on you. It's light and sweet, just like you, and being this close to you, holding you like this, it makes his heart pound in his chest. But he pushes those feelings aside. Right now, it's about you, not him.

"You're crashing with Jisung at the frat tonight, right?" Minho asks after a moment, his voice low and calm.

You nod against him. "Yeah, that was the plan."

Minho pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands still resting on your shoulders. "Let's get you back then. Fuck these fancy assholes. You earned your award, you don't need to torture yourself by staying here. Take those torture devices off your feet, too. They're not doing you any favours."

You glance down at your stilettos, your brows furrowing. "I should've worn wedges. I hate these fucking shoes."

Minho chuckles softly, shaking his head. He crouches down in front of you, his fingers already working on the small buckles of your stilettos. "Next time, wear the wedges. I know you prefer them."

You watch as he carefully unbuckles your shoes, slipping them off your feet one at a time. His movements are gentle, and something about the simple act of him helping you out of your heels brings another wave of calm. He stands back up, holding your shoes in one hand, giving you a small smirk. "Better?"

"Yeah," you murmur, wiggling your toes against the cool floor. "Better."

Minho slips his suit jacket off and hands it to you. "Here, put this on. It'll help with the cold when we head back."

You take the jacket, pulling it over your shoulders. It's too big, but the weight of it is comforting, and the scent of his cologne clings to the fabric, making you feel a little more secure.

Before you can say anything else, Minho pulls out his phone and quickly dials a number. He holds the phone up to his ear, waiting for the other line to pick up.

"Yo, Felix," he says when the call connects. "I'm taking Y/N back to the frat. She's okay, but she needs to get out of here. You guys good?"

There's a muffled response on the other end of the line, and Minho nods. "Cool. Tell Jisung I found her, and we'll meet you all back at the house later." Another pause and Minho chuckles softly. "Yeah, I know you were planning on ditching after Hyunjin and Jeongin get their awards. We'll see you guys then."

He hangs up the phone and tucks it back into his pocket, turning his attention back to you. "Alright, let's get the hell out of here."

Without waiting for you to argue, Minho crouches down, turning his back toward you. "Get on."

You blink in surprise. "What?"

"Get on," he repeats, glancing over his shoulder at you. "I'm giving you a piggyback. Your feet are gonna hurt like hell if you walk back barefoot."

You hesitate for a second, feeling a little self-conscious, but the look in Minho's eyes is so earnest, so full of quiet understanding, that you don't argue. You slip your arms around his neck, and he hooks his hands under your thighs, lifting you up with ease. The weight of the world seems to fall away as you rest your chin on his shoulder, your arms wrapped loosely around him.

As he starts walking, you close your eyes for a moment, letting the cool night air hit your face as you exit the building. The campus is quiet at this time of night, only the sound of Minho's footsteps echoing softly on the pavement.

"Feel better?" he asks after a few moments, his voice soft.

"Yeah," you whisper, resting your head against his shoulder. "Thank you, Minho. I just... I couldn't handle it in there."

"I know," he replies gently. "And that's fine. There's no point in torturing yourself for an award you already earned. You don't need to prove anything to anyone."

You nod against him, feeling a little lighter with every step. The anxiety that had been clawing at your chest earlier is slowly dissipating, and you can focus on the steady rhythm of Minho's breathing, the warmth of his back against your chest. He carries you across campus with ease, his hands never faltering as he supports you.

"You know," Minho says after a while, his voice cutting through the quiet, "next time you feel like this, don't wait until it gets so bad, alright? Just grab me, or Jisung, or any of us. We've got you."

You smile slightly, your fingers curling a little tighter around his shoulders. "I'll try."

"You better," he says, a teasing note in his voice, though there's still that underlying sincerity that makes your heart warm. "Because if I have to chase you down in the middle of every fancy event, I'm gonna start charging you for these piggyback rides."

You laugh softly, the sound feeling good in your chest. "Deal. I'll make sure to pay you in pizza."

"Now we're talking."

The rest of the walk is quiet, comfortable. You can feel the weight of the night lifting off your shoulders as you approach the Alpha Phi house. By the time you reach the front door, you feel almost like yourself again, thanks to Minho and his steady presence.

When he finally sets you down in front of the house, he gives you a small smile. "See? Not so bad, right?"

You nod, smiling back at him, feeling more grateful than you can express. "Not so bad at all."

Minho grins at you as he unlocks the door to the Alpha Phi house, holding it open for you to step inside. The familiar warmth of the frat house surrounds you, a stark contrast to the cold, fancy banquet hall you'd just escaped from. The moment you cross the threshold, some of the leftover tension in your body melts away.

"Come on," Minho says, his voice low and relaxed, the same voice that had been grounding you since he found you spiralling. "Let's get you something to drink."

You follow him down the hall toward the kitchen, the soft glow of the house's lights making the space feel cosy, almost like home. The tension from the evening still clings to you a little, but Minho's presence beside you is like a steady anchor, keeping you from drifting back into panic.

When you enter the kitchen, Minho heads straight for the fridge, glancing over his shoulder at you. "What's your poison tonight? You look like you could use something strong."

You laugh softly, settling onto one of the barstools at the island, adjusting your floor-length gown so it drapes neatly around you. "Surprise me."

Minho pulls out a bottle of pineapple juice and a bottle of vodka from the fridge, giving you a wink before he grabs a couple of glasses from the cupboard. He makes quick work of mixing your drink, pouring a generous amount of vodka into the glass before topping it off with juice.

He slides your drink across the counter, the clink of the glass against the marble catching your attention. "Vodka pineapple for the lady," he says, raising his own glass. "And a double JD for me because, fuck, we've earned it."

You chuckle, taking the glass and sipping it. The sweetness of the pineapple juice mixed with the vodka goes down smoothly, and you feel some of the remaining tension in your chest loosen. Minho takes a sip of his own drink, watching you with a soft smile.

"You know," he says after a moment, leaning against the counter, "if it helps at all, you were definitely the most beautiful girl in attendance tonight."

You feel heat rise to your cheeks at his words, and you can't help but smile. "You're full of shit, Minho."

"I'm serious," he insists, his eyes twinkling with amusement but also sincerity. "The moment you walked into the hall in that dress, I'm pretty sure every guy there forgot why the fuck they were even attending. It was all eyes on you."

You shake your head, sipping your drink again to hide the fact that his words make you feel more flustered than you care to admit. "Well, I'm not so sure about that, but thanks."

Minho smirks, taking another sip of his drink before his gaze softens again. "It was also pretty fucking sweet how Jisung's pocket square and tie matched your dress."

You grin, finally letting out a genuine laugh at that. "Yeah, he insisted. Said best friends and co-journalists have to match, so everyone knows we're the shit."

Minho chuckles, shaking his head in that fond, almost exasperated way he always does when he talks about Jisung. "Of course he did."

You're about to take another sip of your drink when you suddenly remember something, and your smile falters. "Shit... I forgot my hairpin in the room."

Minho doesn't hesitate. "Don't worry about it. I'll text Chan, and he'll grab it for you before they leave."

You nod, a little relieved. "Thanks. I'd hate to lose it. It was my grandmother's."

Minho pulls out his phone, already typing a message to Chan. As he sends it, he leans against the counter again, taking another long sip of his drink. "So," he says, his voice casual, "to be completely honest, I was supposed to read your article, but I never got around to it. You know, being a veterinary science major kind of takes up all my fucking time."

He's lying, and you have no idea. Minho read that article the moment it was published, studied every word like it was the most important thing he'd ever laid eyes on.

He remembers the excitement in your voice when you first started talking about the project with Jisung, and he couldn't help but get curious. So, yeah, he read it, but he doesn't want to give that away. He wants you to light up and tell him about it yourself, to see the passion in your eyes as you explain your work.

Your face brightens at his interest, and you lean forward slightly, resting your elbow on the counter as you take another sip of your drink.

"Oh my God, you're missing out," you say, your voice already more animated. "Jisung and I have this theory that Jack the Ripper was actually a woman. A midwife, to be specific."

Minho raises an eyebrow, feigning curiosity. "A midwife? That's a hell of a theory. Go on."

You nod, excited now, the exhaustion from the evening momentarily forgotten. "Right? Think about it. A midwife would have had access to all the knowledge needed to perform those surgical cuts on the victims. And during that time, no one would've questioned a woman walking around in blood-covered clothes. She could've been out at all hours, and people would've just assumed she was delivering a baby or something."

Minho swirls the drink in his glass, watching you intently as you explain. "That actually makes a lot of fucking sense. Victorian sexism would've worked in her favour."

"Exactly!" you exclaim, your eyes lighting up. "Back then, no one would've suspected a woman. They were too focused on looking for some deranged man, and the police reports were all written from a male perspective. They overlooked so many possibilities simply because they didn't think a woman could be capable of something so gruesome."

Minho takes another sip of his drink, his gaze fixed on you. "That's pretty fucking brilliant. What about the eyewitness reports, though? There was at least one person who claimed to see a man near one of the crime scenes, right?"

You nod, already ready to dive into that part of the discussion. "Yeah, but Jisung and I argued that just because someone was in the area doesn't mean they were guilty. There are always people wandering around in cities, especially in a place like Whitechapel during that time. Plus, eyewitness testimony is notoriously unreliable, especially in the dark, in a chaotic place like that."

Minho's lips curl into a small smile as he watches you. You're practically glowing now, completely immersed in the subject matter. This is exactly why he brought it up.

Seeing you like this, seeing you so passionate, it's what he loves most about you. Though he'd never admit that out loud. He sets his glass down and leans in a little closer.

"So, basically," he says, keeping his tone light and teasing, "you're saying Jack the Ripper might've just been an extremely intelligent, sadistic woman who knew how to avoid suspicion by playing into society's sexist expectations."

"Exactly!" you say again, nodding enthusiastically. "It's just a theory, of course, but it fits so many of the facts. And honestly, it makes a lot more sense than half the other theories out there."

Minho chuckles, shaking his head. "I'm impressed. That's some seriously clever shit. I'm pissed I didn't read the article now."

You smirk, taking another sip of your drink. "Well, you can still read it. It's not going anywhere."

"I will," Minho says, though he already knows it word for word. "You and Jisung killed it."

Your smile softens at the compliment, and you feel that warmth in your chest again. The same one that always seems to appear when Minho says things like this. He has a way of making you feel proud of your work, of reminding you that you're capable, even when you don't always believe it yourself.

You glance down at your glass, twirling it in your hands. "Thanks, Minho. It means a lot, really. It was... it was a tough project, but we're both really proud of how it turned out."

"As you should be," he says, his voice soft but firm. "You've always been fucking brilliant. That's why it pisses me off when you get in your head about shit."

You laugh softly, though there's a note of vulnerability in your voice. "Yeah, well, getting in my head is kind of my speciality."

Minho's expression softens, and for a moment, the teasing drops. He steps around the island, standing in front of you as he leans on the counter, his hands resting on the marble surface.

"Listen," he says, his voice lower now, more serious. "I know tonight was rough, but don't let it get to you. You've already proven yourself, not just with the award, but with everything you've done. And you've got people who have your back, alright?"

You blink, a little surprised by the sudden shift in his tone. Minho's always been good at saying the right thing, but this feels different. You meet his gaze, and there's something there, something you can't quite place. It's intense but not overwhelming, grounding in a way that makes your chest feel warm.

"I... yeah," you murmur, your voice softer. "Thanks, Minho. Really."

He doesn't say anything for a moment, just holds your gaze, and then he breaks the moment with a small grin. "Now, how about we ditch this heavy shit and enjoy the rest of the night? We've got the whole house to ourselves for a bit."

You laugh, nodding. "Yeah, sounds like a plan."

Minho taps the counter. "I'll top up your drink."

The door to the Alpha Phi house swings open, and the sound of footsteps fills the hallway as the rest of the guys file in after the awards ceremony. You hear Jisung before you see him, his voice cutting through the noise with its usual mixture of excitement and concern.

"Y/N!"

The moment he spots you sitting calmly at the counter, his eyes soften with relief, but his feet don't slow down. He rushes over, crossing the room in a few long strides, and immediately starts fussing over you like a mother hen.

"Shit, are you okay? You should've texted me or something. I would've ditched and come with you."

You can't help but smile at the sight of him. Jisung's still wearing the matching pocket square and tie that he insisted on wearing to match your champagne-coloured gown, though his suit jacket is a little rumpled now from the event. His hair sticks up in odd directions, no doubt from running his fingers through it a thousand times since you left the hall. He looks stressed, but the sight is comforting in its familiarity. You let him fuss, knowing that this is just what he does. What you do for each other.

"I'm fine, Ji," you assure him, though your voice is soft. "Promise."

Jisung's eyes narrow slightly, his hands gently squeezing your shoulders as he bends down to wrap his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on top of your head. "No, you're not," he mumbles, his voice quieter now, almost like he's talking to himself. "It felt wrong up there without you. I fucking hated it."

You reach up and pat his arms, which are still wrapped around you, a small smile playing on your lips. "I'm sorry."

Jisung shakes his head, pressing his cheek to your hair. "No, I should've ditched with you. You know I hate leaving you alone when you're feeling like that. I shouldn't have left you with Minho, that stinky prick."

"Oi!" Minho's voice cuts in from across the kitchen, where he's leaning casually against the counter, drink in hand. He looks amused rather than offended, a teasing grin on his face. "Who do you think you're talking about, you cheeky fucker?"

You giggle at the exchange, and Jisung, ever the dramatic one, tightens his hold on you as if Minho's words have personally wounded him. "I'm talking about you, you smelly asshole," he says, sticking his tongue out at Minho while burying his face further into your hair, clearly unbothered by his friend's retort.

