#all i know is that i am FALLING APART ABOUT IT

[ash-needs-an-url-too]

I'm not going to be able to sleep tonight because of your ACCURSED deep green knife. DEEP GREEN KNIFE. you crumble and fall but your walls are cut away. i can't get away from something organic yet can't figure out... deep green... it's deep green, not just green, but does it cut by being sharp, or by being patient like vines worming their way into cracks? "red barren hall" evokes throat, evokes blood, to me, red is the color of blood... or fruit or flower? violence or growth, or am i lost entirely? i see something falling and splitting open, but that seems wrong; that is blunt, not a deep green knife. I'm not going to be able to sleep tonight. Deep green. DEEP green. Sharp, slicing, cutting, deep green, green is an organic color but where else? Is grass deep green, is it perhaps simply the ground? Blades of grass? I can't get away from organic, organic, flesh and plants and flesh and plants and splitting and falling away, it must be a hall, it must be barren, it must be red, red barren hall, barren hall, red hall, barren red hall, green knife red hall, red hall green knife, red falls by green, those are christmas-y colors but a gift wouldn't be barren and the colors wouldn't be arbitrary or the riddle would be bad. By Eris, you've done something to me, I will not stop thinking about this knife. mentally I am pacing around yelling at the walls and ceiling of the prison cell this riddle has become, it has trapped my mind, knife knife knife WHAT IS A KNIFE? a knife. a knife. what is the knife what is the KNIFE. the walls are cut away, they do not fall, but you fall? wait, what if the barren hall isn't part of you i hadn't considered that. but what cuts away sturdy walls? erosion isn't cutting, but words can be twisted, literal walls could be pulled apart by plants... but RED barren hall, why red? why red? is the whole hall red or is it decorated red? i need you to know i am going to be pacing and murmuring in my chambers all night about this.

flirting: omggg haha that amulet is so neat! Do you mind if I hold it?

[avengxrz]

the fool, the golden boy, and everything in between ; jake "hangman" seresin x reader [epilogue]

pairings: jake "hangman" seresin x reader

word count: 26.5k words (so short, i am sorry)

summary: jake seresin was the golden boy—cocky, fast, untouchable. the kind of man who flew too close to the sun and smirked when he burned. but then he met you. and you didn’t just ground him—you remade him. you were the reckoning he never saw coming. and somehow, between old wounds and second chances, you built a life together. a home full of laughter, bickering, and soft kisses between chaos. and now? now the golden boy is a fool in love, wrapped around your finger and utterly whipped for the tiny, sleepy baby cradled on his chest—his son, his softest landing yet.

notes: goodness, we’ve come to the epilogue now—wild, right? from enemies to lovers, to co-commanders, to baby-making soulmates… it’s been a ride. thank you for being here, for reading every chaotic chapter, and falling in love with these two fools right alongside me. and hey, who knows—i might drop a few bonus chapters if anyone’s curious about post-baby chaos or wedding shenanigans (hint hint). just say the word. ♡

warnings: filthy smut, breeding kink, pregnancy sex, soft!jake, jealous!jake, public teasing, emotional angst, comfort, fluff, domestic chaos, baby fever, hurt/comfort, jake being obsessed with you (as he should), and language that would make cyclone retire early. 18+ only. don’t read this on your grandma’s kindle.

part one , part two , part three , part four , part 5

masterlist

Six months ago, you would’ve sworn—sworn on seared pride and buried rage—that you would never, not in a thousand lifetimes, so much as touch a hair on Jake Seresin’s head. And yet, here you were now. Bare skin tangled in cotton sheets, a warm, familiar weight pressed behind you, his arm slung over your waist like it belonged there. Like he belonged there. The morning light filtered through the blinds, golden and drowsy, casting lazy stripes across your shared bed. Jake’s heartbeat thudded slow and steady against your back, and without even realizing it, your breath synced to his.

The silence wasn’t awkward. It hadn’t been awkward in a long time. It was... quiet in the way only true comfort could be. The kind you didn’t question. The kind you couldn’t fake. Jake was still asleep behind you, mouth parted just slightly, chest rising and falling in a rhythm you knew like your own. He’d shifted once already, tugging you closer in his sleep, and when he’d murmured your name into the curve of your shoulder, half-conscious and warm as a prayer, you’d closed your eyes and pretended not to hear it. You hadn’t trusted yourself not to melt.

Meanwhile, the apartment was still. Only the distant hum of the ocean outside and the occasional creak of wood settled into the quiet. Somewhere under a heap of Jake’s Navy hoodie and your half-zipped duffle bag was your phone, buzzing silently with texts from the squad. You ignored it. There was no flight today. No emergency debrief. No Hell Day looming. Just a soft morning, sunlit and slow, wrapped in sweat and afterglow and the scent of his skin.

You hadn’t told anyone. Not officially. Not even the squad, which was a miracle in itself considering Payback couldn’t keep a secret to save his life and Fanboy was nosier than a Sunday tabloid. It wasn’t shame. It was protection—of rank, of respect, of careers neither of you could afford to gamble. You were the higher rank. You knew what people would say. And Jake, for all his reckless charm, hadn’t argued once. When you explained it—halting, careful—he’d just nodded, cupped your jaw in his hand, and said, “Then we wait. For as long as you need.”

Still... you had your suspicions. Jinx side-eyed you more than usual. Ruin had made one too many jokes about pilots suddenly “growing up overnight.” Maverick? Well, Maverick just watched you both like he knew every damn thing and was waiting for you to admit it. But they never said a word. Because you’d earned your place. Because Jake had changed. Because your glare could still cut glass when you wanted it to.

Then Jake stirred behind you with a low, sleepy groan, voice thick with dreams. “You’re thinkin’ too loud again, sunshine.”

You smiled into the pillow before you could stop yourself. “Am not.”

“Are too,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss between your shoulder blades, his voice barely a breath.

And for a moment, the world outside your bedroom faded. All the years and wounds and mistakes blurred into the kind of peace you never thought either of you could deserve.

“So… about last night,” he drawled, voice husky with sleep and something thicker.

You rolled your eyes, but you could already feel the warmth creeping up your cheeks. “Don’t start,” you warned, your voice barely above a murmur. “I’m still recovering.”

Jake chuckled, low and smooth. “Recovering? Sugar, I was the one who couldn’t feel his legs for a solid ten minutes.”

You shoved him lightly, and he grabbed your hand before you could pull away. His thumb brushed across your knuckles, slow and reverent. “You know I mean it, right?” he said. “This… you. Me. All of this.”

Something in your chest softened, melting like sugar over heat. He wasn’t just joking anymore. There was that quiet, tender honesty again—the one he didn’t always wear so openly, but never faked when it showed up.

You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his, closing your eyes against the weight of it all. “I know,” you whispered. “And I do too.”

“You should be sore,” Jake murmured, voice thick with sleep and sin, his palm already sliding between your thighs like he owned the space there. “Because last night? I didn’t just fuck you—I ruined you.”

You let out a breathless laugh, but it hitched halfway, because his fingers were already brushing over your folds—wet, swollen, aching from how hard you’d come hours ago and already greedy for more. “You sound pretty cocky for someone who begged me to let you come,” you shot back, lips curved in lazy defiance.

He grinned, slow and wolfish, and leaned in, pressing a kiss to your neck, just below your ear. “Damn right I begged. You make me pathetic,” he whispered, voice a rasp, fingers circling your clit like he was playing a song only you got to hear. “You make me lose every last bit of control.”

Your body arched, hips tilting up to meet his touch. God, he was barely doing anything and you were already soaking his fingers. It wasn’t fair. He knew exactly how to take you apart—what made you whimper, what made you scream. And the worst part? He loved knowing it. Loved watching you fall apart because of him.

“Jake,” you whispered, already breathless.

He kissed down your chest, lips wet and hungry, until his mouth closed over your nipple and you gasped. He sucked hard, biting just enough to make you jolt. Then he pulled off with a pop and looked up at you, pupils blown wide, sweat already beading at his temples.

“Spread your legs for me.”

You didn’t even hesitate. The second you did, he shifted down and dragged his tongue up your center in one slow, devastating stroke.

“Oh my God—”

“Not God,” he growled, voice muffled against your cunt. “Just me. And you’re gonna pray to me anyway.”

He devoured you—no finesse, no teasing, just filthy, open-mouthed hunger. His tongue circled your clit, then flicked it quick and merciless while two fingers slid inside you, curling, pumping, coaxing you toward that edge with ruthless precision. You were already shaking, already crying out his name like a chant.

“Fuck, Jake—fuck—”

“That’s it,” he groaned, lifting his head just enough to speak while his fingers stayed buried deep. “Let me hear it. Let the neighbors fucking know who owns this pussy.”

Your orgasm hit hard—violent, shaking, stars behind your eyes. You came with a broken scream, thighs clamping around his head, and he moaned like he loved it. Because he did. He lived for it.

He slid up your body, mouth shiny, beard slick with you, and kissed you like a man deranged.

“Taste that?” he rasped. “That’s mine.”

You were still trembling when he flipped you over, dragged your hips up, and shoved his cock in with one brutal thrust that made your mouth fall open. No teasing. No easing in. Just Jake, raw and ready and filthy.

He fucked you from behind, one hand twisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip so hard you’d have bruises for days. His thrusts were fast, deep, punishing—like he was trying to ruin you all over again. And God, he was.

“Say it,” he growled, snapping his hips so deep you sobbed. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you cried, voice high and desperate.

“Louder.”

“I’m yours, Jake—fuck—I’m yours!”

He bent over your back, mouth pressed to your neck. “You’re gonna come on my cock again. Gonna feel me so deep, you won’t be able to sit without thinking of me.” He reached around and rubbed your clit hard, fast, relentless. “Come for me, baby. I want to feel you milk me.”

You shattered again—body locking, cunt spasming around him, and Jake cursed as he came too, loud and guttural, hips jerking, spilling into you like he needed to mark you from the inside out.

The only sound left in the room was the ragged panting of two people who had just seen God—and decided He wasn’t enough.

He collapsed next to you, chest rising and falling fast, pulling you against him with shaking arms.

“I should’ve fucked you like that years ago,” he muttered, voice wrecked.

You laughed, dazed and warm and still pulsing with aftershocks. “Would’ve saved us a lot of bullshit.”

He grinned. “Yeah, but then I wouldn’t get to earn you like this.”

The shower was scalding, steam curling into the air like smoke off a battlefield. Your body was still buzzing, thighs aching, skin raw from the way he’d taken you—twice, maybe three times if you counted what he did with his mouth before that last round.

And yet, here you were. Back against the cool tile, water running down your shoulders, your legs wrapped around Jake’s waist like you hadn’t just come undone minutes ago.

His mouth was on your neck, your jaw, your collarbone—biting now, not kissing, like he was trying to leave proof you were his. “Fuckin’ can’t get enough of you,” he growled, hands gripping your ass like he was holding on for dear life. “I just had you and I still want more. What the hell did you do to me?”

You whimpered, grinding against him, feeling how hard he already was again. “Maybe I wrecked you.”

He looked up—wild, flushed, pupils blown to hell—and grinned. “You did. And now I get to return the favor.”

He slid in with one brutal thrust, and the sound you made was damn near filthy—a broken, strangled gasp that bounced off the tile. You were still so sensitive, still stretched from before, and he knew it. He could feel every twitch, every pulse of your walls clenching around him.

“Jesus, baby,” he hissed, forehead pressed against yours, hips grinding slow and deep. “You’re so tight like this. So fuckin’ wet—”

“It’s the shower,” you managed, but your voice cracked halfway through.

“No,” he snapped, slamming into you again, making your head hit the wall. “That’s me. That’s your body needing mine.”

And fuck, he wasn’t wrong.

He rocked into you like he was trying to break something open—slow, punishing thrusts that had you shaking, water and sweat mixing down your back. One hand held you up, the other slid between you to rub tight, hard circles on your clit.

“Jake—fuck—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he rasped, biting your bottom lip between his teeth. “You’re gonna come again. Right here. On my cock. Against this wall. Let it drip down my thighs. Let me feel it.”

You were already so close. Every thrust dragged across every nerve ending. Every grind of his fingers sent sparks up your spine.

“Do it,” he demanded. “Come on. Give it to me.”

And when you came—again—your whole body snapped. Your back arched. Your legs trembled. You screamed into his mouth and clenched around him so tight it nearly broke him.

He followed instantly, hips jerking, spilling into you with a groan that echoed like a thunderclap in the wet heat of the shower. His whole body went tense, then slack, and he buried his face in your neck, panting like he’d just flown a Mach 10 mission and barely survived.

For a while, the only sounds were the water, your ragged breathing, and the distant hum of reality returning.

Then Jake leaned back, looking at you with a cocky little smirk and wrecked, reverent eyes.

“Round three?” he asked, like a fool.

You laughed, legs still trembling. “Let me stand first, you absolute menace.”

He grinned, kissed your forehead, and whispered, “I’ll hold you up, baby. Always.”

You didn’t even make it out of the bathroom.

He was still toweling off, chest flushed, abs glistening, hair dripping into his eyes—Jake in his final form—when you turned, yanked the towel from his hips, and shoved him down onto the counter like he was the plaything now.

He blinked, stunned and stupidly turned on. “Baby—”

“Shut up.”

Your voice was low. Commanding. Dripping with authority that had his cock twitching back to life in seconds. You climbed into his lap like it was your throne, dragging your fingers up his chest, watching the way his breath hitched under your touch. His hands flew to your hips, ready to grip, control, guide—

“Touch me and you don’t get to come.”

His hands froze. Just like that.

His eyes met yours—wide, glassy, pupils blown so far there was no green left. Just hunger. Just desperation.

You lined him up and sank down slowly, painfully slow, inch by inch, keeping your eyes locked on his the whole time. Watching him break. Watching the cocky fighter pilot beg with his eyes. His head fell back, jaw clenched so hard it looked like it hurt.

“Jesus fucking Christ—”

“Nope,” you said, grinding your hips in slow, torturous circles once he was buried deep. “Just me. And I’m going to ride you ‘til you forget your own name.”

He choked on a moan, hands twitching at his sides like they were dying to grab, anchor, survive. You started to move—hips rolling, slow at first, deliberate. Your pace was lethal. Pure torment. Every drop of you squeezed around him like a vice and he was losing it.

“Please—please, Rogue—let me touch—”

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear, voice a venomous purr. “Didn’t I just warn you?”

Then you started to fuck him. No rhythm, no mercy. Just frantic, reckless movement, skin slapping, breath shattering. His head fell forward, mouth open, and you could feel how close he was. His thighs were trembling under yours, stomach tight, every muscle locked down.

“You like being used like this?” you whispered, hand wrapping around his throat—not tight, but enough to own him. “Like being just a cock for me to ride?”

His groan was feral, strangled. “Fuck, yes. Anything you want. Anything—”

You moved faster. Harder. Your nails dug into his chest, your breath ragged, your thighs burning. And he watched you, wide-eyed and reverent, like he was witnessing a goddess losing her mind in the sky.

When you came, it hit like a bomb. You cried out, body locking, nails raking down his chest. And when you leaned forward, mouth crushed to his, letting him feel the quake of you unraveling—then you whispered, “Now you can come.”

And fuck, did he obey.

Jake let out a growl so deep it shook his chest against yours, then snapped, hips jerking up into you as he spilled inside, trembling, breathless, completely and utterly wrecked.

You stayed there, on him, around him, both of you panting, shivering, sweaty. His hands finally found your thighs, holding you like you were all that kept him grounded.

“Holy shit,” he whispered.

You smirked, dragging your fingers down his cheek, then tugging his face up so he met your gaze again.

“You still cocky, flyboy?”

He looked at you—fucked-out, flushed, breathless—and whispered, “Marry me.”

“Shut up.”

You were barely off his lap when he grabbed you—one arm around your waist, the other under your thighs—and walked you back toward the bed like you weighed nothing. His cock was still hard, already twitching back to life, slick with your release and his own, and you knew the second your back hit the mattress—

He wasn’t done.

He hovered over you, jaw clenched, eyes blown black. Not cocky. Not smirking. Just obsessed.

“I need it,” he rasped, voice ruined. “Need to feel you come around me again. Need to get deeper. Need to fucking breed you.”

Your breath caught. Everything inside you clenched—because fuck, the way he said it? Like he meant it? Like it wasn’t just some filthy talk but a mission statement?

“Jake—” you breathed, already squirming, already soaked again.

He gripped your thighs, pushed them back, wide and open and helpless, and growled, “You’re gonna take every drop. Gonna let me fuck you full and keep it in.”

Then he slammed into you in one brutal stroke.

You screamed—high and wrecked—as your body arched, already raw and sore and overstimulated. And he just groaned, deep in his chest, like your tight, used heat was all he’d ever wanted.

“That’s it,” he grunted, thrusting hard, fast, balls slapping against you with wet, obscene sounds. “That’s my girl. So fuckin’ perfect. So ready for me. Your pussy wants it, doesn’t it?”

You nodded frantically, gasping. “Yes—yes, please—fill me—”

“Oh, I will,” he growled, slamming into you harder. “Gonna put a baby in you. Gonna fuck you so deep your body has to take me.”

He grabbed your jaw, forced your eyes to his. “Say it.”

“Put a baby in me,” you cried, wrecked. “Breed me, Jake. Fill me up.”

That broke him.

He lost all rhythm, hips pounding into you like a man deranged, sweat dripping, hair stuck to his forehead. He grabbed your hips and forced you down on him with each thrust, chasing that final high, that last act of claiming.

“Take it,” he snarled. “Take it like my good fuckin’ girl. My wife. The only one I’ll ever breed.”

You came hard, body locking up, a scream tearing from your throat as you clenched around him like a vice.

And then Jake snapped—hips jerking once, twice—and he came with a guttural moan, pouring into you, hot and endless, thick ropes spilling so deep you swore you could feel it in your chest. He kept moving, slower now, grinding it in with each lazy thrust, like he was trying to make sure not a drop got wasted.

When he finally collapsed, body pressed to yours, both of you drenched in sweat and panting like you’d just run through hell and back, he didn’t pull out.

No. He stayed inside.

“Not done,” he whispered, lips pressed to your throat. “Gotta keep it in. Gotta make sure it takes.”

You laughed—broken and breathless. “You trying to give me twins now?”

He chuckled, still inside you, still rock hard. “I’ll give you a squadron if that’s what you want, baby.”

And the worst part?

You almost wanted him to.

You didn’t even realize you’d fallen asleep—still full, still warm, still claimed—until his mouth brushed over your lower stomach.

Soft. Reverent. Filthy.

“Think you’re holding onto me already,” he murmured, voice wrecked and raw, lips ghosting over the curve just below your belly button. “Think your body’s already makin’ a home for it.”

You whimpered, barely able to lift your head, thighs still slick and shaking. “Jake… I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he whispered. He was between your legs again before you could breathe, dragging your legs open slowly, carefully, tenderly—like you were breakable now. “You will. Just one more. Let me love you like this. Let me seal it in.”

You shivered. Because holy hell, you were ruined and overstimulated and aching—and you wanted it anyway. Wanted him.

He didn’t slam into you this time. No, this time he pushed in slow, inch by aching inch, watching your face like a man watching the sunrise after war.

You gasped—so full, too full—but he stilled the moment he bottomed out, letting you feel the stretch, the heat, the intimacy of it.

“That’s it,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours. “Just feel me, baby. Let me stay in you. Let me fill you again. I need to.”

And he moved—slow, deep thrusts that had you keening, trembling, tears springing in your eyes because it was too much and not enough all at once.

“Fuck, you’re still so tight,” he groaned, kissing the tears from your cheeks. “You were made for this. Made to take me. Made to be mine.”

His hand slid between your bodies, rubbing tight circles over your clit again, and your whole body bucked—pleasure sharp, unbearable, blissful.

“Jake, I— I can’t—please—”

“Yes, you can. Just one more, sweetheart,” he whispered, mouth at your throat. “Come for me. Milk my cock. Take all of it. I wanna fuck it in so deep you’ll still be leaking when you walk tomorrow.”

You shattered. Screamed. Clawed at his back like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. Your orgasm tore through you like fire—hot and electric and endless.

And Jake? He followed—groaning your name, pressing so deep into you you swore he touched your fucking soul, spilling into you again, harder this time, longer, like his body was trying to carve a legacy inside you.

When he finally collapsed, still inside, still hard, he wrapped his arms around you like he never wanted to let go.

“I hope it sticks,” he whispered, one hand cradling your lower belly, the other stroking your thigh. “I want everyone to see you swollen with me. I want the world to know you’re mine.”

You were too gone to answer—just clung to him with everything you had left.

But in your chest?

You were already hoping it stuck too.

The sun had risen higher than you’d expected. Its golden light spilled lazily through the open window, warming the tangled sheets and the well-wrecked bed you still lay in. You blinked at the clock sluggishly, brain swimming in post-orgasm haze, only to see the glowing red numbers: 9:03 AM. Your heart jumped in mild panic as your eyes widened. “Shit,” you rasped, voice still hoarse from sleep—or more accurately, from the downright sinful things Jake Seresin had done to you just hours ago. “I’m late for work.”

Before you could fully bolt upright, a warm hand pressed lightly to your stomach, keeping you anchored to the mattress. “Relax,” Jake murmured beside you, voice rough with sleep and still laced with that smugness that always meant he was hiding something. “I already called Jinx. Told him you’re not feeling well.”

You blinked again, disoriented. “You—what?”

He grinned, sleepy and cocky, propped up on one elbow, his other hand lazily smoothing over your waist beneath the oversized shirt he had put on you sometime after round three or four—when you’d passed out cold and he, the menace, had tucked you into bed like you weren’t the same woman who’d ridden him raw against a bathroom mirror. His boxers hung low on your hips, loose and warm and entirely his. “Said you woke up with a fever,” he added. “And you’re showing...symptoms.”

You scoffed, pressing a hand to your forehead dramatically. “Oh? And what symptoms would those be?”

Jake leaned in close, voice barely a whisper as he brushed a kiss to your jaw. “Soreness. Fatigue. Uncontrollable trembling in the legs.” His hand squeezed your thigh pointedly. “Classic post-Seresin syndrome.”

You groaned, flopping back against the pillow. “They’re going to know, Jake. Jinx is not stupid.”

“Let them know,” he replied with a shrug and a wicked smile. “I also called Maverick. Told him it was an emergency.”

Your head shot up. “Jake—what kind of emergency?!”

“The kind that involves a bed, a lot of sweat, and you screaming my name,” he said without missing a beat.

You smacked his arm with a pillow, laughing despite yourself, cheeks already heating from embarrassment. “You’re gonna get me killed.”

“Nah,” he drawled, pulling you closer and kissing your cheek. “They’ll just be jealous.”

Then, as the laughter started to die down, the room softened. Jake reached for his phone, scrolling through a playlist before one quiet, scratchy old tune began to play from the speaker—some 60s ballad that your dad probably danced to with your mom in the kitchen when they were young. You arched a brow. “Really? You’re playing this right now?”

Jake stood and offered you a hand, completely unbothered by the fact that you were both half-dressed and still radiating sex like the whole damn house couldn’t tell. “Dance with me,” he said simply, like it was the most normal thing to do at 9 a.m. on a Wednesday after being thoroughly fucked into the mattress.

“I’m not dancing with morning breath,” you said, sliding out from the covers on shaky legs. “Give me thirty seconds before you start pretending we’re in a rom-com.”

Meanwhile, Jake just watched you with soft, fond eyes as you disappeared into the bathroom. He didn’t need the music or the sunlight or the moment to feel perfect—but hell, they didn’t hurt.

You returned a few minutes later, face washed, teeth brushed, hair loosely tied back. His shirt was still hanging off your frame, sleeves too long, collar wide and falling over your shoulder. He was already waiting in the middle of the room, hand extended again, expression gentle now—no smirk, no teasing. Just him. Just Jake.

And this time, you took it.

His hand closed around yours, warm and sure, pulling you gently into him like gravity had nothing on the way your bodies naturally fit together. You rolled your eyes a little as the soft croon of the old song filled the room—something wistful and full of crackling vinyl charm, the kind of music old souls kept hidden away for rainy days and love-drunk mornings.

Jake pressed a kiss to your temple and swayed with you slowly, guiding your hands to his shoulders while his rested at your waist, fingers splayed just beneath the hem of his shirt. The motion was simple, lazy, just a soft back-and-forth like neither of you had anywhere to be—and you didn’t, not today. Because he’d made damn sure of that.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mumbled, though you made no move to step away. You even rested your head against his chest, letting his steady heartbeat lull you deeper into the haze.

“And yet you’re still dancing with me,” he murmured, spinning you a half-step before pulling you back in close, chest to chest, nose brushing yours. “Must mean I’m doing something right.”

You sighed, pretending to be exasperated, even though your lips were already curving into a smile. “The bar is so low, Jake.”

“Good,” he smirked, dipping his head so his mouth hovered near your ear. “Means I can clear it without spilling you.”

You snorted, but didn’t protest when he tightened his arms around you and rocked you gently, rhythm matching the slow tempo of the song. Then, in a moment that caught you off guard, his voice dropped even softer.

“I could dance with you like this forever, you know.”

That made your breath hitch—not because it was cheesy, but because he meant it. He always meant it when he got like this—when the cocky smirk faded and that rare, unguarded honesty bled through. You lifted your head to look at him, to meet those sea-green eyes full of everything he couldn’t say out loud in a crowd, but always told you when the world was still and the room was quiet.

“I’d let you,” you whispered, fingers curling at the nape of his neck. “Even if it’s to music like this.”

Jake chuckled, twirling you lazily before pulling you back into his arms again, your bare legs brushing his as you swayed. “Don’t act like you’re not secretly into it.”

“I am not,” you said with faux offense.

“Sure,” he said, lowering his mouth to yours. “That’s why your hips are moving like you’re in a black-and-white movie and I’m about to carry you off to war.”

You kissed him before he could say anything else—just a soft press of lips, slow and sweet and so wildly at odds with the way he’d wrecked you hours ago. Then you buried your face in his chest again, letting the song wrap around you both like a second blanket.

And in that little cocoon of music and stolen time, nothing else mattered.

Not Maverick. Not Jinx. Not Ruin. Not the Dagge Squad. Not the world outside those walls.

Just him, and you. And the music between your breaths.

The song faded into silence, leaving only the soft hum of the morning and the lazy beat of Jake’s heart beneath your ear. He didn’t move right away—just held you like he was trying to memorize the exact way you fit against him, the smell of your hair, the quiet way you sighed when you felt safe.

Then, without warning, his arms tightened around your thighs and lifted you clean off the ground.

You squeaked in surprise, arms flying around his neck. “Jake!”

He grinned, cocky and unbothered, carrying you like it was nothing. “What? You danced. You earned breakfast delivery.”

“I can walk—”

“I know you can. I just don’t want you to,” he said smugly, brushing a kiss to your cheek as he padded barefoot toward the kitchen, both of you still dressed in barely-there remnants of last night’s chaos. His shirt on you, his boxers barely clinging to your hips, and his scent absolutely everywhere.

When you entered the kitchen, the smell hit first—eggs, bacon, toasted sourdough, and the lingering whisper of coffee.

“Wait,” you blinked. “You cooked?”

Jake set you gently on the counter, your legs dangling as he turned back to the stove and grabbed a plate. “Yeah, I’m a man of many talents. Fighter pilot by day, domestic god by morning-after.”

“You cooked before or after you wrecked me into a coma?”

“Little of both,” he said over his shoulder, plating eggs with a precision that was honestly terrifying. “Had the bacon going before round two. Turned it off. Turned you on. Multitasking.”

You stared, vaguely scandalized. “You timed our sex between flipping bacon?”

Jake looked over, eyes glinting. “Well, not intentionally, but if we’re giving out awards…”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the grin creeping across your face. “Unreal. You’re unreal.”

He handed you the plate, then picked up a second for himself and leaned against the counter beside you, bumping his shoulder into yours. “Eat up. Gotta rebuild your strength.”

You gave him a flat look. “Jake.”

“Baby, I’m just saying... you’re gonna need it. We’re not leaving this house today.”

Your stomach flipped, and not just from the scent of breakfast.

Meanwhile, the coffee maker burbled behind you, sunlight pouring in through the window like the universe was in on the joke—like it knew the two of you were wrapped in something bigger than just heat and hunger.

Something softer.

Something permanent.

You took a bite, and he watched you, eyes lingering on your lips like he hadn’t just kissed the life out of you three times over. And as the music shifted to another slow tune in the background, he reached out again, brushing your thigh with the back of his fingers.

“After breakfast,” he said, voice low, “you’re mine again.”

And you believed him.

Because you always were.

After breakfast and a bit of lingering—okay, a lot of lingering, with Jake nibbling kisses along your shoulder every time you tried to put your plate in the sink—you finally managed to peel yourself away and head for the bathroom to shower properly. You shut the door behind you with a firm but playful “Stay out, Seresin,” and heard him let out the most dramatic groan from the hallway, like you’d just exiled him from paradise. Which, honestly, you kind of had.

By the time you stepped out, hair still damp, fresh-faced and finally wearing real clothes instead of his shirt and boxers, Jake was sprawled on the bed like a man in mourning. One arm tossed over his eyes, the other resting across his bare chest like he was waiting for someone to come and play a sad country song over his broken heart. He lifted his head the moment he heard your footsteps.

“You dressed?” he asked, voice a mix of genuine betrayal and outrage. “You got out of the shower and got fully dressed without calling me back in?”

You glanced down at your jeans and tank top, drying your hair with a towel. “Yes, because unlike you, I have errands to run. We need milk. Also vegetables. We can’t survive on bacon and orgasms.”

Jake let out an actual whine, sitting up on the bed and reaching for you like you’d just announced you were enlisting for war. “But why do you have to go? We were having such a nice time. There’s eggs. We have leftovers. I’ll cook again. I’ll make pancakes. You like pancakes.”

You raised an eyebrow as you tugged on your shoes. “Pancakes aren’t gonna keep us alive when we run out of coffee and toilet paper, Jake.”

He stared at you for a second, then dramatically stood up, completely naked and unbothered by it. “Take me with you.”

“No.”

His jaw dropped. “What do you mean no?”

“I mean, you’ve ruined my entire body. My legs still feel like jello. I’m going to do the one normal thing today that doesn’t involve being pinned against a surface, thank you very much.”

Meanwhile, he crossed the room like a puppy denied his favorite toy, trailing behind you as you grabbed your keys and shopping list. “Please let me come,” he said, voice pitiful. “I’ll carry the bags. I’ll push the cart. Hell, I’ll even use the self-checkout without complaining.”

You turned around, arms crossed. “Jake. You don’t even like grocery stores.”

“But I like you in grocery stores,” he insisted, eyes wide with devotion and desperation. “You get this little furrow between your brows when you’re deciding between two brands of pasta sauce and it’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. I need to witness that again.”

You tried not to smile, but your lips were already twitching.

“I’ll behave,” he added, now clutching his chest like you’d mortally wounded him. “I won’t even make a scene when you ban me from the snack aisle again. Scout’s honor.”

“Jake, you weren’t a scout.”

“Fine, but I am a fool. For you. Let me come, babe. I’ll wear a shirt. I’ll even brush my hair.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you grabbed your tote bag. “I don’t know what spell I put on you, Seresin, but it’s clearly too strong.”

Then, while you weren’t looking, he grabbed a shirt off the floor and began putting it on with the speed of a man trying to make a plane.

Jake, did, in fact, not behave.

It began well enough—he held the basket like a gentleman, followed you through the produce aisle without once trying to juggle the apples, and even nodded seriously when you debated the merits of frozen versus fresh spinach. For a brief, shining moment, you thought maybe—maybe—he would actually make it through one single errand without devolving into chaos incarnate.

That illusion shattered somewhere near aisle five.

You had turned to check the grocery list—half-distracted by the absurd number of brands under the “almond milk” label—when Jake’s voice echoed out like a proud child: “Babe. Look what I got.” He was grinning like he’d just won the lottery, holding up the very last box of your favorite double-chocolate cookies, the ones that were almost always sold out.

Except you were pretty sure those hadn’t been on the shelf a second ago.

You narrowed your eyes. “Where’d you get that?”

He tried to look innocent, which only made him look more guilty. “It was just... there. On the edge of the display.”

Suspicious, you glanced past him—and that’s when you saw the child. Maybe seven or eight years old, standing just down the aisle, eyes wide and watery, lower lip trembling in real-time horror. His small hands were still frozen in the air, like he’d just reached for something that wasn’t there anymore.

“Oh my God, Jake,” you hissed, smacking his arm. “Tell me you didn’t just steal cookies from a child.”

Jake looked between the boy, the box in his hands, and you. Then he leaned closer, voice hushed and defensive. “Okay, first of all, he was taking too long. It was like a three-second window and he wasn’t committed. I was.”

“Give them back!” you whisper-shouted.