Minho rolls his eyes but says nothing else, instead taking another sip of his drink and shaking his head in mock disbelief. He watches the two of you with a small smile on his lips, though there's something else lingering in his eyes. Something softer, more careful. He doesn't push the banter further, choosing to stay quiet for now.

The door opens again, and Chan enters the kitchen, looking as polished as ever despite the long night. He's still got his suit jacket on, though it's clear he's ready to relax as he pulls out his phone, glancing around at the group.

"Oi, Y/N," he says, catching your attention. "You left something behind."

Chan reaches into his blazer pocket and pulls out your grandmother's sapphire-encrusted hairpin. Relief floods through you as you realize you'd completely forgotten about it being in a bubble of comfort with Minho. You reach out to take it, but before you can, Minho steps forward and gently takes it from Chan's hand.

"Here," Minho says softly, his voice lacking the usual teasing tone as he approaches you. "Let me."

Jisung watches the exchange with narrowed eyes, his arms still wrapped around you. He doesn't say anything, but you can feel the tension in the way his body stiffens slightly as Minho steps in closer.

Minho's touch is gentle as he slides the hairpin back into your hair, taking care to make sure it's secure. His fingers brush against your scalp, sending a soft shiver down your spine, but you ignore the feeling. When he's done, he gives you a small smile, his eyes lingering on yours for just a moment longer than usual.

"Perfect," Minho says softly, stepping back.

Before you can thank him, Jisung immediately shoos him away, his hands fluttering in the air as if to physically push Minho aside. "Alright, alright, back off, Romeo. I've got it from here."

Minho rolls his eyes again, but there's an amused smirk on his face as he steps back toward the counter, grabbing his drink. "You're so fucking possessive, Ji."

Jisung doesn't bother responding to that, instead wrapping his arms more securely around your shoulders as he glares at Minho's back. You don't miss the way Jisung's grip tightens slightly, though he's still careful not to make you uncomfortable. He's always been overprotective when it comes to you, but lately, it's been more intense. Especially when it comes to Minho.

"Chan, have we got anything to drink?" Hyunjin's voice cuts through the tension as he and Jeongin finally make their way into the kitchen, both of them looking ready to relax after the long night.

Chan nods, already pulling out glasses from the cupboard. "Yeah, yeah. What do you want? We've got plenty left from the last party."

As the group starts grabbing drinks and chatting amongst themselves, Minho silently pours you another drink, setting it in front of you with a small smile. You notice that he doesn't say anything, just gives you a look that says he's checking in without being too obvious about it.

Jisung, meanwhile, is still fussing over you, his arms around your shoulders like a security blanket. He doesn't let go, not even when you shift slightly in your seat to take a sip of your drink. He stays close, watching you with worried eyes as if he's waiting for you to show any sign of distress.

"Ji, I'm okay," you assure him again, though your voice is soft. "Really."

He huffs, not fully convinced. "Yeah, well, I'll be the judge of that."

Chan finishes pouring drinks for everyone and turns to the group with a grin, raising his glass. "Alright, before we get too fucked up, let's do a toast. To Jeongin and Hyunjin for their awards, and of course, to Y/N and Jisung for killing it with that award-winning article."

The group raises their glasses in agreement, and Minho tilts his glass toward you, a grin tugging at his lips. "Cheers to Y/N," he says softly, his eyes meeting yours.

You smile back at him, feeling the warmth of his gaze settle over you like a comforting blanket. It's moments like this, when he's not teasing or throwing sarcastic comments, that you feel a strange connection to him, something that you can't quite put your finger on. But before you can dwell on it, Jisung pulls you closer, pressing a quick kiss to the top of your head.

"To us," Jisung mutters, his voice soft in your ear. "But mostly to you."

You chuckle, clinking your glass against his. "To us."

The rest of the night passes in a blur of laughter, drinks, and the comfortable warmth of being around friends.

Eventually, Jisung drags you up the stairs, leading you through the dimly lit hallway toward his room. After the long, chaotic night of the awards ceremony, and the endless rounds of small talk and congratulations, this is the sanctuary you need. Being around Jisung, your best friend, feels like hitting reset on a night that left your emotions tangled.

"Come on, let's chill," he says as he pushes open his door. His room is just as messy as always. Clothes scattered on the floor, textbooks stacked haphazardly on his desk, and the faint glow of those stars you stuck to his ceiling two months ago.

You flop onto his bed beside him, both of you lying side by side, staring up at the ceiling. The stars glow faintly in the dark, their soft light casting a surreal calm over the room.

"Remember when you made me put these fucking stars up?" Jisung says, his voice half-teasing, half-nostalgic. "I thought they were gonna look stupid, but..."

"They're kind of nice, right?" you finish for him, smirking. "See? You should listen to me more often."

Jisung snorts. "Yeah, well, don't get used to it. This is like, a one-time thing."

The comfortable silence that follows is filled with the distant hum of voices from downstairs, but up here, it's just the two of you. It's moments like this, with Jisung, that you appreciate the ease of your friendship. There's no need to fill every second with conversation. Just being here, next to each other, is enough.

You close your eyes for a second, letting the tension from the night melt away. But then, Jisung, ever the one to break a peaceful moment with something unexpected, speaks up again.

"You know," he starts, and you immediately know there's something coming. His tone is a little too casual. "I was thinking... maybe I should set you up with Felix or Chan."

Your eyes snap open, turning your head toward him, caught completely off guard. "What?"

He's lying there next to you, staring up at the ceiling like he didn't just drop a bombshell on you.

"I'm serious," he continues, his voice still annoyingly nonchalant. "They both think you're amazing and beautiful. Felix especially, he's been crushing on you for ages."

You blink at him, unsure whether to laugh or be genuinely surprised. "Uh... I don't know, Ji. I mean, maybe, but I'd have to think about it."

Jisung shrugs, still staring at the ceiling like this is no big deal. "No pressure. I just think you and Felix could be really good together. He's sweet, thoughtful. Plus, he thinks you're like, Aphrodite-level beautiful."

You snort. "Aphrodite? Really?"

"I'm dead fucking serious," Jisung says, turning his head to look at you. "I've heard him talk about you. The dude practically melts when you're around."

You can't help but smile a little at the thought. Felix has always been a close friend, but you never really thought about him in that way. He's easy to talk to, kind, and funny in that understated way of his.

"I don't know," you say, rolling onto your back again, staring at the stars. "Felix is really sweet, but has he ever actually said anything? Like, to me?"

Jisung shakes his head, waving the question away like it's a minor detail. "No, but come on, he's shy. Attraction is the start, right? You two have good chemistry, and he's definitely into you."

You bite your lip, unsure of how to respond. You've always been close with Felix, and while the idea of a date with him doesn't sound bad, it feels unexpected. Like something you hadn't even considered before tonight.

"And Chan?" you ask, more to fill the silence than because you're seriously considering it.

Jisung shrugs again. "Chan's great too, but he's more focused on school and music right now. I think Felix is the better choice if you're looking for something real, you know?"

You can't help but laugh at how serious Jisung sounds. "Since when are you the expert on my love life?"

"Hey," he protests, sitting up on the bed and crossing his arms. "I'm your best friend. I know you better than anyone, and I know what's good for you."

You roll your eyes. "Right. Of course, you do."

"I'm just saying," Jisung continues, grinning now, "one date with Felix won't hurt. See where things go. If it works out, great. If not, no big deal."

You sigh, leaning back on your elbows. He's persistent, you'll give him that. But there's something about the way he's pushing this that makes you wonder if there's more to it than just wanting to set you up with Felix.

"Okay," you say finally, letting out a deep breath. "Fine. One date won't hurt."

Jisung beams at you, clearly pleased with himself. "Fuck yeah. I'll talk to him tomorrow and make sure everything's set for tomorrow night."

You raise an eyebrow, sitting up fully now. "Wait, tomorrow night? You're already planning this?"

"Yup," Jisung says, completely unbothered by your incredulity. "I'll talk to Felix in the morning. He's probably just waiting for an excuse to ask you out anyway."

"You're ridiculous, you know that?"

Jisung just grins, leaning back on his hands. "You love me."

You roll your eyes but smile despite yourself. "Yeah, yeah."

The room falls into another comfortable silence, the distant sounds of the guys downstairs still faintly audible. You stare up at the stars again, wondering what tomorrow will bring. Felix is sweet, and he's always been a good friend. Maybe this date could be something more.

But before you can think too much about it, Jisung speaks up again.

"Felix is seriously into you, you know," he says, his voice softer now. "He hasn't said it outright, but I can tell. You're the kind of person he'd fall hard for."

You glance over at Jisung, wondering where this sudden emotional shift is coming from. "You're really sure about this, huh?"

Jisung nods, his expression more serious now. "Yeah. I just want you to be with someone who sees how fucking amazing you are. And Felix is one of the few guys I know who would treat you the way you deserve."

There's something about the way he says it that makes your chest tighten. Jisung has always been protective of you, sometimes to the point of being overbearing, but it comes from a place of genuine care. You know he just wants the best for you.

"Okay," you say quietly, more to reassure him than anything else. "If you're that sure, I'll give it a shot."

Jisung breaks into a grin again, clearly relieved. "Good. Trust me, you won't regret it."

What neither of you knows is that Minho is standing just outside the door, his jaw clenched, fists curled at his sides. He's heard every word of the conversation, and it's taking everything in him to not burst into the room right now.

Minho knows exactly what Jisung is doing. He's pushing Felix toward you because he doesn't trust Minho. And it pisses him off more than he can even articulate. Jisung thinks Minho is going to break your heart, that he's just some player who doesn't care. But Jisung has no idea how hard Minho's fallen for you, how much he's been holding back because he's been waiting for the right moment to tell you.

And now, hearing Jisung practically set you up with Felix? It's infuriating.

Minho grits his teeth, leaning against the wall as he listens to your conversation. He could go in there, stop this whole thing, and tell you how he really feels. But he knows Jisung won't make that easy. Jisung will fight him every step of the way because he doesn't think Minho is good enough for you.

But Jisung is wrong. Minho knows he is.

He'll prove it. One way or another.

The restaurant is buzzing with the soft hum of conversations and the clinking of cutlery. You and Felix walk through the dimly lit space, a hostess guiding you to a table near the window. The atmosphere is intimate, maybe a little too intimate. The soft glow of the candles on the table reflects off the wine glasses, making the whole thing feel like the date Jisung had envisioned.

Except, it's not.

You tug at the edge of your black mid-thigh blazer dress, adjusting it slightly as you sit down, your thigh-high stiletto boots brushing against the leg of the chair. The sapphire-encrusted hairpin in your hair catches the light, just like the sapphire necklace resting against your collarbone.

Your grandmother's heirlooms feel like a protective layer tonight, a way to steady your nerves even though Felix has never been the type to make you feel anxious.

Felix slides into the seat across from you, and for a second, you take in his outfit: black slacks and a half-buttoned white shirt, his hands adorned with chunky silver rings. He looks good. And that, combined with the fact that you're both dressed like you're on the cover of a fashion magazine, only adds to the absurdity of the situation.

"Okay," Felix starts, his eyebrows raising as he takes a long look around the room. "This is fucking weird, right?"

You breathe out a laugh, feeling the tension melt slightly. "So fucking weird. What the fuck was Jisung thinking?"

Felix leans back, shaking his head. "I honestly don't know. He cornered me, said something about how I think you're beautiful, and then put two and two together and somehow got ten."

"He's been pushing this since last night. Something about how we'd be 'perfect' together. I guess he thought your opinion on my looks was enough for a love story."

Felix laughs, and the sound is warm and genuine. "Well, to be fair, I do think you're beautiful. I have eyes, don't I? But that doesn't mean I've been harbouring some secret crush on you."

"Thank God," you sigh, leaning back in your chair with relief. "So we can just treat this like a regular friends' dinner?"

Felix raises his glass of wine, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "To a friends' dinner."

You clink glasses, the soft ting sounding like an agreement between the two of you. Already, the night feels lighter. The weirdness of it all slowly dissipates as you both sip your wine and settle into familiar conversation.

"So," you say, gesturing around the restaurant, "if this is supposed to be a 'friends' dinner,' let's make the most of it. What's new with you? Still managing to ace all your classes while simultaneously being everyone's favourite stress baker?"

Felix grins, his eyes sparkling as he leans forward. "Of course. My cookies are keeping half the campus sane, honestly. The other half's still in denial."

You laugh, knowing all too well how Felix's baked goods have gained a sort of cult following around school. He's practically famous for them.

"Speaking of which," he continues, "I made those macadamia nut ones you like the other day. Jisung stole half of them before I could bring them over."

"Typical," you say, shaking your head. "I'll have to fight him for the rest. You know how much I love those."

The conversation flows naturally as you both dive into your usual back-and-forth. The wine loosens you up a bit, and soon enough, you're laughing loudly with Felix, completely relaxed. It feels like any other hangout, the weird pretence of a date"falling away.

The waiter comes by to check on you, refilling your wine glasses as you both finish the first bottle. Felix eyes the bottle in the waiter's hands, then glances at you, a mischievous smile spreading across his face.

"You know," he says, his voice lowering as if he's letting you in on some grand secret. "We could get a free bottle of wine right now."

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. "Go on."

Felix grins like he's thought of the most brilliant plan. He slides one of the many rings off his fingers, stands up, and before you can even process what's happening, he gets down on one knee in front of you.

The people at nearby tables glance over, curious, but Felix ignores them, focusing entirely on you.

"Y/N," he says in an exaggeratedly serious voice, holding up the ring like it's some priceless artefact. "Will you make me the happiest guy in this restaurant and marry me?"

The wine has quelled any anxiety you might've felt earlier, so instead of feeling awkward, you decide to play along.

"Yes!" you exclaim dramatically, sticking out your hand for him to slide the ring onto your finger. "Of course, I'll marry you!"

The tables around you erupt into applause, people clapping and cheering as if they just witnessed the most romantic proposal of the century. Felix stands up, a smirk on his face, and the waiter, looking entirely caught up in the moment, hurries over to offer congratulations.

"Congrats!" the waiter says, looking genuinely excited. "Let me get you two a complimentary bottle of our finest wine to celebrate."

You barely hold back your laughter as the waiter rushes off. Felix slides back into his chair, grinning from ear to ear.

"I can't believe that worked," you say, shaking your head in disbelief.

Felix raises his glass again, this time with a proud look in his eyes. "To my fake fiancée and free wine."

You clink glasses again, still giggling as you drink to your ridiculous plan. Just when you think it couldn't get better, a couple from a nearby table leans over and says, "We've got your bill tonight. Congrats again!"

You and Felix exchange wide-eyed looks, barely managing to hold back more laughter. "Holy shit," Felix mutters under his breath. "We just hit the jackpot."

As you drink your newly acquired bottle of wine, the night only becomes more fun. The awkwardness that had hung over the evening at the start is long gone, replaced by pure enjoyment. You and Felix settle back into conversation as the restaurant continues to buzz around you.

"So," Felix says after a sip of wine, his gaze drifting toward the sapphire and diamond necklace around your neck. "Tell me about the heirlooms. That necklace and the pin. They've gotta be worth something, right?"

You nod, tracing the edge of your necklace absentmindedly. "Yeah, they are. My grandmother left them to me. She had a lot of money."

Felix leans forward, intrigued. "I had no idea. So, like, how much are we talking?"

You smile, not bothered by his curiosity. Felix has always been straightforward, and you appreciate that about him. "Well, she was a CEO. She raised me after my parents died, so I inherited pretty much everything. I've got shares in her company and in the other businesses she invested in."

Felix's eyes widen slightly. "So you're rich."

You shrug, sipping your wine. "I guess I am."

"Damn," Felix says, leaning back in his chair with a grin. "Jisung never mentioned that part."

You laugh softly. "Yeah, I don't go around announcing it. I'm not really the 'rich heiress' type, you know?"

Felix nods, understanding. "Makes sense. Still, that's kind of badass. You've got all this wealth and power, and you're still just you."

You smile, feeling the sincerity behind his words. "Thanks, Lix."

The conversation drifts after that, touching on light topics as you both finish the second bottle of wine. The restaurant is still bustling, but it feels like you and Felix are in your own little world, enjoying the absurdity of the evening.

After a while, Felix leans back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head. "You know why Jisung set us up, right?"

You raise an eyebrow, your mind still pleasantly buzzed from the wine. "Because he's an idiot who can't read people at all?"

Felix snorts, shaking his head. "Besides that."

You tilt your head, genuinely curious. "No, enlighten me."

Felix grins, but there's something knowing in his eyes. "Well, I'll let you figure that out for yourself. I won't ruin the fun."

You roll your eyes, playfully smacking his arm. "You're such a dick."

Felix just laughs, finishing the last of his wine before setting the glass down with a satisfied sigh. "Hey, I'm just saying, Jisung had his reasons. You'll figure it out eventually."

You shake your head, still smiling as you lean back in your chair. The night has been a whirlwind of laughter, fake proposals, and more wine than you expected. Whatever Jisung's reasons were, you're just glad the evening turned into something fun instead of the awkward mess it could have been.

Felix pulls the car up to your apartment complex, the quiet hum of the engine filling the comfortable silence between the two of you. . It had turned into a night you didn't expect, but somehow, it felt exactly right.

Felix glances at you as you unbuckle your seatbelt. "Well, that was fun."

You chuckle, shaking your head as you gather your bag and open the door. "So much fun. I don't know how we pulled that off."

Felix's grin is playful, his silver rings catching the dim light. "What can I say? We make a pretty good fake couple."

You laugh again, stepping out of the car and leaning back in through the open window. "Goodnight, Felix. Thanks for the... whatever that was."

Felix smirks. "It was an unforgettable friends' dinner. You know, one for the history books."

"Goodnight, Lix," you repeat, still grinning as you wave.

"Goodnight, Y/N," he replies, watching you head toward the building.

As you walk to your apartment, you feel lighter than you have in days. Felix always has that effect on you. He makes everything seem easier, less complicated. The night could've been weird and awkward, but it turned out to be exactly what you needed: fun, simple, and completely free of stress. Jisung's matchmaking might've been misguided, but at least it had resulted in a memorable night with one of your closest friends.

You unlock your door and step inside, immediately kicking off your boots with a sigh of relief. Your apartment is quiet, a stark contrast to the lively restaurant you just left. It feels good to be home, and you head straight to the kitchen, still feeling the buzz of the wine as you pour yourself another glass. The cool liquid slides down your throat, grounding you after such a surreal evening.

As you set the glass down on the counter, you reach up to take off your sapphire necklace, your fingers brushing against the cool metal. You remove the matching hairpin, carefully setting it down next to the necklace before turning your attention to the silver rings on your fingers. You begin slipping them off one by one, the rhythmic movement soothing after such an eventful night.

But then, there's a knock at your door.

You pause, glancing toward the front door with a furrowed brow. It's late, and you're not expecting anyone. Curiosity piqued, you set down the last of your rings and walk toward the door, glass of wine still in hand.

When you open it, you're greeted by a sight you weren't expecting: Minho, standing in the hallway, his expression unreadable, but there's something intense in his eyes.

"Minho?" you say, your voice a little surprised. "What are you doing here?"

He looks at you, his eyes scanning your face, then down to your lips. "Did you kiss him?"

You blink, confused. "What?"

Minho takes a step closer, his voice more insistent. "Did you kiss Felix?"

The question catches you off guard. You feel your heart skip a beat, and suddenly, you're not sure what to say. "No," you answer honestly, "I didn't kiss Felix."

Minho exhales sharply, like he's been holding his breath. "Okay... okay, good."

You raise an eyebrow, still confused by his sudden appearance and his line of questioning. "Minho, what the hell is this about? Why are you asking me about Felix?"

Minho meets your eyes, his gaze unwavering. "Because I still have a chance."

"A chance?" you repeat, feeling even more lost in this conversation. "What are you talking about?"

Minho runs a hand through his hair, clearly agitated, but not at you—more like at the situation. His voice softens when he speaks again, though there's still that intensity behind it. "I lied."

You tilt your head, frowning slightly. "What do you mean, you lied?"

Minho lets out a frustrated breath, looking almost embarrassed for a moment. "About your article. I said I didn't read it, remember? When we were in the kitchen last night, after the awards thing? I told you I didn't get around to reading it."

You nod slowly, still not sure where this is going. "Yeah...?"

"I lied," Minho says, meeting your gaze again. "I read it the second it was published. I've read it more than once, actually. Like an embarrassing amount of times. I said I hadn't read it because I saw how stressed you were about everything, and we were alone, and I knew if I asked you about it, you'd light up. And I wanted to be the one responsible for that."

You stare at him, the weight of his confession sinking in slowly. Minho, always so cocky and teasing, is suddenly standing in front of you, admitting that he'd lied just to see you happy. The realization hits you harder than you expected.

For a moment, you're at a loss for words. "Minho..."

He takes a step forward, closing the space between you, and his voice is quieter now. "Can I come in?"

You nod, stepping aside to let him in. Minho walks into your apartment, the atmosphere between you shifting. He turns to face you, his expression serious, more vulnerable than you've ever seen him.

"I like you," he says, his voice steady. "Like, I really like you. And Jisung knows that. He hates it because he thinks I'm going to break your heart, but I'm not. I swear, I wouldn't do that."

You feel your pulse quicken at his words, your mind racing to catch up. "Minho, I..."

He holds up a hand, cutting you off gently. "You look so fucking beautiful right now, and it's really distracting me. So I'm going to kiss you, if that's okay."

Your breath catches in your throat, but the answer comes easily. "Yeah, that's okay."

Minho doesn't waste any more time. He steps forward, closing the distance between you, his hands gently cupping your face. His lips meet yours in a kiss that's soft at first, tentative, as if he's waiting for some kind of permission. But then you kiss him back, your arms wrapping around his neck, and the kiss deepens.

Minho's hands slide down to your waist, pulling you closer until there's no space left between your bodies. The kiss is slow but intense, each movement deliberate, like he's savouring the moment. You can feel the heat radiating off him, his grip tightening slightly as his hands roam over your back.

You break the kiss for just a second, gasping for air, but Minho doesn't let you go far. His forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your lips as he speaks.

Minho's forehead rests gently against yours, and the air between you is thick with tension. Your heart is racing, every nerve on edge, and just when you think the silence will swallow the moment, you feel a giggle bubbling up from your chest.

It's ridiculous, the whole situation. The intensity of the kiss, the way Minho's hands feel so warm and grounding on your waist. You pull back just slightly, enough to catch your breath and give him a mischievous look.

"Oh, by the way," you say, trying to keep a straight face, "Felix and I got engaged."

Minho blinks, clearly caught off guard. "Huh?" He stares at you, confusion clear in his eyes, as if trying to piece together whether you're serious or not.

You can't help the laugh that escapes. "Yep," you nod, keeping up the act. "I'm set to marry Felix. So, congratulations, we're now having an affair."

Minho's brow furrows for a second, and then realization dawns on his face. A grin spreads across his lips. "Oh, so that's how it is, huh? I'm the dirty little secret now?"

You smirk, feeling a little more daring. "Exactly. I'm cheating on my fiancé with you. How scandalous."

He hums, his thumb tracing slow circles on your hip. "I don't mind being the side guy. Adds some spice, don't you think?" He leans in again, his breath ghosting over your lips. "Just keep this between us, yeah? Don't want Felix to find out."

The playfulness between you two eases the tension, and you laugh softly, completely forgetting about everything else for a moment. You're about to respond when, out of nowhere, the door to your apartment swings open with a loud bang, making you both freeze.

"No! This is exactly what I was trying to prevent!"

You and Minho quickly step apart, your heart racing for a different reason now. Jisung looks at the two of you with wide, panicked eyes, like he's just walked into his worst nightmare. His hands fly up in the air as he groans dramatically, pacing a few steps.

"This is exactly why I set you up with Felix!" Jisung exclaims, pointing an accusing finger at Minho. "I knew this would happen! And now he's got his STD-riddled claws into you!"

Minho's jaw drops in disbelief. "Okay, hold the fuck up," he says, hands raised in defence. "I have no STDs, and I'd really like to clear that up before we go any further with this conversation."

You take a slow, deep breath, pressing your lips together to hold back a laugh. Jisung, however, is far from amused. He looks like he's about to have a full-on breakdown as he turns to you, his face full of concern.

"Listen to me," he says, his voice urgent. "He's going to break your heart! Minho doesn't do relationships—he just flirts and messes around. He's like a... a... heartbreaker! A professional one!"

Minho rolls his eyes, stepping closer to Jisung, clearly fed up. "Oh, for fuck's sake, Jisung, I've liked her this entire time, and you know that!" His voice is sharp, filled with frustration. "You're the one who set her up with Felix, knowing damn well how I feel!"

Jisung glares right back, crossing his arms over his chest like a protective barrier. "I did it because I know you, Minho. You're all charming and smooth when you want something, but then you bail as soon as it gets serious. I'm not letting that happen to Y/N."

You shake your head, walking over to grab your glass of wine from the counter. The tension between Minho and Jisung has been building, and now it's finally spilling over. You sip your wine, deciding that the best course of action is to stay out of it and let them bicker it out.

Minho takes a deep breath, his frustration visible. "You think I'm going to hurt her? Jisung, you've got no idea how hard it's been trying to be patient with this shit. You set her up with Felix like some overprotective dad, and now you walk in here acting like you're the fucking saviour of the day."

Jisung's face turns redder, and he steps forward, eyes blazing. "You're my best friend, and so is Y/N! I've seen what you do to girls, and I'm not letting you do that to her."

Minho doesn't back down, stepping forward as well, the space between them shrinking fast. "You think I'm like that with her? Do you even know how long I've been waiting to make a move, only for you to play matchmaker with Felix?"

Jisung's mouth opens and closes like a fish, clearly lost for words.

You, on the other hand, take another slow sip of your wine. The back-and-forth between them is almost entertaining. They're like two kids fighting over a toy, except this time, you're the toy, which is both ridiculous and hilarious.

"Look," Minho says, his voice a little calmer now but still firm, "I'm not playing around with her. I've been serious about this, and the fact that you think I'm just going to fuck her over pisses me off."

Jisung throws his hands in the air again, clearly exasperated. "Of course I think that! You're Minho! You don't do relationships!"

Minho rubs a hand over his face, clearly trying to stay calm. "God, you're an idiot sometimes. This isn't just some hookup, okay?"

Jisung doesn't seem convinced. "You expect me to believe that? After everything?"

At this point, you've had enough. You walk over to Jisung, wine glass still in hand, and without a word, you pour the rest of the wine into his mouth. He tries to protest, but you give him no choice. He swallows the wine, sputtering slightly as he looks at you in surprise.

"Go sit in the living room," you say, pushing him toward the door with more force than you probably should. "We'll deal with you later."

Jisung stumbles into the living room, still flustered and clearly not done with the argument. But before he can say anything else, you shut the door and lock it, effectively trapping him inside.

Minho watches the whole thing unfold with an amused smile. "You know it's going to take him about an hour to realize he can unlock that from the inside, right?"