But Jake was already stepping back, holding the box over his head like it was the golden idol in a temple full of booby traps. “It’s the last one,” he said, the tiniest, most chaotic smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Survival of the fittest.”

Then he stuck out his tongue at the kid.

You were horrified.

The child’s mouth started to wobble. His eyes brimmed with tears.

“Jake, he’s going to cry!”

“Run!” Jake shouted, already grabbing your hand as he turned on his heel and sprinted down the aisle with you in tow.

You both darted past the paper towels and dish soap, breathless with shock and a little too much laughter, while Jake clutched the box of cookies like it was the Declaration of Independence. Shoppers turned their heads. One woman gasped. Another glared. But neither of you stopped until you rounded the corner and ducked into the cereal aisle, hiding like criminals.

Panting, you leaned against the shelf, trying to catch your breath. “You’re insane. I cannot take you anywhere.”

Jake was grinning ear to ear, eyes sparkling with mischief. “You can’t leave me anywhere, either. That’s the real problem.”

Then he offered you the box with a dramatic little bow, like he was gifting you a national treasure. “For my queen.”

You snatched it and smacked his arm again, trying not to laugh. “We’re going to hell.”

“We were already on the list,” he said, winking. “This just bumped us up to first class.”

Once the cookie heist adrenaline wore off, you both returned to your regularly scheduled shopping—albeit with a few more giggles under your breath and the occasional glance over your shoulder, just in case the child’s parents were plotting revenge. Jake behaved for the next few aisles, which in his case meant only tossing two unauthorized bags of snacks into the basket and humming the Star Wars theme song under his breath while pushing the cart with entirely too much swagger.

And then you passed the baby section.

It was tucked into the corner, just past the seasonal displays, where pastel-colored onesies hung on little plastic hooks and tiny socks were bundled together like clouds. It wasn’t even on your radar—until Jake suddenly stopped walking.

You glanced back and saw him frozen mid-step, basket in one hand, staring wide-eyed at a rack of baby clothes like it had just whispered state secrets to him. His face was lit with something ridiculous—wonder, mischief, and the kind of open awe that made your stomach twist.

“Jake?” you called, cautiously.

He turned toward you, eyes still locked on the rack. “We should get these.”

You blinked. “Get what?”

He was already moving, grabbing a tiny navy-blue onesie that said Daddy’s Co-Pilot in white lettering. Then he picked up another—this one soft gray, with a little jet embroidered on the front and a patch that read Squad Goals.

“They’re on sale,” he said like that explained anything.

You squinted. “Jake. We do not have a baby.”

“I know,” he said, not looking the least bit discouraged. “But look at this one. It’s got aviators printed on the butt. That’s hilarious. C’mon.”

You walked closer, lowering your voice. “You’re seriously proposing we buy baby clothes just because they’re cute and discounted?”

Jake looked at you then, really looked at you, that playful glint softening into something warm beneath his gaze. “No,” he said, quieter now, thumb brushing along the edge of the fabric. “I’m saying... maybe we could use them someday. And in the meantime, I’d like to imagine it.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but your heart had already jumped straight into your throat. Because for all the teasing and chaos and chaos-causing, Jake Seresin was standing there holding a onesie with a tiny fighter jet on it, looking at you like you were the missing piece in every future he’d ever imagined.

Then, before the moment could get too heavy, he held up the onesie again and added, “Also, this one says My Daddy Flies Faster Than Your Daddy, and I kind of need it.”

You snorted, shaking your head as you pulled the cart forward. “You’re out of your mind.”

“I’m in love,” he corrected, tossing the onesie into the basket like it belonged there. “Let me dream, babe.”

You rolled your eyes, but your fingers still brushed his gently when he caught up with you—and you didn’t move away.

Not even when he reached into the basket again, pulled out the ridiculous jet-butt onesie, and held it up to his chest like he was already imagining matching flight suits.

You sighed, long and exaggerated, but it didn’t hide the way your lips twitched when he started making plane noises under his breath and pretended to fly the onesie like it was on a carrier launch sequence. The man was a literal naval aviator—a decorated, sharp-as-hell fighter pilot—and yet here he was, making vroom sounds with baby clothes in a grocery store like a five-year-old with a new toy. It should’ve been absurd. It was absurd. But it was also Jake.

And Jake was impossible to stay mad at when he looked this damn happy.

“Alright, Hangman,” you muttered, tossing another onesie into the basket—one that said Future Wingman with little dog tags printed across the front. “We buy three, and that’s it. We’re not starting a collection for someone who doesn’t exist yet.”

He beamed at you, actually beamed, and for a second you forgot you were in the middle of a Target next to a display of car seats and pacifiers. His fingers curled gently around your wrist as you moved to push the cart forward again, grounding you in place.

“You’d be a great mom,” he said suddenly, voice low, almost too serious for the moment.

You froze, blinking at him. “Where the hell did that come from?”

He shrugged, but his gaze never left yours. “Just thinking. Watching you plan and make lists and drag me through produce aisles like it’s war prep. You’re organized. Patient. And you didn’t let me return the cookies after I emotionally traumatized a child.”

“You literally stole from him,” you pointed out.

Jake smirked, unapologetic. “All I’m saying is—you take care of people, even when they’re ridiculous. That’s kind of your thing.”

You weren’t sure what to say to that. Your hand tightened a little on the cart handle, the soft rustling of plastic packaging the only sound between you. And then, like he could sense the emotional weight tipping just a little too far, Jake bumped your hip with his and grinned. “Also, I’m like ninety percent sure if we ever do have a kid, they’ll come out with a pilot helmet and ask for clearance to taxi.”

You barked out a laugh, the tension breaking like sunlight through clouds. “They’ll come out with attitude, that’s for sure.”

“And perfect hair,” Jake added, flipping his own with dramatic flair.

You gave him a look. “I will personally shave your head if that attitude passes down.”

“Worth it,” he said, sliding his arm around your waist as the two of you finally made your way to the checkout line. “Totally worth it.”

Meanwhile, a passing elderly couple gave the two of you a smile—the kind reserved for people who look like they’ve figured it out, like they’re just starting something real and don’t even know it yet. Jake nodded politely, but once they passed, he leaned in close to your ear.

“We’re buying matching flight suits for Halloween next year. It’s not a suggestion.”

You laughed, shaking your head as the cashier started scanning. He was chaos, he was relentless, and he was yours—God help the world when that baby ever did exist. Because if Jake Seresin had anything to do with it, the poor kid would be flying paper airplanes before they could walk.

The sun was warm on your skin as you stepped out of the grocery store, bags in hand and the gentle hum of a perfect morning settling between you. Jake, of course, had insisted on carrying everything—even the lighter bags you clearly could’ve handled yourself—but he strutted down the sidewalk with all the pride of a man protecting national treasures. You didn’t argue. You just adjusted your sunglasses and strolled beside him, listening to the paper rustle with every step.

You passed a few little storefronts as you headed toward the car—bakeries with hand-lettered signs, a florist already putting out midday bouquets, and a vintage record shop that immediately caught Jake’s eye before you tugged his sleeve and pointed to a tiny bookstore tucked between a café and a candle shop. The display was charmingly crooked, with a chalkboard sign out front that read Half Off Paperbacks, Full Price Escapes.

You gave his sleeve another playful tug. “Come on, we’re going in.”

But Jake had stopped walking.

His head had whipped to the left like he’d just seen something he wasn’t supposed to, body going a little stiff. His grip on the bags shifted, like he was about to bolt—or do something deeply suspicious.

You narrowed your eyes. “What?”

He glanced back at you, far too casual for someone acting so obviously not casual. “Hey, babe, go on ahead. I’ll be back in a sec.”

You blinked. “Where are you going?”

Jake hesitated. “Just, uh... there was a... navy buddy I think I saw across the street.” He pointed vaguely in the opposite direction, nowhere near the traffic lights or crosswalks. “Just wanna say hi real quick.”

“You wanna cross four lanes of traffic to maybe say hi to someone who might not be your friend?”

He nodded, grinning with that innocent who-me? expression that never fooled you. “Exactly. Won’t be long.”

You stared at him, unblinking. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

He raised his hand like he was taking an oath. “Scout’s honor.”

“You weren’t a scout, Seresin.”

He winced. “Right. Forgot you remembered that.”

Still, you let him go. You rolled your eyes and shoved the bookstore door open, muttering under your breath about chaotic pilots with secrets and terrible excuses. A little bell rang as you entered, and the familiar, dusty smell of old pages and quiet corners wrapped around you like a soft blanket.

You wandered between the shelves aimlessly at first, fingers trailing the worn spines, until you hit the graphic novel section—and there it was, practically glowing on the middle shelf.

A Star Wars comic.

Not just any issue, but the one Jake had been whining about for a week—the continuation of the arc he’d blazed through at 2 a.m. with a bowl of cereal in hand and zero patience for cliffhangers. You’d told him to go buy it himself. He hadn’t. Typical.

You pulled it from the shelf, flipping through the glossy pages, already imagining his smug little smile when you handed it to him. For all his cockiness and chaos, Jake Seresin had the attention span of a golden retriever with too many toys and not enough time. He would absolutely devour this one by sundown.

You brought it to the register, paid in cash, and tucked it into one of your grocery bags, smiling to yourself as you stepped back outside.

But Jake wasn’t waiting where you left him.

He was across the street, looking shifty as hell, standing near one of those boutique jewelry stalls that sprouted like wildflowers in this part of town.

Your brows lifted.

What the hell was he up to?

You barely had time to process the scene before Jake noticed you watching him. His head jerked up from the stall—eyes wide, like a kid caught red-handed in the cookie jar for the second time in one day—then he grinned, bright and crooked, and took off into a full jog across the street.

“No running!” the vendor called after him, waving a paper bag, but Jake just offered a sheepish salute and sprinted toward you like the sidewalk was a runway and you were the touchdown point.

You crossed your arms, trying to look unimpressed, but the sight of him bounding toward you—with the wind tousling his hair, grocery bags swinging in one hand, and something clutched carefully in the other—made your chest tighten in that familiar, dangerous way.

He stopped just short of you, slightly breathless but beaming, and held something out between you.

A bouquet.

Not just any bouquet—white lilies. Your favorite. The petals still held traces of dew, edges soft and glowing in the sunlight, and Jake’s hand trembled ever so slightly as he offered them like they were the most sacred thing he could give.

“For you,” he said, a little bashful now, that confidence softening into something boyish and warm. “I saw them and... I dunno. Thought they looked like you.”

You blinked. “Like me?”

He scratched the back of his neck, still holding the bouquet toward you like he wasn’t sure if you’d take it. “Yeah. Kinda impossible to miss, kinda... I dunno. Bright. Clean. Right.” His voice dipped a little, the words less rehearsed now, more raw. “Didn’t wanna leave without them.”

Your hands reached out on instinct, wrapping around the stems. They were cool against your skin, firm and freshly cut, and your fingers brushed his when you took them. “Jake...”

“I know,” he said quickly, trying to downplay it even as his ears turned pink. “It’s corny. I just... wanted to get you something. Something real.”

Meanwhile, your heart was trying to beat out of your chest, wild and sure all at once. You stared at him, this ridiculous man who stole cookies from children, flew jets for a living, made plane noises with baby clothes, and now stood in front of you—nervous, hopeful, and holding lilies like they were some kind of vow.

So, you leaned forward and kissed him—soft and slow and right there on the sidewalk, lips pressed to his like you’d waited your whole life for this exact moment. And maybe you had.

Then, when you pulled back, you smiled and said, “You’re lucky I like flowers. And bad liars.”

Jake grinned, exhaling like you’d just let him breathe again.

“I’m lucky you like me,” he said, brushing a stray hair from your face. “Even when I’m the worst.”

“And the loudest,” you added.

“And the hottest,” he said shamelessly.

You rolled your eyes and laughed, looping your arm through his as you started walking again, grocery bags and lilies in tow, the comic still tucked safely inside like a secret surprise.

The sharp clack of your boots echoed through the halls of North Island as you moved with the practiced confidence that only came from years of doing this job and doing it damn well. The sun outside was already brutal, casting heat across the tarmac, but inside the debriefing room, the air was cool and sharp with tension. The Dagger Squad had assembled early—some perched on the edge of their chairs, others leaning back like they didn’t have a care in the world—but all eyes turned the moment you walked in.

You wore the uniform like it was etched into your skin, every patch earned, every rank commanding respect without needing to say a word. Behind you, Ruin and Jinx followed, their expressions unreadable save for the way they both slid a very knowing glance in your direction. You met them with a hard stare, unflinching. Jinx smirked and Ruin arched a brow, but neither said a word. Wise. You didn’t have the energy for their commentary—not after yesterday’s chaos, and definitely not with Jake sitting two rows back, looking at you like you’d hung the stars and wrote the manual on gravity.

Which, to be fair, you sort of had.

You moved to the front of the room, clearing your throat once. The chatter died instantly.

“Dagger Squad,” you began, voice sharp and clear, “as of last month, your status as a provisional unit has officially ended. You are now a fully recognized elite squadron under North Island’s command structure.”

There were a few exchanged glances, a low whistle from Payback, and an unmistakable fist-pump from Fanboy. You kept your expression flat, but your eyes flicked toward Jake—who was, unsurprisingly, not paying attention to the details. His chin was resting on his hand, eyes fixed on you with that same ridiculous, love-struck awe he always tried to hide but never succeeded in doing.

You ignored him and continued.

“Six months ago, we launched the Gauntlet. A multi-phase crucible to evaluate this squad’s operational effectiveness. Each of you was pushed to your limit—physically, mentally, tactically. Not just to see how well you fly, but how well you adapt when everything goes wrong.”

Your gaze swept the room. There were no green pilots in here. Every single person had earned their seat—some with blood, some with bruises, and all with absolute grit.

“Fuel-starvation, altitude suppression, no-comm blackout tactics. Every element of the Gauntlet was designed to find your pressure points. And for four more months after that, we watched. We observed. We threw you into unannounced drills, paired you with different command chains, monitored your formation cohesion, and tracked every recovery you made under stress.”

Behind you, Jinx crossed his arms and Ruin gave a quiet nod. They’d been there for all of it—your wingmen not just in the sky, but in the planning room, in the briefings, in the chaos. The three of you had built the test together. Survived it together. And now, the countdown had begun.

“In another four months,” you said, steady, “the three of us rotate out of North Island. New command will take over, and you’ll be on your own.”

The reaction was immediate—a ripple of disbelief, frustration, and disappointment threading through the squad. Bob sat a little straighter, like maybe he misheard. Phoenix's brow furrowed. Even Hangman looked rattled, though he schooled it fast.

“Make no mistake,” you said, firm, “this isn’t a punishment. You’ve graduated. You’re ready. But the mission structure is evolving, and so is the command. You’ll be taking point on live ops across the Pacific corridor starting next cycle. The next time you fly together, it won’t be for training. It’ll be for real.”

Meanwhile, Jake hadn't moved.

He was still looking at you like you were the only thing in the room that mattered—like the speech, the assignment shifts, the impending command change didn’t even register on his radar. And honestly, you could feel it. His stare burned into the side of your jaw, warm and steady, and when your eyes flicked over to meet his—just for a moment—he had the audacity to wink.

You almost lost your composure.

Almost.

But instead, you reset your shoulders, flicked your eyes back to the squad, and said, “Debrief begins in ten. Final Gauntlet data packets are loaded in your files. Study them. You’ll be replicating Phase Three this Friday with Maverick observing. Questions?”

The room didn’t erupt exactly—but it rumbled. Subtle at first, like a brewing storm over the open ocean. The kind you could feel in your bones before it cracked the sky.

Fanboy was the first to speak, hand shooting up before you even dismissed the floor. “Wait—leave?” His voice cracked halfway through, and he didn’t even try to hide it. “As in... permanently?”

You exhaled slowly. “As in we’ve completed our rotation. We’re being reassigned to the Pacific Theatre Command for intel design and integrated air defense simulation. Forward strategy.”

“But that’s not—fair!” he protested, standing now, arms thrown in the air like you’d just announced the squad was being grounded. “We just got good at this!”

Payback muttered something about mutiny under his breath, and Bob nodded with all the solemn weight of a man who’d just been told the family dog was moving out.

Then Phoenix leaned forward, elbows on the table, her expression sharp. “So that’s it? We get through hell, pass your little flying crucible, and you’re just... gone?”

Ruin let out a soft, measured sigh. “You didn’t pass, Trace. You survived. There's a difference. And we’ve trained you to stand on your own.”

“But we don’t want to,” Fanboy interrupted, clearly on the verge of something dramatic. “You three—you're like the brain and the anger and the wrath of God. How are we supposed to function without that terrifying combo?”

That earned a small snort from Jinx, who was trying—and failing—not to smile. “We’ll still be in the Navy. You’re not losing us. We’re just not in your hangar anymore.”

“And besides,” Ruin added, tilting his head toward you, “the wrath part’s staying with you a little longer. Rogue’s got a longer leash. She’ll be the last to rotate out.”

Fanboy looked at you like you’d betrayed him personally. “Then at least take me with you. I’ll carry your bags. I’ll cry silently in meetings. I’m very adaptable.”

Jake chuckled low from his seat, but didn’t speak. His eyes were still locked on you—not with concern, not even with amusement, but with that same silent, unwavering pride. Like he was watching the best thing he’d ever seen and didn’t want to interrupt.

You ignored the butterflies in your gut and leveled the room with a stare. “This squad doesn’t depend on us. We were just the match. You are the fire. What you’ve built—what you’ve survived—that’s yours now. And what’s coming next? It’s going to demand everything from you. The training wheels are gone. You’re flying solo.”

Fanboy visibly slumped. “You’re so mean when you’re inspirational.”

You allowed the corner of your mouth to twitch. Just a little.

Then, behind you, Jinx added, “And for the record? You’ve got the best damn chance out of any unit we’ve trained. Don’t waste it wishing we were still here yelling at you.”

That silenced the room. Not in defeat—but in understanding. These pilots had bled for this squadron. They’d clawed their way through blackout drills, near-failures, and your infamous no-warning 0400 strike alarms. They were the best. Because you made them the best. And now, they had to be it.

Meanwhile, Jake hadn’t moved a muscle.

And even though you were surrounded by elite pilots and two of the most formidable officers in the Navy, it was still his eyes you felt anchored to—the quiet promise that even when duty pulled you apart, he’d still look at you like you were gravity itself.

The door swung open at the far end of the debriefing room, and the energy shifted immediately.

Captain Pete Mitchell—callsign Maverick—stepped in with that usual mix of casual defiance and command presence that still turned heads no matter how many decades he’d been in the cockpit. Dagger Squad straightened, and even Jinx and Ruin reflexively stood a little taller as Maverick approached. He gave a nod to the room, then looked directly at you, his expression unreadable save for the faint flicker of something respectful in his eyes.

“Commander Rogue,” he said, voice low but carrying. “Permission to take the floor?”

You gave a crisp nod. “It’s yours, sir.”

He turned toward the Daggers, hands behind his back, shoulders squared. “You’ve all come a long way since I first saw you fly this deck. Some of you were cocky as hell.” His eyes flicked briefly to Hangman, who didn’t even try to hide his smirk. “Some of you didn’t believe you’d make it. And all of you were thrown into a crucible none of you were ready for.”

He paused.

“But you survived it. You earned your wings all over again under these three.” He glanced over to you, Ruin, and Jinx, nodding once. “This squadron wouldn’t be what it is without their leadership. Their brutality.” A pointed look at you. “And their belief in you, even when you didn’t believe in yourselves.”

You felt something twist in your chest, but you kept your posture sharp, unmoving.

Then Maverick turned back toward the front. “I’ll be taking over interim command as they prepare for rotation. I won’t be recreating the Gauntlet—” more than one pilot visibly exhaled at that “—but I’ll be reinforcing the systems they’ve put in place. You’ll keep flying hard. You’ll keep pushing. And you’ll keep proving that this isn’t just a name on your patch. It’s a legacy.”

There was a quiet, collective breath taken across the squad, a shift in the weight of the moment. You could feel it settle in their bones. Then Maverick relaxed just slightly, the edge of formality lifting.

“Oh—and one more thing.”

He looked at you three again, this time less like an officer, more like someone who knew what it was to build something and have to walk away.

“Penny and I are throwing a small thing at our place Friday night. Just a thank you. Nothing formal. You three in?”

Ruin didn’t miss a beat. “Hell yeah, we are.”

Jinx clapped once. “I will eat so much potato salad. And I’m bringing bourbon. The expensive kind.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t realize we were celebrating just yet.”

Maverick gave you that slight grin—the one that always meant he knew more than he was letting on. “You built a family, Commander. That deserves at least one good night.”

You hesitated only a moment. “...Sure. We’ll be there.”

And just like that, the weight of transition felt a little lighter. A little warmer. You weren’t just handing off command—you were leaving it in good hands. In capable hands. And whether they realized it yet or not, Dagger Squad had already become something stronger than any one officer.

Meanwhile, behind the rest of the group, Jake tilted his head and mouthed something at you when no one was looking.

“You’re still the boss.”

Friday night rolled in slow and golden, spilling soft light through the blinds as you stood in front of the mirror, dabbing a final touch of highlight along your cheekbones. Your uniform had been replaced by something more casual—black jeans, a fitted tee under an open button-down, sleeves cuffed, dog tags still tucked beneath your collar because some habits refused to die. You were going for that lethal mix of effortless and “don’t mess with me,” and it was working, if you did say so yourself.

You leaned in closer, fixing the wing of your eyeliner with the precision of someone who once flew through a canyon at Mach speed. Outside, a breeze rustled the palm trees. The smell of charcoal already teased the air from somewhere distant, and your stomach rumbled in agreement.

Then came the whine.

“Baaaabe...”

You didn’t even blink. “No.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to say yet!”

“I do, actually. You’ve been trying to seduce me out of this barbeque for the last hour.”

Jake’s reflection appeared in the mirror behind you—half-shirtless, towel still slung around his neck from the shower, hair damp and tousled in a way that was definitely intentional. He looked like sin and Southern charm and bad ideas wrapped in golden-boy packaging. And he was pouting.

Full lips. Puppy eyes. Bare chest. Weaponized everything.

“Look at us,” he said, walking up behind you and resting his chin on your shoulder. “We could just stay in. Watch some old movie. You know... something with a loose plot and convenient fade-to-blacks.”

You smirked, grabbing your mascara. “Jake. You mean sex. You’re describing sex.”

“Netflix and chill is a cultural institution,” he murmured against your neck. “It would be rude to abandon tradition.”

You snorted and flicked him away with the back of your hand. “You’re not getting me out of this, Seresin. I want ribs. I want brisket. I want potato salad that’s mostly mayonnaise and regret. And I want to see Ruin try to pretend he doesn’t cry when Maverick gives speeches.”

Jake groaned, dramatic and loud, flopping onto the edge of the bed like you’d wounded him. “But you’re hot, and you smell like vanilla and sharp decisions, and I just shaved. This is prime conditions for a full-blown house arrest scenario.”

You turned and gave him a look over your shoulder. “We made a promise. We show up. We eat meat. We thank Penny for putting up with all of you.”

“But you’re my meat,” Jake mumbled into the mattress.

You rolled your eyes so hard you nearly saw stars. “That is disgusting, and I’m telling Maverick you said that.”

Jake peeked up, grinning. “Tell him. He’ll be proud.”

You ignored him, stepping away from the mirror to grab your shoes and slide them on. “You’ve got ten minutes to get dressed or I’m leaving without you.”

He sat up immediately. “Do you think Hangman would really miss a party thrown by the legendary Maverick? The man literally saved the Navy’s ass and then married a woman who owns a boat bar. He’s my hero.”

You gave him one last look—messy hair, towel, bare chest, and that wide, stupid grin.

“Then get your ass in gear, Hangman. We’re going to a barbeque.”

The engine purred under your control, the windows down just enough to let the salty California breeze snake through your hair as you cruised down the winding road toward Maverick and Penny’s place. The sky was slathered in that perfect sunset gradient—deep orange bleeding into rose and lavender, like the whole horizon had set itself on fire just to show off.

Jake sat in the passenger seat, finally dressed, finally presentable—well, barely. His button-down was undone halfway, and his aviators hung lazily off the collar like an afterthought. He looked criminally good, lounging with his arm against the open window, tapping the dashboard to the beat of a country song you weren’t even sure was playing. All smug confidence and denim-wrapped thighs—until he suddenly snapped upright like he'd been hit by lightning.

“WAIT.”

You slammed the brakes on instinct, the tires skidding slightly against the pavement as your hand shot out across his chest, years of flight protocol kicking in like second nature.

“What the hell, Seresin?!”

Jake turned to you, eyes wide with panic, breath caught somewhere between full-blown anxiety and chaotic energy. “We can’t arrive together.”

You blinked. “What?”

“They’ll know!” he said, flailing one arm toward the dashboard like it was somehow guilty in your imagined crime. “Ruin and Jinx already gave us that look. And now we’re gonna show up in the same car? We might as well walk in holding hands with matching wedding bands and a neon sign that says ‘Been boning for months, thanks!’”

You stared at him, then slowly pulled the car over to the side of the road, parking beneath a palm tree that cast swaying shadows across the hood. “Are you hearing yourself?”

“I am, and I hate it,” he whispered, staring ahead like a man who’d seen the future and didn’t like what it held. “They’re gonna say things. Hangman cannot be the punchline. I’m the one who makes the punchlines.”

You leaned an elbow on the steering wheel and looked at him coolly. “Relax.”

Jake turned to you like you’d just solved climate change. “...You have a plan?”

“I always have a plan.”

“Does it involve a rooftop insertion or a stealth op under the grill?”

You reached for the gear shift and smirked. “Just trust me, Lieutenant. You get to make your dramatic solo entrance like the attention-starved manchild you are. I’ll be there already, drink in hand, pretending I barely remember your name.”

Jake looked both horrified and delighted. “Oh my God. You’re unhinged.”

“And you love it.”

He sighed, sinking back into the seat like the weight of the world had been lifted. “I really do.”

You glanced at him once more before hitting the gas again, pulling the car back onto the road. “Now shut up and let me execute the op. I’ve got a very specific window if I want to get there before Maverick starts one of his war stories.”

“And when do I show up?”

“When the ribs hit the grill.”

Jake let out a low whistle. “Ruthless. Sexy. Tactical.”

You grinned. “I know.”

By the time you pulled up to Maverick and Penny’s place, the backyard was already buzzing—grill smoking, music humming low through crackling outdoor speakers, and pilots strewn across folding chairs and patio steps like sun-dazed dogs. Someone had already opened the good whiskey. You could smell the ribs in the air, and it was divine.

You parked just far enough down the street to make it look casual. Intentional. Not at all like you’d spent fifteen minutes strategizing this exact entrance.

Jake had slipped out of the car a beat later, adjusting his shirt like it was armor, running a hand through his hair for the tenth time since you left the base. He followed a few paces behind you, like he wasn’t totally sure if this was a setup or a blessing. But either way, he was in it now.

You pushed open the side gate and stepped into view just as the golden hour light hit the backyard, sunglasses still perched on your nose like you were walking into a runway instead of a barbeque.

Heads turned instantly.

Rooster raised his beer. Bob blinked twice. Coyote said “Well, damn,” under his breath, and even Phoenix sat up straighter on the picnic table like something had just clicked in the Matrix.

And then they saw him.

Jake, hands in his pockets, trying his best not to look too happy. He trailed behind you by a few steps, gaze caught somewhere between “kill me now” and “I would die for this woman.” His cheeks were faintly pink. Not from sunburn.

You tugged your sunglasses down just enough to meet the crowd’s suspicious silence, cocked a hip, and said with full authority, “Seresin hitched a ride with me. Said his car battery died because he left it running while trying to fix his hair.”

A beat.

Hangman made a wounded sound, halfway between a scoff and a betrayed gasp. “That is not what happened—”

You raised a hand. “Don’t worry. I logged it under ‘pilot incompetence.’ Already filed the incident report.”

Phoenix choked on her drink. Rooster laughed so hard he nearly dropped his plate. Bob looked between the two of you like he was watching a courtroom drama unfold.

Jake, for his part, just looked devastated. Shoulders drooped. Eyebrows knitted together. He glanced around at the others, eyes wide like an injured golden retriever trying to understand why no one was standing up for him.

“She made me ride in the backseat like cargo,” he mumbled, voice quiet and wounded.

“I should’ve made you sit in the trunk,” you shot back easily, brushing past him.

The group howled.

You could feel Maverick and Penny watching from the porch, and when your eyes flicked toward them, Mav just gave you a subtle nod, a ghost of a grin tugging at the edge of his mouth. Penny raised her glass slightly, sipping it like she’d known this would happen from the moment she set the guest list.

Meanwhile, Ruin and Jinx were already posted near the grill, absolutely giggling behind their beers like two school kids who knew exactly what game was being played.

Jake finally caught up to you, falling into step at your side, voice low. “You are evil.”

You smirked, reaching out to straighten his slightly wrinkled collar. “And yet, you keep coming back.”

He blinked. “You’re lucky I’m into terrifying women.”

You leaned in, close enough for only him to hear. “You’re lucky I didn’t tell them you asked me to pick out your shirt.”

He groaned into his hands as you strutted away, completely and utterly victorious.

The sun had dipped lower now, casting long amber shadows across the backyard as the barbeque roared to life—flames licking the grill, the scent of charred meat and smoke curling into the air like a battle cry. Maverick, ever the wise host, had somehow vanished just as responsibility was about to be handed out. Penny, with that sly glint in her eye, passed the spatula off to you and Jake with a grin that said “have fun” and a wink that promised chaos.

Which was, of course, exactly what followed.

“No, no, absolutely not,” Jake declared the moment you both stepped up to the grill, eyeing the meat like it had personally offended him. “Last time you cooked anything, Rogue, I swear the burger mooed when I bit into it.”

You turned slowly, spatula in hand like a weapon. “Excuse me?”

“I’m still in therapy.”

“You’re so dramatic,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes. “The center was pink, not raw. That’s called flavor, Lieutenant.”

Jake dramatically pointed to the steak on the tray. “That is called endangerment of personnel. I’m not trying to get salmonella in front of my squad. Again.”

You snapped the tongs open twice, as if testing their readiness. “And what about the last time you cooked, huh? You incinerated the chicken so badly I thought we were being attacked by a drone strike.”

“That was intentional.”

“That was arson,” you fired back, flipping a rib with so much force it slapped the grill with a loud hiss. “You seasoned it with gasoline.”

Jake grabbed the seasoning with a flourish, shaking it over the slab in front of him like a showman. “Better than the time you thought garlic powder and cinnamon were interchangeable!”

“That was one time! And I was distracted because you kept licking the damn spoon and flexing like you were auditioning for a cooking calendar.”

He grinned, unfazed. “Still got the job though, didn’t I?”

You leveled him with a look so cold it could’ve frosted the grill, then turned to flip the next slab of ribs.

Meanwhile, the Dagger Squad had gathered in a loose semi-circle a few feet away, holding their plates like theatergoers watching a chaotic stage play. Bob had slowly stopped chewing, mesmerized. Phoenix was barely holding in her laughter, Rooster whispered “five bucks says Rogue throws him into the pool,” and Coyote was holding up a phone like he was definitely filming this for evidence.

Jake leaned in, voice lower now, playful. “You know this whole ‘bickering in public’ thing? It’s dangerously close to foreplay for us.”

You didn’t even glance at him. “Touch my ribs again and I will throw you onto that lawn chair so hard it becomes part of your anatomy.”

Jake took a small step back and raised his hands. “So hot when you threaten me.”

The grill hissed louder as if groaning in protest at the combined heat—flames, meat, and whatever fiery tension was practically vibrating between the two of you. The smoke curled up, and somewhere behind you, Maverick’s laugh floated through the breeze, followed by Penny yelling, “Don’t set anything on fire this time!”

You both called back, in perfect unison: “No promises!”

The grill kept sizzling like it was trying to warn everyone that something unholy was about to happen. You and Jake were still locked in your verbal knife fight—tongues sharper than the skewers, egos even bigger than the brisket—but the meat was cooking, and somehow, no one had died yet. A win.

You reached for the sauce, elbow-deep in rib duties, when a familiar voice slinked up behind you like a cat that had way too much confidence for someone who still couldn’t land a perfect vertical descent.

“Well, well, Commander Rogue,” Rooster drawled, leaning on the picnic table with a grin that was a little too smug. “Didn’t know you moonlighted as a grill master. Should I be impressed? Or concerned?”

Jake didn’t look up, but his jaw flexed just slightly as he flipped a steak with what could only be described as violence.

You didn’t miss the tone, but you played along, lips quirking. “You should be concerned. I’ve got full jurisdiction to throw people into the pool for flirting with their superiors.”

Rooster grinned wider, teeth flashing. “Wouldn’t be the first time I got wet for a woman in command.”

Jake coughed so hard it almost sounded real. Almost.

“Oh no,” he muttered under his breath. “No, no, no—this is not happening.”