You shrug, turning back to face him with a grin. "That gives us about an hour of peace."

Minho's smirk widens as he steps forward, his hands sliding around your waist again. He pulls you close, and the heat between you reignites instantly. "There's a lot I can do in an hour," he murmurs against your lips, his breath hot and teasing.

Your heart skips a beat as you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him even closer. "Oh yeah?" you whisper, your voice daring.

He kisses you again, this time with more urgency, and you melt into it, your body pressing against his. His hands slide down to your thighs, and in one swift motion, he lifts you off the ground. You instinctively wrap your legs around his waist, holding onto him as he carries you through the apartment.

"Bedroom?" he asks between kisses, his voice low and filled with need.

"Second door," you manage to say, your voice breathless.

Minho kicks open the door to your bedroom, not bothering to turn on the lights as he carries you inside. The door swings shut behind you with a satisfying thud, and with that, the world outside ceases to exist.

All that matters now is the heat between you, the feel of his hands on your skin, and the promise of what's to come in the next hour.

Minho kicks the bedroom door shut behind him, and in that moment, you know that an hour is more than enough time.

[twisted-wonderland-but-gayer]

May I request Great Seven Yuu with no filter? Maybe the other students are just TESTING THEM that day and with a little prodding from their darling parents, they just say what’s on their mind for the day

Yuu + The Great Seven

Note: This is different from my other great 7 fics as I don't focus on what the 7 say as much here, this also aint the canon unit yuu for this. Anyways enjoy

Cws: Gn!Yuu, Rook is clowned on cause he's French, implications of Crewel/Crowley but in a divorcee way, some cringe ig, minor changes to canon, first years are ur homies, sebek has moments where he yells in all caps cause he's cringe, Lilia knows Maleficent, Trey isn't slandered as much as he should be, Starts off Crack, turns to angst, then fluff. 6k Words

****

Since arriving at NRC, you have been playing your role well, excellent even. You played the role of a magicless, weak, and gullible prefect that knew nothing of the world you were in. The mirror said that you “had too many souls to judge” and that you had no magic, which was technically true as the magic you had was borrowed from the seven sealed within you.

It was going to be perfect. You can finally lay low and research this world to give your dear seven parents and their familiars bodies again, then make your place in this new world… or so you thought. 

Right after the disaster that was the entrance ceremony, you ended up being roommates with the cat and crashed it. Fine, you could work with this. Then the very next day, the cat got into a fight with a pathetic bully which caused a statue to get burned, which then caused another person to get involved, which then caused a chandelier to break, and then you had to go off into a hidden mine to fight a monster late into the night, and you get the story.

It has been consistently difficult to pretend you had no magic, or to make the excuse that “someone else must have casted that spell”. When you eventually had to explain that you were a magician, there went the first half of your plan. Now Crowley and everyone seems to expect more from you, at least you were able to pretend it was weak, you guess. And as if it could get any worse, the seven seem to be encouraged to give these brats a taste of their own medicine and stop holding back. Oh how you would love to but putting up with everyone after, especially the number one pain in your ass, Ace, would be so fucking annoying.

The aforementioned pain in your ass poked you, interrupting the mental conversation you were having with the ensemble in your head, and you had to hold back the urge to use Hades’ flames to set him ablaze. You shut your eyes tightly and tense up before slowly turning to him. “What?” Your eyes narrow as Ace looks over at you with the most infuriating neutral expression that turns to a pout. 

“Were you even listening to me?” “Look, it’s nothing personal, it’s just how I am.” Ace’s lips pursed as he raised a brow. “Really?” Deuce nudged Ace. “Hey, be nice, you know they don't mean to space off like that, it's their condition.” Deuce was truly a blessing. “Seems to me like Yuu is just a space case,” Grim snickered and Sebek nodded his head. “I completely agree with Grim! Honestly, how could you and Silver be so complacent? Do you lack discipline?”

You mentally groaned with the seven at Sebeks scolding. “They don’t lack discipline,” Jack interrupted, “Yuu says they have a condition that delays their thoughts, they need extra time to process what you said.” “Thank you, Jack.” You smile, and feel Ortho glide right next to you and look up at you. “Having a condition like that must be hard… I can't imagine my processor lagging…” Ortho trails off and frowns, “Oh but I’ll try my best to look for a fix for you!” The child beams. Epel looks over at you.

“That is one hell of an issue huh? Some days you're just as quick as anyone else but then sometimes you take forever, it's a fickle thing.” Epel hums and Ace rolls his eyes at everyone defending you. “Tch, yeah what's that about? Sometimes I even hear you talking to yourself, weirdo.” Ace playfully nudges you and you narrow your eyes at him. 

Something within you snaps. Maybe it’s because of all the stress of hiding it. Maybe it's because you have to interact and pretend everything is fine to the students who have bullied, harassed, and tried to kill you resulting in god awful PTSD finally making you snap. Or maybe it's just because you want this damned asshole that has wormed his way into your heart to shut up.

“Because ‘thought processing disorder’ isn’t the best way to actually describe my condition, Ace, but it's sure as hell easier to explain than ‘I have several voices in my head judging me and telling me what to do all the time and no medication cannot stop it no matter what I do and all of your stupid comments and questions makes them erupt in a 10 minute yelling match making it impossible to hear my own thoughts!” 

You sneer at them all as they look over with a mix of surprise and pity, Ortho looks like a kicked puppy. You sigh, “I’m sorry, I just…” “Nah that's nothing to apologize for…” Ace sighs, and you know he wants to apologize but pride won't allow him. “Y’know what if you just say what the voices want to say?” Deuce suddenly asks out of the blue.

“O-of course, I don't know what they say so maybe it's not a good idea but…” “Actually, it may give Ace some patience for once.” Jack gives a small smirk. “We all know he needs to learn to think before he speaks.” “Hey!” Ace huffs. “Fine then, bring it! I can take whatever you throw at me.” And the ginger smirks as if he didn't just say some famous last words.

“You're serious?” You blink. “Do you even think you could handle it?” Sebek scoffs, “I can take anything a measly human dishes out, it is nothing compared to fae!” Epel shuts his eyes in annoyance. “Oh you three don’t even know what you’re getting into, yet you’re already signing up for trouble.” Ortho beams. “Actually, this might help me collect some data to help you, Yuu!” “You four don’t even know what you're getting yourselves into…” Epel corrects himself.

“Okay okay.” You sigh. “Tomorrow, I will allow whatever they say, happen… to an extent at least…” You mutter, making Hades and the Queen of Hearts in your head boo you. Last thing you need is an Arson charge….

****

You laid down on your bed later that day as the sun began to set. “Okay guys… there are only a few ground rules. No murder, and no major property damage, small fires are okay, okay?” Before any of the seven and their familiars could respond or complain, you heard Grim.

“Who’re you talking to? Oh wait, you speaking to the guys in your head?” Grim asked, jumping on the bed and cuddling up to you. “First the mouse in the mirror and now you have some voices in your head, what other secrets are you keeping from me, hmm?” 'A lot actually', you think as you stroke Grim’s fluffy head. “You’ll see tomorrow.” You smile and your excitement made it difficult to sleep that night.

****

You got up, did your daily routine that Mama Grimhilde has laid out for you, before exiting the house with Grim in your arms for breakfast. Of course you haven’t forgotten the deal you made today at all. ‘Pssst, hey small sib~’ Flotsam chuckles darkly in your head, ‘Can I bite someone today?’ You chuckle, “Only if they deserve it.” Grim peeked up at you. “Oh yeah, you’re talking out loud today.” Grim smirks, “I wonder how Explodey-Head’s gonna react to that!”

Slinking into the cafeteria, you get into line per usual, getting a tray of whatever was free that you liked, you had to pinch your pennies this week. Sitting down, you notice that your usual squad was there, including Ace and Deuce, who usually took their time to arrive, and Ortho who usually had to deal with his brother. “Good morning.” You say settling down. “Morning, Yuu!” Ortho beams, “I got here early so I can start the data collection! I'll try to record as much as possible!” 

‘Oh how precious.’ Ursula purrs in your head, and the seven’s consensus on Ortho, even if they didn’t appreciate anklebiters, is that he wasn’t half bad. “So, today you're going to embrace your issues, I SAY BRING IT ON!” Sebek yells, making everyone wince, and Epel shoots a tired glare. ‘Tell that boy to silence! I am trying to nap!’ Scar huffs.

You nervously sigh, “Well first off all, they said to shut up please, it's not even 7 in the morning.” Sebek looks offended for a moment, but a very familiar voice interrupts, sending shivers down your spine. “Oh Koebi-Chan~” A wry voice purrs, making Grim hop off of you to hide. Everyone in your head went ‘oh no this guy again.’

You honestly didn’t mind Floyd, hell, you dare to consider him a friend, but you really were not in the mood for his antics today. “Hey Floyd,” You sigh, “look dude, I’m not in the mood today, can you please leave me alone?” You ask, and your words just make Floyd beam. The seven seem annoyed, but then you feel their excitement; your first victim. 'Humiliate the boy…' Jafar whispers to you.

Floyd drapes himself over you as you eat, occasionally leaning over to try and steal a bite from whatever was on your fork. “Ehh? Little shrimpy’s feeling bold today!~ How fun! Whatcha gonna do about me?~” His arms wrap around you to squeeze around your rib cage, “Especially when I squeeze…” 

“Dude, leave them alone.” Deuce says before freezing at the glare he was shot. "…Please?” He adds. “Look Floyd,” Jack sighs, “we’re trying to get Yuu some help today with an illness, Ortho is trying to get data on them, you aren’t helping.” Jack interrupts, trying to keep your condition vague for your privacy. Seems like Jack forgot that Floyd ignores reason when he finds it funny.

“Ooo~, is the little shrimpy sick?” Floyd says backing off of you slightly and poking you in the ribs. “You know Azul may have a remedy for it, you should come on down.~” “He does not, and for the final time there is nothing he can offer me that would make me want to make a deal with him. Please go away.” You warn one last time and Floyd leans in, pushing his luck in hopes to see you squirm. Ortho glares and prepares to get up and send him away but you hold out your hand to tell him to stop.

“Whatcha gonna do lil shrimpy?~” Floyd smirks. ‘Is it time?’ Hades asks, ‘Please tell me its time.’ You smile and mentally reply, ‘it’s time.’ You keep your calm smile as you look at Floyd. “Probably something my father taught me.” “And what's that?” Floyd says, grabbing the back of your neck. 

“This.” Suddenly you erupted in the brightest blue flames the world has ever seen making half of the cafeteria turn to stare. Your friends at the table all jump back and Ortho flashes red as he scans you. As quickly as the flames came to be, they disappeared. Floyd pulled his hands away, waving it off to cool it down. He wasn’t burned, at least nothing major, but the sleeve of his uniform was singed and he stared at it in rapt fascination.

You expected him to get annoyed, or to maybe start a fight, or something, but Floyd was in a good mood, and he laughed. “I didn’t know little shrimpy could do that! I thought you could only summon an ember, eheheh!~ Seems little shrimpy has more secrets than we thoooought~” Floyd muses, and suddenly another familiar face comes in, one that looks exactly like Floyd.

“Floyd, I believe the prefect doesn’t want to play anymore. Come on now, we should go.” “Aww but I wanna keep playing!” “I know brother dearest, but it seems that the cruel and unwavering Prefect doesn't want to,” Jade faked a frown and sighed, “How awful, if only they could have an ounce of compassion for my poor, poor brother… However, ” Jade opened his eyes back up and smirked, staring directly at you with a twinkle in his eye. “I think it’s best to leave them alone for today, especially since whatever ailment they have seems to make them erupt in flames at any given moment…” 

The eel’s voice drips with faux concern and Floyd snickers, Azul is gonna have some wonderful intel to ponder over later. You decide to say exactly what all of your fathers thinking. “Go eat shit and die for all I care.” And Jade’s eyes widen ever so slightly before the gleam with amusement, having never seen this side of you. “Of course prefect! If this ah… ailment continues to cause you trouble, please do let us know. We at Octavinelle love to help the poor and unfortunate.”

You watched the two slink off before turning back to your meal as all of your first year friends gawked at you. “What the hell was that! You never said you could do that!” Ace sputtered. “Yeah! You nearly cooked me!” Grim whines, making the audience in your head relish in their surprise. Ursula and The Queen of Hearts seem particularly amused. 

“Magic like that requires a lot of skill.” Sebek ponders, “To cast a flame cloak and not burn yourself requires a lot of concentration, furthermore it requires a high amount of magic potential on par with fae. Didn’t you say you have none, Yuu? HAVE YOU BEEN LYING ABOUT WHAT YOU ARE? OR PERHAPS YOU WANTED TO HIDE IT TO SKIRT OUT ON EXAMS!” “Volume!” Deuce whines, and Grimhilde mentally thanks him.

“Oh… whoops…” “WHOOPS??” A few of the first years yell and Epel shoots you an ugly-baffled expression. “Whoops?? Whoops?? Is that all you have to say about that? You performed some of the most advanced defensive magic without a second thought and you just say whoops??” Epel’s accent threatens to slip out.

“Hey, Ortho, what's their magic reading, you look concerned.” Deuce asks as Ortho looks at the screens he’s projecting with a calculating expression. “I think there is an error in my system, I have scanned them 5 times and it says they have no traces of magic at all, but there is also no trace of any dampening magic used to hide or change that reading. Furthermore, the technique they used is no longer in use, records show it dates back more than the era of gods! That version of the spell they casted cannot be duplicated at all!” Ortho says in amazement before turning to you.

“Just… what are you?”

You blink as they all stare at you expectedly. “I'm a human.”

****

It was time for class, you said that you were gonna use the bathroom first, so the others should go without you for now, you’ll see them with Crewel. You didn’t think that anything eventful would come from it. You were wrong. This is NRC.

Coming out of the bathroom, a few Savanahclaw chuds cornered you. “Can I help you?” You asked exasperatedly to the NRC equivalents of Beavis and Butthead. “Tch, you know why we're here!” “…No, I don't.” You blink rubbing your eye, which just pissed off the duo even more.

“You made a fool out of our dorm during the spell drive competition!” “Oh god, is that what this about, dude that was nearly a year ago.” “Yeah and we came back to settle the score.” You just raised a brow and a small smile crept to your face.

‘Oh! Oh! Can I bite now? Please please please can I bite now! Come onnnn I’ve been such a good eel!’ Flotsam pleads and you hear the familiars speak. ‘Me want bite!!’ Ed whines. Raven caws, ‘Yeah me too!’ Iago agrees. ‘We wanna join too!’ The imps laugh. ‘I will… stay here…’ Diaval sighs.

You blink. “Sick em.” You say, making the two idiots make a face at you. Flotsam immediately lunges for the ass. “AIIIIEEE!” One yells and you hold back a snort as the others join, Iago and Raven both grabbing onto the members hair and pecking at them. Jetsam basically lassos around one, making him trip so the hyena trio can rough him up. The imps both transform into a blue and red cat respectively and continue to add to the looney tunes violence of it all.

The two run off and the familiars return to you, except for the eels that slither miserably in place on the smooth, frictionless floor. “Help us up.” Jetsam scoffs. “No I think I’ll stay like this a bit longer.” 'Angelfish…' Ursula warns. "... yes mom…"

…

..

.

On your way to class you run into Crowley who attempts to stop you and unload another issue for you to deal with. Instead you say what your familiars wanted to say. “You are gay.” You say, making the man just stare at you as you walk off. “And Crewel also has weirdly complicated feelings for you.” 

“FEELINGS YOU SAY?? WHICH ONES?? WHICH SORT OF FEELINGS YUU?? YUU!!!” You speed walk off regretting that decision, but you admit it will be funny to see those two get divorced. Crewel deserves better.

****

Animal Linguistics was always a bit of an annoying class, and this time, Trein has invited a few of the more advanced students to the class to help you freshmen. Ace let out a deep sigh when he saw Ruggie, knowing this guy will only do the bare minimum for his grade and charge any lesson extra.

“So when the cat goes ‘mrrrp?’ You're good, usually you should try to respond with a ‘mah Ah’” Ruggie explains to your group. “Do we always have to talk to cats and mice? I feel like we should also practice some other creatures too…” You sigh. 

Trein overhears you and responds. “Your birds don’t count, Yuu. They are able to speak.” You sigh. “Okay…” You sigh and Ruggie gives you that stupid shit-eating grin. “Aw, you not satisfied with my lesson?” “No.” You glare, which surprises Ruggie, unused to your assertiveness. “I can speak to animals already and I’ve been teaching these boneheads, we're fine here.” 

“Yeah but you say things that don't make sense…” Grim complains. “It doesn’t make sense because you guys are not used to the accents animals have. You know what, hold on, I‘ll get some real good ones to practice on.” “Huh what are you—?” Ruggie gawks when he sees three whole hyenas appear out of nowhere along with two eels around your waist. 

“They are not allowed to speak in their human voices. Knock 'em out, guys.” “Yuu! Where did you even…” Trein sighs. “Fine, fine, they can stay as long as they are well behaved…” The hyenas cackle and the eels snicker. Deuce nervously looks into the crossed eyes of Ed who winks in response.

Ace seals his lips to hold back a laugh until Banzai leans where he stares nervously. “Seduce me bro.” “AYO???”

****

Soon history class came, and once again a special guest was brought in, Lilia. The lesson went fine. Your sass wasn't needed. You kept quiet as you took a few notes here and there, and the end bell soon rang out. You stared at a particular note you took. 

‘The Thorn Fairy’s wings were leathery and bat-like, much like a dragon.’ 

You looked down at the note, and Maleficent herself seems to hum. ‘Seems like he is still following orders years later.’ She says and doesn’t elaborate. As students begin to pack up and leave, you wave down Lilia, who puts a hand on his hip and waits for you.

“Oho? What is it, prefect?” Lilia beams as you look at the note you took in your open notebook. “I have a question about what you said about the Thorn Fairy.” Lilia nods, “Well yes, what is it? It always warms my heart to see youngsters value history.”

You look at the note again. “You said that her wings were leathery and bat-like.” Lilia nods his head. “But aren't they feathered?” Lilia’s smile drops. “In fact she lost her wings too but got them back at some point, right? Did they become leathery during those years they were gone? Is that what you mean?”

Lilia looks at you, a bit of shock in his eyes, before he quietly speaks to you. “How do you know that?” “Know what?” “The Thorn Fairy only disclosed that information to two people, her raven, Diaval, and me…” You freeze for a moment and then Diaval appears on your shoulder to caw at him. 

Lilia stares at you, then at the raven, then back to you. “Diaval, is that you…? Why are you with… wait does that mean—" Lilia was cut off. “Yo, Yuu!” Deuce calls out from the doorway. “You coming?” You clear your throat and nod. “Yeah, I’m coming!” You look over at Lilia, “Thank you for your time.” He could only stare as you walked off and Diaval cawed an apology 

***

Towards the end of the day, you and your first year friends were all going to hang out at Heartslabyul to study together, which you know was code for ‘get distracted halfway and hang out’. You walked down the main path to the mirror chamber when you felt a familiar presence nearby. You were being watched.

“Come out Rook, I know you're there.” You look over at one of the apple trees, and narrow your eyes when you see Rook pop out from behind it all theatric. “Très bien, Trickster! You found me, that is a feat not many can achieve!” The weirdo beams. You nodded. “Yeah, you don't need to stalk me by the way. I am happy to get to know you through talking…”

“Non non, Trickster, you say that however I believe you don’t truly speak your mind!” The French man smiles. “I notice that you are not true to yourself! Always holding back your strength and what you mean to say, when I caught wind you were going to be yourself for a day, I could not help but try to study you!” Okay wow, he has you read.

“You can learn so much more about a person through their actions, but alas, you are so good at concealing those too, mon dieu, you are quite the mystery that I hope to uncover, and the most challenging one to date!” Rook says in awe. “I enjoy a good hunt, and this one has been most enthralling!” “I’ve always been able to sense when you're there, its why I tend to slink off not long after.”

“Merde! Is that so?” Rook smirks, and you sweat, you fucked up. “Aha, I knew you knew of me! Oh how fun! I have never had such good prey before!” You narrow your eyes slightly as he continues. “Would you dare to tell me how you are able to detect me so easily? Ah– but of course, if you don't that makes things much more magnifique!” 

“Um… I honestly actually don't know how I do, I just do?” Rook seems pleased, “How effortless! Tres bien! Beauté! I must hone my skills as a hunter more! Until next time, Yuu!” Rook begins to walk off before pausing and his smile drops for a moment.

“And even if it is not me, I do hope you can truly open up to somebody someday. Anyone would be lucky to have that level of trust with a Trickster such as yourself! Holding everything in does you no good! Au revior, little trickster, or perhaps I should call you le Chevalier Mystère?” Rook has that small sparkle in his eye.

“Switch it up now and then, keep it interesting.” You nod at Rook “À bientôt!” He says, and he seems to be muttering some weird French poem about strangers and beauty as you leave.

****

You were stopped yet again on your way to Heartslabyul as you passed the mystery shop. The door was open and you see Trey ponder how he’s going to carry the groceries he brought back to the dorm. “Hey Trey,” you walks in and wave, “you look conflicted, something up?”

“Ah prefect, I am actually,” Trey wears that smiley-wincing expression that Trey has when he’s in deep shit. “I'm sorry to bother you, but could you help me carry some of these bags back to my dorm? It may take a few trips but I promise a treat in return.” “You don’t need to Trey, I’ll help you even without one, you’ve been kind to me.”

Trey’s brows raise slightly and he adjusts his glasses, looking away awkwardly. “Ah, well, thank you, Prefect.” Trey rolls up his sleeves, revealing his forearms as he prepares to grab a bag. "Those bags of flour and sugar are quite heavy, so be careful— wuh?” Trey stared dumbstruck as you lifted 500 pounds worth of dry ingredient bags in one arm. “I- how are you— Is that not heavy?” 

“It is, but I’m used to it.” “At least let me help—“ “No, no  fine, lets go.” “O… kay…” Trey adjusts his glasses and you both walk off to Heartslabyul, making a lot of people turn their heads as you pass by. 

Entering the dorm, you notice Deuce and Grim gawk at you. “Give me a minute, I’m helping Trey!” You shout as you walk everything to the kitchen and set it down on the counter. “There.” Trey stares at the pile you put down, mentally going through all the times before you acted so weak. “Ahem, thank you prefect, Ace told me you would be over in the rose garden to ‘study’ right?” “They never study.” Trey gives that 'Trey sad smile' from earlier. “You got that right.”

****

Exiting the kitchen, you look into one of the mirrors hanging on the walls of the dorm, adjusting your appearance when yet another annoying voice interrupts you. “O-M-G! It's Yuu-Chan!” Cater shouts with his typical manufactured smile. “Heyyyy!” He waves and you feel your brain melting in your skull. “Hey Cater, what's up?”

“I have a questionnn!~” He smiles, pulling up something on his phone. “Are these you?” You sweat and look over to the images he pulled up. There was one of you in flames in the cafeteria, and another of you in the hallway wheezing at the pack of familiars all jumping the two chuds. “Yeah… yeah you caught me…”

“They’re trending locally right now and you know I just have to get in on that! Mind if we take a pic?” “Go ahead.” You sigh and Cater immediately snaps a selfie of him and your exhausted self. “Me and the bestie! #NRCProblemChild #NRCConspiracy #IsekaiProtag #ExtraTerrestrialPrefectConspiracy! Aaannnd post! Thank you, Yuu-Chan, I’m curious though what was that about?”

“Those two assholes were trying to beat me up and don’t worry about the other one.” “Don't worry?” Cater scoffs as you adjust yourself in the mirror again. “Helllooo the magicless prefect, turned slightly magical, turned to god-like mage suddenly does that within a year! That's gotta be something!” Cater beams and then looks over at you and sweats.

You were glaring at him, but the mirror in front of you had several eyes also glaring at him. “… Who’s that?” “Who’s what?” “That!” Cater points to the mirror and when you turn to look it disappears. “That's me, Cater, I know I look a bit different since first arriving, but I don't think I look half bad.” You gave an insincere smile.

“My friends are waiting for me Cate, seeya..."

****

You left the hangout early, not liking all the questions probing into your mind or your past at all, in fact you left pretty upset with some insinuations and accusations of your insincerity. “Are we even friends, Yuu?” Deuce frowned. “Have you been lying to us?” Jack glares. You sigh, and walk randomly, no destination in mind. 

“Why aren't you opening up to us?” Ace huffs. “I mean you trust us right?” Ace’s frown turned to offense when he saw you look away. “Dude come on! When have we given you a reason to not trust us?” You snap at him. “Our very first meeting was you insulting me and since then you have been roping me into trouble!” 

Ace looked guilty there. “Yuu…” Epel frowned and Ortho shot a glare at Ace. “Human, Ace may have had a rough meeting but what about us?” “What about you? What about you?” You dragged your hands across your face. 

“There's a lot about you guys actually! From Mr. Don’t-Be-Friendly-Cause-We’ll-Never-be-Friends over here to Mr.Internalized-Racism-Against-My-Kind here! And let’s not forget I-Cause-Half-Of-Your-Problems-And-Sometimes-Leave-You-WIthout-Food-For-A-Few-Days Grim! Yeah I have no clue! It's almost like I tried opening up to you all before but I was brushed off. It's almost like I have been telling you that I have been having these prophetic dreams since arriving and have been telling you about a man living in my mirror and calling out to me constantly! And everytime— every fucking time its nothing or no big deal!”

You wipe away tears. “I have been trying to talk, but nobody's listening. It’s like I’m made to understand and not be understood! I have been having to put everyone else before myself and solve everyone’s else’s problems without a thank you or someone to lean on since day one! I mean, all these blots have given me fucking scars. Physical fucking scars! All while I was being berated for being a weak little human too! And what? I still am expected to bend over backwards for the people that tried to kill me? Everything’s swept under the rug for everyone else but me, huh? No one ever checks on me, hell, I am not even acknowledged half the time when I’m in the same room as someone, so yeah I also wonder why I don't talk.”

You push yourself up and grab your things. “Wait!” “No, no! Leave me alone, for once will you leave me alone willingly!” “Yuu come on! We’ll listen.” You pause. “Yuu isn’t even my name.” You glare. “It isn't…?” Grim asks. “I have been called ‘You’ this entire time here because no one bothered asking my name and everyone assumed it was ‘Yuu’. I don't even get to introduce myself anyways when I do get asked. I am not my own person, and you never made me feel like my own person.”

You walked off. Looking back now you regret it. You’re embarrassed, you sounded so stupid. You wipe away a few tears and feel a presence appear, Cerberus. The three heads nudge and cuddle you as you sob and you can feel the sevens hands all trying to soothe you. ‘There, there’ one says. Let it out.’ Another responds. ‘Poor thing.’ 

“Come on, boy, it's been a while since you’ve been on a walk…” You mutter, and think back to what Rook said to you earlier. Opening up to someone was a Herculean task on its own, but someone understanding you was impossible. Even telling people the truth can get you or them in trouble…

You lead the way down to the Ignihyde dorm. No one in that dorm leaves their room anyways, it's safe for your good boy to walk around there. 