Rooster stepped a little closer, resting his elbow on the grill’s side, eyes flicking over you like you were a target he was just brave enough to chase. “You know, if you ever need help in the kitchen, I’m real handy with my hands.”

Jake dropped the tongs.

Clatter. Sizzle. A moment of sheer disbelief.

“You okay there, Seresin?” Rooster asked innocently.

Jake bent to grab the tongs, muttering, “Oh, just dropped my will to live.”

You smirked, but before you could fire back, Jake straightened up and slid way too close to you, all heat and muscle and the smell of citrus body wash. He leaned an arm casually on the grill right next to yours, cutting off Rooster’s line of vision.

“Actually, Rooster,” he said smoothly, “she already has help in the kitchen. Certified, in fact. I passed the meat handling seminar twice.”

You side-eyed him. “One of those times you were asked to leave.”

“Still counts,” Jake fired back, then turned slightly toward Rooster, voice perfectly pleasant but with just enough bite beneath it. “Anyway, you might want to cool it. Wouldn’t want you to get burned, Bradshaw.”

Rooster blinked. “...From the grill?”

Jake smiled. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

The tension was palpable. Phoenix was now openly eating chips and watching like it was her favorite soap. Bob whispered something to Coyote, who mouthed “Oh, it’s getting good.” Even Penny glanced out the kitchen window, eyebrows raised like should I intervene? Or is this foreplay?

Rooster, to his credit, chuckled and held up his hands. “Alright, alright. Standing down. Don’t want to come between a man and his meat.”

You almost choked on your soda.

Jake gave him a tight smile. “Good choice.”

As Rooster walked off—still smirking, because of course he was—Jake turned back to you, bumping your hip gently with his.

“You liked it, admit it,” he muttered, voice low so no one else could hear. “Got all jealous and southern and everything.”

You rolled your eyes. “You threatened him with steak energy.”

Jake beamed. “That’s love, darlin’.”

Dinner was in full swing now, the backyard steeped in that warm, dusky glow that made the ribs glisten and everyone’s cheeks a little more sun-kissed. Laughter spilled from the picnic tables like smoke, plates were stacked with dangerously unhealthy amounts of meat, and Penny had finally broken out her famous strawberry bourbon.

You’d barely sat down on one of the benches, cold drink in hand, ribs stacked on your plate like you were claiming dominance through protein, when he appeared.

“Room for one more?” Rooster asked, already sliding into the seat beside you without waiting for an answer.

You blinked at him, then shrugged, scooting just an inch to the left—not too much, but enough to keep up appearances. “Sure, Lieutenant. Long as you don’t steal my cornbread.”

Rooster leaned in with a grin. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Unless it’s the kind with jalapeño in it.”

You narrowed your eyes. “It is.”

“Then I’m dreaming,” he said smoothly, nudging your shoulder.

Across the table, Jake Seresin paused mid-bite.

His fork hovered above his brisket like it was caught in enemy fire. His seat had been stolen—his seat—and now he was forced to sit directly across from you, watching Rooster lean in a little too close, laugh a little too loud, and eat his damn jalapeño cornbread.

You didn’t even need to look at Jake to know he was internally combusting. His jealousy was so loud it might as well have been on AM radio.

“So,” Rooster said, mouth full of buttery heaven, “remind me again—what exactly do I have to do to earn a second round of training from you, Commander?”

You took a slow sip from your drink. “Well, first? Learn how to finish the first round without crashing into a mountain.”

“Ouch,” he winced, but he was grinning.

Jake stabbed his rib so hard the table shook. “You doing okay over there, Hangman?” Phoenix called from the next bench, sipping her drink.

“I’m great,” he said through gritted teeth. “Fantastic. Loving the seating arrangement. Real cozy.”

Rooster leaned back slightly, throwing one arm along the back of the bench behind you. Jake’s eye twitched. Twitched.

You leaned in to whisper, “He’s doing this on purpose.”

Jake muttered back, “He’s dead to me.”

You smirked, playing innocent. “He’s got good teeth though.”

Jake dropped his fork with a clink and muttered, “I will commit a war crime.”

Meanwhile, Ruin and Jinx were not helping. They were watching this unfold from their own corner of the table, laughing into their drinks, whispering like two agents of chaos blessed with front-row seats to the slowest breakdown of a very territorial pilot.

“Man,” Jinx said under her breath, “I haven’t seen Seresin this twitchy since the last time we locked him in a sim with Rogue and cut his comms.”

Ruin chuckled. “If he flips this table, I called it.”

Jake exhaled sharply, then stood with the slow precision of a man trying very hard not to commit violence in front of his superiors. “I’m gonna go get more potato salad.”

Rooster called after him, “Bring me some if it’s the spicy kind!”

Jake didn’t even turn around. “I hope it’s empty.”

Jake returned five minutes later, holding a single scoop of sad, unspiced potato salad like it had personally insulted him, which—judging by the way he slammed the paper plate down in front of his seat—maybe it had. His jaw was tight. His eyes locked on the table, not on you and Rooster, who were now deep in a suspiciously lively conversation about call signs gone wrong.

You were laughing—genuinely, stupidly laughing—and it sent Jake spiraling.

“So, wait,” you said through your giggles, nudging Rooster’s arm. “Someone actually called you Beanstalk once?”

Rooster grinned. “Mhm. Right out of the academy. I was lanky, awkward, and apparently climbed everything like a freaking kid on a jungle gym.”

“Oh, my God,” you wheezed. “That’s terrible.”

Across the table, Jake finally snapped his head up. “It wasn’t that bad. I’ve heard worse. Hell, I’ve been called worse.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Like what?”

Jake blinked. “Uhhh…”

Jinx leaned over, oh-so-helpfully. “Didn’t someone call you Blondie Backfire for a while?”

Ruin spit out his drink.

Jake glared. “That was one time and it was not my fault that missile malfunctioned, JINX.”

Rooster smirked, clearly enjoying this. “Blondie Backfire? That’s kinda hot.”

Jake stood again, like his chair had personally offended him now too. “I’m getting a drink.”

“I thought you had a drink,” you said sweetly, glancing at the full cup beside his plate.

Jake blinked, then picked it up and dumped it in the grass. “Now I don’t.”

Rooster was cackling now, leaning into you like you two had been friends forever—his arm definitely still behind you on the bench, his voice low and conspiratorial. “He’s real twitchy tonight.”

“Mmhm,” you said, not hiding your grin as you watched Jake stalk toward the drink table like it owed him something.

“Think he’s mad?”

You shrugged. “He’ll live.”

Meanwhile, Jake grabbed a cup with such force it cracked in his hand.

Maverick wandered by just then, side-eyeing him with that ageless pilot wisdom and decades of dealing with emotional men in uniforms.

“You good, Seresin?” Mav asked casually.

Jake stared into the drink cooler like it held the answers to all of life’s betrayals. “Peachy, sir.”

Maverick raised an eyebrow. “Sure looks like it.”

Back at the bench, you were sipping sweet tea, eyes flicking over to Jake’s back as he muttered curses at the ice cubes. Rooster was definitely trying to be charming, and you were definitely letting him. A little.

When Jake finally returned, he didn't sit. He just stood behind your bench, arms crossed, the picture of a man scorned. You leaned your head back and looked up at him with a faux innocent blink.

“Something wrong, Lieutenant?”

Jake leaned down so his mouth was by your ear, voice low and dangerous. “You are testing me.”

You smiled without turning. “And you’re failing.”

Rooster, still oblivious—or pretending to be—took another sip of his drink and said, “You know, I always liked the idea of two strong pilots clashing. Very Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Lots of tension. Chemistry.”

Jake leaned in just a fraction more. “Keep talking, Bradshaw. I dare you.”

Rooster raised a brow, catching the shift in Jake’s voice for the first time. He glanced between the two of you, pausing, brow furrowing just slightly—like a man suddenly doing very important math.

Jake straightened up. Smiled sweetly. “So, Bradshaw… how much do you like your kneecaps?”

Rooster blinked.

You turned back to your plate like none of that just happened.

It was always going to be chaos. That much was clear the moment Maverick handed off hosting duties and disappeared toward the grill like he hadn’t just left the two most unhinged pilots on base at the same damn picnic table. The only question was when someone—Jake—would break.

The answer?

Exactly three minutes and forty-two seconds after Rooster leaned in just a bit too close and said, “You’ve got something on your cheek.”

You blinked, lifting your napkin, but Rooster caught your wrist midair with that signature lazy grin. “Let me,” he offered, thumb already reaching for your face.

Jake’s soul left his body.

He’d been watching—burning—from behind your bench, fists clenched, drink abandoned, and knees bouncing like he was trying to keep himself from launching over the damn table. Rooster’s fingers hovering near your cheek were the last straw.

“That’s it.”

The words were low. Clipped. Nuclear.

Rooster turned slightly, eyebrow raised in confusion, but before he could blink, Jake rounded the bench, hand snaked around your waist, and dragged you up into him like a man possessed.

“Wait—Jake—” you started, caught off guard.

Too late.

His lips crashed into yours with zero warning and absolutely no chill. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was full-on, toe-curling, spine-arching claiming. His mouth moved over yours with the kind of desperation that screamed mine in every tongue imaginable. One hand anchored at your hip, the other threaded through your hair, tilting your head just right so he could deepen the kiss—and God, did he ever. You barely remembered where you were. The backyard? The whole damn planet?

Everything else blurred.

Rooster froze—mouth open, hand still awkwardly raised from where he’d almost touched your face. Phoenix gasped so loud it echoed. Bob dropped his fork. Jinx let out an unholy screech. Ruin shouted, “FINALLY!” like he’d been holding it in for a year.

When Jake finally pulled back, breath ragged, lips flushed, pupils blown wide, he kept you tucked against him. Possessive. Proud. Like he’d just walked off a battlefield holding the enemy’s flag.

You blinked, completely dazed. “...What the hell, Seresin.”

Jake exhaled through his nose, eyes still locked on yours. “He was gonna kiss you.”

Your eyebrows flew up. “So you assassinated him with PDA?”

He didn’t flinch. “Yes.”

Rooster stood there, arms half-raised in surrender, lips twitching into a grin despite himself. “So… I’m guessing the whole ‘we hate each other’ thing was an act?”

Jake turned to him, expression flat. “Back off, Bradshaw.”

Rooster gave a mock salute. “Yessir. Message received.”

Phoenix stood up and slow clapped. “Oh my God. This is so much better than the time Coyote accidentally tasered himself in the sim.”

Jinx doubled over, nearly spilling his drink as he wheezed out, “I told you! I told you! I said if Seresin had to watch another man breathe in Rogue’s general direction, he’d explode like a malfunctioning Sidewinder!”

Ruin was laughing so hard he had tears in his eyes, pointing at Jake like he’d just witnessed the second coming. “I had ‘six weeks’ in the betting pool. SIX. You made it three and a half!”

Jake didn’t care. Jake looked like a man who had just sunk a carrier with one missile. He tightened his hold around your waist, pulled you close again—though this time it was soft, grounding, not a declaration of war—and dropped a smug kiss to your cheek. “Couldn’t help it. He was flirting. And you were letting him.”

You tilted your head at him, one brow raised. “I was not letting him.”

“You giggled,” Jake deadpanned.

Phoenix walked past behind him, muttering loud enough for the entire backyard to hear, “Yeah, you definitely giggled. It was alarming.”

You elbowed Jake, not hard enough to hurt but definitely enough to remind him who the real threat was. “You ruined the cover, genius. Now they know.”

Jake shrugged unapologetically. “Worth it.”

Rooster, back at the table and dramatically fanning himself with a napkin, piped up, “I don’t know what hurts worse—the whiplash or the fact that you two have been lying to us for MONTHS.”

Bob finally found his voice. “Wait… months?!”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Can we not do this here—”

But it was too late.

The squad had descended, circling you both like wolves high on gossip and baby back ribs. Phoenix sat down next to Rooster, eyes gleaming. “Okay, spill. When did it start? Who confessed first? Was it during that awful storm in El Centro? Wait—was it after the Gauntlet debrief? I KNEW it!”

Jinx cackled. “Bet it was the Gauntlet. Nothing says romance like emotionally traumatizing a squad together.”

Jake looked entirely too pleased with himself. “It was classified.”

Ruin raised an eyebrow. “Was?”

You groaned. “Apparently it’s not anymore.”

Maverick chose that exact moment to stroll back over, beer in hand, looking like he’d just finished listening to Penny relay the entire scene. He stopped, glanced at the crowd, then looked between you and Jake—arms still around each other, your cheeks flushed, your eyes narrowed at the squad like you were weighing the pros and cons of a group court-martial.

“Congratulations,” Maverick said dryly. “You’ve managed to turn a barbecue into a briefing.”

Jake stood straighter. “Sir.”

You straightened, too. “Sir.”

Maverick gave a long-suffering sigh, then sipped his beer. “Next time, just tell us before one of you claims the other like a caveman.”

Jinx burst into another fit of laughter. “TO THE CAVEMAN!”

And because pilots have no chill, someone actually raised a toast.

Jake grinned, unapologetic. “You’re welcome.”

You shook your head. “You’re insane.”

And he leaned in close, lips brushing your ear, and whispered just for you: “For you? Every damn time.”

Four months had passed since the great barbeque incident—the day Jake Seresin, golden boy and world-class flirt, had snapped like a dry matchstick and blown your secret sky-high in front of half the Dagger Squadron and most of command. You’d gone to bed that night with his arms wrapped tightly around you, his mouth muttering sleepy apologies against your shoulder, and still woken up at dawn ready to kick his ass in the name of professionalism.

From then on, the two of you drew a line. You returned to work with your head held high, uniform crisp, voice clipped and clear in the briefing rooms. There were no lingering touches, no slip-ups, no soft eyes across command tables. If anyone thought you were bending the rules, they were wrong. Because you were Commander Rogue—the superior officer. Jake was your subordinate, no matter how many times he'd kissed you breathless or whispered that he’d follow you into hell. On base, you were steel. At home, you were his.

Today, the debriefing room was full. The walls hummed with low chatter and boots tapping against the tile floor. The Dagger Squadron sat shoulder to shoulder, still sharp despite the lazy summer heat outside. Maverick leaned back in his seat, arms crossed and eyes alert. Hondo grinned beside him, and Warlock gave you a polite nod as you passed. Even Cyclone was present, his usual scowl fixed firmly in place like the sky might fall if he dared to look pleased. You stepped up to the head of the room, flanked by Jinx and Ruin, both standing at attention with the calm swagger of people who had seen these pilots at their very worst—and brought them out better.

The chatter died down the moment you stepped forward. You let the silence stretch, just long enough to demand respect.

Then you began. “One year ago, the Dagger Squadron was reassembled here in North Island. You were selected not just for your skill, but for your grit, your trust, and your ability to adapt under pressure. We trained you hard. We tested you harder.”

A small chuckle rippled through the room at that, likely remembering the Gauntlet—your very own personal brand of torture.

You continued, voice steady. “Some of you flew better. Some of you fought harder. Some of you cried behind hangars when you thought no one was watching.”

Fanboy visibly flinched. Yale wiped at his eye like something definitely flew into it. Payback patted his back in brotherly solidarity while Phoenix smirked beside them, sharp and unbothered as always.

“After the mission’s success, we were tasked with observing the squad’s progression over the next four months,” you said, glancing at Jinx and Ruin, who both nodded. “And as of today, that evaluation period has ended.”

Your tone dipped slightly—so subtle, but just enough to suggest finality. Across the room, shoulders began to tense. Rooster tilted his head. Bob leaned forward. The Dagger Squad had seen enough exits to know what this sounded like.

“We know what you’re thinking,” Jinx cut in, voice smooth and teasing, eyes dancing with mischief. “You think this is goodbye.”

Ruin folded his arms. “You think we’re packing up and heading back to Top Brass HQ.”

You waited. The room went still.

Then you smiled.

“Well... you’re wrong.”

A beat of silence—then chaos.

Cheers erupted instantly. Phoenix laughed loud and bright, slapping her hand on the table. Rooster threw both arms in the air like he’d just been handed a winning lotto ticket. Payback whooped. Coyote grinned like he’d just been gifted free beer for life.

Fanboy made a sound that could only be described as a sob. “You’re—you’re staying?!” he choked out, grabbing Yale’s arm for emotional support. Yale, who was also now wiping tears, nodded wordlessly.

You smiled, chin lifted with pride. “As of today, the three of us have been assigned permanent duty here in North Island. The Dagger Squadron is no longer a temporary experiment. You are officially designated as an elite, high-readiness strike force under our command.”

Jinx added, “You’re stuck with us, losers.”

Ruin grinned. “Hope you didn’t make retirement plans.”

While the squad practically lost their minds, your eyes wandered—just briefly—across the room. And there he was.

Jake Seresin didn’t cheer. He didn’t clap or shout. He just smiled—soft, slow, and warm enough to melt through titanium. He looked at you like you were his home and his future all at once. It wasn’t cocky or wild. It wasn’t the grin of a man who’d just won something.

It was the smile of someone who’d known all along that this was where you were meant to be.

- Jake -

Now, Jake stood in front of the mirror, hands braced on the counter, heart pounding like he was about to walk into a goddamn carrier launch. His dress whites were pressed to perfection, gold buttons gleaming, but he couldn’t stop adjusting the collar, couldn’t stop the way his fingers trembled when he reached for his watch.

Tonight wasn’t just another Navy event. Tonight, everything changed.

He swallowed hard and let his gaze drift upward—to the reflection of the man staring back at him. Not the boy who used to walk through college halls like he owned the place. Not the golden child who thought charm could solve anything. No—this was the man who broke hearts and then learned to stitch them back with calloused hands and the quiet ache of humility. And he owed every inch of that growth to her.

You.

He remembered the girl you used to be—sharp-eyed and smarter than any of them, walking with a stack of textbooks and no patience for bullshit. He’d seen you as a challenge back then, something to conquer, to use. And use you he did. You’d carried his files, cleaned up his messes, wrote papers he claimed credit for with a wink and a promise he never kept. You were the soft answer to his arrogance. And he, in all his careless glory, treated you like a footnote.

But you weren’t one. God, no.

You outranked him now. Humbled him. Unmade him.

Jake exhaled, slow and steady, thinking about that night on your birthday—the night you should’ve been out celebrating, but instead found yourself sitting alone under a bleeding sunset. You’d been a vision, wrapped in solitude and silence, and still somehow he was the one who got to speak. Got to beg. Got to fall apart.

And you—damn you—you let him. You let him come undone, then held him while he stitched himself back up. You didn’t forgive him right away. You didn’t fall back into his arms like a storybook. No, you made him work. You made him earn it. And that was the moment Jake Seresin knew he would never be that boy again. Because you didn’t need a golden boy. You needed a man. And he was going to be that man, or die trying.

Now, tonight, he wasn’t just going to be Jake. He was going to be yours.

He had the ring. He had the words. And he had the kind of love that didn’t come easy—but burned deep. You weren’t just the girl he wanted to marry. You were the girl who changed him. You were the girl who looked at the mess he was and saw potential, not ruin.

Jake Seresin would never stop proving he was worthy of you.

And tonight?

Tonight someone was going to become Mrs. Seresin.

The Hard Deck was humming with life that evening—laughter spilling out from open doors, glasses clinking, music threading through the salty ocean air like a second heartbeat. Jake stood near the back of the bar, leaning against a post, eyes locked on you as you threw your head back laughing at something Phoenix said. Penny, Halo, and Amelia were gathered close, drinks in hand, forming a loose circle of warmth and light around you. And there you were, right in the middle of it—eyes bright, lips pink from laughter, that soft glow on your skin that came from golden hour and good company.

Jake knew he had to do it now or he’d never do it at all.

He didn’t bother to cut through the crowd with swagger like he used to. No cocky strut, no loud greeting. Just a quiet step forward, weaving around dart players and off-duty aviators until he was by your side. You didn’t notice him at first—your hand was around a chilled glass, the other gesturing as you recounted something that made Amelia gasp and Penny roll her eyes fondly. But then Jake’s hand gently grazed your back, fingers brushing lightly at the small curve where your shirt met your skin.

“Can I steal you for a minute?” he murmured, low enough that only you could hear.

You turned, giving him a slight side-eye and a teasing scoff. “Jake. We just got here.”

“I know,” he said, shifting on his feet. “But I was thinking… maybe we could take a walk. Just us.”

The groan you let out was exaggerated, and he grinned despite himself. You tipped your head back like he was asking you to run a marathon barefoot. “Jake, I just got a drink. Can’t it wait a bit?”

Before he could say anything else, Phoenix nudged your shoulder. “Go,” she said simply, sipping her beer with a knowing smirk.

“Seriously,” Penny added, giving Jake a glance that was equal parts amused and suspicious. “Let the man be dramatic. He looks like he’s gonna explode.”

Halo snorted. “You two are so married already.”

Even Amelia, perched on a barstool and pretending not to be interested, piped up with a shrug. “It’s romantic. Go.”

You narrowed your eyes at them, suspicious, but Jake saw the way your lips twitched. Still fighting a smile. Always trying to act like you weren’t soft for him—when you were the softest thing he’d ever touched.

“Fine,” you muttered, setting your glass down. “But I swear, if you brought me out here just to complain about who ate the last of your cereal again—”

Jake grinned, already lacing his fingers through yours. “I promise, it’s not about the cereal.”

He didn’t miss the glint in your eye as you allowed him to lead you out of the Hard Deck, past the blur of dart boards and pool tables, through the open doors and onto the soft crunch of sand. The cool breeze kissed his skin, and the low rustle of waves became a steady backdrop as you walked side by side, your bare feet sinking into the warm grains beside his boots.

But Jake could feel it—the weight of every eye behind them. The squad pretending not to watch. The sidelong glances. The elbow nudges. Rooster probably whispering something to Bob, who was terrible at hiding his reactions. And Maverick? Oh, he definitely knew something was up.

Jake swallowed, his pulse ticking high and hot beneath his collar. Every step made the ring in his pocket feel heavier, like gravity itself was conspiring to keep him grounded in the moment. He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. He could feel the ears. The eyes. The weight of what he was about to do.

And all he could think was: God, let her say yes.

The ocean whispered beside them, waves folding into the shore with lazy rhythm, and for a while, neither of them spoke. You walked slightly ahead, bare feet sinking into the damp sand while your hand remained laced in his, fingers warm and certain in a way that still made Jake’s heart ache a little. The sky was a quiet spill of lavender and silver, the last remnants of daylight fading like old photographs. Somewhere in the distance, someone lit a firepit, the faint scent of smoke curling on the breeze.

Jake cleared his throat, squeezing your hand gently. “Y’know,” he said, voice quieter than usual, “I still remember the first time I saw you wear that smug little smirk you give when you know you’ve outsmarted everyone.”

You glanced over your shoulder, one brow arched, amused. “Which time? I do that a lot.”

“Exactly,” he said, grinning. “You do. And I used to think it was annoying.”

You tilted your head, still walking, now kicking a seashell gently out of your path. “Used to?”

Jake chuckled softly, the sound rumbling low in his chest. “Now I think it’s terrifying. In a hot way.”

You snorted, eyes rolling, but the corner of your mouth twitched, betraying the smile you tried to hide. Then, slowing down until you were walking shoulder to shoulder again, you let your gaze wander to the horizon. The ocean stretched endlessly, horizon bleeding into sky, and the stars had begun to peek out one by one.

Jake looked at you—really looked. At the wind-tousled strands of hair sticking to your cheek, the slight wrinkle of your nose when the breeze turned sharp, the way your posture relaxed only when it was just the two of you. Out here, you weren’t Commander Rogue. You were just you. His girl. The one who wrecked him, rebuilt him, and then let him love you anyway.

“I don’t say it enough,” he murmured, eyes still on you. “But I’m proud of you.”

You blinked, surprised by the softness in his tone, then gave him a side glance. “For what?”

“For everything,” he answered, shrugging one shoulder. “For not just surviving, but thriving. For being the kind of leader I never had the guts to be. For being smarter than me. For loving me even when I didn’t deserve it. For forgiving me… when I damn well didn’t earn it.”

Your steps faltered, just slightly, but you didn’t pull your hand away. Instead, you slowed even more, the two of you coming to a gentle stop where the surf could nearly lick your feet. The breeze carried salt and the faintest hint of laughter from the Hard Deck, but all Jake could hear was the quiet thud of his heart.

You looked at him then, brows drawn together with something softer than surprise. “I didn’t forgive you right away.”

“I know,” Jake nodded, eyes locked on yours. “And I’m glad you didn’t.”

There was a long pause, the kind that felt full and necessary. Then you looked away, lips quirking slightly, eyes fixed on the stars. “You’ve changed, Jake.”

“So have you,” he murmured. “But not in the way people think.”

You turned back, curious. “What do you mean?”

Jake stepped closer, lifting a hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re still that girl who used to show up ten minutes early with your whole life in your backpack and too many dreams in your eyes. But now? You know your worth. You don’t shrink anymore.” He smiled, something tender and unguarded. “You used to orbit around people who didn’t deserve you. Now you walk straight through ‘em.”

You didn’t say anything right away, but your eyes softened, and your grip on his hand tightened just slightly.

Then Jake added, voice lower now, “I still can’t believe I’m the one who gets to walk beside you.”

You laughed, breath catching in your throat, and nudged his side with your elbow. “You’re being sappy.”

“Can’t help it,” he said with a shrug. “Sand, sunset, and you in that dress? It’s over for me.”

He grinned when you rolled your eyes again, but this time you leaned in and rested your head lightly on his shoulder. Jake exhaled, shoulders easing, and wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you close as the waves rolled in and the moon rose behind the clouds.

He didn’t ask yet.

Not tonight.

But the weight of the ring in his pocket felt a little warmer now.

They stood like that for a while, molded into the quiet hush of the shoreline, your head on Jake’s shoulder and his arm snug around your waist like it had always belonged there. The kind of silence that didn’t demand words — the kind born from knowing someone’s weight, their shape, the rhythm of their breath. Occasionally, the wind would toss your hair gently against his jaw, and every time, he would press a soft kiss to your temple like a reflex he never wanted to break.

Eventually, your feet began moving again, slow and aimless as the two of you wandered along the sand, letting the tide chase your toes. The Hard Deck was nothing but music and gold light behind you now, swallowed by distance and salt air. Jake didn’t mind. He was more interested in the way your hand swung with his, the subtle skip in your step whenever the cold water kissed your skin, the little giggle you bit back when he splashed you once with his foot.

Then, as you passed a spot where driftwood lay bleached and worn, you slipped off your sandals and let yourself climb onto one of the larger pieces like it was a balance beam. Jake’s hand stayed at your hip, steadying you — even though you didn’t need him to. He just wanted to. Meanwhile, you smirked down at him, playful and sharp, and said, “Still think I’m just a detour?”

Jake’s breath hitched, but his smirk answered for him first. “Nah,” he murmured, reaching up to tug your hand until you stepped off the log and into his arms. “I think I took a lifetime-long wrong turn, and you were the destination the whole damn time.”

You groaned, resting your forehead against his shoulder with a dramatic sigh. “That was so cheesy, Seresin.”

He chuckled, pressing a lingering kiss to the crown of your head. “Yeah, well. I’m full of surprises.”

Still holding you close, Jake let his chin rest atop your head, breathing in the familiar scent of your shampoo, the warmth of your skin sun-drenched and ocean-kissed. It hit him then, all at once — how much he wanted to keep this. Not just the beach, not just the moment. You. All of you. The good, the hard, the brilliant and bossy and brutally honest commander who had turned his whole damn world upside down.

“I ever tell you how I used to dream about this?” he asked suddenly, voice low against the top of your hair.

You leaned back slightly to look at him, curious. “Dream about what?”

“This,” he said, motioning vaguely to the waves, the stars, the distance from everything but each other. “Us. Not just the fantasy stuff — not just the kissing and the staying in bed all day and you stealing all the covers — but this. Walking with you. Talking with you. Laughing with you like nothing ever got broken.”

Your smile dimmed, but not with sadness. There was something softer there now — something raw and real. “Jake…”

“I know I screwed it up,” he cut in gently. “I know it took too long to get here. But I still dreamed about it. I still thought about you. Every time I passed a girl with a sharp tongue, I thought, ‘She’s not her.’ Every time someone rolled their eyes at me, I thought, ‘She would’ve decked me by now.’ I kept comparing everyone to you, and they all fell short.”

You inhaled deeply, blinking up at him, but before you could speak, Jake reached up and brushed a thumb along your jaw. “I know we’re still figuring it out. I know we’ve still got baggage and scars and maybe even a few leftover landmines. But I’m in this. All the way.”

You searched his face for a moment, heart fluttering in a way that was both familiar and terrifying. Then, with a sigh, you leaned into him once more, your hands slipping beneath his jacket to curl into the back of his shirt. The sound of your heartbeat against his was steady now — not racing, not panicked. Just sure.

Jake smiled into your hair, eyes closed.

And under the stars, beside the sea, with the taste of your breath still warm on his skin, he knew one thing for certain.

He wasn’t going to wait much longer.

Jake pulled back slightly, just enough to really look at you. The way your eyes caught the starlight, the way your fingers absentmindedly played with the edge of his collar — like you didn’t even realize you were clinging to him, like your hands had learned him so well they reached for him on instinct alone. His throat tightened. Not with nerves, not really. With the weight of it. Of you. Of everything you’d been through and still chosen to stay for.

Then, wordlessly, Jake took a step back.

You blinked, confused for a moment as he let your hands slip from his grip. But then he exhaled, slow and certain, and he reached into his back pocket — and your heart skipped. Stumbled. Froze.

Meanwhile, Jake was already lowering himself to one knee in the sand.

You froze in place, arms limp at your sides, lips parted and eyes wide. The ocean behind him caught the moonlight, waves crashing soft like applause, like the earth itself was holding its breath.

Jake cleared his throat, but his voice didn’t shake when he began.

“I’ve been thinking about this moment for a long time. At first, it was just a daydream. A maybe. Something I didn’t even think I deserved. Hell, something I definitely didn’t think I’d ever earn. But then, you gave me a second chance. You let me prove that I could be more than the kid who didn’t know how to love someone right.” He smiled up at you, that cocky, sunlit grin softened by something deeper — devotion. “You turned the golden boy into the fool. And I’ve never been more grateful to be foolish.”

Your hand flew to your mouth, eyes already stinging. Jake kept going.

“You humbled me. You outranked me — literally and metaphorically — and thank God for that. Because I needed to be humbled. I needed to be taught that love isn’t a reward for good behavior. It’s something you earn by showing up. By trying. By apologizing and meaning it. By choosing someone even when it’s hard.” His voice thickened, but he didn’t stop. “You made me want to be better. Not for a medal. Not for a promotion. But for you.”

Then, his voice dropped to a whisper, almost reverent. “You are the strongest, smartest, most terrifyingly brilliant woman I’ve ever met. You know me in a way no one else ever has. You see me — even when I didn’t want to be seen. Even when I didn’t like what was underneath. And you stayed. You stayed, Rogue.”

He opened the small box then, and the ring glinted like a promise — a simple band, nothing overdone, but so clearly chosen with care. It looked like you. Honest. Steady. Sharp in its elegance.

Jake’s eyes locked on yours, and his voice barely made it past the catch in his throat. “So now I’m asking. Not just as the man who loves you — but as the man who wants to spend the rest of his life making up for every moment I wasn’t there. Commander. Rogue. The love of my life.”

He swallowed hard, chest rising and falling with the force of it. “Will you marry me?”

For a second, nothing moved. Not the wind. Not the waves. Not even you. It was as if time had gone still, the world narrowing down to the two of you beneath the stars. Jake could feel his heartbeat in his throat, behind his eyes, hammering inside his chest like it wanted to escape. His knee pressed into the sand, his hand holding the box steady, but everything else inside him trembled — because this was the leap. This was the real dogfight. Not in the sky, but here on the ground, where love didn’t just take courage, it took surrender.

Then, you exhaled — a breath caught somewhere between disbelief and joy — and your hands rose slowly, trembling as they covered your mouth. Your eyes were wide, wet, disbelieving in that way that shattered him because how could someone like you ever be surprised that someone would want you forever?

“Jake,” you whispered, barely audible over the hush of the surf. “You… idiot. You absolute dumb, reckless—” You were already crying, and Jake felt his own vision blur again. “Of course. Of course it’s yes.”

And just like that, time slammed back into motion.

Jake let out a breath that collapsed into a laugh, choked and giddy, like someone who had just survived something dangerous and divine. He surged up from the sand before you could even finish wiping your cheeks and pulled you into him, arms tight around your waist, mouth pressed to yours like a vow. It was desperate and tender and all-consuming, like he couldn’t get close enough, like he still didn’t believe this was real — that he’d asked and you’d said yes and the world hadn’t stopped spinning from the sheer weight of it.

Meanwhile, your hands were in his hair, in his collar, gripping him like you were trying to hold him to the ground, like you were both afraid he might disappear. He kissed you again, and again, and again, only pulling back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breathless.