***

There was in fact a certain dorm leader there, who was just as shocked to see you and a giant dog. Idia punched in the number to a snack at the vending machine, turned around and gawked at the giant dog behind him. He then looked over at you.

“Yuu? Is that-? I mean is he—? Ortho said you—… Is that the real…?” Idia sputtered, not sure what  to ask first. “Shut it weeb, no ones gonna believe you.” Idia gawked even more. Since when were you so sassy? No seriously, you were also so overly kind to everyone it unsettled him.

“…Sorry…” you mumble. “You can pet him… he’s… soft…” Idia blinks and offers out a hand. One of the heads sniffs it before nuzzling into him. “Holy shit…” Idia whispers as he immediately starts fawning over the dog.

“Who’s some good boys, who’s some boys? Oh that's a great pupper! Oh yes you all are!” It’s strange to see Idia all smiley to himself, but it’s pleasant. “How did you—“ “I can't answer that.” You respond. “So dont ask…”

Idia goes quiet leaning back from the heads that licked him, his flaming locks dancing behind him. “Ortho said you haven’t been feeling well…” “I haven’t been, not for a while, I guess it finally all came out to the point where it’s noticeable…” “Ah, I feel that…” Idia trails off awkwardly.

“I know we're not friends, but I appreciate you.” Idia mumbles. “You make Ortho very happy, and I love seeing my little brother happy… He says you're like another sibling and insists we would get along. He really wants me to get to know you… and uh.. We don't have to, but… yeah… Thank you, I guess…’ Idia looks like he’s about to die, but he speaks again.

“Ortho says you make him feel human, and that you’ve been helping him learn more about how to find out who he is more than anyone else, more than me, even, probably cause you got out more… He told me you were upset, and he’s worried about you. So uh… please reach out to him?”

“Thank you, Idia…” You sigh. “Yeah I will, I will reach out to him, its not his fault, I just… I just need time to think… I don't even know who I am, or what comforts me…” “Um, I don't know what you like… but uh… actually, give me your number. I know a pretty cool site with a lot of free shows, I think there’s a few you’ll like.” He offers an attempt at a smile. “And also maybe you try a few video games? If you haven’t tried them already… who knows maybe we can play together…” You smile and open up your contacts. “Yeah, I would like that actually…” 

A new contact was added: ‘Gremlin.’

****

Walking off to your dorm, you dare not go in. You don't know if your friends are all waiting for you inside, or if Grims there. You sorta don't want to deal with that right now still. The corners of your eyes catch a familiar sight. Fireflies dance through the night, coming out of the grass and surrounding you.

“Hey, Tsunotaro… Heh, maybe I ought to call you ‘Firefly’ or king of the fireflies, maybe.” You wipe your eyes as you turn around and there he is, your Tsunotaro. You both don't know each other's names, but you don't need to. Tsunotaro and Child of Man work just fine.

“Greetings, Child of Man, it’s always good to see you but…” The fae frowns, “are you alright, Child of Man? You seem troubled…” “I… Yeah I am… I just… don’t know what to do…”

Your friend carefully reaches out to you before retracting his hand. “Do you want to talk about it?” “I think I need a distraction…” “I can do that,” Tsunotaro offers his hand. “Come with me.

You have never seen so many pretty colors before as Malleus casts a few spells, making the forest into the most beautiful light show you’ve ever seen. Mushrooms glow from where they sprout, leaves swirl with beautiful patterns, and the fireflies dance through the sky against the stars. You swear you can hear music from them.

“This is… This is beautiful…” “I am glad you enjoy it,” Malleus watches as you watch each step you take, the leaves below you glowing with each step. “Are you feeling better now?” “Yeah, I am… You know…” you pause nervously.

“Yes? What is it?” “It feels like… you're my only true friend…” The lightshow around you flickers for a moment. “Is that so…” Malleus stares wide eyed. “Yeah… Just… I can be kind to everyone… but I can't be friends with anyone. They all don't really get to know the real me, you know?” Malleus stares off.

“I do know that feeling well… You are my only friend…” You pause and look at him. The lights behind you turn to a more pinkish hue. “That's hard to believe, you are a wonderful person.” “Likewise, Child of Man. I would think someone as kind as you would have much more.”

You sniff, “I’ve been helping so many people, but it feels like…” You sigh. “I have seen the hard work you have put into everything. Not a lot of people can say they have gone through what you have gone through and won. You are much stronger than you give yourself credit for.”

Malleus takes your hand. “I am sorry that others do not acknowledge that. I hope those around you soon start to realize what a blessing you are.” You squeeze his hand. “Come on, why don’t we both enjoy this light show?” 

…

..

.

At the very last waltz, your legs feel like jelly, and you cannot tell if it's because of how happy you are or because you've been standing too long. You pull away gently. “Thank you Tsunotaro, for everything.” Malleus nods. “It was nothing. Thank you for being my friend.” He stares off to the sky for a moment. “Farewell, Child of Man, may the night be full of promise for you.” 

The fae starts to fade away and you reach out, using a spell of your own. “Wait…” You hold onto Malleus’ arm making him appear again. The fae looks at you with shock. “You overrode my magic…” Malleus whispers, and his shocked face turns to one of awe and his eyes hint towards excitement. “No one has ever been able to do that… Just what else are you hiding, Child of Man?” 

“I want to give you my name.” “Your name?” Malleus looks shocked once again. “My real name.” “Don't you know of the stories about giving your name to Fae?” “I know them, but I trust you. I know you would never hurt me.” Your expression and voice is so sure it nearly overwhelms the fae.

“You trust me that much? I could smite you with lightning in an instant.” “Then smite me.” Malleus paused and nothing happened. “See? I know you wouldn’t hurt me. You’ve had opportunities this entire time and you haven’t.” “You really want to tell me Child of Man? When I have not even given you my name?” Malleus' voice nearly shakes.

“You don't need to. But if you do, no matter what name comes out, I won't be afraid.” You take his hand, and for the first time since arriving, you introduce yourself, and you tell him your name, your real name.

“I see, what a wonderful name… I supposed I shall finally tell you mine as well.” The fae smiles, “Draconia. Malleus Draconia…” “Malleus? That's not too bad for yourself…” Malleus lets out a laugh at that. “I suppose not.” He smiles then looks off again. “Well then, friend… Thank you for everything tonight. I have not been this happy in a long time…” 

“Good night, Malleus. I hope to see you again soon.”

“Good night, Child of Man…” 

He fades out and you hear Maleficent speak to you. ‘He likes you.’ She says, and you hear a few voices teasing you. You chuckle and find the strength in you to go back into your dorm and confront tomorrow. Rook’s words from earlier echoes through your mind. You have found people you can truly open up to.

[strawberryblue-blog]

could you do a smut where ruben x reader are at a Man City dinner and he starts touching her under the table

Bad girl —Ruben Dias.

summary: request.

warnings: yes. +18. smut, public fingering, etc.

words count: +1.5k

The evening was going on with warmth as conversation flowed easily among those present. Tonight you had come to dine at a luxurious restaurant in Manchester with the teammates of your boyfriend, Ruben Dias, who was laughing next to you as he commented something with Bernardo. It was a splendid night, everyone was happy to close a new year and finally be able to rest. The other girls and girlfriends were also laughing and talking about things.

Next to you, Jack and Sasha were joking about the name they were going to give to their baby, who was supposed to be born at the end of the month. Everyone was attentive to the details of her birth, even you were excited to meet the little one. Your relationship with all of them was magnificent, they were wise and educated women, hardworking and independent and you admired them very much.

The table is decorated with an ivory linen tablecloth, silver cutlery and cut crystal goblets reflecting the dim light of the chandelier. A small floral arrangement, discreet but exquisite, adorns the center. In front of you, the first glass of champagne is already poured, bubbling with an elegance that seems to permeate the atmosphere.

The sommelier approaches to recommend a special wine that harmonizes with the seven-course tasting menu. Each course was a work of art, a caramelized scallop on a mirror of black butter, followed by a wagyu carpaccio with pearls of white truffle. As you take a sip of the wine, an aged Merlot from a limited vintage, you feel the flavor melt in perfect sync with the dish.

The conversation continued as time went by, talking about trips you dream of taking, ambitious projects and shared memories that make you laugh. You felt confident, amused and excited, though a little heated by the recent hand on your thigh.

Ruben had held it there for the entire time as you made after-dinner conversation, his skin soft against yours. Although you tried to ignore it and act like it wasn't happening, your body was beginning to feel self-conscious from Ruben's touch. He knew exactly how to make your hair stand on end and make you feel needed and wanted.

You were wearing an innocent white silk dress, which draped over your figure, your legs were somewhat (a lot) uncovered, showing your skin but they were covered enough by the table so that no one could see too much. However, Ruben seemed to have all your attention on you, especially on your thigh.

You sighed as his fingers caressed your exposed skin, contouring figures on your thigh, as if seeking to get your attention. His perfume, a pure sweet scent, made you feel a little dizzy. But you paid it no mind as you continued to talk to Sasha.

His fingers squeezed your thigh and made you jump in place, watching him out of the corner of your eye as Ruben smiled slyly at you. Again, his fingers slipped further inside, caressing you. You placed your hand over his and ran it, giving him a quick glance to read the intent in his bright eyes. When you were distracted again, listening to Ines talk about Carlota and some advice to Sasha, Ruben's hand returned to your skin. Warm and ticklish. You hid your smile as you stirred in place when his hand moved in, unintentionally (or unwillingly) brushing against your black panties.

A wave of heat shot through your back as his fingers stroked up and down your slit, playing with you. You froze, the voices echoing in your head and fading as your breath hitched. You blinked as Ruben moved closer to you, resting his lips against your ears before whispering.

"You're already wet and ready for me" he murmured slowly making you bristle.

How could you not be? On the way out of the restaurant, he had slapped your ass, he had kissed you in the car, he had been making a jealous scene when you got to the restaurant. Ruben had been more annoying (in a good way) than usual. And you knew it was because of your dress. He wanted to have you but it wasn't the time.

You disguised it with a smile, as if he had said something funny to you and looked around seeing that no one was really paying attention but embarrassment consumed you. Yes. You were damn wet. Even with just one touch.

Ruben moves away from you again but his hand is still between your legs, this time, he circles your inner thigh and caresses it gently, looking to make you melt. You swallow saliva trying to hide that your breathing has accelerated and nod towards the girls who continue talking and telling their experiences.

His fingers slip into your center again, stroking your slit again, up and down, over and over. Moisture begins to cling to the lacy fabric and Ruben can feel how wet you are through the thin fabric. Damn. His smile widens and you can see him out of the corner of your eye as you squirm under his touch.

"That's for not listening to me, bad girl" he whispers as he comes close to your ear again. "I'll punish you so bad you'll be begging me to fuck you in that dress while I rip it off your body."

He had been insisting all night that your dress was too revealing tonight and that he was going to punish you. But touching you in front of his mates and your girlfriends? He was crazy! Besides it was no big deal, it was just a milk white silk dress that contoured your figure with a slit up one leg and a pretty plunging neckline but covered all that was necessary. Yes, maybe a little risqué for tonight but you liked it and the girls had encouraged you to wear it tonight.

Anyone looking at you right now might think you were innocently whispering like most couples here tonight, though it was quite the opposite.

Under the table, Ruben's hand was still caressing your clothed center making room inside your panties as he ran it to the side. The heat in your belly tightened and you almost let out a gasp but concealed it by sipping from your cup. He caressed your entrance, stimulating the area, spreading your juices all over your center. A small touch on your clit made you jump out of place and bite your lip hiding a moan.

This was torture. Every pore of your body burned, Ruben's fingers kept playing with you while you were engaged in dissimulation and fake smiling when what you wanted was Ruben to fuck you hard and hot. But you try to inhale and exhale in search of calming your gasps.

But his fingers keep caressing your lips, applying some pressure on your twitching button. He's determined to play with you and you won't be able to stop him and you're really thankful that everyone is busy enough with their conversations and drinks. Because when one of his fingers digs deep inside you, you turn to Ruben and your eyes roll back in pleasure. Ruben moves closer and you lean on his shoulder, dissimulating as another of his fingers penetrates you and he begins to move it, slow and torturous. This is so pleasurable and embarrassing.

Sweat begins to trickle down your back and your nipples grow hard against your hidden bra and ache, in need of attention. In need of Ruben's lips.

You want to scream and you want his fingers to fuck you hard but all you get is a slow, deep movement, leaving you trembling. You squirm in your seat, spreading your legs wider so that his fingers touch your bottom, making room in your tight, hot walls. His thumb caresses your clit and you begin to feel the pressure in your belly, driving you wild.

It's a fucking punishment. You can't even enjoy it properly, you're worried that no one is watching, pretending how to endure it and trying not to make a fuss. Because if anyone found out, it would definitely be a scandal. But Ruben doesn't seem to give a shit because his three fingers are still pumping inside you, he's unperturbed as if nothing will happen with his smile as he finger fucks you.

You're a mess. Letting yourself go in pleasure as waves of heat lunge against your body and your legs tremble as you feel your orgasm close. His fingers stay there, inside you, wet with your wetness as he smiles and you sigh for calm.

Your chest burns, your vision blurred and your head dazed. You are so close, so close that you feel the fire inside you. Your eyes threatened to close and you want to scream as you are about to orgasm but suddenly everything stops.

The pleasure. The heat. The feeling.

It stopped.

Ruben removed his fingers from your center, leaving a void inside you. Leaving you on the edge of pleasure. Cutting off your orgasm.