“You said yes,” he whispered, lips brushing yours. “You actually said yes.”

You nodded, smiling through your tears. “I did. I said yes, Seresin. Try not to crash the moment.”

Then, he laughed, bright and loose, the sound ringing out into the night air like a victory bell. He held you close, one arm wrapped around your back, the other still holding the ring between you as if the universe needed to know you were spoken for.

He slipped the ring onto your finger with shaking hands and kissed you like a man who had just found the rest of his life.

As the kiss finally broke — sweet and slow, your noses brushing gently as you pulled away — the sound of cheering erupted behind you like a wave crashing against the shore. Jake blinked in surprise before turning his head toward the Hard Deck. The windows were lit up like a festival, filled with blurry silhouettes of your people practically bouncing against the glass. Maverick was grinning from the bar like he’d known all along, Penny beside him wiping at her eye. Amelia was practically climbing the table to see better, Phoenix and Halo were whooping like the sky had just given them permission, and Fanboy had both hands over his heart, dramatically swaying like he might pass out from joy.

Then came the flood — the doors of the Hard Deck swung open, the Dagger Squad pouring out, voices rising in a wild crescendo. “Let’s goooo!” Bob shouted, cheeks flushed and smile bright, while Payback let out an actual bark. Rooster clapped his hands like he was starting a standing ovation, already whistling through his fingers.

Jake laughed, dizzy with all of it, his hand not once letting go of yours. He held it up like a trophy, flashing the ring like a kid showing off a prize from a claw machine. You rolled your eyes, but your smile was all love, all firelight and softness as you leaned in close enough for only him to hear.

“And now,” you said coolly, brushing your thumb over his ring finger, “we’ve got to choose a godfather and godmother really carefully.”

Jake blinked, confused. “What?”

You bit your lip to hide the smirk. “Because I’m pregnant.”

For exactly two seconds, Jake stared at you, face slack like his brain had quite literally shut down. Then his jaw dropped. “Wait—wait, what?”

You didn’t say anything, just lifted one eyebrow and gave the faintest nod.

“I’m gonna be a dad?” he asked, voice climbing with each word until it nearly cracked. His free hand shot up to his head like he was checking if this was a hallucination. “I’m gonna be a dad?!”

You snorted, and before you could say another word, Jake actually let out a full-blown shout and jumped up, fist in the air like he’d just won the Super Bowl. “I’M GONNA BE A DAD!”

The crowd from the Hard Deck went absolutely feral. Bob actually screamed. Yale dropped his drink. Rooster almost fell to his knees in the sand. Maverick just buried his face in his hands with a laugh, while Jinx and Ruin looked like they’d just been hit by a tidal wave of unfiltered joy.

Jake turned back to you, grabbing your waist and lifting you slightly off the ground as he spun in one giddy circle, laughing the whole way. “You’re serious?” he gasped. “You’re not just saying that to win the proposal?”

“I’m serious, you absolute idiot,” you said, both laughing and crying now. “You’re gonna be a dad.”

Jake didn’t kiss you this time. He just stared — wide-eyed, jaw slack, the sun hitting his face as he tried to process all of it. And you could see it. The exact second it hit him. That his future wasn’t just a woman anymore. It was a family.

And it was real.

The car ride home was quiet, sure — but not peaceful. It throbbed. Each second was soaked in everything unspoken: the glitter of a brand-new ring on your hand, the ghost of the cheers in your ears, and Jake fucking Seresin stealing glances like he didn’t know whether to cry or pull over and fuck you in the backseat till you saw stars. Like he was one breath away from breaking, but holding it in just to savor the ache.

You parked. The engine died. But neither of you moved.

The porchlight spilled gold over the front of the house, casting long, lazy shadows like it knew what was about to happen. Jake turned to you, slow and reverent, his eyes devouring you like you were his favorite goddamn prayer. His fingers brushed along your jaw with this impossible tenderness, and he whispered, hoarse, “You sure you’re real?”

You tilted your head into his touch, lips parted. “Was just about to ask you the same thing.”

The door barely clicked shut behind you before the air snapped.

He didn’t lunge. He didn’t pounce. Jake was slow — agonizingly slow. He closed the distance like a man approaching holy ground. Because that’s what you were now, weren’t you? His woman. His wife-to-be. The mother of his child.

And fuck, if that didn’t wreck him.

“I need to be careful,” he breathed, his thumb brushing over the stretch of your lower belly, barely a curve yet — but his whole soul already bowed before it. “You’re mine. All of you. Both of you.” His voice cracked on the last word. And that’s when it all snapped loose.

He kissed you, open-mouthed and starved, like a man lost at sea who just found land. His hands slid up your sides, under your shirt, thumbs teasing the underside of your tits till you gasped into his mouth. He growled, low in his chest, “You better tell me now if you want soft, baby, because I am barely hangin’ on.”

You smirked against his lips. “You’re gonna be a dad. You really think I want soft?”

That broke him. He stripped you bare with unhurried hands and filthy eyes, every inch of you kissed, licked, marked. He dropped to his knees like it was instinct, spreading your legs with gentle hands, and just looked.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You’re already so wet, aren’t you? Fuckin’ soaked, all for me.” He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, then sucked a bruise right there, claiming skin like it was sacred. “I haven’t even touched you properly yet.”

When he did? Oh, God.

His tongue was sinful. He licked you with slow precision, devouring every drip, every whimper, like he was starving for you. And when he slipped two fingers inside you, crooking them just right?

You screamed.

“Shh,” he smirked, lips shiny, voice gravel. “You’ll wake the neighborhood, sweetheart. Let ‘em know you’re mine, huh?”

You came with his name on your lips and his tongue still buried in you, but that wasn’t enough for him. Not even close.

He pulled back, unzipped his jeans, and let his cock slap against his stomach — flushed, hard, throbbing.

“You’re gonna take all of it,” he growled. “Every inch. You’re fuckin’ made for me. Look at you. Fucking perfect, pregnant with my kid, and still so greedy for my cock.”

And then he pressed in.

So slow. Too slow. The stretch burned, and it was glorious. You clawed at his back, panting, writhing, begging — and he just watched you fall apart under him like he was memorizing it.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, holding himself still inside you. “You feel that? How tight you are? This pussy’s mine. You’re mine. All of you.”

You whimpered, bucking your hips, but he pinned you down with one big hand on your hip.

“Uh-uh. I’m gonna fuck you slow, sweetheart. I wanna feel you. Every squeeze, every breath. Wanna fuckin’ watch you fall apart.”

And he did.

Every thrust was deliberate, deep, filthy. He rocked into you with precision, dragging moans from your chest and curses from your lips. His hand stayed on your belly, protective, reverent, even while he was ruining you.

“You’re gonna carry my kid, wear my ring, and still beg for this cock every damn night, huh?” he rasped, sweat dripping from his jaw. “You like it. You love being full of me. Stuffed and leaking.”

You moaned — helpless, wrecked, blissed-out.

He kissed your temple, slow and sweet, even as he fucked you harder. “I’ll be careful,” he swore. “But I ain’t pullin’ out. Not ever again. This pussy’s got a job now — stayin’ warm and full of my fuckin’ cum.”

When he finally came — deep inside you, groaning your name, shaking with it — he didn’t stop moving. Just rocked you through it, slow, deep thrusts while you clenched around him like you never wanted to let him go.

And when it was over? When you were trembling in his arms, filled to the brim with him and still gasping?

Jake kissed your ring, your lips, and your belly.

And then he whispered, “Next round, I want you on top. Wanna watch those tits bounce while you ride me.”

You climbed on top of him, naked and lazy and smug, his hands immediately going to your thighs like they belonged there. He watched you through half-lidded eyes, lips parted, hair sticking to his forehead. Wrecked. Gorgeous. Already getting hard again under you.

“Look at you,” he whispered, awe in every syllable. “Gonna ride me with my fuckin’ baby inside you?”

You grinned, leaning down until your lips brushed his. “Thought that’s what you wanted.”

“Oh, it’s exactly what I wanted.”

He grabbed his cock, guiding it up between your folds — slow, teasing strokes that made you both gasp. You were still soaked, still sensitive, and when you finally sank down onto him? He shook.

“Jesus fuck,” he hissed. “Still so tight. You tryna kill me?”

You rocked your hips, slow and deep, letting him feel every inch. “Maybe.”

Jake’s hands went to your hips, gripping hard enough to bruise but holding back, letting you set the pace. His eyes dropped to your stomach — just the faintest curve — and his breath caught.

“You’re carryin’ my kid,” he said like a prayer. “And now you’re sittin’ on my cock like it’s yours.”

“It is mine,” you whispered, grinding down until he cursed. “You gave it to me.”

He moaned, long and low, hips bucking up just once before he caught himself. “Fuck, baby. Don’t say shit like that unless you want me to come already.”

You rode him slow — hips rolling in a rhythm that was more tease than thrust, more ache than relief. He let you set the pace, but he couldn’t stop watching. The way your tits bounced. The way your belly shifted when you moved. The way his cock disappeared into you like you were made for it.

“You feel that?” you whispered, leaning down until your lips brushed his ear. “How deep you are? Right where you belong?”

Jake growled, grabbing your ass with both hands, kneading it as he groaned. “You’re filthy. Fuckin’ filthy. And I love it.”

You sped up, riding him harder now — still slow, still controlled, but punishing in the way your walls clenched and your moans broke. Jake’s head tilted back, sweat beading at his brow, his whole body straining under you.

“Let me see,” he begged. “Touch yourself. C’mon, baby, lemme watch you fall apart.”

You obeyed, fingers slipping between your legs to rub tight circles over your clit. You clenched down on him, moaning loud, breath hitching, vision blurring. He watched every damn second of it — eyes locked on yours like you were the only thing left in the world.

“You look so fuckin’ perfect,” he groaned. “Ridin’ me like that, carryin’ my baby. Fuck. I could come just from lookin’ at you.”

You tightened around him and that was it — Jake lost it.

He slammed up into you, losing control for just a second, and you welcomed it — met every thrust with one of your own. He grunted, voice rough and raw, “Take it. Fuckin’ take all of it, baby. You want more, don’t you? Want me fillin’ you up over and over till you’re drippin’ with it?”

You came with a strangled moan, clenching hard around him, and that was what finally broke him.

Jake groaned your name like a curse and a prayer, hips stuttering, spilling into you again, deep and messy and so much. He held you down on him, grinding through the aftershocks, panting, swearing, kissing your belly like it was holy.

And then he whispered, dazed, “What the fuck did I do to deserve you?”

You smiled down at him, blissed out and aching and full in every sense of the word.

“You knocked me up,” you said sweetly.

Jake laughed — breathless, ragged — and ran a hand down your spine.

“Then I guess I better keep doin’ it.”

You barely made it to the bathroom. Your legs were shaking, cum dripping down your thighs, and Jake — still flushed and breathless from round two — followed behind like he was stalking prey. The water was already running when he pressed you against the cool tile, his hands rough on your hips, mouth hot on your neck. The steam rose around you like smoke, wrapping both of you in something feral and thick.

"Look at you," he rasped, licking a stripe up the column of your throat. "Still fuckin’ leaking from me. You're mine, baby. Walkin’ around full of me, full of my kid, and now you’re lookin’ at me like you want more."

You whimpered — didn’t even deny it.

He spun you gently, pressing your front to the wall, and dropped to his knees behind you. Spread your legs. Didn’t even wait.

His tongue buried itself in your cunt like he was starving. He groaned against you, wet and obscene, licking up his own cum as it spilled out of you.

“Fuckin’ messy,” he growled, voice vibrating against your soaked folds. “Can’t even keep it all inside you, can you?”

He licked every drop clean. Then sucked your clit, slow and relentless, until your knees buckled and you were begging — stuttering his name like a sin.

“Please, Jake—”

He stood behind you, dragging his cock through your folds, hot and heavy, pressing against your entrance without pushing in.

“You want more of my cum in you, baby? You want me to fuck you with our baby inside you, stuff you full again?”

You moaned — needy and feral — grinding your ass back against him. “Yes. God, yes.”

Jake didn’t ask again. He slid into you from behind, one hand braced on your hip, the other splayed across your belly. His cock filled you slow — too slow — stretching you open again, making you feel every damn inch.

“Fuck, baby,” he hissed, hips pressing flush to yours. “This pussy’s so fuckin’ perfect. Just takes me.”

He started moving — deep, hard thrusts that smacked your hips into the tile, but never strayed from that possessive grip on your belly. Like he was claiming you and the life growing inside you in one goddamn motion.

“You like this, huh?” he panted. “Gettin’ bred in the shower? My cum dripping out of you while I fuck you right back open?”

You couldn’t speak. You just moaned, fingers clawing at the slick wall, body arching into every thrust like it was instinct. He bent down, pressing his chest to your back, voice dark and thick in your ear.

“This pussy belongs to me now. Every time I fuck you, you get tighter. Hungrier. Like your body knows what it’s made for.”

You whimpered, lost in it, and Jake grinned.

“Gonna keep you pregnant, baby,” he growled. “Keep fuckin’ filling you up till this belly’s round and swollen with my kid. Gonna make sure everyone knows who fucked you like this.”

He slammed into you harder. The slap of skin echoed in the shower, filthy and fast, water cascading over both your bodies like it couldn’t wash away any of the sin.

“I want you so full you feel me for days,” he groaned. “Gonna fill this tight little cunt again. You ready for that?”

You nodded frantically, clenching around him. “Please, Jake. Fuck, please—need it—need you.”

That broke him. He slammed into you once, twice, and then spilled inside you with a shout — hot, thick pulses of cum painting your insides while he held you there, cock twitching deep, his whole body shaking with it.

And even after he came, he didn’t pull out. He stayed inside you. Held your hips, kissed your spine. Murmured filth and praise and a little bit of love against your neck while your bodies pulsed and throbbed and trembled together under the water.

“You’re fuckin’ dangerous,” he whispered. “Gonna end up with a whole squad of little Seresins runnin’ around if you keep lookin’ at me like that.”

You looked over your shoulder, dazed and fucked-out. “Might not be a bad thing.”

Jake grinned. “Then I guess we better practice.”

Jake watched you step out of the shower, water still clinging to your skin, and something in him snapped. You caught the look — dark and feral, low on patience but high on obsession — just as your back hit the cold counter.

“Get your hands on the sink,” he growled, voice rough as gravel, still dripping wet, cock already hard again. “Now.”

You did it without thinking. Bent forward, palms flat, steam curling in the mirror in front of you. You could see yourself. Eyes glassy. Lips swollen. That barely-there swell of your belly.

And then Jake was behind you.

He kicked your legs apart, wrapped a firm hand around your throat from behind, and leaned down till his lips brushed your ear. “Look at you,” he rasped. “Fucked three times already and still so needy. Can’t get enough of me, huh?”

You whimpered, pushing your hips back against him. You could feel his cock pressing against your ass, hot and heavy and so ready.

“Oh, you want it,” he said, cocky and breathless. “You want me to bend you over this sink and fill you again while our baby’s still soaking in the last load I gave you.”

And then — fuck — he slid into you.

No teasing this time. No softness. Just one brutal, delicious thrust that knocked the air from your lungs and had your knuckles going white against the counter.

“Eyes on the mirror,” he growled. “I want you to watch me fuck you. Watch how good you look when you’re getting bred like this.”

You lifted your head, lips parted, face flushed. In the mirror, you saw it all — the way your body trembled with every thrust, the way his hand stayed right on your belly, protective and possessive, even while he was ruining you.

“God damn,” Jake grunted, pounding into you so deep you saw stars. “This pussy’s so fuckin’ perfect. Warm and tight and already so full. But it still wants more, huh?”

You moaned — high and broken — and he gave it to you.

He fucked you hard, relentless and punishing, hips slapping into your ass with obscene sound. One hand on your belly, the other slipping between your legs, rubbing tight circles over your clit that had your knees buckling.

“Feel that?” he panted. “That’s me. Stuffin’ you full over and over till you’re dripping. You’re gonna see it — dripping out of you down your thighs, all over this sink, ‘cause your greedy little cunt can’t hold it all in.”

You came with a cry, body spasming around him, and Jake lost it.

He slammed into you, once, twice, and then came with a snarl — hot and so much — his cock twitching inside you as he filled you again. But he didn’t pull out. He stayed inside you, grinding slow, watching his cum spill out and slide down your thighs in the mirror.

Jake kissed your shoulder, rough and breathless. “Fuckin’ look at that,” he whispered. “You’re dripping, baby. Dripping with me. I could spend the rest of my life right here — fucking you full, watching it leak out, and doing it all over again.”

You met his eyes in the mirror, ruined and flushed and glowing. “Then do it,” you whispered.

Jake grinned. “Oh, I plan to.”

You were still bent over the sink, arms trembling, breath stuttering out of your lungs as your thighs twitched from the last orgasm. His cum was dripping down your legs, thick and hot, pooling at the backs of your knees.

And Jake? He stepped back, panting, eyes locked on the mess between your legs like a man possessed. His fingers brushed your inner thigh, catching a trail of it — and when he brought it to his mouth, licking it off with a groan?

Something unholy took over. “Fuck,” he muttered. “You’re leaking. Look at this shit — I just filled you up and you’re wasting it. Can’t let that happen.”

And then he dropped to his knees. No hesitation. No teasing. Just hands gripping your thighs, spreading you open, face diving in like he was starving — like the only thing that mattered was tasting everything he left inside you.

His tongue licked a slow stripe from your knee up to your center, catching every bit of cum as it dripped out. He moaned against your pussy, deep, filthy, obscene.

“Jesus fuck, baby,” he groaned, lapping at your folds. “You taste like me. So fuckin’ good — sweet and messy and mine.”

He started eating you out from behind, tongue pushing into your soaked cunt, licking up the mix of both of you like it was dessert. Every moan vibrated against you. Every filthy word was soaked in praise.

“Gonna fuckin’ clean you up with my mouth,” he panted. “Get every drop back where it belongs. Can’t let this pussy waste a thing, not when it’s mine.”

You were shaking. Boneless. Gasping his name like it was the only word you knew.

He used his fingers now — spreading your folds so he could see the mess, groaning like it drove him insane. And it did.

“This right here?” he whispered, licking a drop off your clit. “This is what I want every day. You, bent over, leaking with my cum, and me down here takin’ care of it like a good fuckin’ man.”

You cried out when he sucked your clit into his mouth, tongue working in slow, punishing circles. Your hands fumbled for the edge of the sink, trying to hold on as he licked you clean and brought you to the edge again — your third, fourth, who-the-fuck-knows at this point.

And when you came, again, shuddering and sobbing and completely undone, Jake groaned into your cunt like it fed him.

He didn’t stop until your legs were shaking, your pussy was clean, and your breath was just little broken gasps.

Then he stood, slow, smug, lips glistening. He kissed your shoulder, your neck, and finally your lips — letting you taste just how wrecked you were.

And he whispered, warm and dark, against your mouth: “Next time, sweetheart… you’re gonna sit on my face. And you better be leaking.”

Later, you lay tangled in his arms, the room quiet save for the soft hum of the ceiling fan and the steady beat of Jake’s heart beneath your ear. His fingers traced lazy patterns along your spine, and you could feel his smile in the kiss he pressed to your temple.

“Mrs. Seresin,” he murmured, voice thick with love and sleep.

You grinned, pressing a kiss to his chest. “Not yet.”

“Soon,” he whispered, pulling you closer. “And forever after that.”

And in that moment — wrapped in his arms, the future glowing just ahead — you believed it.

The first month after your engagement passed in a haze of quiet wonder. You and Jake moved through the days like you were still in a dream, passing the ring between your fingers when the world felt too loud, whispering “fiancé” like it was a secret only you two were allowed to hold. The pregnancy symptoms hadn’t kicked in just yet—just the whisper of fatigue, the occasional bout of nausea, the way your heart raced when he touched your stomach like it already held galaxies. Jake read every article he could get his hands on, even highlighted some (in three colors), and kept a growing folder on his phone called baby research. You laughed, but part of you melted too.

By the second month, the nausea hit with a vengeance. You found yourself curled on the bathroom floor more times than you could count, your head resting on Jake’s thigh while he rubbed your back and whispered comfort like prayers. He tried to cook for you—God help him—and after two failed attempts at scrambled eggs and a melted plastic spatula, you both agreed he was banned from the kitchen unless supervised. Meanwhile, he started keeping saltines in his pockets like some over-prepared dad scout and offered them to you with the most serious face imaginable, which made you want to cry and laugh at the same time. Hormones. Yay.

The third month brought cravings. Horrible, chaotic, unpredictable cravings. You once burst into tears because you wanted fried pickles and caramel ice cream at the same time. Jake, bless his golden soul, did not question the science of your hunger. He just got in the truck at 11 p.m. in his boxers and a hoodie, drove thirty minutes, and came back victorious. “Anything for my girls,” he declared, smug. You, still mid-bite, glared. “Jake,” you said with narrowed eyes. “It’s a boy.” He raised a brow. “Nope. I googled your symptoms—nausea this early? That’s a girl. Plus, your feet are colder.” You blinked. “I’m literally growing a person. Every symptom makes sense.” He smirked. “Exactly. Girl.”

By the fourth month, you were officially showing. Just a bump. A little one. Enough for Jake to start whispering to your stomach when he thought you were asleep, saying things like, “Hey, you don’t know me yet, but I’m your dad. I’m sorry for being dumb sometimes, but I promise, I’ll learn.” You didn’t always cry. But sometimes? You really did. Especially after HR cornered you gently with a memo in hand, officially placing you on maternity leave. You cried in the car with the door open, muttering that you were still capable and just needed another month. Jake held you through it, one arm around your shoulders, the other cradling your belly. “You’re not leaving the sky,” he whispered. “You’re just giving someone else a reason to fly.”

The fifth month was when the bickering intensified. Jake, now fully convinced he was correct, began baby-name debates with “girl options only.” You countered by buying a onesie that read Future Maverick with little aviator wings stitched on the chest. Jake recoiled dramatically. “That’s your call sign,” he pointed out. “The baby’s gonna need something more badass. Like Viper 2.0.” You tossed a pillow at him. “You think we’re having a damn F-14, not a human child.”

Meanwhile, the baby kicked for the first time. And both of you forgot the argument instantly.

Jake dropped to his knees, hands trembling, eyes wide. “Did—did he just kick?” You looked down at him, smug. “He?” Jake’s face faltered. “I mean—they. They kicked.” You just smiled, threading your fingers through his hair. “Gotcha.”

Then came the sixth month, where the weird dreams began. You swore you were fighting aliens with a diaper bag and a lightsaber. Jake swore he saw your belly grow three times in one night. The both of you were sleep-deprived, emotionally unstable, and yet somehow, more in love than ever. He started painting the nursery without telling you—badly—and you ended up helping, barefoot on newspaper, both of you speckled with pale green. “It’s gender-neutral,” Jake declared proudly. You raised an eyebrow. “So is white, but go off, Picasso.”

But even with the teasing and the chaos, something in Jake had changed. He was softer now. Quieter, sometimes. Like the world had finally tilted into focus. Every day he’d pull you close, rest his forehead against yours, and murmur something low, like, “Thank you for giving me this.”

And you would answer, always with a smile: “It’s ours.”

By the seventh month, there was no hiding it anymore. Your walk had slowed, your back ached more often than not, and the little kicks had turned into full-blown somersaults that made Jake leap up mid-conversation and yell, “She’s practicing her turns!” To which you’d calmly respond, “He is literally kicking my bladder, not flying a sortie.” It was an ongoing war, this baby-gender debate, and both of you were committed to your sides like two stubborn admirals refusing to yield.

Meanwhile, the Dagger Squad had become fully invested. Phoenix took it upon herself to host a “neutral” baby shower, complete with cake pops, tactical onesies, and a betting board on the baby’s gender. Fanboy made spreadsheets. Yale cried twice while writing a toast. Rooster tried to be the godfather in advance by bringing you smoothies and casually flexing in front of Jake, who responded by following you everywhere like a loyal guard dog.

“You’re not the one carrying the baby,” you told Jake one evening when he insisted on buckling your shoes for you.

“I know,” he replied, kissing your knee, “but I’m the one who loves both of you. So you better get used to me hovering.”

By the eighth month, Penny had dubbed you the Hard Deck Queen. You barely made it three feet inside without being swarmed—Amelia made a habit of talking to your bump like it could respond, Bob offered calming teas, and even Cyclone started opening doors with a muttered “Commander Rogue coming through.” You were glowing, sure, but also perpetually annoyed, emotional, and sweaty. Jake, the fool, found this adorable.

And then the incident happened.

One night, Maverick threw a low-key dinner for the squad, and someone (Harvard) let slip that you had been voted “Most Likely to Scare the Baby Into Good Grades.” You’d blinked. Then narrowed your eyes. “Excuse me?” But before a proper roast could commence, Jake had stood and clinked his glass like a proud husband at a wedding.

“I just wanna say,” he began dramatically, “that my wife—sorry, fiancée—is the strongest, smartest, most terrifyingly hot woman I’ve ever known. And also…” He paused. Then looked directly at you. “She’s wrong. We’re having a girl. And I will be a girl dad if it kills me.”

Chaos ensued.

Rooster yelled “Team Boy!” from across the table. Coyote called it “too early to declare.” Yale and Fanboy cried again. You just sat there, hand on your belly, staring at Jake like you couldn’t believe he made breathing this annoying.

In the ninth month, you took leave from nearly everything. Not because you wanted to—but because you had to. Your feet were swollen, your hips were sore, and the baby had taken up residence in your lungs like it was subletting space. You cried when you saw your uniform hanging in the closet, and again when you realized you couldn’t zip it anymore. Jake caught you both times, arms wrapping around you gently, forehead resting on your shoulder.

“I miss flying,” you whispered once.

He kissed your temple. “You’ll fly again. Right now, you’re building the best wingman we’ll ever have.”

Your days were slower now, softer. The nursery was finished—aviation-themed, of course—with hand-drawn clouds Jake had painstakingly painted himself. Maverick and Penny dropped by often with food, gifts, and very unsolicited parenting advice. Hondo gave Jake a stern lecture about burping techniques. You nearly peed yourself laughing.

But at night, it was just the two of you again. Jake would talk to the baby through your belly, reading flight manuals in a bedtime voice, making little jokes that made you snort and then wince. “She likes my voice,” he’d whisper. You rolled your eyes. “He’s trying to sleep.”

It was supposed to be a chill afternoon. Just a couple of hours at the Hard Deck, some mocktails, light banter, and Rooster trying to convince Jake that the baby was going to come out with his jawline. But then, without warning, your glass slipped from your fingers, clinking gently against the floor as your hand went to your belly. You blinked once. Twice. Then you stood, very slowly, and calmly said the words that sent a shockwave through the bar.

“Oh, my water just broke.”

For a second, there was silence. Dead silence. Like the music itself paused to listen. Then—

“OKAY. EVERYONE. STAY CALM!” Jake barked, standing so fast his chair skidded backward and hit Yale in the shin. “SHE’S HAVING THE BABY. I REPEAT—THE BABY IS COMING—STAY CALM—”

No one was calm. Least of all Jake.

He spun in three full circles, pointing to people like he was issuing deployment orders. “Phoenix! Towels—I don’t know, just in case? Rooster! Clear the path. Bob, I need—uh—what do I need?”

“You need your fiancée,” you said dryly, hands on your hips, looking far too composed for someone whose child was on the way. “Preferably not abandoned in the middle of a bar.”

Jake had bolted halfway to the car by then, keys in hand, but your voice—laced with unimpressed Command energy—yanked him back like a leash. He reversed course so fast it was almost cartoonish, scrambling back to your side with wild eyes and flailing arms.

“Right, right, yep, no—baby first—yes, okay,” he muttered. “We’ve trained for this. Flight manual said breathe. And support. And snacks. Wait, did we bring the hospital bag?”

“It’s in the car,” you said, wincing slightly as another contraction hit. “Seresin, if you leave me one more time, I will hobble my way to labor and then make you watch the full delivery standing.”

Jake paled. “Never. Never again. I’m glued to you. Like a barnacle. I am your barnacle.”

Meanwhile, Penny had already called ahead to the hospital, Maverick was handing you your go-bag like a seasoned Navy vet ready for deployment, and Amelia was snapping blurry photos, whispering, “This is going in the baby album.”

The drive to the hospital was a blur. Jake had one hand on the wheel and the other on your knee the entire time, muttering affirmations under his breath like some half-prayer, half-pep talk. “You’re doing great. You’re amazing. We’re gonna meet them. I swear I didn’t mean to say it was a girl this whole time. Boy or girl, I love them. I love you. Did I say that already? Okay, I’ll say it again.”

You groaned through a contraction, gripping the door handle tightly. “Jake, please. Focus.”

“I am focused. Hyper-focused. This is me being a calm and rational father,” he said, taking a corner a bit too fast. “Also, I might throw up.”

But eventually, finally, the hospital doors opened before you like a miracle. Nurses were already waiting, a wheelchair ready, and Jake was practically vibrating out of his skin with nerves. He followed your stretcher like a man possessed, clinging to your hand the second you allowed it, whispering again and again, “You’ve got this. We’ve got this. I love you.”

The contractions were getting closer, sharper, and everything smelled like disinfectant and adrenaline.

Still no baby yet. But soon. So very soon.

The delivery room was a battlefield. Monitors beeped in rhythm with your rising pulse, nurses moved like clockwork around you, and the doctor’s calm instructions barely registered over the white-hot pain pulsing through your body. You were soaked in sweat, your legs were in stirrups, and the pressure building inside you felt like the sky was trying to fall out of you in one violent, miraculous moment.

Jake was beside you. Barely.

“YOU DID THIS TO ME!” you screamed, clutching his hand in a death grip that had him hunched over in pain. “I SWEAR TO GOD, JAKE SERESIN, IF YOU EVER LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT AGAIN—”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Jake yelped, tears already streaking down his cheeks as he tried to both breathe and not pass out. “You’re doing amazing, baby, I swear! I’m never touching you again unless you tell me to. I swear it. You’re—oh my God—is that the head?!”

“STOP LOOKING!” you shrieked. “WHY ARE YOU LOOKING?! STAY BY MY FACE!”

“I’M TRYING TO BE SUPPORTIVE!” he cried, wiping his nose with his shoulder as he braced your hand to his chest. “I’ve never been so scared in my life—God, you’re so strong, I love you, I’m sorry for everything I’ve ever done!”

“DAMN RIGHT YOU ARE,” you shouted, nearly ripping his arm from the socket as another contraction slammed through you. The doctor calmly told you to push, and the nurse offered words of encouragement, but all you could focus on was Jake’s wide, tear-filled eyes and the fact that you’d probably break every bone in his hand before this was over.

Meanwhile, Jake was trying not to fall apart. He had flown combat missions, been shot at, survived some of the worst conditions known to man—but none of that compared to watching you fight through the pain like this. He’d never seen anything so terrifying. Or so holy.

“You’re almost there,” the doctor said with a calm that made you want to slap him. “One more push. Come on, Mama. You’ve got this.”

“I hate you,” you told Jake, bearing down with all the strength left in your body.

Jake sobbed. “I love you, too!”

And then—just like that—time split wide open.

There was a cry. Small. Loud. Angry. The sound of life punching its way into the world.

Your body went slack with exhaustion, your chest heaving as you stared at the ceiling in disbelief. The pain ebbed, not gone but dulled, and your hand—still gripping Jake’s—relaxed ever so slightly.

Jake gasped. “Oh, my God.”

The nurse was cleaning the baby, the doctor already congratulating you, but all Jake could do was cry harder as he turned to you with trembling lips and whispered, “You did it. You—baby, you did it. Look—look, it’s our kid.”

Then the nurse placed the tiny, wrinkled, squirming bundle into your arms. Your eyes widened. Your breath caught. And for a moment, nothing existed but this small miracle against your chest, this impossibly warm, impossibly loud creature with your nose and Jake’s pout.

“He’s perfect,” you whispered, barely able to believe the words.

Jake froze. “Wait—he?!”

You looked up with a smug, exhausted grin. “Told you it was a boy.”

Jake Seresin’s knees nearly gave out.

“Oh my God,” he breathed, utterly undone, leaning over to kiss your forehead and then the baby’s. “I’m a dad. I’m really a dad. You're a mom. And he’s—he’s so small—do they always come out this small?! Oh my God, you made him. You made this whole person, babe.”

“You helped,” you muttered with a tired smirk.

Jake laughed through his tears, sitting beside you on the edge of the bed, one hand cradling your shoulder and the other brushing over your son’s impossibly soft head. “He’s ours,” he whispered like it was a secret he was still trying to believe. “We made a whole-ass person.”

You didn’t speak—just leaned your head against his and closed your eyes, letting the weight of it all settle. Your son snuffled gently against your chest, a little fighter already, full of voice and storm and love.

And Jake? He was already gone for him. For both of you.

The room had quieted into something sacred. The dim overhead light hummed faintly, casting a soft golden glow over pale blue walls and the low beeping of machines that monitored steady, rhythmic signs of life. The chaos of labor had given way to something still and warm. You were fast asleep now, your face slack with exhaustion, cheeks flushed, one hand curled against your chest like even in sleep you were still tethered to the memory of holding him.

Meanwhile, Jake sat shirtless in the reclining chair tucked in the corner of the hospital room, the baby swaddled snug against his bare chest, skin-to-skin as the nurse had instructed. His dog tags hung just above the bundle, catching the light every time he breathed a little too hard. The soft rise and fall of his chest matched the slow, steady rhythm of the baby’s tiny breaths. Jake had one large palm curved protectively over his son’s back, his thumb tracing slow, reverent circles. His other hand rested behind the baby’s head, cradling it with the sort of gentleness no one had ever thought Lieutenant Jake Seresin capable of.

His eyes, though—those were something else entirely.

“Hey, little guy,” Jake whispered, voice just above a hush. “We haven’t officially met yet. I mean, not outside the womb where you’ve been doing karate on your poor mom’s organs for the past few months.”

The baby didn’t stir. He was tucked against Jake’s chest like he belonged there, utterly content, as if he knew this heartbeat by instinct alone.

Jake chuckled under his breath, voice still watery with disbelief. “You’re… you’re really here.” He glanced over at your sleeping form, gaze softening like it always did when he looked at you. Then, he tilted his head back down. “She did everything, you know that? She brought you here. Fought like hell. Cursed me out like a sailor and nearly broke my fingers, but—God, I’ve never loved anyone more than I do her. You’ve got one hell of a mom, kid.”

He looked down again, lips twitching into a grin. “And you? You look just like me. That’s probably gonna be a problem later.” He traced his pinky along the baby’s soft cheek. “You’ve got my chin. My mouth. Even my ears, damn it. She’s gonna be so mad when she realizes she carried you for nine months just to give birth to my clone.”

The baby let out a small hiccup of air, nose scrunching as if offended. Jake grinned wider. “Yeah, yeah, I hear you. You’ve got her fire, though. I can already tell.”

Outside the window, the world had gone still, the deep blue of night wrapping around the city like a blanket. In that corner of the room, though, time didn’t exist. There was just Jake—once the golden boy, the hotshot, the reckless one—and now… just a man. A father. Holding the future in his arms like it was the most fragile, sacred thing in the world.

“You’ve got no idea what you’ve done to me already,” he whispered, bending to press a kiss to the top of his son’s downy head. “But I promise you this—I’m not gonna miss a single moment. Not one. I’m gonna be here. Every day. Every late night bottle, every scraped knee, every stupid little joke. You’re stuck with me, little man.”

He leaned back slowly, eyes growing heavy now but still glued to the tiny miracle against his chest.

“I love you,” Jake whispered one last time. “And I love your Mommy. More than anything. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to us.”

Then, just as the night deepened outside, Jake closed his eyes, rocking slowly in the chair, the baby warm and steady in his arms.

Morning sunlight filtered gently through the half-drawn curtains, casting soft, golden stripes across the hospital bed where you sat propped up against a mountain of pillows. Your hair was messy, your eyes still heavy with sleep, but none of that mattered—not when your son was latched to your chest, tiny fingers curling against your skin like he’d known you forever. You watched him in awe, blinking slowly as the waves of love, exhaustion, and straight-up disbelief washed over you in equal measure.

Meanwhile, Jake stirred in the corner, shirt half-on, hair a wild mess of blonde tufts standing at every angle. He rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his palm, blinked blearily—and then his gaze landed on you.

He froze. A beat passed. Then another. And then, Jake Seresin—naval aviator, call sign Hangman, heartbreaker of yesteryears—grinned like an absolute menace.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled, voice still thick with sleep. “Like father, like son.”

You blinked up at him. “Excuse me?”

Jake leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed, that familiar cocky tilt playing at his mouth as he motioned to your chest—where your newborn son was feeding contentedly, as though this were the most natural thing in the world. “Look at him. Locked in. Zoned out. Completely infatuated. Yeah. That’s my boy.”

You stared. He didn’t even blink.

Then you groaned, adjusting your arm around the baby as you shot him a glare sharp enough to slice steel. “You are unbelievable.”

Jake grinned wider. “I mean, c’mon. You knew what you were getting into when you said yes to marrying me.”

“You were crying in a chair twelve hours ago,” you reminded him.

“And now I’m witnessing greatness in action.” He stepped closer, crouching beside the bed as he placed a gentle kiss to your temple, his hand brushing softly over the baby’s head. “Also, I will never recover from how ridiculously beautiful you look right now.”

You narrowed your eyes, though your cheeks warmed. “I haven’t showered, I’m leaking milk, and I just gave birth.”

Jake gave a dreamy sigh. “Still the hottest woman I’ve ever seen. And our son clearly agrees.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you. “You’re a menace.”

He leaned in closer, his voice softening now, gaze flickering between your face and the tiny bundle nestled against you. “I’m a menace in love.”

You laughed under your breath, your free hand finding his and squeezing it gently. “You better be. Because this little one is already a full-time job.”

Jake chuckled, brushing another kiss along your jaw before whispering, “Good thing I already got the job of a lifetime.”

“We have to name him eventually,” Jake murmured, his voice low and lazy, like the words were slipping through the late afternoon light.

You tilted your head to glance up at him. “We do,” you agreed. “And no, we’re not naming him after a jet.”

Jake feigned offense. “What? F-18 has a nice ring to it. Or Raptor. Ooh—Falcon.”

You snorted, laughing softly as you shifted the baby’s weight in your arms. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to throw something at you.”

“I’d dodge anyway,” he smirked, before softening again. “Alright. No jets. What are you thinking?”

You glanced back down at your son, his mouth puckered slightly in sleep, little brows already starting to resemble Jake’s. “I’ve always liked the name Theodore,” you said quietly, the name rolling off your tongue like a secret you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. “It sounds strong. Timeless. Like someone who matters.”

Jake blinked. Then looked down at the baby like he was seeing him for the first time all over again. “Theodore,” he repeated, testing it out. “Theo.”

“Theo,” you echoed, voice hushed with affection.

Jake stared for a moment longer, then smiled—soft and deep, the kind that only ever reached his eyes when he was looking at you or, now, at the tiny human who somehow made both of you feel brand new. “He does look like a Theodore.”

“I know, right?” You let your head rest back against him again. “Theodore Seresin. Has a nice ring to it.”

Jake grinned like he’d just won a dogfight. “It’s perfect.”

He reached down and gently touched the baby’s cheek, his thumb barely brushing the soft skin. “Hi, Theo,” he whispered. “Welcome to the world, little man.”

Who would've thought? That the quiet girl once overlooked and the golden boy once too proud would end up here—no longer adversaries, no longer almosts. Just two people, side by side, bruised and rebuilt, holding the life they made between them. In a world made of roaring engines, heavy medals, and call signs stitched onto uniforms, it was never the victories in the sky that defined them. It was this—late afternoons wrapped in quiet laughter, soft kisses pressed to sleepy foreheads, whispered arguments over baby names and midnight feeds. It was love, loud and unruly, tender and patient.

And somehow, in the mess of all the years, the heartbreak, the second chances—they became a little family.

The fool, the golden boy, and the miracle they named Theodore.

[mommyownsmee]

The second I slide into her I feel it. The jolt of heat, that tight pull low in my stomach that says she’s mine and nothing else matters. Her back arches, mouth open in a breathless moan, and she’s already gripping the sheets like she needs something to hold onto. But she doesn’t need the sheets. She needs me. Only me.

I watch her face twist as I start to thrust, slow and deep at first, letting her feel every inch. She gasps, eyes wide, already slipping. I don’t say anything. I don’t have to. I can see it in her, the way her brain starts to fog, the way her lips part and tremble like she’s about to speak but can’t form words anymore. All that smart, bratty attitude she had earlier is gone. Now she’s just open and dripping and desperate. Just my perfect little mess.

I fuck her harder, pinning her hips down so she can’t wriggle away, not even a little. She needs to stay exactly where I put her. I need her to feel how deep I am, how I fill her, how she was made for me. She moans again, louder this time, and I lean over her, pressing my chest to hers, my hand curling around her throat, the other one grabbing the leash. Not tight, just enough to make her whimper. I want her to feel it, the weight of my control, the way she can’t escape, the way she doesn’t want to.

After a while she starts babbling. She always does when I fuck her like this. Filthy little noises and half-formed pleas, calling me Mommy, calling me god, saying she’s mine, mine, mine like it’s the only word she remembers. And she’s right. That’s all she needs to remember. She belongs to me. Her body, her voice, the wet sounds of her cunt taking me over and over. Every part of her is mine. I own her.

I watch her fall apart, head tilted back, tears at the corners of her eyes, and I keep going. She’s already come once, but I’m not stopping. I want more. I want to fuck her through every orgasm until her legs give out and her mind blanks and all she can do is moan my name like a prayer. I want her used. I want her ruined. I want her to feel me for days, aching and swollen and sore, so every step she takes reminds her that I was here, inside her, making her mine again and again.

As I slide my hand down and rub her clit; slow at first, then faster; her body starts to shake. Her voice breaks. She starts crying out like she doesn’t know if she wants me to stop or keep going, but I already know the answer. She’s mine. I am the one to decide. I push her past her next orgasm, grinding deep as she shatters underneath me, screaming, trembling, clinging to me like she’ll fall apart without my hands holding her together.

And I still don’t stop. I’m not done. I need to fuck her until every part of her forgets what it was like not to be under me. Until her body knows the shape of me from the inside. Until there’s no part of her left untouched by my hunger, my control, my need to take and take and take because she gave herself to me and now I’m never giving her back.

She’s mine. I love her and she is mine. She’ll always be mine. And I’ll keep fucking her until there’s nothing left but the proof of that.

[stxrrywoo]

JEALOUSY JEALOUSY ── j.yh

synopsis ; during a night out with yunho and your friends you're hit on relentelessly and yunho finally had enough before he was dragging you home. there yunho was determined to prove that he was the only man you'd ever need.

pairing(s) ; bsf!yunho x f!reader

☆ ── wc. ; 2.1k ☆ ── genre ; smut, friends to lovers ☆ ── tw. ; MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!, cussing, arguing, kissing, dom!yunho x sub!reader, petnames (baby, doll...), possessive behavior, jealousy, unprotected sex, teasing, biting/marking, breast play, rough sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, dumbification, big dick!yunho, yunho is a bit of a meanie, choking, manhandling, creampie, lmk if I missed anything! ☆ ── notes ; another fic at besties request 🙂‍↕️ this is from yunho's crazy ass song lyrics and man lemme tell you... that man is insane.

Yunho barely pulled you into the apartment when you yanked your arm out of his grasp and stepped away to get some distance. Your eyes narrowed into slits as you watched him shut and lock the door.

“Are you finally gonna tell me why you brought me back?” You started, annoyance simmering in your gut, “Or are you gonna continue to keep your mouth tied shut?” 

Yunho whirls around, a fire burning in his chocolate orbs, “You act like I don’t have eyes y/n.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” You scoffed, hands balling into fists at your sides.

He laughs darkly, causing your stomach to flip, “You're flirting with all those guys, even letting a few close enough to touch you. Are you really that dense?”

“Are you fucking serious, Yunho? I was having a conversation like a normal human being.” You hissed, glaring at him, “Plus, why the fuck does it matter to you? Am I just not allowed to exist around men anymore?”

Yunho doesn’t utter a word as he takes slow steps toward you, backing you up against the wall. Your breath hitches as he leans down until his nose is just a hair away from yours. His eyes bore into you with a fire that you’ve never seen before, causing your heart to lurch.

“Why bother with other men when you have me?” His voice was low as he stared at you, your heart beating rapidly under your ribs, “do I just not exist when other men are around?”

You didn’t say a word. You couldn’t. You just stare at him, lips parted softly, but not a sound leaves. The jealousy simmering in his gut was threatening to break the rest of his willpower. He has tried so hard to keep himself restrained because he didn’t want to screw up this friendship, but right now? Right now, he could give two damns about not ruining the friendship.

“Yunho.” You breathed out, fingers trembling at your sides. You felt small under his intense gaze, yet it made you feel as though you were on fire.

Then his hand was around your neck, not enough to cut off your oxygen supply but enough to have your mind go fuzzy. His lips were just a breath away from yours, suspense hanging in the air before they came crashing down on yours. 

It wasn’t gentle. It definitely wasn’t sweet. It was bruising, possessive almost. His free hand fell to your hip, pulling your body flush against his as his knee pushed between your thighs. A choked gasp falls from your lips when he presses against your clothed core.

“You drive me fucking insane.” He growls, lips moving from yours down your jaw, nipping at the skin, “acting so sweet with all those guys, but I know you.”

You let out a pathetic whine as he bit down on your earlobe, mind slowly slipping away. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, trying to ground yourself. Then his lips were on yours again, hand moving to the back of your neck and pulling you off of the wall. He backed you up until your thighs hit the arm of the couch.

You tug at the hem of his shirt, pulling away long enough to tear it off his body, revealing his toned torso to you. His skin was burning under your fingertips, muscles rippling as he bent down to grab the back of your thighs, lifting you onto the arm as if you weighed nothing. Then his lips were back on yours, stealing the air right out of your lungs.

“Yunho…” You breathed out when his lips latched onto the soft skin of your neck before he bit down, marking you.

“I could be gentle,” He gripped your hips tightly, sure to leave bruises the next morning, “but we both know you ain’t what you like.”

Your nails dug into his bare shoulders as he pulled the strap of your dress down, searing kisses following his touch. He kisses the top of your breast before tugging the front of your dress down. Goosebumps litter your skin as you take in his dark gaze, heart beating erratically when he licked his lips as if he were about to devour you.

“You’re fucking gorgeous, fuck.” He groaned, bending down to latch his lips onto the soft fat of your breast. Your head falls back with a moan, fingers digging into his shoulders to keep yourself from falling back.

His hands fall to your hips once more, grinding you against him, causing your body to shudder, and a choked gasp falls from your lips. The feeling of his thick bulge against your thinly covered core has you gushing, sure that your panties are soaked by now.

“Yunho–” You were cut off by a whimper when he wrapped his lips around your nipple, shockwaves of pleasure rippling throughout your body.

He smirks against your skin, “Tell me, baby, who’s making you feel good?” 

“Y-You.” You choked out as his hand slipped between your thighs, pressing right against your clothed heat.

“Me. Only me, not those other assholes.” He grows out, pulling away just enough to watch your face contort in pleasure when he presses firmly against your clit. Moving your underwear to this side, he split your folds, collecting your slick on his fingers, a deep groan reverberating from his throat. “God, you’re so wet.”

You tried to speak, but the words died on your tongue when he pressed two fingers into you. Stars danced across your vision when he brushed over that spongy spot deep in your walls. You held onto his arm for dear life as his thumb pressed tight circles on your clit, broken moans falling from your parted lips.

“Look at you, doll. I’m just using my fingers, and you’re already falling apart.” He chuckled, your head falling against his chest, “Just imagine how you’ll feel when you’ve got my cock in your sweet pussy.”

Your walls tightened around his fingers due to his words, and that only caused the male to smirk, speeding his fingers up to coax your climax closer. Tears gathered in the corners of your eyes, your body trembling in his arms as your high crept up on you.

“Yunho–fuck, I’m close.” You cried out, fingers tightening around his arm, the coil in your gut ready to snap at any moment.

“Mhh, cum for me baby. Make a mess on my fingers.” He cooed, leaning down next to your ear, taking the shell of your ear between his teeth.

With a few more strokes of his fingers, you were coming undone, a loud moan ripping from your lungs. White spots clouded your vision as he continued to fuck his fingers into your sapssingcunt. He pressed a gentle kiss on your temple, whispering sweet nothings into your ear before pulling his fingers from your tight walls.

He didn’t give you a moment to breathe before he pulled you off the arm of the couch, letting your body crash into his. The world around you spun as he turned you around, pushing you against the sofa. You called out his name, but he didn’t answer, only bending you over the arm, his hand pressed flatly against the small of your back.

“Yunho.” You whined, looking back at him, but there was a dark gleam in his eyes, hunger burning in his irises.

“Shut up,” He growled, pulling the end of your dress up until it was bunched over your hips, your pretty lace panties on full display. He wrapped his fingers around your waistband, pulling before letting it snap back against your skin, causing you to whimper. “We’re you planning on letting one of them fuck you?”

“N-No.” You choked out, tears dripping from your lashes from the overwhelming need to have him do something.

“Liar.” His tone was mean, fingers grabbing at your underwear once again, but this time, a loud rip filled the room. Then you heard the sound of a zipper, and excitement bubbled in the pit of your gut. “After tonight, you won’t need anyone else. Just me.”

Your breath hitched when you felt him teasing your entrance, then bumping into your clit. He continued to tease you until you were trembling, begging him to do something. Then he was pushing into you, his grip on your hips tight to keep you from squirming. 

“Y-Yun–” You were cut off by a moan when he pressed further, stretching you even more. Your ears were ringing from the pain and pleasure, fingers curled around the edge of the couch cushions,

“C’mon baby, you can take it.” He told you, his tone almost condescending, and you let your head hang with a mixture of moans and whines. When he finally bottomed out, you were gasping for air. It was too much but not enough all at once, and he was reaching spots no one else ever had before, and the feeling was turning your mind into mush.

He gave you just enough time to adjust before he was pulling out slowly, letting you feel every vein and ridge of his cock. The sensation was sending waves of pleasure through your body. Then, once just the tip was left, he slammed back in, causing you to let out a choked gasp, tears streaming down your flushed cheeks.

His pace was relentless, rough, and mean. Not giving you even an inch to breathe, and you had no other choice but to lie there and take it. He had your hips pinned to the couch, using them as leverage to fuck into you.

All that left your lips were incoherent babbles and moans of his name, your body feeling as if it were set on fire. Yunho smirked, watching as he fucked you stupid, a weird sense of satisfaction blooming in his chest.

 Then he repositioned his hips.

“Yunho!” You cried out as you suddenly came, walls contracting around him, and your mouth hung open.

“Shit.” Yunho cursed, his grip tight, sure to leave bruises as he fucked you through your high but never letting up on his pace.

Once you came down from your high, you could feel the overstimulation settling in your bones. Your eyes squeezed shut, pushing more tears out, and broken moans fell from your parted lips.

“Y-Yun–fuck! ‘S too much.” You cried out, hand flying back to grab his wrist, but he just grabbed it before pinning it to your hip. He let his other hand trail up to your neck, pulling your back flush with his chest as he bent over you. The new position had you crying out; he was pushing even deeper.

“It’s not. Take it like a good girl, you can do that, can’t you?” He cooed into your ear, fingers tightening around your neck, and your eyes rolled. You clenched around him, nodding as much as you could before you let out another broken moan.

Your mouth hung open, tears dripping from your nose as the coil in the pit of your stomach tightened to unimaginable levels, ready to snap at any moment. Yunho pressed hot kisses on the back of your shoulder, watching in sick amusement as your mind drifted away from you.

“Y-Yun…” You croaked, legs shaking as your high crept up on you at an insane speed.

Noticing Yunho whispered in your ear, “cum with me, doll, let me feel you.”

That was the final straw, your eyes rolling with a choked moan as you came around his cock, and he bit down on your shoulder as he painted your gummy walls white with his seed. He continued to fuck his cum back into you until you were begging him to stop.

Coming to a stop, he laid over you, allowing the both of you to catch your breath. When you finally came to, he was already looking at you, a smug smile on his lips, causing you to roll your eyes. 

“You’re ridiculous,” You told him, your voice hoarse, and he just leaned over, pressing a firm kiss on your cheek.

“You love it.” He stated in a matter-of-fact tone before adding on, “You don’t need them y/n you have me.”

You looked at him, searching his chocolate orbs for any sign that he was lying, but you couldn’t find any. Noticing that confusion was knitted in your brows, he let a smirk spread on his lips before rolling his hips slowly. A gasp fell from your lips; you hadn’t even noticed that he was hard again.

“I can just fuck you until you believe me.” He teased, fingers trailing along the plains of your body, his hips still slowly rocking against yours.

And he did just that.

© 𝐬𝐭𝐱𝐫𝐫𝐲𝐰𝐨𝐨 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 | 𝙙𝙤 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙖𝙡, 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙜𝙞𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙚, 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙨𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙚, 𝙤𝙧 𝙧𝙚𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙮 𝙤𝙛 𝙢𝙮 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙠

𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐫 : 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙣𝙤 𝙬𝙖𝙮 𝙖 𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙤𝙛 𝙖𝙣𝙮 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧𝙨. 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙥𝙪𝙧𝙚𝙡𝙮 𝙛𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙣𝙟𝙤𝙮𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙣 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙡𝙮

[confessionsandcreampies]

sexual dynamics of the blue lock boys

isagi yoichi – duality king. gentle beast. at first, he’s sweet. soft touches, patient hands, checking in with that low, careful voice. but the moment you praise him? it’s over. something shifts. that competitor core of his snaps awake. now he’s got your legs over his shoulders, hips slamming into yours with obsessive precision, whispering, “am i doing it right, baby? you sound so good.” his praise kink is vicious. he wants eye contact while you fall apart. once he’s in the zone, he’s relentless, focused, filthy, and absolutely feral. dynamic: gentle dom turned primal competitor. will keep going until you’re brainless.

itoshi rin – emotionally repressed destroyer. he fucks like he’s trying to shove every unspoken emotion into your body. no words, just heavy breathing, a grip too tight on your hips, eyes locked on the way you fall apart. he’s cold, clinical, but there’s something burning underneath. he kisses like he hates how badly he needs you. no soft talking, no dirty moans. just raw, brutal need. and afterward? he brings you water, wraps an arm around you silently, and pretends it meant nothing. dynamic: silent dom. rough. controlled. secretly obsessive.

itoshi sae – detached, degrading, feral under pressure. sae makes you wait. he’s slow, mocking, runs his fingers down your stomach and says, “already begging?” but it’s a front. because once you whimper, once you say his name in that tone, he loses it. he’ll choke you just enough to feel you squirm, call you a dumb little thing for needing him so much, but fuck you like he’ll die without it. jealousy pushes him over the edge. he degrades with his words but worships with his body. dynamic: soft sadist. detached dom with a jealousy complex. dangerous in bed.

shidou ryusei – unhinged demon with a praise kink. he laughs when you can’t take it. growls when you cum. fucks you like he’s high off your moans. shidou is chaos. he bites, he scratches, he pins you to whatever surface is closest. nothing about him is quiet. but he’s obsessed with you telling him how good he is. praise him, moan for him, and he’ll wreck you. he gets harder the messier you get. there are no limits with him. just endless, feral energy and you trying to survive it. dynamic: bratty dom. feral, relentless, and addicted to your pleasure.

nagi seishiro – lazy lover turned obsessed addict. at first, it’s lazy. curious. his fingers trace you like he’s testing a new game. but the moment he tastes you? he’s addicted. gone. the laziness vanishes. he eats you out like a man starved, moaning into your thighs, overstimulating you without mercy. he loves when you ride him, all sleepy and messy, but don’t be fooled. once he’s deep enough in it, he’ll flip you over and show you he’s stronger than he looks. and he always wants “one more”. dynamic: pillow prince turned possessive switch. addicted to your taste.

barou shoei – growling power dom with a possessive streak. there’s no softness here. barou fucks like he owns you. pushes your face into the mattress, spanks you hard enough to leave fingerprints, fucks you until your legs give out. growls in your ear about how no one else gets to see you like this. he doesn’t talk sweet, but he shows his obsession through how rough he takes you. he’s a beast, pure dominance, and you’ll be lucky if he lets you walk straight afterward. dynamic: power dom. territorial. primal. hates sharing. hates teasing. wants full control.

bachira meguru – sweet pervert with a wild streak. he makes sex feel like play. giggles when you moan, kisses every inch of you, loves when you squirm. but bachira’s not all sugar, he’s secretly a deviant. rope? toys? mirror play? he’s already experimented. he watches your face when you cum and smiles like it’s art. let him know you want him, and he’ll flip the switch, going feral with a wild glint in his eyes and whispered filth between giggles. dynamic: playful dom. switchy and adventurous. loves every part of your pleasure.

mikage reo – worshipper in the sheets. sugar dom. you feel like royalty with him. he kisses down your thighs like they’re sacred, whispers “you’re so perfect” while pushing into you, buys you lingerie just to rip it off. he moans when you moan. tells you he’s lucky. but brat a little? call him soft? he’ll show you otherwise, pin your wrists and make you beg while smirking like the devil. he’s a giver, but he runs the game. dynamic: service dom. spoils you rotten. worships and controls with equal heat.

michael kaiser – egocentric menace with a fixation problem. kaiser fucks like he’s better than everyone else and then proves it. he loves to make you whine, cry, beg. denies your orgasm with a smirk, asks you who owns you while you’re shaking, makes you say it twice. but if someone else so much as looks at you? he’s jealous. rabid. grabs your throat and fucks you like he’s stamping his name into your soul. he gets off on the power on being the center of your world. dynamic: cocky, possessive dom. loves to dominate, loves it more when you submit.

[darkmatilda]

the executioner

a little insight into the creative process, some encouragement, and a way to apologize for not posting anything <33

glasses s 2!spencer reid x podcast host female! reader

“We’ve worked cases where the murders were carried out execution-style before,” Hotch pointed out. “In those situations, the offender believes the victims are somehow guilty morally or socially and that's his duty to deliver justice. The use of electricity as a murder weapon is what sets this one apart. We need to go there and—”

“JJ, JJ, JJ my sweet girl, did you mention the podcast like I asked?” Penelope’s voice suddenly came from the laptop, usually silent or absent when it came to discussing the gruesome details of a case. The woman inhaled sharply, realizing she had interrupted Hotch’s sentence. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Garcia, I’m not sure—” JJ began.

“What podcast?” Spencer asked.

That question seemed to seal something, caused silence to fall over the room, and focused everyone’s attention on the two of them, the ones who knew something the rest didn’t. And something JJ didn’t seem particularly eager to share.

“Wonderful that you ask,” Garcia replied enthusiastically, her tone taking on that same excited note as when she talked about her favorite game. She caught herself slightly, just enough to underline that she was now speaking with seriousness and conviction. “So, my favorite true crime podcast…”

“Wait, wait,” Morgan cut in with a slow, halting motion of his hand. “Sorry to interrupt you, but tell me, babygirl, since when do you listen to true crime podcasts?”

“Oh, you’d have to listen to this one to understand! It’s not that typical i’m a man with a deep voice and I’ll lower it even more while adding door creaking sounds in the background so you’ll pee your pants listening to it at night kind of podcast,” Penelope, of course, demonstrated exactly what she meant.

Spencer glanced at Gideon’s face when she did that. He noticed Elle did the same.

“It’s called Rotten Cherry.This girl is so fun and she adds tons of her own commentary while still being respectful toward the victims and, well, significantly less toward the murderers but that’s not the point, I’m not giving her free promotion right now…actually, no, I am! Because guys, she lives in the town where this is happening, so she’s there, reporting on everything, talking to the locals…”

“Garcia, you’re seriously suggesting we use some amateur podcast as our source of information?” Spencer asked skeptically, absolutely not believing it could be useful to them in any way. No matter how fun that girl was.

“She’s not recording some kind of bullshit, she actually takes this seriously and professionally! And not as a main source of information, just something worth checking out. You know how small communities work. Nobody wants to talk, especially not to outsiders. But she actually managed to talk to one of the victim’s sisters, she’s working hard to gather information about them and, you know, honor them in some way and that really could be helpful. I mean, you always look into the victims’ histories and families anyway, trying to get to the unsub,” Penelope explained in a defensive tone.

A moment of silence fell, during which Spencer’s eyebrows remained doubtfully raised.

Until he felt Hotch’s sharp gaze fixed on him from across the table.

He understood what it meant almost instantly, and was already opening his mouth to protest — but got cut off.

“Reid, you’ll listen to it and let us know if there’s anything useful for the investigation. In the meantime, we’ll meet on the jet in fifteen minutes. That’s all.”

As everyone got up to leave the room, Spencer stayed behind for a brief moment, sighing with his eyes closed. He could go through hundreds of pages of case files four times faster than the rest of the team, and it wasn’t nearly as exhausting for him — but listening? And not even dry facts, but information gathered by someone else, presented in a humorous way on top of that?

Hell no.

With that approach, Spencer set about what he considered a sisyphean task, already on board the jet. Because he couldn’t refuse just because he had a feeling it wouldn’t lead them anywhere. He hoped someone would offer to take on the task instead of him, but after they saw his reluctance, their sadistic tendencies toward him kicked in and no one made him such an offer.

Away from the rest, without enthusiasm, he put the headphones on. Garcia had sent him a link to episodes related to the case they had just started working on; unlike others discussing, for example, killers like Jeffrey Dahmer, these focused on local murders and were short, somewhat like brief news updates. Apparently, the host girl posted many of her thoughts on the matter on a blog closely tied to the podcast, but he decided to check that out later.

“Can’t believe I’m saying this, guys,” the podcast began in a clear, pure female voice. Spencer immediately liked her flawless diction but was a bit surprised by how she started the episode with no introduction or greeting.

“But in today’s episode, we’re heading to a picturesque place in northern Vermont where the church is right across from McDonald’s, in case the guilt after your seventh burger this week pushes you all the way to the confessional and the most exciting event of the summer season is a festival with a contest for the best apple pie. Let’s not forget that everyone here knows not only you, your family up to five generations back, and your kindergarten friend, but also knows what you’re going to do even before you think about it yourself. And don’t even get me started on how fast rumors spread. Welcome to Fairview, the town I had the pleasure—or not—to be born in and suffer in, I mean, be raised in for over twenty years. And where a murder happened. Oh, I feel guilty now for all those times I prayed for something interesting to happen here, obviously, I didn’t mean that…”

[revelboo]

Ok but am I the only who's reading these with crashboombangers voices? Or am I just old and desperately missing him?

I had to google to see what you were talking about and I love his voices so much! Thank you for introducing me to it!

I was discussing spikes with another TF writer and realized that while I’ve had a couple of Cybertronians knot, I hadn’t really explained that in my head it’s technically something they can all do, but it’s a sort of social faux pas- a bit of old primitive instinct from the early days of the Cybertronian race and no one actually does it because it’s embarrassing/frowned upon so that urge is actively suppressed. It’s associated with younger Cybertronians interfacing for the first time and not being able to control themselves so they knot and get stuck. Two Cybertronians interfacing and one knots accidentally, they’re going to be judged by their partner for their lack of control. With a human that doesn’t know about the stigma associated, there’s no shame in accidentally knotting, because their human partner doesn’t know that’s not normal and just writes it off alien weirdness. 🔞 mass displaced mech 🌶️

Impulse Control

Bluestreak x Reader

• Staring at you naked on top of him, anxiety has him by the throat. “Are you sure this is okay?” Bluestreak asks even as he hates himself for asking, because what if you come to your senses? Realize you’d rather have literally anyone but him? What if he’s bad at this? If you two do this and it’s so bad that you’re embarrassed for him? And he becomes just a pity frag because he’s so awful you can’t even admit it to him. Freezing when you cup his face in your hands and his door wings lift slightly.

• “You sure you’re okay?” Because he looks like he’s working himself up to a panic attack. Searching his optics as he slowly nods, servos wrapping around your wrist, his worry leaves you warm. Tugging your hand to him as his mouth brushes against your palm. So sweet and uncertain and hopeful. “We can wait if you’re not into this right now.” And now he does look panicked, his erect spike pulsing with biolights as his free hand lands on your hip as if to keep you from escaping him.

• “Please, don’t go,” he growls, wincing at the desperation in his voice. How many times has he dreamed about this during recharge? About you? Fantasizing about being inside you while you’re lying there against him. Groaning when you sit up on him and shift, you rock against the underside of his spike in slow, deliberate moves. Can scent you when he vents, your need and heat drugging him as you grind against him before lifting up. “Guide me to you,” he groans, feeling you grip his spike and line him up. And you’re silken inside, so slick and hot as you slowly take him deep.

• His hips lift under you on a growl and you have to splay your palms on him for balance. Hearing him babbling in alien growls, rasps, and whirs he’s so keyed up that he can’t remember that you have no idea what he’s saying right now. Hoping he’s not asking anything important. Hips rolling as you get used to the feel of him stretching you before you’re moving on him in earnest to find a rhythm. Lips parting on a moan when his servos flex on your hips and waist. Letting you have your way as you ride him.

• You’re wrapped so tight around him as you lift up and drop. Bouncing on his spike with breathy moans and gasps and you’re beautiful riding him. Unable to believe you’re his. You are his. Spark thrumming as he watches you chase pleasure with his body and he needs more. To bond you, fill you. You’d let him, wouldn’t you? You’ve said you loved him, so bonding you would be okay. You’re moving faster on him, clenching on his spike as his servos tighten on you. Feels you grab his wrists, hips rocking and rutting against him as your head falls back on a cry when you come apart.