The pressure seems to drop in your system, like a bucket of cold water you are in shock, still feeling the spasms in your body. You swallow saliva looking for some sanity when your gaze goes to his.

He says nothing but you understand everything. He is playing with you and his words are sacred to Ruben.

He will make you beg until you die for him.

[withthecolorizedkennedys]

Plaese make a jfk x reader smut

A Night At The Opera

synopsis: jack kennedy invited you to the opera for a night of high culture. but between the velvet seats and heavy curtains, his idea of refinement turned out to be far more hands-on.

word count: 1.8k

pairing: john f. kennedy x reader

rating: 18+; includes depictions of fingering and handjobs

author's note: sorry this took a little longer! i couldn't think of a good scenario that was not done already or a bit generic...

The theatre’s gilded dome shimmered above, a relic of old-world splendor that stirred something familiar—a memory of Vienna, not in likeness, but in feeling. You’d walked halls like this before, heard music rise beneath glittering chandeliers. But London's Royal Opera House had a weight all its own. The chandeliers hung lower here, the velvet seats felt deeper, heavier. And beside you, Jack Kennedy sat beside you with his program folded into precise quarters, his attention already wandering before the curtain had risen.

You'd known Jack for nearly a year now, ever since his father's appointment as Ambassador to the Court of St. James's. At twenty-one, Jack was restless energy personified, his lean frame never quite at ease in formal settings. Tonight was no exception. La Traviata had been his suggestion—a surprise, given his usual indifference to music that wasn't played in dance halls.

"My father says I should cultivate an appreciation for the finer things," he'd explained when he invited you. "And I can't think of anything finer than spending an evening with you."

Now, as Violetta's aria filled the theater, Jack's knee bounced with barely contained energy. His fingers drummed silently against the program in his lap. You placed your hand over his to still them, and he turned to you with that smile that made something in your chest flutter.

"Is it terribly boring?" you whispered.

"Not boring," he whispered back, leaning close enough that his breath warmed your ear. "Just... predictable. She'll die tragically. They always do in these things."

You suppressed a laugh. "That's rather the point of tragedy, Jack."

His hand turned beneath yours, his fingers intertwining with your own. "I prefer comedies," he said. "Or at least stories where people get what they want before the curtain falls."

The way he looked at you then made heat rise to your cheeks. You'd been careful with Jack Kennedy—the Ambassador's son wasn't someone to trifle with, and despite his casual charm, you knew his family had expectations. But there was something in his gaze tonight that made your careful boundaries seem suddenly arbitrary.

The box seats had been his father's idea—or so Jack claimed. "Dad insists we maintain a certain appearance," he'd said with an eye roll as he helped you up the private staircase. Now, with the theater lights dimmed and the box's heavy curtains partially drawn, you understood the true advantage of such privacy.

Jack's hand slipped from yours, coming to rest lightly on your knee. The touch was innocent enough, but the intent in his eyes was anything but. You gave him a warning look, which he answered with feigned innocence.

"Jack," you whispered, "behave yourself."

"I'm being perfectly well-behaved," he replied, his fingers making small circles on your knee through the silk of your dress. "I'm appreciating the finer things, just as I promised."

His hand inched higher, and you caught it with your own. "We're in public."

"We're in a box seat," he corrected, his voice a low murmur that somehow cut through Violetta's soaring notes. "No one can see us unless they're in the opposite box with opera glasses trained directly on us."

You glanced across the theater. The box opposite was occupied by an elderly couple, both seemingly entranced by the performance.

"Still," you insisted, though with less conviction.

Jack leaned closer, his lips nearly brushing your ear. "Still what? Still worried someone might notice how your breath catches when I touch you? How your cheeks flush?" His hand moved again, sliding just slightly higher. "How you press your thighs together when you want more?"

Your breath did catch then, and you hated how well he knew you. Three months of stolen kisses in gardens, of hands wandering during cinema matinees, of whispered promises in the back seats of chauffeur-driven cars—it wasn't nearly enough, but it was enough for him to learn your tells.

"Jack, please," you whispered, not entirely sure if you were asking him to stop or continue.

He seemed to interpret it as the latter. His hand slipped higher, fingers tracing patterns on your inner thigh. On stage, Violetta was rejecting Alfredo's advances, citing the impossibility of their love. The irony wasn't lost on you.

"Tell me to stop," Jack said, his voice husky, "and I will."

You should have. You knew you should have. Instead, you found yourself shifting slightly, allowing his hand to move higher beneath the cover of your dress.

"No one will see," he promised again, his fingers finding the edge of your stockings, then the warm skin above. "Just keep watching the stage. Enjoy the music."

It was impossible to focus on anything but the sensation of his touch. His fingers traced the edge of your underwear, teasing but not yet crossing that final boundary. You bit your lip, your eyes fixed unseeing on the stage.

"You're so wet," he murmured, his lips now against your temple. "So ready for me."

When his fingers finally slipped beneath the silk of your underwear, you had to stifle a gasp. Jack's smile was triumphant against your skin.

"Jack," you said softly, "we shouldn't—"

"We absolutely should," he countered, his finger sliding through your wetness with practiced ease. "God, you're perfect."

The orchestra swelled as Alfredo declared his love, and Jack's finger pressed inside you in perfect time with the crescendo. Your hand gripped the armrest, knuckles white.

"That's it," he encouraged, his voice barely audible over the music. "Just like that. No one knows. No one but me."

You turned your face toward him, seeking his mouth, needing something to silence the sounds threatening to escape your lips. He met you halfway, his kiss deep and consuming as his fingers worked steadily between your legs.

"You drive me mad, you know that?" he confessed against your mouth. "Every time. Every damn time. The way you look at me, the way you press against me when no one’s looking. Christ, I can’t sit beside you without wanting to touch you..."

His thumb found your most sensitive spot, circling with deliberate pressure as his finger curled inside you. Your hips shifted involuntarily, seeking more.

"Jack," you gasped, breaking the kiss. "I can't—not here—"

"Yes, here," he insisted, adding a second finger, stretching you deliciously. "Right here, while they sing about impossible love and tragic endings. Show me how it feels. Show me what I do to you."

The tension was building rapidly, your body responding to his skilled touch despite the public setting—or perhaps because of it. The risk, the impropriety of it all, only heightened every sensation.

"That's it," Jack encouraged, his forehead pressed to your temple, his breath hot against your cheek. "Let go. I've got you."

The climax hit you with unexpected force. You turned your face into Jack's shoulder, muffling your cry against the fine wool of his jacket. His fingers worked you through it, drawing out every tremor until you were boneless beside him.

When you finally lifted your head, the stage was transitioning to a new scene. You'd missed Violetta's decision entirely.

"Welcome back," Jack murmured, pressing a kiss to your flushed cheek. His hand withdrew slowly, and you watched, mesmerized, as he discreetly wiped his fingers on his handkerchief.

"You're awful," you whispered, though there was no heat in the accusation.

"Awfully in need," he corrected, taking your hand and guiding it to his lap. The hard ridge beneath his trousers was unmistakable. "See what you do to me?"

You hesitated only briefly before your fingers traced his length through the fabric. His sharp intake of breath was deeply satisfying.

"Now who's being awful?" he whispered, his voice strained.

"I learned from the best." You squeezed gently, and his eyes fluttered closed for a moment.

With newfound boldness, you worked at his trouser fastenings, your movements hidden by the dim lighting and the angle of your bodies. When your fingers finally wrapped around his length, Jack's head fell back against the seat.

"Christ," he sighed. "Your hands are so soft."

You stroked him slowly, reveling in the way his composure fractured. Jack Kennedy, with his Harvard education and his social pedigree, reduced to silent gasps and aborted thrusts by your touch.

"Is this what you wanted?" you whispered, your confidence growing with each stroke. "To sit here in your father's box, with half of London society below us, while I make you come?"

His laugh was strained. "I didn't plan quite this far ahead, but God, yes."

You increased your pace, your thumb circling the sensitive tip just as he had done to you minutes before. His hand covered yours, guiding your movements, showing you exactly how he liked to be touched.

"Like this?" you asked, twisting your wrist slightly on the upstroke.

"Exactly like that," he groaned, too loudly. An elderly woman in the next box glanced in your direction, and Jack immediately straightened, adopting an expression of intense interest in the opera. You continued your ministrations beneath the cover of darkness, biting back a smile at his struggle to maintain composure.

When the woman's attention returned to the stage, Jack sagged in relief. "You'll be the death of me," he whispered.

"A tragedy worthy of Verdi," you replied, squeezing him firmly.

His breathing grew more ragged, his hips shifting restlessly against the seat. You knew he was close. With your free hand, you reached for his discarded handkerchief, anticipating the mess.

"Look at me," you commanded softly, and his eyes—dark with desire—met yours. "I want to see your face."

That seemed to push him over the edge. His expression contorted in pleasure, his mouth opening in a silent cry as he spilled over your hand. You caught most of it with the handkerchief, your strokes gentling as he shuddered through his release.

When it was over, Jack slumped against you, his forehead resting on your shoulder. "Jesus," he breathed. "That was..."

"Worth sitting through the opera?" you suggested, carefully cleaning your hand and helping him tuck himself away.

He laughed softly, pressing a kiss to your neck before straightening. "Worth sitting through a thousand operas."

On stage, Violetta was singing of sacrifice and societal expectations. Jack's hand found yours again, his thumb tracing circles on your palm.

"We should do this again," he said, his tone casual but his eyes serious. "The opera, I mean."

You smiled, knowing he meant much more than that. "I'd like that."

"Next time," he added, his voice dropping to that register that made your stomach flip, "we could skip the performance entirely. My father's residence has plenty of private rooms."

The thought sent a fresh wave of heat through you. "Ambassador Kennedy might notice our absence."

Jack's smile turned wicked. "Let him. I'm cultivating an appreciation for the finer things, just as he wanted."

[incorrectbatfam]

It's Bruce's turn to host the annual rich people Christmas party, what does everyone do to ruin it

Dick: swings from the chandelier as Jack Frost

Jason: de-baptizes people

Tim: swaps the tree for a Hanukkah bush

Damian: unties the reindeer from the sleigh

Duke: changes the Christmas light color scheme

Cullen: cosplays as the Grinch and steals party favors

Stephanie: pretends to be a nutcracker statue to scare people

Cassandra: locks the bathrooms

Barbara: changes the address on the RSVP

Harper: brings a fake snow machine inside

Carrie: goes table to table trick-or-treating

Kate: follows old straight men with mistletoe on a fishing pole

Helena: stages a festive Rogues battle

Luke: replaces the stairs with a ski lift

Bette: rents out the Manor as luxury winter lodge

Alfred: hires a bagpipe player

Selina: commissions an ice sculpture of herself

Bruce: dips out to watch Home Alone with his family

[m4rst0ns]

BENEATH THE HATRED.

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x fem!reader

Warnings: blood, mentions of getting shot, game typical violence, swearing? (I can’t remember lmao), fluff, most likely grammatic mistakes

Word Count: 3.4k

Notes: no use of Y/N (none of my writing will!), probably ooc Arthur (and the other characters mentioned as well lmao)

A/N: this took FOREVER to write, but I wanted it to be perfect and I couldn’t figure out how to end it but I finally got it! More writing will be coming shortly after this as well!

Arthur was practically fuming as he looked at you from across camp. You. Of all people, why had Dutch asked you to help with this? The same you who had robbed them blind of their food months ago? He trusted Dutch with his life, but he questioned some of the decisions he made.

He watched you walk away from Dutch with a scowl. He got up as soon as you were out of sight, his boots thudding as he stalked over to Dutch with fury. “You outta your mind?”

He snapped, Dutch’s chuckle irritating him to his core. “Don’t you remember she robbed us? How almost all of us went hungry ‘cause o’ that?” He was trying to compose himself in front of Dutch, but the image of Abigail giving up her food for little Jack was engraved in his mind.

“Now, now, Arthur. I know what you are thinking, but have some faith in me. Trust me, she’s got a good head on her shoulders. And if she crosses us you’ll be the first one to put a bullet in ‘er won’t ya?” He patted Arthur’s shoulder. “Plus, with Hosea out doin’ his own thing she’s the best we got. As much as I dislike her for what she did, Trelawny put in a good word for her.” Arthur huffed.

Arthur shook his head. “Trelawny ain’t the one who went hungry, Dutch.” His voice was low, strained, but Dutch just smiled, like he always did when he thought he was one step ahead of everyone.

“Arthur, you know as well as I do that sometimes we gotta put our grudges aside for the greater good. You don’t have to like her, but you will work with her,” Dutch said, his tone leaving no room for argument. Arthur scowled but said nothing more.

Arthur turned on his heel and stalked away from Dutch, muttering curses. He wasn’t just about to roll over and play nice, though. If he had to work with you, you were going to know where you damn well stood.

He found you by the horses, checking the straps on your saddle like you’d been part of the gang all along. Arthur’s scowl deepened. “You got some real nerve showin’ your face around here.” He gritted his teeth, arms crossed over his chest.You didn’t even flinch, not sparing him a glance as you tighten a strap. “Didn’t know I needed your permission to be here,” you shoot back, voice cool.

Arthur rolled his eyes. “You don’t, but that doesn't mean I trust you.” Finally, you turned to face him, and when you did, it was with that stupid smirk on your face that made Arthur want to slap you silly. He listened to you talk, an amused glint in your eye. “Good, ‘cause I don’t trust you either.”

“Stay outta my way, and maybe, we won’t have a problem.”

“No promises, cowboy.” You smirked and Arthur cursed under his breath as you walked away, his patience wearing thin. This was going to be a disaster.