• He’s still talking at you as you keep moving on him, trying to make it last longer and he’s not overloaded, yet. Maybe too tangled in his head and worked up to be able to find pleasure. “Come for me, Blue,” you moan, hips rocking.

• Groaning as you fist his spike, trembling, he drags you down to him, carefully rolling you under him as his hips pump. Feels your hands grab onto his door wings while you moan his name and he’s overloading, hips grinding as he shifts his plating. And there you are as his spark reaches and claims you. Aware of the base of his spike swelling to knot inside you, of you arching tangled in his spark. Feeling your warmth drifting into him as he clings to you. To that feeling of acceptance and being needed. Because he needs you. All of you. To claim you and never be alone again. Feels your emotions and memories and knows you’re seeing things he didn’t mean to share, but can’t stop.

• Hearing it is one thing, but now you’re living that moment, grieving for a young Bluestreak trapped and scared. Alone, waiting for rescue. Not yet understanding that no one’s coming. That no one else survived the attack. And he’s wrapping tighter around you, smothering you with his overwhelming, desperate need to be loved to not be left behind. Feel a question there as he hangs onto you. A coaxing, hungry pull that you give in to. More of him tangling in you, seeing all of you like you’re seeing and understanding him. And the pull shifts. Becomes a demand and you give him that to, feeling a pang of something you don’t quite understand.

• Groaning and shuddering as his hips rock against you, it’s so hard to stop even though he can’t really thrust his knot is so swollen he’s just grinding urgently. Needs to break the connection but he just wants to savor it. Wants to ignore that uneasy feeling that’s breaking through the hungry need. Your lips are parted, eyes dark with need when his spark releases you and his door wings tuck back as it sinks in that he’s stuck inside you, his knot so swollen there’s no pulling out. Knotted inside you like an inexperienced youngling interfacing for the first time. And he winces when you shiver under him. ‘What was that?’ You mumble, staring up at him and he wilts. “We bonded. And I um, might have sparked you?” Isn’t actually sure, hadn’t meant to. He’d wanted to, though. And you’re just staring up at him in confusion. He didn’t actually just spark you, did he? ‘Sparked?’ You echo and he cringes even harder. He can’t have just sparked you.

[syrecjh]

OMG PART TWO OF "His Favorite Glitch" WHERE HE OPENS UP TO HER AND IS CRYING OR SOMETHING AND SHE HAS TO COMFORT HIM BUT ISNT GOOD WITH EMOTIONS SO SHE TRIES AND HE SEES HER TRYING AND THATS WHAT HELPS HIM CALM DOWN BECAUSE HE SEES THAT SHE CARES SO MUCH SHES TRYING (OOORRRRRR it can be crack where hes upset and she tries to help calm him down but what she says is so factual or robotic that its funny and him laughing makes her feel proud that she could calm him down--he's not laughing AT her if that makes sense, what she said is funny) whichever one you want!!

── .✦🦾His Favorite Glitch Part 2

When Fire Falls Apart

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x kinda robotic! reader, pure fluff

Part 1

The night finds him first.

It creeps through the slits of the dorm window, slow and silent, curling at the edges of his bed frame, licking at the corners of his vision. Katsuki Bakugo sits with his head bowed, elbows on knees, fists clenched like the only thing keeping him from falling apart is the tension in his own bones.

You find him there. Curled in shadow. Not sparking. Not cursing. Not yelling at Kaminari to shut up. Just… breathing like each one hurts.

You blink. Tilt your head. Your quirk registers his temperature spikes—slightly elevated, not from physical strain, but from something subtler. Emotion. Not anger, but pain.

“Do you require medical attention?” you ask, voice low, neutral, not unkind. Just unsure.

He lets out a sound—half laugh, half sigh. “No, dumbass. Just… needed air.”

You calculate the air quality of the room. Seventy-two percent fresh, twenty-eight recycled. Within acceptable ranges.

“Do you wish to ventilate?” you ask again, now pointing to the window.

He finally lifts his head.

And his eyes—ruby red and molten—are glossed over.

“Oh,” you say softly, eyes widening just a fraction. “You are crying.”

“Don’t say it like that!” he snaps immediately, dragging the heel of his palm across his cheek. “Like it’s some… system error.”

“But it is unexpected. You are rarely known to leak from the face.”

He stares at you. You stare back.

Silence.

Then—

Bakugo laughs. A sudden, sharp bark of disbelief—painful and grateful and breathless all at once.

You look startled.

“I made you laugh,” you say, blinking twice like it's a software update.

He wipes his face again, lips twitching. “Yeah. You did, glitch. Not even sure how.”

You step closer, hesitant. You are not good at this part—feelings, comfort, human softness not calculated in equations. But you kneel before him like he did for you once, hands fumbling before deciding to hover awkwardly over his shoulder. You give him a comforting pat. It’s more of a light poke. He winces.

“I… read that physical touch can help in moments of emotional distress.”

He closes his eyes. “You poked me like a vending machine.”

“I apologize. I will recalibrate my support.”

This time, he full-on chuckles. And though it's rough and wet and tired, it’s real. It’s relief.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur again, brow furrowed. “I do not know how to help you. But I want to.”

He exhales, the breath shaky, his hands still trembling. “It’s not about you helping. You’re here. That’s—shit. That’s more than enough.”

You nod. That, at least, is something you understand.

There’s silence again, but it’s less sharp now. He finally speaks, voice low, raw.

“I’m tired,” he says. “I wanna be the best. Always have. But Deku’s still ahead. Hell, even Shoto’s got something I don’t. And I know I’m strong—I know I am—but some days, I feel like I’m running toward a finish line that keeps getting further.”

You process that. Logically, you could tell him about nonlinear progress, about comparative stats, about how a line isn’t the only shape that can mean success.

But instead, you reach out—carefully this time—and place your hand on top of his clenched fist.

“You are… not a line,” you say.

He blinks. “Huh?”

“You are not a line. You are… a sunburst. Chaotic and explosive. Sometimes unpredictable. But always burning. Always seen.”

He stares at you.

“…That’s the weirdest compliment I’ve ever gotten,” he mutters.

You nod. “I am learning.”

And then he laughs again, forehead pressed to yours for a brief second, breath catching in the quiet between you.

“Thanks, glitch,” he murmurs. “You always say the weirdest shit when I need it most.”

You smile, small and proud. A glitch of joy.

“I am… glad to be helpful.”

He bumps his shoulder into yours, gentle. “You’re not just helpful.”

You glance up.

“You’re my favorite constant,” he says.

And that—more than logic, more than data—is what you save in your memory banks tonight.

Not code.

Not calculations.

But his laugh.

And the way your chaos made sense to his fire.

[mononijikayu]

prequel — 2004

you knew something was wrong the first time he said your name like it was an apology. not out loud, not with his words. fushiguro toji never said it directly.

but in the way he paused before answering you. in the way he leaned away from your touch instead of into it. in the way his hands used to linger, but now barely grazed your waist like you were made of something too fragile to want.

toji had always been careful. but now he was distant. not angry. not cruel. just elsewhere. like he was living in a room that you weren’t allowed inside anymore.

it was quiet for months before you said anything. you told yourself it was just how love aged. it was how people got comfortable, how fire turned into embers, how passion settled into routine.

but routine shouldn’t feel like being ignored. routine shouldn’t feel like absence dressed up in a ring. and still, you waited. because he never yelled. never made you upset. never lied.

he was just... grieving.

still.

always.

and somehow, that was worse. being the other woman to a ghost. a ghost shouldn't bother you. it shouldn't continue to follow you around. it shoud rest in peace. yet it was not how it was.

you noticed it most at night. you used to fall asleep with his hand on your thigh, his breath warm against your neck, his fingers twitching slightly when he dreamed.

but now he turned away before you even shut the light. his body curled inward, facing the wall. his muscular back a barrier you stopped trying to cross.

you’d stare at the ceiling, counting the seconds between his breaths. listening for anything soft. anything human. anything that sounded like want.

but he never reached for you. not anymore. the last time he touched you, really touched you, was two months ago. you don't remember. perhaps it was even longer.

he came home late from work. he drank beer, then sat at megumi's bed for hours. then looked at tsumiki for half an hour. you were just languishing in the silence.

his shoulders heavy. his scarred mouth tight. you’d been sitting at the kitchen table in one of his old sweatshirts, trying to keep your eyes open, just waiting for him.

he kissed you then. slow. distracted. lips that barely pressed. at least that's what you remembered. your body leaned into it instinctively. but his didn’t.

you could feel it in his hands. how they slid down your waist like a memory. how they clutched you like he was afraid to want you. afraid it would take something away from someone else.

you didn’t say anything. you just stood there, letting him hold you. letting yourself pretend it still meant something. but later, when you climbed into bed beside him, he didn’t even reach for you.

tonight, it’s too much. the ghost haunted you too much. you didn't have to say it out loud. you just knew it was the ghost. she stared at you from the frame opposite your marital bed.

maybe it’s the unusual silence. maybe it’s the way he closes the window and forgets to ask if you’re cold. maybe it’s the way your name hasn’t left his mouth in three days.

you stand in the bathroom doorway and watch him. the light overhead hums. the mirror is fogged. he’s brushing his teeth. and you’re falling apart.

you ask it plainly. “do you still think about her?”

he pauses. not long. not dramatically. just enough. and you know. you already knew, but now it has shape. he rinses his mouth. leans over the sink. sets his toothbrush down carefully, like he’s afraid of breaking it.

then he says it. “she was megumi’s mother.”

and it shatters you in the softest, quietest way. because he didn’t say no. he just reminded you who she was. as if that gave him permission.

you step into the bathroom. your voice is still steady, but your hands won’t stop trembling. “i’m your wife.”

you don’t mean it as a correction. you mean it as a plea. as a last thread. toji looks at you in the mirror. not cruel. not cold. just... tired. exhausted from all of this. exhausted of you. you could just tell.

"i am your wife, toji." you felt like you were going to cry it out loud. yet it was nothing but a breath. ghostly at that. "and im fighting with a ghost."

“i never asked you to be her, [name].” he says, glaring harder at you. "stop it."

and god, that hurts more to hear.

and its even harder to see that look.

because no, he didn’t ask it of you.

but he never let you be you either.

“you didn’t have to, toji.” you whisper. “i’ve been compared to her every day since we got married, even when you didn’t say her name.

"[name]-"

"it's like you hate that im the one next to you and not her.” you felt the tears threaten to pour. "its like you wish i wasn't the one there."

he looks down on the ground. he doesn't lift his head anymore. he doesn't want to. he doesn't need to. you think to yourself: he’s not going to fight for this. you step closer. slowly. softly.

“when you touch me, when you make love to me.....” you say, choking. “you don’t even see me.”

toji doesn’t argue. he just breathes. slow at first. and then shallowly. like this is grief, not marriage. like you’re mourning something that’s already been buried.

“you touched me.....” your voice breaks at that. “....you touch me like you were already letting go.”

and you see the way his mouth opens. it was like he wants to explain everything. to apologize. but there’s nothing he can say that would undo the way you’ve felt for months. for years.

like a substitute.

like an echo.

like a frame without a painting.

you swallow hard. tears sting your eyes, but you keep them in. “i can’t do this anymore, toji.”

he blinks. it almost looks like regret. almost. but he still doesn’t reach for you. he doesn’t say stay. you step back from him at that moment.

and he lets you.

you pack a small bag. nothing dramatic. just a few clothes. your charger. the necklace he gave you on your anniversary that you haven’t worn in six months.

you write a note with your shaky hands. you couldn't see half the page from tears. but you didn't write too long. you didn't want to. that would be harder.

you wrote that note not because he asked for one, but because you need to leave something behind that says i existed here. i tried. and this is all that there is.

you slip your ring off your finger. place it gently on the table beside the lamp. the apartment is quiet. even the fridge hums softer now. like the house knows.

you walk to the door. your keys feel too heavy in your hand. and then you turn. one last time. he’s standing in the hallway. barefoot. arms crossed. like he’s been watching you this whole time and couldn’t find the words.

you look at him, and for a moment, you see it— the pain, the guilt, the love that could never quite outrun the ghost in his chest. and for a moment, you can see her ghost wrap her arms around his neck, chaining him forever.

standing there still, unmoving, you almost ask him if he ever truly loved you. but you don’t. because you’re done begging for an answer he doesn’t know how to give.

this was enough for you.

you can't do it anymore.

you don't deserve this.

you never truly did.

“goodbye, toji.”

and he nods. not in anger. not in confusion. but in surrender. as if this, too, was inevitable. outside, the night is quiet. you get into your car. you put your hands on the steering wheel. you sit there, staring at the road ahead.

you think of him in the hallway. you think of the woman who never really left. you think of the version of yourself who tried to love a man who never stopped grieving someone else.

and then you drive. not fast. not far. just forward. because if he couldn’t let go of her, of her ghost, of everything, then maybe it’s time you let go of him.

[vaginalvr]

Hii, I have a fic idea that stuck in my head for a while,so here I am. What about postprison!spencer×nonbau!reader (age gape or no as you wish) where they’ve been dating for a little while,but she doesn’t know about this prison situation and then somehow she finds out about it and his all nervous about it and worry that she’ll stop loving him, but reader reassures him and telling that it doesn’t change anything and only thing she feels bad about that such awesome person as Spencer gone through it,and after this conversation they had the most sweet and hot and amazing sex.BUT when he wake ups in the morning she’s not in the bed and nowhere around apartments so he start to think that actually it all was a lie and he did scare her off, but the truth is that she just wake up early to get his favorite bakery from his favorite place and then returns back to him and he’s just be like “you don’t leave me 🥹” and reader be like “ofc no, I told you I’m not going anywhere “ and then just sweet moment with them.

I hope you it’s comfortable for you to write about, but it’s okay if not,thank u anyway! And also English not my native language so sorry for mistakes!

content warning: Explicit but tender PIV sex, Oral references (non-graphic), Emotional vulnerability during sex (crying, apologizing), Consensual but intense physical closeness (bruising grip)

a/n: this took forever so i apoligize, i had to keep stopping to cry, enjoy!

word count ~ 1.4k

You had always loved mornings with Spencer. He wasn’t the easiest sleeper—nightmares, insomnia, or just that ceaseless mind of his—but on the nights he did rest well, you’d wake to his face so calm, softened, as though whatever weight he carried had been left somewhere you couldn’t see.

Tonight, though, sleep felt impossible for either of you.

It had started with an argument—not between you and him, exactly, but with the world. You had been watching something on the news, some trial coverage, and you’d muttered how horrible it was to imagine being wrongfully imprisoned.

You hadn’t known.

Spencer had gone quiet in that still, terrified way that made your heart sink. He wouldn’t look at you. When you asked him what was wrong, his voice cracked as he admitted it.

Prison.

He tried to explain, but his hands shook.

The nightmares you’d soothed before made too much sense.

“I didn’t want to tell you.” His voice sounded almost childishly small. “I thought if you knew... you wouldn’t want me.”

Your own heart hurt so badly it felt like a physical wound. You wanted to scream at the universe for ever doing that to him.

Instead you crawled into his lap on the couch, ignoring his flinch at first, forcing your palms to stay gentle as they framed his face.

“Spencer,” you whispered. “Look at me.”

His eyes were glassy, but he obeyed.

“I don’t care that you were in prison. I care that you went through that.”

He blinked, tears falling.

“I’m sorry you had to survive that. I hate that you were alone.”

You kissed him before he could say anything else, holding onto him so tightly he trembled.

His breath hitched when you shifted in his lap.

“Don’t you dare think I’m going anywhere.”

He swallowed, eyes wet and wide. “You... you mean that?”

“Spencer. I love you. All of you. Even the parts that hurt.”

Your thumbs caught his tears. His mouth found yours again with desperate, uneven heat, his hands tangling in your hair.

That was when you felt the change—like something in him broke open.

He let you guide him to the bedroom, let you push him gently onto the mattress, watching you with feverish, disbelieving eyes as you straddled his hips.

You tugged his shirt over his head and pressed kisses to every inch of pale skin, your lips lingering on old scars, on the places where tattoos or brands of the system had faded but never fully disappeared.

His breath stuttered when you unbuttoned your blouse.

“Please,” he rasped.

You smiled, slow and aching. “I’m here.”

His hands were trembling when he ran them over your bare back, pulling you flush against him, his cock hard and twitching between you. You ground against him slowly, making him gasp, shiver, cling.

When you finally guided him inside you, it was careful at first, deliberate.

But he didn’t stay careful.

He let go.

His fingers bruised your hips. His breath came in hot, desperate moans against your throat. He kept apologizing, and you kept silencing him with your mouth, your body rocking against his.

When he came, he sobbed.

You held him through it.

After, you let him roll you over so he could bury his face against your chest, his breathing harsh but calming.

He whispered, broken and quiet, that he loved you.

You kissed the crown of his hair and told him you loved him too.

Eventually, finally, you both slept.

You woke before dawn.

You lay there a long moment, watching the tiny crease between his brows, even relaxed as he was. You ran a fingertip over his cheekbone. He looked so peaceful.

And you thought about what you could do.

He’d mentioned once—offhand, in one of those encyclopedic rambles you adored—that there was this bakery he loved as a kid, that he hadn’t had it in years. You realized you knew the place. It wasn’t too far.

You pressed a final kiss to his forehead, slipped from the bed as quietly as you could, and dressed in the half-light.

He didn’t stir.

You smiled.

Spencer woke to an empty bed.

The cold sheets.

The apartment silent.

His chest caved in with dread so visceral he thought he might throw up.

She left.

Of course she left.

Last night had been too much. He’d dumped all of it on her, sobbed in her arms, fucked her like he was starved. And she’d said she wouldn’t go, but people said things in the moment.

They didn’t mean it.

Not once they saw.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, fingers twisting in his hair.

He felt so stupid.

So sure he’d ruined everything.

He almost didn’t hear the key in the lock.

He flinched at the sound, then froze, listening.

“Spencer?”

Your voice, soft, uncertain.

He surged off the bed, tripping over his own feet, heart slamming.

You were standing in the doorway, bags in both hands.

You blinked at him, confused.

“Hey. Good morning? Sorry—I tried to be quiet so you could sleep...”

He stared at you.

And then, helplessly, his voice cracked.

“You didn’t leave?”

Your face fell in instant, horrified understanding. You dropped the bags on the counter and rushed to him.

“Oh my god. Oh, baby. No. No. Come here.”

You pulled him in, arms wrapping around his waist.

“I told you I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered fiercely against his shoulder.

He trembled under your hands.

“You were gone—”

“I went to get you your favorite pastry. Look.” You pulled back just enough to fumble the bag open, showing the warm, flaky thing he’d once mentioned missing so much.

His vision blurred.

You watched him, so worried.

“Spencer,” you said softly, firmly. “I love you. I want you. All of you.”

He buried his face against your neck, inhaling you like air.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he choked out.

“You won’t,” you promised. “Not ever.”

He held you so tightly it hurt.

You eventually coaxed him to sit on the bed with you, feeding him bits of the pastry, kissing sugar from his lips, hands tangling in his hair.

He smiled for you then, raw but real.

And you smiled back.

In the pale morning light, you pressed your forehead to his and whispered:

“I’m here. Always.”

His eyes shone with tears.

He exhaled, long and shaking, and let you hold him.

Because for the first time in far too long, he let himself believe you.

[zomquette]

Dunno ‘er - (part 2)

Daryl Dixon x Wife!reader

Summary:  You didn’t sign up for a brainwashed death cult. But here you are—collared, bruised, and pretending not to know your own husband.

The escape plan? Still cooking.

But life has other ideas.  Like watching everything you love go up in smoke. And then, when all hope’s gone, a miracle with a familiar face walks into your gun sight.

Problem is… you’re both one second from falling apart. Oh and you have a daughter waiting for you back home.

Genre: Post-apocalyptic angst, emotional/eventual smut, established relationship, captivity survival, hurt/comfort, reunion.

⚠️ Content Warnings: Graphic violence and murder / Captivity and psychological torture / Dissociation, trauma responses, emotional numbness / False death / burned body imagery / Religious cult themes / Grief, survivor’s guilt, PTSD themes / Explicit sexual content (PIV, double creampie, desperate/reunion sex/ Dacryphilia? Praise kink?) / Sexual content while grieving / Strong language / profanity.

Author's note: Seriously, if you can't handle angst, don't read this — it's pretty intense. I'm still a bit unsure about fitting so much into one part. I fear that that may have stripped it of all the tension, cliffhangers, and blah blah, but let me know what you all think. This is roughly 10% fluff, 50% angst, and 40% smut. And honestly, I'm quite proud of the smut I wrote, hehehe. I promised smut in the last part, and I am a woman of my word (I'm ovulating, so that's why it's filthy). BUT THIS IS SO LONG, WTF — every post I make gets longer than the last. Also, the rage I’m harbouring right now is unhealthy. I stayed up all night writing this, and it didn't save, so I had to use an old draft. Real ones would have seen the og post being posted at an unduly hour and deleted right after cause it was the wrong version. Anyway, this will never be as good as the original one I had, but whatever. I think I’ve just been trying to perfect this so much that I’ve grown tired of the story. I tried my best to make itly thorough, but I cba doing 5 or 6 part series, so deal with it. Anyway, erm, enjoy. 🔫 Good luck reading this, honestly, but if you do manage to get through it, please let me know what you think! If you want a part 3 or maybe I should just stick to one-shots, lol. rushed, be real

The sky was beginning to soften at the edges, that pale pink glow creeping over the tops of the houses like an afterthought. Alexandria was quiet—too quiet. The kind of quiet that didn’t feel like peace. It felt like absence.

Carol had barely slept. She’d tried—curled up on the couch with a half-read book in one hand and Dani’s head pressed against her chest—but every creak in the house made her sit upright. Every gust of wind that whispered against the windows made her turn her head. They were supposed to be back by nightfall.

They weren’t.

She told herself a hundred reasons why. A blocked path. A long shot. An overnight holdout. Nothing she hadn’t done herself. But as the night stretched longer, those excuses stopped fitting right.

The sun was just beginning to rise when the barking started.

Frantic, erratic barking. 

Carol was already on her feet by the time she registered the sound. She crossed to the front window first, peeking through the curtains, her hand resting instinctively near the blade at her hip. Behind her, Dani still slept on the couch, curled on her side with one arm flung over her stuffed giraffe.

Carol hesitated, casting a glance back at the girl. Quietly, she moved to her side, brushing a few strands of hair from Dani’s face. The child didn’t stir.

Then the barking came again—sharper now, urgent.

Carol straightened, her pulse catching. She moved to the door.

Then she saw him—Dog—barreling through the gate, his paws kicking up dust, his fur slick with sweat and burrs. He didn’t stop for anything. Not the gate, not the guard. He bee-lined for the house like he had something to say and no way to say it.

Carol’s blood went cold.

“Shit.”

The door creaked open behind her.

“Is it them?” Dani’s voice, soft and raspy, still half-asleep. She stood in the hallway, holding her little giraffe toy by the neck, her hair mussed and face creased from the pillow.

Carol turned, forcing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s Dog, sweetheart. He came home.”

Dani blinked up at her, confusion flickering in her features.

“But—where’s Mama?”

Dog let out a sharp bark then, circling back toward the gate as if expecting someone else to follow. When no one did, he whined—just once—and laid down at Dani’s feet, panting hard.

The moment stretched too long.

Dani’s little voice cracked.

“Where’s Daddy?”

Carol crouched slowly, gathering the girl into her arms. Dani didn’t cry. Not yet. But her lip wobbled, and her little fists clenched in Carol’s shirt like she already knew. Carol closed her eyes against the rising sun and whispered into Dani’s hair.

“We’re gonna find them, sweetie. I promise.”

------

The clang of the iron doors echoed louder than it should have. Morning haze burned off above, revealing a sunken courtyard lined in metal and concrete—an arena. It was crude but intentional, like a forgotten parking lot retrofitted into a coliseum. Creed soldiers stood posted on ledges above, rifles in hand, their blank stares as chilling as the frost in the air.

You and Daryl were led in side by side, wrists still raw from rope burns, flanked by two guards whose silence felt more threatening than any shout. Marshal waited at the far end, leaning against a pillar like he owned the damn sky. “Welcome to the next phase of your integration,” he said with a smirk. “Time to see what you’re really made of.”

Daryl’s eyes scanned over the crpowd and landed back on Marshal; “the hell does that mean?”

Marshal didn’t flinch. He only smiled—a small, patient expression that suggested he’d been waiting for Daryl to ask.

“What it means,” he said, tone steady and deliberate as his eyes flicked from Daryl to you, “is that we’re gonna see whether the two of you are built for survival, or just lucked your way this far.”

Daryl’s posture shifted—shoulders drawn tight, chin lifted ever so slightly. He didn’t blink. Didn’t speak.

“You both say you’re not part of any community,” Marshal continued, stepping in closer, voice still calm but now laced with something colder, meaner. “You say you’ve got no ties, no attachments, no liabilities. Well, we’re about to test that. See how deep that independence really goes.”

He made a vague gesture to the empty space in the center of the pit, and only then did you notice the chalk ring, faint but deliberate, drawn onto the dusty floor. A makeshift arena.

“Rules are simple,” Marshal said, glancing back at the onlookers gathering behind the barricades. “You step into the ring. You fight. No weapons. No kills. Just enough to show us you can survive without sentiment.”

His eyes landed squarely on you. “Win, and you prove you’re valuable to The Creed.”

Then to Daryl, his smirk returning. “Lose… and you prove you’re not.”

Daryl took a step forward, his voice dropping low with that same dry, dangerous rasp that never needed to be raised to hit like a bullet. “You want us to fight each other?”

Marshal didn’t answer at first. He let the silence stretch, enjoying the crackling tension like a man toasting marshmallows over an open fire. Then, with an infuriating shrug: “You said you’re strangers. Shouldn’t matter.”

You exhaled slowly, eyes sweeping the chalk ring, then up to Daryl.

He looked like he was staring down a bull, not his goddamn wife.

Daryl’s boots scraped against the dirt as he stepped into the ring with the stiffness of a man preparing for an execution—his own, not yours. His body moved like it didn’t want to, like every muscle was strung tight and on the verge of snapping. You tilted your head, watching him with a slow grin, even as your stomach coiled into knots.

You lowered your voice to a whisper only he could hear. “C’mon, Dixon. You’ve been waitin’ to knock me on my ass for years. Now, sack up and hit your wife already!”

His glare cut sideways. “Ain���t funny woman.”

“No,” you muttered back, cracking your knuckles, “but if you don’t swing at me in the next thirty seconds, this whole charade is gonna fall through.”

Around you, the crowd pressed in like vultures, a mess of hushed chants and boots grinding on dirt. Marshal stood still at the edge of the ring, arms crossed, unimpressed. His eyes were sharp, hungry for weakness, waiting for blood.

“Hit me,” you hissed. “Make it look good.”

Daryl looked like he wanted to argue—of course, he did—but then his jaw twitched and his shoulders rolled back, and suddenly he was moving. You ducked the first lunge, then let him catch you on the second, his grip firm but careful as he shoved you backward just hard enough to send you sprawling with a theatrical grunt.

You landed on your back, winded only by the sheer performance of it, then popped up fast and grinned like the world’s cockiest fox. “That’s the spirit, baby.”

He shook his head once, biting back a smirk.

You circled him again, letting your feet slide through the dust as you closed the distance. Then—without warning—you leapt forward and tackled him.

The crowd gasped. So did Daryl.

He landed hard, and you were on top before he could blink, straddling him with your knees locked against his sides. One hand went for his throat—not to crush, just enough to push his head back into the dirt, your body draped low enough that your lips brushed his ear as you murmured, hot and slow, “Ooh, gettin’ déjà vu, baby.”

His breath hitched. You felt it more than you heard it.

You leaned in closer, still whispering, still completely out of pocket. “Y’know, if this is what it takes to spice things up, we should fight in front of a cult more often.”

All joking aside, the last thing you two needed was for things to ‘spice up’ in the bedroom. Daryl’s eyes flashed, and in one fluid motion, he flipped the two of you over. It wasn’t aggressive. It wasn’t even dominant. It was like his body did it on instinct, like the muscle memory of being with you overrode every ounce of caution.

He straddled you now, both of you panting, faces close, his giant hand going to your throat to give the illusion he was choking you now. Now you were the one getting Deja vu - for one suspended second, the world dropped away.

His palm hovered at your throat, barely brushing it, thumb ghosting the pulse there—not enough to leave a mark, not even close, but enough to look convincing to the frothing crowd around you.

Then he murmured low, voice rough and electric: “Keep talkin’, woman, and we’re gonna give the whole Creed a show.”

You snorted under your breath, “thought that was the plan.” You reached up and grabbed his wrist, eyes wild with mock fury, and hissed, “Well, this is familiar.”

His whole body tensed.

“You tryna get me killed?” he rasped low through clenched teeth, voice almost drowned out by the chant rising from the circle around you—“Fight, fight, fight!”—as boots stomped rhythmically against the dirt.

You batted your lashes, whispered, “You love it.”

Then you kneed him in the side—not hard, not enough to do damage, just enough to get him to roll. You broke apart in a scramble of limbs, dirt smearing across your cheek as you rolled to your feet, breathing hard, brushing your hair from your face in a single, showy sweep.

Daryl was up just as fast, crouched low, boots spread, that predator stance of his back in full force. His eyes flicked to you, then around the ring, then back again. 

He wasn’t enjoying this. But to his credit, he was playing along.

You gave him a cocky wink and charged again, this time twisting mid-run so he couldn’t catch you outright. You ducked beneath his arms, spun behind him, and hoisted yourself up using his shoulders. Your legs swung around to lock around his neck. The momentum of your movements and your added weight brought him crumbling down to the ground, your iron grip not faltering. 

The crowd hollered like it was a strip show. Your thighs were still locked around his neck, not crushing at all. Daryl would happily fall asleep like this if it weren’t for the angry mob surrounding the two of you. You grinned down at him, all sugar and sin. “That reminds me, actually,” you purred, angling your hips for dramatic flair. “—you still owe me for that bet yesterday, Dixon. And I’m thinkin’ this counts as double interest. I’m thinking maybe me on top and then-”

You didn’t get to finish the sentence.

Daryl’s hands shot up and dug mercilessly into your ribs—that precise spot he knew that gets you every time..

“Daryl!” you screeched, your legs faltering as your grip broke under the betrayal. That asshole was tickling you. You twisted, half laughing, half furious, trying to wriggle free, but he rolled with you, fluid as a predator, and the next thing you knew, Daryl was straddling you again, his face flushed, his breath warm and smug on your cheek.

“You fight dirty,” you gasped, still squirming.

He leaned down, pinning your wrists to the earth. “Learned from the best.”

The crowd roared its approval behind him—none the wiser to the fact that your brutal, breathless brawl had just taken a sharp detour into foreplay.

You were still breathless beneath him when his eyes flicked toward the growing crowd—some of them cheering, some confused, and one or two looking suspiciously too entertained. Marshal’s expression was unreadable, but his arms were crossed, and that never meant anything good.

Daryl must’ve felt the change in the air too, because the next thing you knew, he was gripping your waist and lifting you clean off the ground.

Your yelp turned into a squeal of half-genuine panic as he hauled you upright, holding you like a goddamn ragdoll in some bastardised wrestling move you were almost sure he learned from watching you and Judith play WWE.

Your legs kicked slightly in protest, your hands scrabbling for purchase on his shoulders, and your voice came out a little more shrill than intended;“Don’t drop me, Dixon. Not in front of my fans!”

Then you flipped backwards off him, hitting the ground in a clean roll that had half the crowd gasping and the other half cheering like they’d just watched a WWE pay-per-view. You let the momentum carry you into a crouch, then sprang up with a fake jab that Daryl dodged with practised ease, his eyes tracking you the way a storm watches a matchstick flame.

“Sell it,” you hissed when your face passed his. “Hit me like you mean it, or I will break your nose. For real.”

He growled low. “Ain’t hittin’ you.”

“Then throw me again, you stubborn bastard.”

He did. He swooped you up and dropped you dramatically—but with enough control that you hit the ground in a well-rehearsed tumble, landing on your side with a grunt that made it look real. He crouched beside you instantly, all faux menace and steady hands.

You stayed down for a beat—long enough to convince the watchers you were down for good—then moved.

Not fast. Explosive.

Your legs hooked behind his knees, yanked hard, and Daryl hit the dirt with a grunt of surprise, his fall cushioned only slightly by instinct.

The crowd reacted immediately—cheers, hollers, a few startled laughs—and you were already scrambling over him, straddling his chest before he could fully register what just happened. You raised your elbow in the air, giving Daryl the signal—a silent cue only the two of you would catch—and started ‘punching’ him with exaggerated flair. He played along, grunting like you were knocking the sense out of him, head snapping to the side each time your fist made theatrical contact.

Each blow was sold like a soap opera brawl, complete with breathy snarls and eye rolls, until the crowd started eating it up. Somewhere near the front, someone shouted, “Finish him!” and you gave a little wink like you might.

“C’mon, baby,” you muttered under your breath between ‘hits,’ keeping your expression fierce for the audience but your voice low just for him. “Gimme some sound effects or they're gonna think you're a bottom.”

He groaned dramatically in reply—part pain, part exasperation. “Remind me never to piss you off for real.”

You raised a brow. “You say that every time.”

Then you threw another punch, complete with an over-the-top snarl, and this time he flopped sideways, one arm sprawled out like you’d just KO’d him in a Vegas ring.

You leaned back, arms raised in mock victory like a bloodthirsty crowd champion. The Creed audience roared.

Then, just to seal the deal, you grabbed his shirt, hauled him up halfway—then headbutted him.

Not hard. Just enough to send him reeling backward in shock, the motion letting you roll smoothly off him like you’d planned it all along.

The Creed crowd loved it. They erupted, hooting and clapping, some banging fists against whatever passed for a makeshift wall. A few even started chanting something unintelligible, just thrilled by the show of violence.

Marshal didn’t look thrilled.

You circled Daryl as he sat up slowly, rubbing his temple and blinking like someone had just unplugged him from a simulation.

“That one was for the hickey you gave me right before council meeting last week, asshole.” you said sweetly, brushing fake dust off your pants.

“Cmon Dixon get up,” you barked, pacing like a feral thing now. “I swear to God, if I have to carry this whole scene myself, I want a cut of the ticket sales.”

He struck first—predictable. A sharp, looping jab aimed to rattle, not bruise. You ducked with a twist of your neck, caught his wrist mid-swing, and used his own weight to spin him in place, your boot skidding in the dust as you leveraged his momentum and shoved him shoulder-first into the ground.

But he rolled with it, literally, came up on one knee already moving, and this time it was you dodging a backhand that would’ve blacked your eye. He didn’t hesitate—not because he meant it, but because the crowd didn’t know he didn’t.

You kicked high. He caught it mid-air. Smirked. What an asshole.

You bent with the held leg and launched your other foot at his chest. He stumbled—more from surprise than force—and you dropped into a crouch, one hand finding the dirt. He didn't waste any time and lunged again.

You met him halfway—no wasted motion, no theatrics. Just two bodies colliding with the precision of old instincts. You traded blows: elbow to ribs, forearm to throat, the twist of his fingers catching your braid before you slammed your palm into his stomach and flipped him clean over your shoulder.

He hit the ground hard. You followed, straddling him yet again, making sure to keep him pinned to the ground.

And then—your faces aligned. Close. Breath mingling. His mouth twitched.

“Think Marshal’s buyin’ it?”

“Think I’m gonna lose my damn mind,” he muttered, gritting his teeth as his hands gripped your thighs too tight to be innocent.

You sat up on him, pinning his shoulders with your knees, then pretended to throw a punch—only to pause mid-air and flash a sickly sweet smile down at him.

“Smile for the crowd, baby.”

The crowd was howling now. Half of them were ready to crown you queen of this dirt-pit, the other half probably needed a cold shower. It didn’t matter. You were selling it.

And then came the whisper: “Ready to end it?”

Daryl gave you the faintest nod.

You feinted a punch to his side—he read it, blocked—and that’s exactly what you wanted. You twisted your arm in his grip, used the torque to propel your body up, and flipped yourself over his shoulder in a tight, ruthless arc. His grip slipped. His balance shattered. He staggered back, just for a breath—and that’s all you needed.

You ran straight for him.

A short sprint. Three steps. You jumped.

Your boot planted on his thigh, then his shoulder, and in a blur of motion you vaulted off him—body spinning in the air, twisting behind him like a goddamn storm—and brought him down with a brutal scissor-kick to the back of the neck.

He hit the ground hard. Wind knocked out. Face-down in the dust.

And before the crowd could blink, you were on him—foot planted between his shoulder blades, hand gripping his wrist, pulling his arm behind his back in a vicious, joint-lock hold. You leaned low, whispering just for him.

"You good? Ready for the big finale yet?" 

His breathe studdered from beneath you; "thought that was the finale-"                                                           

The crowd was eating it up now, hollering, whooping, even laughing in scattered bursts. But Marshal didn’t look amused. His jaw was tight, his arms still folded.

That moment of connection flickered between you and Daryl—something hot and dangerous beneath the surface—and just as quickly, you broke it. You rolled, forcing him off, staggering to your feet with a limp you barely sold.

“Round two?” you rasped, catching your breath.

Daryl grunted, getting to his feet with a glare that was more fond than furious. “You’re an asshole.”

“You married me,” you said sweetly. “Suck it up.”

From the edge of the crowd, Marshal’s voice sliced through the tension like a blade.

“Enough.”

Marshal’s voice split the air like a bullet, slicing clean through the chaos with the kind of finality that didn’t invite argument. The shift was instant. The onlookers, once rowdy and riled with bloodlust, fell into a jarring silence—uneasy, expectant. Like they’d just sensed a storm rolling in.

You froze mid-step, chest rising with sharp, shallow breaths, hands still half-raised in your theatrical stance. Across from you, Daryl was already watching Marshal like a hound scenting something foul, his posture rigid, fists clenched tight at his sides.

Marshal stepped into the ring slowly, arms folded, his boots dragging dust over the edge of the chalk line like he was crossing into holy ground. He didn’t look amused. Didn’t look impressed. He looked tired of the performance.

“That was cute,” he said, his voice low and stripped of inflection. “Entertaining, even. But this ain’t a circus.”

He nodded toward the edge of the crowd, toward one of the waiting soldiers.

“We need soldiers.”

Then, eyes fixed on Daryl, he added: “You’ve been benched.”

Daryl blinked once, slow. “The fuck does that mean?”

Marshal’s mouth twitched—not a smile, not quite.  “Means you're out. She needs a real fight - with someone who can actually keep up.”

You didn’t see the snap. You felt it.

Daryl stepped forward fast, body tight as wire, his voice a rasp of fury that cut clean through the space between you. “Fuck that.”

The crowd shifted like a tide turning—weapons twitched, fingers hovered near triggers, boots repositioned subtly for tension.

Marshal didn’t even blink. “Stand down,” he said, calm as poison. “Unless you wanna be executed for insubordination.”

Daryl didn’t move at first. His shoulders rose and fell with shallow, furious breath. His eyes never left Marshal’s.

That’s when you stepped in—just your eyes, one sharp look. Enough.

It didn’t say please. It said: Don’t you fucking dare. You’ll get us both killed.

His jaw clenched. You could practically hear the bones grind. But he stepped back—barely. One foot, then the other, like he had to pry himself away from the fight inch by inch.

You didn’t thank him. There wasn’t time.

You turned back toward the center as the new opponent stepped into the ring. One of Marshal’s men—a tall, wiry bastard with a sunken mouth and cracked knuckles. No theatrics. No grin. Just the cold, blank expression of someone who liked to hurt and had been given permission to do so.

He circled you like a vulture, eyes narrowed, head tilted slightly, studying the angle of your stance the way a butcher sizes up a carcass before the cut. You didn’t smile. You didn’t wink. No playful mask this time. You just rolled your neck until it cracked like splitting wood, dropped your weight low into your hips, and squared your shoulders as if made of stone.

Marshal gave the nod.

He didn’t wait. He didn’t feint. He lunged like he meant to kill.

His fist tore through the air with the speed of a blade. You dodged—barely—the wind of it rushing past your temple, but the elbow followed fast, and that one landed with surgical precision, driving up beneath your ribs so hard your vision flashed white at the edges. You didn’t fall. You couldn’t. You swallowed the pain like gravel in your throat, gritted your teeth, and met him halfway with a sweep of your leg that caught his ankle and knocked him off-balance. But he was fast—too fast—and his recovery was brutal. A sharp kick drove into your thigh, the kind that bypassed muscle and hit deep in the bone.

Daryl flinched on the sidelines, his fists clenched so tightly the veins bulged white along his arms. You didn’t dare look at him. Couldn’t afford to. One glance would undo the dam inside you, and right now, rage was the only thing keeping you standing.

You drove your fist into the man’s side, followed with a right hook. He stumbled but didn’t drop. He came at you again, heavier this time, his full weight behind each strike. You blocked with your forearms, tried to deflect what you couldn’t match, but the next hit came low and fast—his shoulder ramming into your chest like a battering ram—and it sent you sprawling.

You hit the dirt hard—hard enough that the breath tore out of you and something inside your shoulder screamed. His full weight had slammed you down, and your left arm was twisted awkwardly beneath your body, caught between bone and earth.

The pain hit instantly, flooding your entire side like molten lava.

A sharp, wet pop echoed beneath your skin—ugly, unnatural. Your shoulder socket tore free on impact, the joint wrenching loose with the kind of blinding agony that didn’t wait for movement. It was dislocated - there was no doubt about it. You felt it. You heard it. 

Your scream didn’t make it past your teeth. You bit down so hard you felt the skin split in your mouth, tasted copper, refused to let anything escape.

Across the pit, Daryl moved—just half a step, just a flicker—but it was a full-body jolt, like watching a dam crack under pressure. His mouth opened, words shoved through clenched teeth. “Call it,” he barked. “That’s enough.”

Marshal didn’t even glance at him. Didn’t blink. Just kept his eyes on you like he was watching a fire that hadn’t quite burned out yet.

You forced yourself to your feet with one arm, the other limp and heavy at your side, and you saw it—Daryl saw it—the shift in your body, the unnatural sag of your shoulder, the way your dominant side refused to lift. His lips parted again like he was about to shout something worse, something final, but your eyes caught his.

Don’t.

Your opponent didn’t wait for the pain to settle. He grabbed your wrist—your good one thank god—and yanked. You pivoted with the force, used his own momentum to slam your foot into his stomach, hard enough to make him buckle. Then you spun low, your good elbow jamming into his back with a crunch that reverberated through your bones. He snarled, twisted—grabbed a handful of your hair and yanked your head back with a vicious jerk.

That was his mistake.

You drove your skull backward, slammed it into his face, and the sound it made—the crunch of cartilage, the sudden rush of wet breath—wasn’t just satisfying, it was necessary. His nose exploded under the impact, blood streaking down over his lip.

You didn’t pause. Couldn’t. You dropped into a half-crouch and launched yourself up off your planted hand, flipped mid-air like muscle memory had kicked in before your brain could stop it, ankles locking around his neck in a move stolen straight from a dirtier, hungrier kind. He had no time to react. Your weight pulled him off his feet, and both of you hit the ground hard, limbs tangled, his body slamming into the dirt beneath yours.

But this time you didn’t straddle him for show.

This was for survival.

Your knees pinned his shoulders. You reared back, drove your foot into his outer thigh once, twice—three times. You felt the tissue twitch under the impact, felt his leg jerk in response. He twisted, tried to buck you off, but you rode it out, kept your weight low, your good hand curled into a fist ready to drive into his temple if you were given the chance.

You couldn’t kill him.

But God, you wanted to.

You rocked your weight forward and pivoted, stepping back just long enough to wind up and bring your heel down hard on his knee with a crack that sounded like dry wood snapping in a bonfire. The scream that followed wasn’t human. He writhed beneath you, hand clawing at the dirt, but it was too late. That leg was gone.  Karma's a bitch I guess.

The crowd recoiled. Gasps. Silence. One or two even clapped.

You stood tall, chest heaving, blood pounding in your ears, your arm hanging limp and useless at your side while your good hand curled into a trembling fist. You stared down at the man—sobbing, wheezing, gripping what used to be his knee—and felt no pity. No triumph. Only the endless, gnawing ache of restraint.

Because you could have ended him. Easily. You’d wanted to. But you didn't - that was your mercy.

Silence. No cheers. No chants. No roaring applause. Just stillness—unnatural and smothering, like the crowd itself had inhaled and forgotten how to let go. Dust settled in the space between heartbeats. Your chest heaved, your arm hung dead at your side, and across the pit, Daryl stood frozen, shoulders coiled tight as wire, one hand half-lifted like he might’ve moved to catch you if he could.

Marshal didn’t speak right away. He let the silence ferment, let it sting. His boots crunched slowly across the chalk ring, measured, unhurried, each step deliberate enough to curdle the air. Then, with a faint, deliberate click of tongue against teeth, he offered a slow round of applause. Not dramatic. Not mocking. Just three sharp, echoing claps, spaced apart like rifle shots.

“Well,” he said at last, voice easy and quiet, like he was remarking on the weather. “Wasn’t how I saw that going.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. The fire in your shoulder had gone from burning to throbbing, every thud in your chest sending a pulse of white-hot pain down your side. You felt like you were going to pass out if you moved wrong. If you breathed wrong.

Daryl’s hand clenched into a fist, then relaxed again—barely. His stance had shifted. He wasn’t just watching you now; he was watching Marshal, watching every soldier on the ledge, watching the curve of a rifle barrel as though one might twitch the wrong way at any moment.

Marshal tilted his head, just slightly, toward the man groaning in the dirt behind you. “Shame about the leg,” he muttered, almost to himself.

Then he drew his pistol.

The gunshot cracked through the air so suddenly, so violently close, that you didn’t hear it as much as feel it—like the sound tore through your ribs and rattled loose something in your spine. For a half-second, you were certain it was meant for you. Or maybe Daryl. Maybe both of you. Your breath caught somewhere high in your throat, chest seizing as every nerve braced for impact.

You flinched hard, your body twisting on instinct, and your left arm—the one already half-dead from the dislocation—jerked with the motion. Agony exploded through your side like shrapnel, so sharp and bright it turned your vision white. You bit back a scream, but Daryl’s sharp inhale carried across the ring like a warning bell, ragged and raw enough to cut glass.

Your knees buckled slightly, though you caught yourself before you hit the ground. For a moment, everything was too still. Too quiet. Your ears rang. Your heart thundered. And then your gaze fell to the dirt just feet in front of you—where the man you’d just fought now lay sprawled, motionless, a dark hole torn clean through the side of his head. Blood spread fast beneath him, seeping into the dry dust in rivulets that caught the firelight and made them shine like rubies.

Marshal holstered the pistol without fanfare. “Wounded is weakness,” he said simply. “Weakness corrupts.”

Your legs nearly buckled again, not from the throb in your shoulder or the lingering ache in your spine, but from something colder—something that wrapped around your ribs like a vice and refused to let go, because the truth of what had just happened was settling in, and it wasn’t shock or horror that filled your chest, but something far more damning.

You had killed him.

Inadvertently so, but it didn't change the brutal fact that it had been him or you, and you weren’t ready to be the one left bleeding in the dirt.

He was a Creed loyalist. You were a mother. A wife.

And in that split-second where the gun cracked through the air like thunder, your mind hadn’t registered fear for him, or sorrow for what you’d done—it had simply braced itself for the recoil that never came, for the pain that never followed, for the death that had passed you by.

You stared at the body crumpled in the sand, at the unnatural stillness of it, the blood that painted the earth like it had always belonged there, and what haunted you most wasn’t the sound of the shot or the look in his eyes—it was the sick, echoing awareness that you didn’t feel hollow.

You didn’t feel anything—no horror, no relief—just the slow, creeping realization that if it came down to it again, if it wer him or you, you wouldn’t hesitate. You wouldn’t flinch. You’d let it happen. Maybe even make it happen. ; because you had a daughter who still needed her mother alive, and a husband who fought tooth and nail for his wife. And that truth settled over your skin like ash—quiet, heavy, and irreversible. 

The pit was still silent. You weren’t sure if anyone dared breathe.

Marshal's gaze returned to you.

It wasn’t a leer. Wasn’t kind. Just slow. Calculating. His eyes swept your frame like he was scanning for rot—one shoulder slumped too low, one hand curled and unmoving, blood at the corner of your mouth from where you’d bitten it to keep from screaming.

“Any injuries?” he asked, tone casual.

Your heart seized. The pain made it hard to think, hard to breathe, but you knew the answer had to be immediate.

“No,” you said too fast, eyes dropping to the ground, shame and fear twisting your voice into something thinner than it should’ve been. “No. I’m fine.”

Marshal watched you too long. Not suspicious—just curious. Like he was cataloguing you. Taking stock of what you’d held back. Then his head tipped slightly, just enough to signal his next move.

“You two. Report to the Commander,” he said, his voice slicing clean across the pit, cold and administrative now. “He’ll want to see you.”

Daryl’s body tensed beside you, still wired like a sprung trap, but he nodded once. Sharp. Controlled. You could feel the fire building in his bones. Not because of the command, but because of the fact that your arm was hanging loose at your side and your poker face was uncanny.

As the guards stepped forward to begin herding the crowd back, you let your eyes drift toward the smoke trail of Marshal’s pistol and then to the far end of the ring—where a group of lower-ranked soldiers stood clustered in loose formation, eyes flicking between the corpse, Marshal, and the two of you. One of them looked away when your eyes met. Another stepped aside, just slightly, like making room for you to pass. No one was watching too closely anymore.

You sipped to the edge of the gathering just as Daryl turned to follow one of the guards up toward the next gate, never once glancing your way, even though you knew—you knew—his eyes were screaming beneath the stillness.

You ducked around the side of a crumbling support wall, slipping through a narrow break in the concrete where the scaffolding hadn’t been finished. Your boots skidded briefly on loose gravel. You bit your lip hard, tears stabbing behind your eyes as the motion jarred your shoulder, but you didn’t stop.

No one called after you. No one shouted. If someone noticed, they said nothing.

You had 5 minutes, maybe less.

Enough time to get somewhere dark, somewhere hidden, somewhere you could scream into your arm without bringing the whole goddamn Creed down on your head.

You moved deeper into the scaffolding, away from the noise, slipping between beams and bent steel until the arena sounds faded into something thinner—just the wind brushing through the open concrete and your own shaky breaths trailing behind.

It wasn’t far, but it felt like another planet. Quiet. Empty. A half-built service hall, roofless, shadows crawling long across the dust. You found a corner where the walls curved in on themselves, and you sank there, back pressed against the cold steel, boots scuffing the dirt as you slid down to the floor.

You hadn’t realized how hard you were shaking until you stopped moving.

Your arm was screaming now, not just pain but heat—throbbing, swollen, wrong. You could feel the joint hanging half-loose, the weight of your own arm pulling against the socket like a torture device. The adrenaline had worn off, and now your body was just a cage of nerves and fire.

You took a deep breath. Braced your heel. Gripped your wrist with your good hand.

And pulled.

The scream punched out of you before you could swallow it down. Short. Raw. Half-choked. It echoed against the hollow scaffolding like a flare, and your vision went white for a second, head spinning with nausea and heat.

Panic bloomed sharp in your chest.

You’d just made a sound. Too loud. Too much. Too exposed.

You scrambled back, heartbeat pounding, breath caught in your throat as footsteps crunched fast across gravel. Heavy boots. No time to hide. No time to fake it.

You pressed yourself tighter to the wall, back teeth clenched, heart climbing higher up your throat—until the figure rounded the bend.

And it was Daryl.

You sagged.

Just a little. Just enough for the fear to break and relief to roll in like a tide. Your whole body slumped toward him, breath catching on something ragged.

“Shh. Just me,” he said finally, voice low and soft, rough with unshed fury and held-back comfort. 

You gave a small, broken laugh that tasted like tears.

He reached for you—so gently, like his hands didn’t quite believe they were allowed to touch you. When you didn’t flinch, he pressed his fingers to the edge of your shoulder, light as a feather. His jaw clenched.

“Shit, baby,” he murmured. 

You nodded, swallowing hard.

“Were you tryin' ta fix' that on your own?” he muttered, voice fraying at the edges as his eyes swept over your face, then your posture, taking in the tension, the sweat, the way your lip was nearly bitten through. “Jesus, you coulda made it worse—why the hell didn’t you wait for me?”

You couldn’t look at him. Not right away. Not when your body was still fighting not to scream.

“I didn’t want them to see,” you managed, the words small, ragged, sharp-edged with pain and something like shame. “You saw what happened to that guy back there. All cause of his leg-" The pain was so overbearing it was heard to get out a full sentence, not without pausing to take a shallow breath. "Fuck, I definitely made it worse."

Daryl let out a slow, quiet exhale, and then his eyes met yours again—steady, grounding, blue like dusk. His hand brushed against your waist, tentative.

“Gotta take a closer look, alright?” he motioned at your shirt, silently asking if he could take the thing off of you.

You didn’t hesitate. You nodded.

You trusted him more than you trusted the ground under your feet.- why he still was nervous about asing to take your shirt off was beyond you.

He moved closer, his hands going to the flannel shirt they’d thrown at you that morning. It was two sizes too big, probably belonged to someone long dead, and stiff with dirt and dried sweat. He undid the buttons with slow, careful fingers, peeling it away from your skin to get a better look at the damage beneath.

His breath hitched. The joint was swollen to hell. The skin already bruised, tinged ugly with purple and red.

“Fucker got ya good, baby,” he whispered, so low you barely caught it.

You just leaned your forehead against his chest, letting the smell of him wrap around you—blood, dirt, smoke, and Daryl.

His arms were already enveloping your frame in preperation. One hand braced against your ribs, the other settling over your bruised skin..

“Alright,” he muttered, voice like gravel but softer than you’d ever heard it. “I need ya relaxed, okay? Just breathe. Ain’t gonna lie, this’s gonna suck. But after, it’ll be a lot better.”

"That's what she said," You chuckled. 

He froze.

Just for a second.

Then his brow ticked, his jaw twitched, and he gave you a look so flat, so utterly unimpressed, it might’ve knocked the pain right out of your body if looks could cauterize.

“Really?” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face like he regretted every life decision that led him to this moment. “You got one shoulder hangin’ by a thread, and that’s what you open your damn mouth for?”

But there was a flicker behind the irritation, something small and warm. The barest quirk at the edge of his mouth that betrayed him completely.

He shook his head, more fond than annoyed now, and positioned himself at your side again.

“Fine. You wanna joke through this, go on. Whatever floats yur boat.”

Your smirk faltered just a little.

He leaned closer.

“Deep breath, baby.”

You nodded again, squeezing your eyes shut, trusting him in a way that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with the way his hands held you like you were breakable, even when you’d just broken someone else’s leg.

“Alright, on three. One. Two—”

A white-hot bolt of pain tore through your shoulder before he could even say three. You cried out, breath caught halfway between a scream and a sob, but the pain stopped almost as soon as it came, replaced by a deep, nauseating throb—and a sudden, shocking relief.

It was back in.

You collapsed against him, arm limp but whole again, sweat beading on your brow. Daryl pulled you into his lap like it was second nature, one arm wrapping around your back, the other cradling your head like he needed the contact just as much as you did. He didn’t say much, just cooed you, small mumbles like ‘you’re alright,’ repeating it over and over until it would hopefully become true. He held you. Rocked you. Pressed his face into your hair and let the silence stretch between you like a blanket.

His fingers moved in slow, steady circles across your spine. He didn’t pull away, didn’t break character, didn’t speak any of the thousand things you could feel hammering behind his ribs.

He just stayed. Because sometimes that was the only thing left to give.

And you took it, without question, curling into him like a heartbeat—quiet, wrecked, and tethered to the only safe thing you had left in this godforsaken place.

You just let him hold you, your body curled into his like muscle memory, every tremor in your limbs answered by the steady rock of his hand over your thigh, his thumb brushing soft patterns through the dirt-smudged fabric. His other hand moved in slow circles through your hair, catching every knot and strand with the same reverence he might give a prayer.

But eventually, you felt your voice claw its way up.

It came out broken. Nasal. Thick with exhaustion. Your face was buried in his chest, cheek sticky with sweat and tears, and still you said it, soft and raw like confession.

“…It’s gonna get a whole lot worse than this, isn’t it?”

Daryl didn’t answer at first.

He just kept stroking your thigh, hand tightening slightly like he could hold the pain in place, contain it in the spaces between your skin and his palm. His fingers threaded through your hair again, a little slower now, dragging the weight of the moment down with them.

Then, voice low, gravelled at the edges, more breath than sound: “Yep.”

Your hand drifted, almost without thought, to your ring finger—a reflex you’d picked up when things got dark, when you needed the comfort of copper pressed against your skin like a vow you could still touch. But your fingers met only bare flesh, and the absence struck with the sharp, sick shock of dislocation—like your shoulder popping loose all over again, but this time deeper. 

Daryl noticed it too.

“Hey,” he said softly, catching your hand in his calloused grip. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, slow and steady. “It’s just a ring, alright? Don’t matter.”

You looked up at him, your throat tight, tears stinging hot at the corners of your eyes. “No, it’s not,” you said, your voice raw and a little cracked. “It wasn't just a ring and you know it.”

He took your hand gently, rough fingers curling around yours like a promise he didn’t know how else to keep. Then, without a word, he lifted it to his lips and kissed the place where your ring used to be.

“No, it don’t matter,” he murmured, voice thick, his breath warm against your skin. “I’m yours. Always been. Always will. Don’t need no jewellery tellin’ ya that.”

You looked up at him, eyes glassy, lashes trembling with the weight of everything you couldn’t say. It wasn’t that you didn’t believe him—you did. You just missed the ring. Missed what it stood for. The copper band he’d forged by hand. The night he gave it to you, asking you to be his even when the world had gone to hell. And now… it was like it never happened.

“Fine. I’ll getcha another one. I'll make ya... a hundred more rings,” he said quietly, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Each one better than the last.”

That managed to crack a smile—small, but real. The kind that pulls from someplace deeper than your pain.

“I love you,” you whispered, the words barely more than breath.

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you for a long second, like he was memorizing the shape of your face, the curve of your lips, the sound of your voice when it said those words and meant them.

Then he leaned in, slow and steady, his mouth brushing yours in a kiss that was less about passion and more about grounding—about staying human.

“Love ya too,” he whispered against your lips. 

And even as the ache in your shoulder pulsed like a living thing, even as dread curled low in your stomach for whatever came next, you knew it was true. Maybe you didn't need your ring after all.

_____________

They led you through the winding gut of the compound in silence—stone and metal corridors that stank of wet iron and dust, like a slaughterhouse that’d been hosed down too many times and never properly dried. The guards flanking you didn’t say a word. 

Daryl kept close. You could feel him even when you couldn’t look at him—every footstep in rhythm, every muscle in him strung like wire, ready to snap. His hands were balled into fists, jaw twitching, eyes everywhere. Watching every shadow like he expected it to reach out and swallow you whole.

You didn’t speak either. You didn’t need to. The ring finger of your left hand brushed his once, just briefly, the faintest nudge between curled knuckles. He didn’t look at you, but you saw his thumb twitch.

Ahead, a pair of steel doors groaned open. Marshal stood by the threshold, that cracked smirk stitched into his face like bad taxidermy. “Commander’s waiting,” he said. “Let’s not keep him.”

That didn’t sit right. Nothing here ever did, but this felt off. There was no reason for the Commander in all his infinite glory to see you. Not unless you’d either proven yourself… or failed.

You stepped through together.

The room beyond was a brutalist chapel—high ceilings, exposed steel beams, one stained-glass window that’d clearly been stolen from a church long collapsed. Makeshift pews lined the walls, but no one sat. No one spoke.

The Commander stood at the far end, hands clasped behind his back like a preacher. His hair was white—not grey, white—and buzzed down to the skin. His face looked carved from stone, weathered and scarred, but his posture was graceful. Eerily so. Marshal took his place beside him, his mouth bent in the kind of sneer usually reserved for livestock that refused to die quickly.

The Commander smiled. “Welcome.”

Daryl shifted forward a fraction, his body angling just enough to place himself slightly in front of you, protective instinct flaring sharp and silent beneath the surface.

You let your eyes sweep the space again before flicking your gaze back to the Commander, your expression unreadable.

“What is this?” you asked, voice light but laced with bite. “We here for Sunday school or something?”

The Commander’s laugh came easy—too easy. Warm, affable, almost disarming in its sincerity. But it died before it reached his eyes, the sound fading fast into something hollow. Something practiced.

The Commander’s smile barely moved his mouth, a thin line carved with deliberate intent as his gaze swept the room, pausing on each of you with the unnerving stillness of a man who already knew how the next chapter would end.

“This is where the cleansing begins,” he said, the words soft enough to mimic welcome but spoken with the precision of a knife unsheathing. “Don’t worry—we won’t make you sing.”

The quiet that followed was absolute, the kind that coated the inside of your ears like wax, the kind that arrived before pain.

And then it began.

You didn’t see them coming—not at first, not fully—just a flicker in your peripheral vision, the suggestion of motion too fast, too fluid. Two guards emerged from the shadows like teeth from a closed jaw, hands already reaching, already locking in. You barely had time to turn before they were on you, palms pressing hard to the pressure points beneath your arms, nerves struck with deliberate accuracy. Your body spasmed with instinct, not decision, your breath caught mid-inhale as you opened your mouth to shout—

—but another hand was already there, clamping tight over your face, muffling the cry into a useless vibration against their palm.

Daryl’s reaction was immediate.

You felt it before you saw it—the air change, shift, twist. He was across the room in a blink, already moving with that lethal sort of purpose that made everyone else seem slow by comparison, his body weight tipping forward like he was ready to go through bone if that’s what it took.

Your name left his throat like it was being torn out.

He reached for you at the same moment Marshal stepped in.

The club caught Daryl mid-lunge, smashing across his ribs with a thud that sucked the sound out of the space, his body twisting under the impact but not falling. Not yet. He staggered, caught himself, went for them again.

You weren’t passive—not for a second. You twisted, thrashed, drove the back of your head into someone’s nose with a crunch that made your eyes water. One of them cursed, but the grip didn’t break. You tried to wrench free, tried to swing your boot, but they were ready—this wasn’t the first time they’d done this, and your resistance had already been factored in.

Your eyes locked with Daryl’s just as he flung one of the guards off him with a roar that was barely human.

You reached for each other.

Your fingertips brushed.

And then it happened.

A sound split the moment open—sharp, cracking, awful. Pain exploded through your skull, white and absolute.

Your legs went out beneath you.

The world spun. Your stomach flipped once, hard, as the floor rushed up with sickening speed, and for the briefest second, you couldn’t tell which way was up or whether you were even still breathing. The scent of blood and oil and scorched candle wax filled your nose, thick and iron-heavy, as your face hit the concrete.

Daryl saw it all.

And in that instant, something in him snapped.

No words now, only raw fury— Daryl charged forward again, not caring if he bled, not caring if he lived, just needing to reach you. Another blow came, this one to his thigh, staggering him, followed by another to his neck. He kept moving. They swarmed him—two, three, four bodies at once—and still he fought, clawing forward with the kind of desperation that made men legends or corpses.

Then came the strike to the head.

It landed with a sickening thud.

He collapsed without sound.

His last thought was your name, slurred and broken in his mouth.

The final thing either of you saw before the world fell away was the Commander—arms behind his back, posture serene, eyes locked on the two of you as though he’d just clipped the wings off a pair of butterflies and was waiting to see how long they twitched.

____

Pain came first.

It bloomed behind his eyes like a bruise turned inside out, then crawled down his spine, slow and electric, until every nerve felt like a wire left out in a storm.

His skull throbbed. His mouth tasted like rust.

And something heavy was pressing against his chest—like the air itself had thickened, curling around his ribs and refusing to let go.

When Daryl opened his eyes, the world tilted sideways.

The light was low, flickering. Torchlight, maybe. Shadows danced high on cement walls, smearing like oil against cracked plaster. He was on the floor, slumped on his side, hands bound behind him with something rough—coarse rope, already biting into his wrists.

He tried to move. The pain in his ribs answered first. Then his head.

He winced. Gritted his teeth. Memory staggered back into place like a drunk man through a broken door.

You. Your scream. The guards. The Commander. Your body crumpling.

He jerked upright—or tried to. The bindings held. His muscles screamed.

His gaze snapped up, darting around the dim chamber. There was movement ahead. Figures. An open space beyond the iron bars of the room he’d been dumped in—more like a cage, really, though it looked like a repurposed basement. Through the bars, he could see a crowd gathered in front of something… a pit?

No. A fire.

His gut twisted.

Then he saw you.

Time didn’t stop. That would’ve been a mercy.

Instead, it kept moving, slow and brutal, stretching seconds into something foreign as you were dragged forward, knees scraping the dirt, hair tangled around your face, lips parted but silent. You were barely recognisable, head hung low, your body completely limp. You didn’t cry out. Not once. And that should’ve comforted him—should’ve given him something to hold onto. But it didn’t.

Because your silence was the worst part.

Even now, at the end of the world, you were trying to stay strong for him.

He called your name. Didn’t realize he’d done it until someone elbowed him in the gut to shut him up. He tried to fight—jerked against the restraints digging into his wrists—but they kept him pinned like a dog at a slaughterhouse, forced to watch as the Commander stepped forward and spoke the sentence like it was routine.

“No,” he rasped.

No one heard him. He tried to stand again. The rope bit deeper. He staggered, fell hard on one knee, then pushed up anyway, shoulder against the bars, eyes wide and locked.

The Commander stood near the fire, calm and unmoved, hands folded behind his back. One of the figures spoke to him—too quiet to make out—but the reply was crystal clear.