⇝⇝⇝

Some rich bastard was throwing a party in Saint Denis; one of them always was. Dutch had gotten word that a governor’s associate would be there, with important documents that he wanted to get his hands on. It was a formal event, and as much as you hated the beauty standards, you were made to wear a dress.

Your dress was elegant, a deep shade of navy that shimmered faintly under the warm glow of the chandeliers. The bodice hugged your figure, its structured seams accentuating your waist before cascading into a full, sweeping skirt.

Delicate white lace adorned the off the shoulder neckline, each intricate pattern stitched with precision, tiny pearls catching the light like scattered stars. A small, oval brooch rested at the center of the lace trim. The short, puffed sleeves added a touch of softness to the otherwise regal design.

You observed the room as you waited for Arthur to arrive–the two of you were supposed to have gone together, but Arthur was nowhere to be found when you were saddling up to leave. When you had asked Charles, he had told you Arthur had gone to get a suit last minute. Damn fool.

You looked around to see who looked the slightest bit suspicious, though, all rich people looked quite suspicious to you. As your eyes scanned the room, you heard a voice from behind you.

“Who knew you could clean up nice?” Arthur chuckled and you scowled. “You’re late, Morgan.” You grumble. “You’re lucky I’m even here, now let’s just get this over with.”

⇝⇝⇝

Arthur and you had decided to split up, figuring you could cover more ground that way. In and out, the two of you had said. Neither of you wanted to be there, not with the other anyway.

Arthur had taken the lower levels, which included mingling–Arthur’s words, not yours–with the other party guests. He wasn’t the best with social interaction, but he was better at it between the two of you. You took the higher levels, having to sneak through the empty rooms, watching for the odd guard.

You slipped through the hallway silently, stopping just outside a room when you heard voices.

“These documents must be delivered safely. Do not tell anyone anything about these except Mr. Miller, ya hear? Or there will be some serious trouble, understood?” A man said, his voice intimidating. “Y-yes, sir, I understand.” Another man replied weakly. You pressed yourself up against the wall as you heard their footsteps head over to the door. They walker out of the room and down the opposite end of the hall. You slipped through the door seconds before it closed.

You searched through each cabinet. Miller, Miller, Miller… aha! You pulled out the document and skimmed through it, making sure it was the right one. Once you were sure, you crept out of the room, looking down each side of the hall to make sure no one had seen you before walking out back where you had come from. You go to walk down the stairs when a voice stops you.

“Why do you have that, Miss?” The random man asked. You turned around with the realest smile you could muster up. “Oh, don’t worry, sir, I work for Mr. Miller.” You lied carefully. You held your breath when you saw his skeptical expression.

“That’s funny,” he replied. “Because I work for Mr. Miller.” “Shit.” You punched him as hard as you can and he stumbles. You took the opportunity to run, almost tripping down the stairs because of your dress. You damned the thing to hell as you searched for Arthur.

Your eyes found his and Arthur had known as soon as he locked eyes with you that that look meant trouble. He looked behind you and saw three men all looking around for you. He pushed himself through the crowd and grabbed your hand tightly, dragging you along with him as he ran.

The men chased you both and yelled at you to stop where you are, and it only made the two of you speed up. You heard a loud crack echo through the air, but ignored it. You found your horses hitched down the street and urged your feet to go faster. You both mounted your horses hurriedly and you tossed the document haphazardly into your saddle bag.

Your horses whipped down the dimly lit streets of Saint Denis, eventually losing the men. “I think we lost ‘em,” you breathed as the two of you slowed and Arthur spoke up. “Y’know, the whole reason we let you come along is because you weren’t supposed to get caught.” He said seriously, though his tone was slightly light-hearted. “Well, I got the damn file, didn’t I?” You grumbled and he chuckled, to your surprise.

“What’s so funny?” You asked. “Nothin’.” He replied, a small grin on his lips. You suddenly feel a little woozy. You held your head and Arthur noticed the look of discomfort on your face. He gave you a once over and saw the blood staining your dress. “You get shot?” His voice was worried. The pain came sharply and abruptly.

You held your side, clenching your jaw–the adrenaline must have hid the pain, until Arthur pointed it out. “I’m fine,” you inhaled. “Just keep going.” Arthur was irritated by your stubbornness. “Jesus, woman,” he muttered, “will you just stop? You’re hurt.” He snapped slightly. You wobbled on top of your horse, but kept going, despite the pain and Arhtur’s words. Then, everything went black.

⇝⇝⇝

You came to and felt the rough bark of a tree against your back. You heard Arthur mumbling something about stupidity. He emerged through the trees in front of you and his mumbling stopped. “Ah, you’re finally awake.” He places the logs he was carrying down in the middle of the makeshift camp he had set up, which you had just noticed.

“I, uh, bandaged your wound.” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “I didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable, considering I had to take off your dress—not the whole thing! I just slid down the top, and I assumed you were covered… up there, and you were! You–.” “Arthur, it’s fine.” You chuckled and he let out a breath of relief. It was a funny sight, the big and tough outlaw stumbling over his words.

“Thank you.” You said softly and Arthur just nodded in return. You watched Arthur as he started a fire. He looked good like this, his suit jacket discarded, along with his tie, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up, and a few of the buttons undone, showing off his muscular arms and chest.

His hair was slightly messy, presumably from the wind or running away from the party; most likely both. His cheeks were pink from the cool air, showing off the freckles that were sprinkled softly across his face. His sea blue eyes shone brightly as the flames grew. Oh, heavens, what were you thinking? You took a deep breath and collected yourself.

“Here, drink this.” He handed you a canteen of water and you chugged it gratefully, almost moaning as you chugged the liquid. You hadn’t realized how thirsty you were, or how dry your lips and throat were. “Woah, woman, don’t go drinking the whole thing now! We gotta share.” Arthur chuckled and the sight of you gulping down almost the whole canteen.

You wiped off a small droplet of water that had escaped the corner of your mouth with your forehand and a small smile grazed your lips at the sight of the cowboy.

The fire crackled softly, its warm glow illuminating the blond’s face, worn and tired, yet so soft under the early rise of the sun. Neither of you spoke, but it wasn’t awkward—just the opposite. The longer you were around Arthur, the less you disliked him, and, honestly, you hadn’t really disliked him as much as he had you in the first place. You had always thought he was quite the looker. Oh, not again. Pull it together! Oh, but how dreamy he was. He had many of the local women all over him in every place he visited.

Arthur cursed himself on the inside for even looking at you. What you had done was unacceptable! Most of the gang went hungry because of you a year ago. Yet, he couldn’t stop looking.

Your eyes glowing in the fire, your hair blowing slightly in the wind, little wisps of it surrounding your face and he chuckles to himself as you try to blow it out of your eyes. He felt bad, feeling like this, being attracted to you in the slightest. He felt like he was betraying his gang. Dutch had let her on this mission, he thought, I guess it ain’t that bad.

He tried to convince himself it was okay, this growing attraction. Weakly, but it worked, sort of. Made him feel slightly less guilty. Who could really blame him, though? Anyone in their right mind would recognize your beauty. What was wrong with him? He shook his head to clear his thoughts and broke the silence.

“We should get going, don’t think Dutch wanted us gone overnight.” He stood up and brushed his hands on his pants.

He held out a hand for you and you just looked at him for a second before taking it, him pulling you up as if you weighed nothing. Neither of you spoke as you rode slowly back to camp, enjoying the comfortable silence, a contrast to what it would’ve been before last night’s events.

⇝⇝⇝

You had decided to stick with the gang after that, Dutch offering (or, more so begging) and Hosea agreeing with the idea, though still weary. He did think you had great skills, despite what had happened when you had stolen from them and the party. You and Arthur had gotten much closer, him finally befriending you after you had “made up for the food you’d greedily taken from them”—his words, not yours.

Arthur was everything you could ask for in a friend during these times. He was honest, caring, open, and he was a great listener. He was always there as a shoulder to lean on, even when he was gone. You appreciated having someone you could trust, and having a family after so long of being on your own.

As time went on that small attraction from that night, you had labeled it as mere lust, grew. You couldn’t deny the way your heart fluttered when he was near, or the way your stomach flipped when he smiled. A small smile would graze your lips at the way his face contorted with focus as he sketched away in his journal. You were more than just physically attracted to him.

You sat with Mary-Beth, Karen, and Tilly, talking about anything and everything. Mary-Beth laughed before asking you, “Is there anyone you got your eye on?” Arthur immediately came to mind, but you shook it off.

“Nah, not really.” You replied, but they didn’t look all too convinced, the slight blush on your cheeks didn’t help your case. “Oh, come on! I know you do! I see that look in your eye. Tell us!” Mary-Beth encouraged, the other two women nodding.

As you’re about to speak, denying Mary-Beth’s claim, Arthur strutted by, tipping his hat. “Hey, ladies.” They all smile at him. “Hi, Arthur.” They greeted in unison as he continued walking by.

You hadn’t even realized you were staring until Mary-Beth’s squeal disrupted your thoughts. “You’re sweet on him, aren’t you?” You shook your head, but you couldn’t help but smile. They all laughed excitedly. “I knew it. I see the way you look at him.” Karen claims, taking a sip of her beer.

Tilly leaned forward with a smirk. “Y’know, I reckon Arthur isn’t exactly indifferent either.” Mary-Beth giggled. “He’s always getting all grumpy when someone flirts with you—like that fella in Saint Denis the other day? Thought Arthur was gonna clean punch him in the face!”

Karen took another swig before saying, “Please.That man is so in denial, it’s painful. The both of you are! I swear everyone else sees the spark but the two of you.” You gave them a look. “You’re all delusional. Mary-Beth, are you sure you haven’t been readin’ too many silly romance novels?”

The three girls all looked at each other. Tilly then spoke up. “We got some work to do.” Karen and Mary-Beth nodded. “We need to give fate just a little push.” Karen set her now empty bottle aside.

Mary-Beth gasped excitedly. “Are we matchmaking?” Karen and Tilly shared grins. “Oh absolutely,” Karen nodded. “It’s about time the two of you stopped dancing around it.” You groan. “No plotting, please.”

“No promises!” Mary-Beth said innocently. You groaned and the girls just laughed before Grimshaw came over to squawk about getting back to work. You laughed as they all moaned and you all reluctantly got up to do your chores.

⇝⇝⇝

“C’mon, please?” Karen begged. “Just for tonight, I won’t bother you again.” You watched as she gives you a million reasons as to why you should take her shift of watch for the night.

You sighed, not like you had much else to do anyway, you weren’t much of a drinker and celebrations, parties, and such weren’t really your thing. “Fine, but you owe me.” Karen grinned mischievously before thanking you, running straight to where all the beer was. You shook your head and grabbed the shotgun that lay up against the tree.

You walked through the thick trees, following the path in them that led in and out of the camp. You were surprised to see Arthur in the watch spot, rifle in hand.

“What are you doing here, Arthur?” You asked. He looked up at you surprised. “I took Karen’s watch tonight. What about you, what’re you doin’ here?” You sighed. Karen, the damn woman. “She also asked me to take her watch.” Arthur shook his head. “Must already be too drunk to remember.” You chuckled.

“You can go on back to the party, then.” Arthur said and you smiled and shook your head. “I’d rather stay here, you know parties aren’t really my thing.” You reference the time you both went to the party in Saint Denis months ago—the one where you got shot, and where you and Arthur actually started to get along. “I suppose not, huh?” He laughed and you laughed along with him.

You two settled into a comfortable silence for a while before the quiet moment started to feel heavier, as if something unspoken lingered between you.

“You know, Arthur,” you began slowly, “there's been something I’ve been meaning to say, something I never said that night in Saint Denis.” He looked at you curious, but a warm expression on his face. “What’s that?” He questioned.

You paused, heart racing a little. “I guess… I never really thanked you for what you did. I—well, I don’t know if I would’ve made it without you.” Arthur’s brows furrow slightly, as if he’s not very sure where you are going with this. “I was just doin’ what anyone woulda done.”

“It’s more than that, though. I’ve been thinking about it, now more than ever. I just thought you should know how much it meant to me.” There's a long pause. Arthur’s eyes soften slightly, the usual guardedness easing just a bit as he leans back against a tree.

“You don’t gotta thank me for that. I’m just tryin’ to do right by the people I care about, even if I didn’t care much then.” The words hang in the air between you both, heavy but honest. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve said too much, if it was too soon. But then Arthur shifts a little, his expression softening.

“I’ve been thinking about that night too.” He admits, rubbing his beard—an action you found he does when he’s nervous. “About how we were both there, fightin' for our lives, but more than that—how we had each other’s backs, no questions asked.”

He looks at you, his gaze steady. “I guess I never realized just how much I needed that, until it was right in front of me.”

You swallow, heart pounding, your words feeling like they're coming from somewhere deeper than you'd intended. “I don’t think I realized it either. But it felt... different. You felt different, Arthur.”

Arthur shifts a bit uneasily, his rough exterior softened by your words. "Hell, maybe it was. Ain't like I’m good at this kind of thing, but I reckon I’ve got a bit more of a heart than I show."

He chuckles quietly, his voice low. "But if I’m bein' honest... you’ve been on my mind more than you probably know.”

That admission is like a weight lifting from your chest, and you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. It feels like a new beginning, but one that still needs a little figuring out.

"Maybe we take it slow," you say, the words coming out more hopeful than you feel. "One step at a time."

Arthur nods, the corners of his mouth twitching up into a small, tentative smile. "Yeah, I think that sounds like a good idea."

For the first time in a while, the quiet feels easy between you two. The kind of quiet that means things are changing—but in a way that feels right.