“She was wounded. Weak. It would’ve spread.”

Then the Commander raised his knife.

You didn’t make a sound when they pulled your head back.

Didn’t flinch when the blade touched your throat.

Daryl’s blood ran cold.

“Don’t—” he growled, but his voice cracked, weak with panic and breathless fury. “NO—!”

But it was already done.

In one brutal motion, he sliced your throat, the life spilling from you instantly.

Your body spasmed once, a sharp, instinctive jolt like the soul trying to claw its way back in—but it was too late. Your eyes never left his. Not even as the blood poured from your throat in thick, wet streams, staining your chest, your collar, your life, until it was all he could see. Your knees gave beneath you, trembling, caving, but somehow you didn’t fall right away. You stood there swaying like something still trying to understand what had happened. And then your lips moved—barely—shaping a word without breath. His name. Just his name. The last thing left in you.

And then it was over.

They didn’t let you fall gently.

They seized your body like it was already trash, like it had never been anything sacred, and dragged it across the dirt with no reverence, no pause, no care. And when they cast you into the fire, it wasn’t a ceremony—it was disposal. Like you weren’t someone’s wife. Like you weren’t a mother with a child waiting for you. Like you hadn’t been the one to teach him what love meant.

Daryl didn’t scream.

He roared.

He slammed his shoulder against the bars, again and again, animal and feral, vision blurred from more than pain. It didn’t matter that they beat him again. Didn’t matter that they kicked him down, or that they laughed, or that someone muttered “shoulda killed ‘im too.”

He didn’t stop until he had nothing left.

The flames licked higher, and the stink of burning flesh filled the air.

He watched your body—the one he knew better than his own, the one he’d memorized in pieces: the freckle below your ribs, the old scar on your thigh from before the world ended, the stretch marks across your stomach from carrying the life you made together. The body that curled against him on cold nights and leaned into him when words failed, the body that had carried his daughter into this broken world, arms that held her, lips that kissed the top of her head with the kind of quiet reverence he’d only ever seen in prayer—that body. Yours.

He watched it burn.

The fire didn’t hesitate. It crawled across your clothes like hunger, devouring everything in its path—your legs, your stomach, your chest—until it reached your outstretched hand. The same hand that had stroked his hair. The hand that had wiped his blood from his brow. The hand that wore his ring like it was welded to your skin until it was ripped from you by them.

The pit. The fire. Your body.

The last time he’d seen you, you were reaching for him.

And now…

You were gone. 

It didn’t register at first.

His brain couldn’t catch up.

He didn’t feel the burn of the ropes. Didn’t hear the crackle of flames. Didn’t even realise he was screaming until his throat gave out and he collapsed, chest heaving, stomach twisting, retching dry onto the dirt because there was nothing left in him but the scream.

They killed you.

They fucking killed you.

And he wasn’t there to stop it.

He wasn’t holding you.

He wasn’t telling you it’d be okay.

He was just watching.

The world narrowed to smoke and ash, and the echo of your name carved out of him like bone. He felt like someone had plunged into his chest and ripped out his heart. And worst of all, they made sure he was still breathing to bear the pain of it.

You were everything. His anchor. His voice of reason. His reason, period. You were the only future he let himself want.

Now you were gone.

And the world had the audacity to keep turning.

They took your ring. Then your life. Then your body. All in one day. And he let it happen. Let them strip you of everything that made you his. And now there was nothing left. No trace. No proof except for that steady, monstrous ache behind his ribs from your death. The kind that didn’t explode. The kind that stayed. The kind that settled into his bones and promised to never let go.

It hurt in a way he didn’t have words for.

It was heartbreak. Pure and unrelenting. Not sharp, but total. Like the color had been stripped from the world, and all that was left was this—this awful, frozen moment where love died in front of him, and he just had to watch.

The only thing left of you now is Dani.

She still had your eyes.

She’d ask where you went. What happened.

And he’d have to look at her and lie.

And he couldn’t bear the thought—Dani looking at him with those wide, searching eyes, and realising he wasn’t the one she needed. Because he wasn’t you. There was no way for him to go on.

Unless he made them pay.

Unless he made every last one of them remember what they did when they dared to put a knife to your throat.

He would bide his time. Wear the mask. Keep his head down like they wanted. Pretend he was broken.

But he wasn’t.

Not really.

He’d just been reborn into something worse.

Because they killed the woman he loved right in front of him.

And now he had nothing left to lose.

“You are free,” the Commander said, like it meant something. The crowd cheered. Daryl barely heard it over the roaring in his ears. He could’ve thrown up. Could’ve killed them all. All he saw was red.

_______

You came to like something had been torn out of you in the dark. It wasn’t the pain that woke you, though there was no shortage of it—the sharp flare in your shoulder socket, the hot ache in your neck where your muscles had seized, the hammering pulse behind your eyes that throbbed in rhythm with the low, electric hum of artificial light. You were kneeling on something cold, unforgiving and slick, and the first thing you felt beyond pain was the way your knees had begun to go numb from pressure. Your wrists were tied behind your back, raw with dried blood, the bindings too tight to be anything but deliberate. So basically the norm for you.

But none of that mattered.

Not when you raised your head and saw him.

Daryl was in front of you—on his knees, hands bound, mouth bloodied, shoulders sagging beneath the weight of whatever hell had come before this. He looked broken in a way you’d never seen before, like his bones didn’t quite know how to hold him up anymore. He wasn’t looking at you. His chin hung low, and though his chest still rose with breath, you could see how shallow it was, like every inhale had to fight its way through something invisible.

And Marshal stood beside him.

The sight of that man lit a fire in your ribs so suddenly that you nearly vomited from the bile it brought with it. You lurched forward, or tried to, but your body wouldn’t move fast enough, wouldn’t obey the simple instruction to reach him, touch him, do something.

“Welcome back,” Marshal murmured without turning, his voice unhurried, like he’d been waiting for you. There was a smile on his face, but it wasn’t warm, wasn’t even smug—it was too calm for that, too pleased with himself, like he was watching a snake shed its skin. “Perfect timing.”

Your breath hitched hard in your chest, every draw of air too sharp, too fast, like it was cutting something on the way in. You tried to speak, to call his name, but your mouth was too dry, your tongue swollen with dread, and the only thing that came out was a rasp of sound that tasted like copper and dust and fear.

Then the Commander stepped forward, the rustle of his coat the only thing you heard over the ringing in your ears. His face bore that same expression he always wore—the one that made your stomach curdle—composed and measured, like a man about to deliver a eulogy for someone he never cared about. He didn’t look at Daryl. He looked at you.

“You told us you didn’t know him,” he said, his voice unshaken, smooth like worn marble. “But when we faked your death, he screamed for you. Weeped like a baby.”

The air left your lungs in a single cold rush, and the world stopped spinning for one breathless second. Your gaze snapped to Daryl. Really looked. And that’s when something inside you buckled. His lip was torn, his temple bruised, and his collar was wet with blood you weren’t sure was even his anymore. But his shoulders trembled. He hadn’t broken.

Not yet.

You shook your head. Not in denial—just to get words out, anything, anything at all. “Don’t—please—”

But it didn’t matter. Marshal crouched beside him, slow and steady, like it was routine, and grabbed a fistful of Daryl’s hair, forcing his head upright so you could see his swollen face. You saw his eyes. Glazed, but still there. Still fighting. Still breathing.

“He didn’t take the lesson,” Marshal said, as though you weren’t already collapsing beneath the weight of what you knew was coming, “so now you will.”

The Commander tilted his head slightly from where he was standing in the background, his expression unchanged, like he was waiting for a dog to finally heel. “That lie cost you,” he murmured. “But today… we’ll free you from it.”

The gun appeared like a magic trick—no grand reveal, no announcement. Just there in the Commander’s hand, passed from Marshal like a holy relic. There was no ceremony in the way he raised it. No speech. No cruelty, even. Only the quiet efficiency of a man carrying out a decision he considered final.

The barrel touched Daryl’s temple.

And the shot rang out.

You didn’t scream right away. The noise you made was trapped behind your ribs, crushed into your lungs by the weight of the moment. But when it came, it erupted from you like something ripped open from the inside—a cry so guttural, so raw, it felt like it might pull the last of your voice straight from your throat and leave you nothing but ash.

You threw yourself forward with everything you had, ignoring the pain that screamed through your shoulder, the pop of your joints, the stab of something tearing—but it was too late. Daryl’s body had already gone limp, folding sideways into the dirt with an awful, boneless grace. There was no twitch, no sound. Just silence.

You couldn’t stop the sob that broke next. It tore out of you like something dying. Your voice was raw now, splintered with panic and disbelief, the way it had sounded only once before—when you gave birth and thought you might not survive it.

“Please,” you sobbed, struggling like a wild thing. “Baby, look at me—you can’t leave me —”

You couldnt breathe. You kept telling yourself to wake the fuck up. Wake up from this nightmare, next to daryl in your bed. You'd curl tightly into him, take in his musk, he'd stroke your hair while you traced his imperfections on his skin like they were the very opposite of that.

Marshal had walked towards you and held your chin, tilting your head to look up at him through our red glassy eyes. But when he looked at you now, something had shifted. There was no amusement left. No satisfaction. Only a quiet, unsettling stillness.

“You’re free now,” he said with absolution. “That connection made you weak. It made you lie. But now there’s nothing left to tie you down.”

Tears blurred your vision, burned hot and blinding, streaking over your cheeks in stinging silence. You weren’t sobbing anymore. Your mouth was open, but no sound came out. It was as though your voice had died with him. Your body trembled, but you didn’t collapse. Not yet. Not until Marshal leaned forward and, with something close to care, cut the restraints at your wrists himself.

You didn’t catch yourself when you fell. Your arms flopped forward, numb and useless, your knees hitting the stone with a hollow sound that echoed off the walls. You didn’t look at him. You didn’t look at anything. Not even the fire, still burning just feet away, casting long orange light across the floor where Daryl had fallen.

You stared at the space he had left behind.

And whatever was left of you cracked.

Not with rage. Not with grief. Not even with despair.

With silence.

The silence that followed was worse. It wasn’t the calm kind. It was thick and suffocating, like someone had poured concrete over your chest and expected you to keep breathing through it. Your ears rang from the gunshot, your vision swam at the edges, but none of that mattered—not really. Nothing did, except the image burned into the backs of your eyes: Daryl collapsing in front of you, body limp, blood warm and spilling across the concrete, and then nothing. No movement. No sound. No breath.

You didn’t cry again, not after the first ragged sob slipped out of you and died somewhere between the ropes binding your wrists and the dirt floor beneath your knees. The sound had come unbidden, raw and strangled, but even as it broke free, it felt distant, like it didn’t belong to you anymore—like it belonged to someone else entirely, someone softer, someone who hadn’t just watched her entire world bleed out on the floor.

You breathed, but only because you had to. Inhale. Exhale. Slow. Mechanical. The kind of breath that didn’t mean life so much as continuation. You weren’t a woman anymore, not exactly. You weren’t a widow, not yet. You weren’t even a soldier. You were just breath and bones and grit. Just the pieces that remained. 

It was disorienting in a way that felt almost obscene—how had you ever existed without him before? Whatever version of yourself had managed to live in a world where Daryl wasn’t within arm’s reach, breathing the same air, was a stranger now. A ghost. And the thought of finding your way back to that kind of existence, of surviving in that silence again, felt not only impossible but wrong.

The numbness was total. Not soft, not merciful—but loud. Deafening in its hollowness. It rang through your skull like a pressure wave, muffling every other sense beneath it. Pain should’ve been there, should’ve been screaming—your shoulder was still ruined, your knees pressed hard into unyielding concrete, your head throbbing from whatever blow had half-felled you—but none of it seemed to land. None of it registered.

There was only the absence. Only the jagged outline of where he used to be. And in that emptiness, something settled.

Not rage. Not grief. Not yet. Those things required more of you than you had left. What settled was purpose.

Because no matter what they thought they’d taken from you, no matter how certain they were that you’d break just like the others had, your daughter was still alive. You couldn't let her become an orphan. Dani was waiting for you, and she didn’t know her father was dead. She didn’t know that you were too.

And you were the only one left who could keep that from becoming permanent.

You didn’t notice Marshal until he crouched beside you again, his shadow crawling across the stone in tandem with your hollow stare. His voice was low, almost reverent, as though he feared disrupting the stillness that had wrapped itself around you.

“I knew it the second I saw you,” Marshal said, his voice low, almost reverent, as though addressing something sacred rather than broken. “Back in those woods. You had it—that thing most don’t. Pain doesn’t ruin you. It reshapes you.”

His words drifted through the silence like smoke, curling around the edges of your awareness, but you didn’t respond. You weren’t even sure you were still breathing. You were there, yes, in body—but your mind was standing at the edge of some quiet abyss, watching itself from far away.

“I told the Commander we needed someone like that,” he went on, unhurried, as though this was all unfolding according to some script only he had read. “A firestarter. Not just someone who survives the burn, but someone who walks through it and comes out clean on the other side.”

Slowly, you raised your gaze, just enough to meet his. The movement wasn’t defiant. It wasn’t emotional. It was mechanical, like some buried instinct had twitched to life out of necessity. Whatever he saw in your expression—vacancy, obedience, surrender—was enough to satisfy him. 

Your silence sealed the illusion.

Marshal stood, brushing invisible dust from his knee as though this moment wasn’t stitched with the last of your humanity. He turned to someone just out of sight, his voice as steady as ever. “Clean her up. Feed her. She’s earned it.”

You didn’t watch him walk away.

When the hands came, you didn’t flinch. You barely noticed them. You didn’t speak. You didn’t even blink. You let them take your weight, lift you from the blood-slick floor, guide your body like it wasn’t your own. Whatever they’d done—whatever they’d taken—had hollowed you out so thoroughly, you barely noticed the warmth of their grip or the sound of the fire crackling behind you. It all felt far away, like a story you were being told about someone else.

But somewhere, buried deep beneath the numbness, something shifted. Not rage. Not revenge. That was all smoke now. What remained was quieter. Heavier. It settled into the space your grief had hollowed out and anchored itself like a root cracking through stone.

It wasn’t for them.

It wasn’t even for him.

It was for her.

For Dani.

Because she was all that was left of him. Because she didn’t know what had been taken from her yet. Because you had promised her you’d come back, and promises made to children had weight. Had teeth.

And if that meant tearing yourself in two—if it meant burying every scream and smile and soft thing inside you—then so be it.

Because one day, somehow, you’d find your way back to her.

And on that day, no one—not Marshal, not the Commander, not even the fire—would be able to stop you.

——

Turns out that taking your husband’s death in stride made for a hell of a promotion.

Grief would’ve gotten you kitchen duty, maybe a cot in the barracks if you’d played your cards right. Hysterics? A bullet. But silence? Composure? The ability to let a man bleed out at your feet and not flinch when the fire took him?

Apparently, that made you leadership material.

Marshal didn’t even wait a full day. You were summoned at dawn, the knock on your door light and precise, like someone trying not to wake what was already dead. The soldier who stood there said nothing. Just turned. Walked. And like a good little recruit, you followed.

They took you to the central chamber—the same one where you’d watched the Commander strip lives down to bone with a few carefully chosen words. Now you stood beneath the same skylight, washed in grey morning light, not entirely sure where your limbs ended and the concrete began.

Marshal entered first. He looked cleaner than usual. Face freshly shaven, black shirt tucked in, like this was something sacred.

The Commander didn’t bother with ceremony. He didn’t ask if you wanted the role. He didn’t explain what it meant. He just turned to face you, eyes sweeping over your stillness like it proved something.

“You’ve adapted well,” the Commander said at last. His voice wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t cold either. It simply was. Final. “Marshal spoke highly of you. Your performance in the ring. Your composure since. Your clarity of purpose.”

“Others… fall apart. Wail. Break. You buried the weakness. And what remained—” he turned, finally, and looked you dead in the eye, “—was worth keeping.”

He crossed the floor, each step unhurried, until he stood before you. Taller. Older. But not frail. He looked at you the way a man might examine a blade he’d forged himself.

“I name you General.”

The words dropped like a blade against an altar. There was no ceremony. No oath. Just that sentence.

Marshal stepped forward, then, and placed something in your palm. A thin band of blackened metal with a single etched mark—a crescent, sharp as a scythe. The symbol of rank. Cold and heavy in your hand.

“Wear it on your hip,” Marshal said softly, voice close now, near your ear. “Let them know what you are.”

You didn’t flinch. You just nodded once and fastened it to your belt.

The Commander inclined his head—dismissal, not praise—and turned away again. The matter, it seemed, was closed.

Marshal lingered, though. He waited until the Commander had vanished into shadow, then walked with you out into the hall, slow and unhurried, like two old friends on a morning stroll.

“I told him,” Marshal drawled, voice echoing lazily off the corridor walls as the door closed behind you both, sealing the chamber like a tomb. “Told him you wouldn’t crack. The others thought you’d go down screaming—or not get back up at all.”

He walked beside you like nothing about this moment was strange. As if promotion through grief was the most natural thing in the world. As if the silence trailing behind your footsteps wasn’t made of bone and ash and something close to mourning.

“But not me,” he went on, with that infuriating little shrug in his voice, like everything had already been proven. “I figured you had the spine. Something in the way you moved, y’know? Like someone who’s already had the worst day of their life and just kept walking.”

You didn’t look at him. Didn’t speak. Every ounce of your energy was spent on forward motion, on placing one foot in front of the other with a precision that felt practiced and numb.

“Still not talking?” he asked, almost amused. “Yeah, I get it. Takes a minute. First time I lost someone close, I didn’t talk for three days." Just sat on a roof staring at the rain, prayin' I'd get the balls to jump."

Damn. If only he had some balls.

He tilted his head toward you, as if waiting for you to react. You didn’t.

Marshal sighed through his nose and kept pace. “So…  he was your husband right?  babydaddy? Both?”

The question hit harder than it had any right to. Not for the words themselves, but for how casually he said them—like he was asking what brand of boots you wore.

“Well,” he continued, unfazed, “you’re better off. That kind of thing—attachment, whatever—it just slows you down. I mean, shit, I used to have a wife. Think I even loved her once. But when she got bit, you know what I did?”

You didn’t answer.

He smiled anyway. “Sat with her ‘til it got dark, then I put a knife through her temple. Buried her in the garden, poured some moonshine, and went to sleep like I hadn’t done a damn thing wrong. Woke up clean.”

Marshal gave a light laugh, like he’d just told a half-decent bar story. “Point is, we’re not made for soft shit. You cut it off before it festers. And you—” he looked at you now, a little more directly, a little more keenly “—you’ve already done the hard part. You let go. Now you get to be something better.”

He stopped walking. You stopped, too, more out of rhythm than obedience.

“I’ve got plans, General,” he said, tone dropping low, like he was inviting you into some secret. “Big ones. Creed’s gonna outgrow this place. We’ve got outposts forming, whispers from the coast. The kind of movement people write about. But movements need faces. Voices. People who don’t flinch when things get messy.”

You turned to him, at last, your expression unreadable. A mask so perfect it didn’t even feel like skin anymore.

“Just tell me where to start,” you said, your voice coarse, a faint echo of your one from before.

He grinned, like that was all he’d wanted to hear.

“Right answer.”

Marshal reached out—not possessively, not forcefully, but like someone testing the edge of a blade—and tapped your shoulder once. The bad one. You felt nothing. His smile deepened when you didn’t so much as blink.

Then he stepped back and nodded toward the corridor ahead. “C’mon. Let’s make the rest of ‘em jealous.”

____

The days blurred like smoke on water—not fast, not slow, just distorted. You hadn’t even noticed the sun rising anymore, only the weight of your boots and the sound of doors opening ahead of you before you stepped through. General. That was your name now. Not your real one. Not your given name, the one you've gone by your entire life. Not the one Daryl whispered into your shoulder in the middle of the night... Just General. A title that hung on your spine like a weapon, heavy and sharp.

In the two days since your so-called liberation, you hadn’t stopped moving. Marshal kept you close, walking the perimeter of the inner compound, inspecting patrols and supply lines, overseeing training sessions where recruits sparred with dull blades and sharp eyes. He showed you off. Paraded you like some living emblem of what it meant to survive Creed fire and come out whole.

“Eyes front,” he’d murmur as you passed the bowing acolytes. “They need to see strength, not softness.”

So you gave them strength. Barked orders. Held your chin high. Smiled only when it served you. You ate beside Marshal at every meal, and when he leaned in too close or spoke too casually—jokes about husbands, about daughters, about how pain was just love shedding its skin—you laughed like it didn’t slice straight through your gut. He didn’t mean to mock you, you didn’t think. But his words still clanged, loud and graceless.

“You never said - was he the dad? That Dixon guy?” Marshal had asked once, as you walked the south corridor. He didn’t look at you when he said it. 

You had nodded. Just once. A sharp little thing, like a salute. The kind of response that meant everything and nothing.

You kept your hands steady. Your back straight. You thought of Dani... Daryl.

The same cell. Same stone. Same metal bars.

Only now, the cell across from him was empty.

It had been two nights, and Daryl still stared at that space, haunting him. The cold where you used to sit, curled and whispering hopes through the bars. The dried blood smudge near the drain. The memory of your scream.

He couldn’t sleep.

He hadn’t spoken in days.

Not because he couldn’t, but because there was no point. Most of his words had burned up in that fire anyway. What was left were grunts. Breaths. Muscle. The feel of rope biting into his palms as he dragged beams across gravel yards, sweating through his shirt until the sun dipped, and they locked him back in the cell.

He couldn’t stop looking.

At the guards. At the keys. At the gaps in their routines. At the flicker in their torchlight. At the way one of them always dropped his rifle to piss behind the south gate after final lockdown.

They thought he was broken. Good.

He was going to make them bleed for it.

____

The sun was too bright. Not warm, not kind. Just bright—the kind of blinding that turned sweat to sting and dirt to paste. Daryl’s hands, torn raw at the knuckles, worked the shovel with dull rhythm, carving through the gravel as if by compulsion. They’d set him to trenching along the perimeter fence, claiming it was for drainage, but it was busywork. Pointless. Just a leash long enough to keep him moving.

He had kept his mouth shut. There was nothing to say, to ask for. No one to answer.

The guards posted near him were two of the worst kind—bored, bitter, cruel in the casual way men were when they thought no one could touch them. They weren’t just watching him. They were waiting. It was obvious in the way they leaned against the posts, spitting seeds and elbowing each other, like the job was just a break between drinks.

“You hear what Marshal did during her intake?” one of them said, loud enough to carry, not bothering to keep the grin from his voice. “Ripped that shirt right open. Said he wanted to see if the scar was real. Said it looked like it was straight outta a horror movie.”

The other laughed—a wet, hacking thing that sounded like it came from the belly. “Man, the way she flinched? Shit, I would’ve kept goin’. Coulda had a whole show if Marshal wasn’t so damn stingy.”

Daryl didn’t move. His fingers curled tighter around the shovel handle, knuckles going bone-white under the grime.

“Real tragic, ain’t it?” the first continued. “ Mama had so much feist. Waste of a good piece of ass, if you ask me.”

The second guard whistled low. “Think she begged first? Screamed? I’d put money on it. Looked like a screamer.”

The shovel slipped from Daryl’s hands and hit the dirt with a dull thud, a quiet sound that somehow felt louder than it should have. He didn’t move at first. Just stood there—spine straight, chest rising slow and deep like something trying not to snap in half. His fingers curled once at his sides, twitching like the tension needed somewhere to go.

The two guards were still laughing. Still running their mouths.

Daryl turned.

No words. No sound. No warning.

He moved fast—faster than either of them had time to register. The first guard barely blinked before the edge of the shovel split across his jaw, the impact cracking like a gunshot. Bone shattered. Teeth flew. He dropped to one knee with a garbled scream before Daryl wrenched the shovel back and swung again—this time blunt-end first—right into his temple.

The second guard stumbled backward, drawing his weapon with a curse, but Daryl was already on him, driving forward with the force of a battering ram. He tackled him to the ground, knees slamming hard into the man’s ribs, one hand wrenching the gun from his grip while the other grabbed a fistful of his collar and slammed the back of his skull against the gravel once, twice—three times—until the resistance gave way and blood began pooling fast.

The first guard tried to crawl, face a ruined mess of pulp and bone, but Daryl turned on him with nothing left to hold back. He grabbed him by the belt and yanked him back like he weighed nothing.

He brought the shovel down like it was an axe—once to the spine, then again. And again. There was no grace in it. No clean kill. Just a raw, animal kind of violence—ugly and necessary.

His breath tore ragged through his chest as he stood over the wreckage. Both bodies stilled. One gurgled once and went quiet. The other twitched, then didn’t.

The other workers had gone silent. For a moment, the whole yard held its breath, as if the world itself recognised that something old and sacred had been unleashed.

Daryl stood over the bodies, panting, fists dripping, chest heaving with something that had no name.

And then he ran.

Through the gate. Into the trees.

No hesitation. No plan. Only instinct.

He didn’t know where he was going. But he knew he'd be back. 

To make them all pay.

____

You were tightening the strap across your thigh when Marshal barged in without ceremony, his breath fogging in the colder air of the chamber. His eyes were alight with adrenaline, that twisted edge of anticipation he wore whenever something went wrong in just the right way.

“Two of ours are down,” he said, voice clipped but eager. “One’s missing. Blood on the gravel, bodies were found at the north wall. Tracks heading into the trees.”

You didn’t freeze. You didn’t blink. You simply straightened, fastened the last strap, and reached for the sheath at your hip.

“How long?” you asked.

“Not long. Less than an hour. It was fast. Efficient. Looked more like an animal than a man, but—” he tilted his head, eyes dragging down your arm like he expected praise, “—I know work when I see it. This was deliberate.”

You nodded once and stepped past him, boots already moving toward the outer corridor before he finished speaking. He kept pace beside you, hands folded behind his back like the whole thing was an experiment you were walking into. A test. A stage.

“You want to lead the hunt?” he asked, casual. Almost amused.

“I’m already doing it.”

You crossed into the yard where the air smelled like blood and burnt oil, your eyes sweeping over the cluster of armed men standing in loose formation near the gate. They were waiting. Watching. Some with curiosity, some with tension.

All of them obeyed when you raised your voice—low, calm, authoritative.

“North perimeter’s compromised. We have two confirmed dead, one unaccounted for, and tracks headed into the pines. I want six units. Three per group. Sector assignments will be rotated every hour. You see something, you don’t shout—you signal. You don’t engage unless I say. You follow orders. Or you join the ones who bled out.”

No one questioned you. Not even Marshal. He smiled slightly as you issued your orders like you’d been doing it your whole life, as if command had grown from your skin like armour. There was no tremor in your voice. No crack in your tone.

There was a slight hum in your skull. The one that came when the world tilted a little too sharply, like it always did when someone said the word escape. There was even a tinge of jealousy in your chest. Then it was replaced by pity. Because you knew they would be dragged back.

You didn’t let yourself wonder who it had been. Didn’t dwell on the bloody bodies or the missing name. Workers tried and failed all the time. You’d seen it before. You’d clean it up again. Still, something about Marshal’s expression gave you pause.

“What?” you asked, glancing at him.

He shrugged, but it was a smug gesture. Light. Easy. “Nothing. You wear the title well, General.”

You didn’t answer. Just looked back to the gate.

The hunt was already underway.

-----

The forest felt endless.

He didn’t know how long he’d been running. The canopy above him blurred into streaks of dark green and dying light, the air thick with humidity and his own ragged breath. His legs burned. His ribs ached. His boots pounded the earth like a drumbeat begging to slow, but he wouldn’t let them. He couldn’t.

Branches scraped his arms, thorns dragged like claws against his jeans, but none of it registered. Not compared to what he’d left behind. He didn’t know if he was more ashamed of the rage or the fact it had taken him that long to let it boil over. He was finally out - but it was without you.

Two of them hadn’t walked away from it. That was all he knew.

The forest began to thin. He slowed just enough to keep his breathing even. He hadn’t run this far to collapse. He swiped at his face and didn’t stop moving.

It was the shape of something manmade that pulled him forward—a faint glint of rust through the trees, the broken silhouette of a long-abandoned gas station nestled in overgrowth. Half-collapsed, half-swallowed by ivy, the old building slumped against the edge of the road like a dying animal. Its sign had long since shattered. Only rusted poles remained where the name might have been. Weeds grew through the cracks in the concrete, and a single pump leaned at an angle like it had been punched sideways and never stood again. But it was something. Shelter. Cover. Supplies.

He paused at the edge of the clearing, one hand pressed against a tree, catching his breath, eyes scanning for movement. Nothing. Only the soft rustle of branches and the occasional distant groan of the dead.

That's when he saw two walkers lurching near the back of the station, slow and disoriented. He crouched, crept forward, and took them out quick. Clean. Blade to the base of the skull. He dragged their corpses into the woods, leaving them in a way that looked like a scuffle had happened. A trail. One they’d follow. Let them run in the wrong direction.

Then he doubled back and slipped through the busted rear entrance, heart thudding hard beneath the damp fabric of his shirt.

Inside, it was still.

Dust hung thick in the shafts of light breaking through broken panes. Shelves had long since collapsed, candy wrappers and rat nests littering the floor. The air stank of mildew and old oil, but it was empty as far as people and walkers went.. He moved slow, clearing corners one at a time, bootfalls nearly silent on the stained linoleum.

He didn’t breathe easy, not really. Not until the last corner was clear. Then he sagged against the side of an empty cooler, pressing a hand to his ribs, sweat trickling down his spine. He counted each breath like it might be his last. That's when he heard something from outside.

_______

The trail didn’t fool you.

It was good—subtle in ways the average Creed lackey would never catch—but not good enough to hide what it really was. They were covering their tracks. Every broken branch had purpose. Every overturned rock, every blood-speckled leaf followed a pattern too clean, too deliberately staggered, too familiar.

Because it was yours.

A move you’d crafted seasons ago, back when survival meant something more than symbolism and pageantry. You’d taught it once—to people who mattered. People who didn’t wear uniforms or follow slogans or look at you like you were anything but someone trying to stay alive. And now it stared back at you from the earth like a signature carved into soil.

Marshal was barking orders ahead of you, his voice crisp with expectation, but not urgency. Two men down was an inconvenience, not a threat. He stood near the treeline, gesturing with one hand for his squad to follow the trail of walker corpses heading eastward, already convinced the work was nearly done.

You didn’t speak right away. Didn’t move either.

Just stood near the edge of the brush, eyes tracking the drag marks and the half-shuffled footprints, letting the recognition sink deep into your ribs like a bruise you’d forgotten how to name.

When Marshal noticed your hesitation, he stepped closer. His tone was more relaxed now—comfortable, even—as if he’d grown used to speaking to you not as his subordinate, but as his closest confidant. Or maybe just his newest trophy.

“You see something I don’t, General?” he asked, voice low, laced with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’ve been staring at dirt for the last two minutes like it's talkin' to you.”

You didn’t answer at first. You kept your gaze fixed on the ground, the muscle in your jaw ticking once as you shifted your weight forward, crouching to trace the heel-drag pattern with your fingers.

“It’s not walker blood,” you murmured, mostly to yourself. “Too bright. Too spaced.”

Marshal tilted his head, humored but mildly intrigued. “That what’s got you squinting like an old crow? We’ve already got a lead. They’re following it now.”

You stood slowly, brushing your hands off on your thighs before glancing toward the direction the others had taken.

“It’s misdirection,” you said, flatly, without drama. “Manufactured.”

Marshal frowned, but it was faint, like a crease appearing in otherwise smooth stone. “And you know this because…?”

Your eyes slid to him. “Because it’s mine.”

That gave him pause. His smirk faltered, then rebuilt itself slowly, shaped now into something more curious than mocking.

“Well, shit,” he chuckled, hands sliding into his pockets. “Didn’t know you taught tricks. Looks like someone’s been studying the old playbook.”

He glanced down the trail again, then back at you. “You think our escapee doubled back?”

“I think he’s already gone,” you said, voice smooth. “And I think if you want a chance at catching him, you let me follow the real trail while your dogs chase ghosts.”

There was a moment of silence between you then—thin, but weighted. Marshal studied your face like he was seeing something he hadn’t expected, or maybe something he’d been hoping would surface all along.

He smiled again, more relaxed this time, and gestured half-heartedly to the forest. “Alright, General. If you think there’s a better trail, take it. Just don’t get yourself lost. Hate to have to replace you after all the effort I put in.”

You nodded once. Sharp. Precise. The way he liked it.

And then you turned and vanished into the woods, one boot after the other, eyes tracking the subtle path only you would’ve noticed. It wasn’t marked with panic or haste, but strategy. Intentional obfuscation. A diversion made to buy time—and that was what made your heart start to pound. 

People who used this move were dangerous. After all it was your move.

_______

The forest opened up without warning.

One second, you were tucked beneath the heavy arms of pines, the air thick with sap and old rain, and the next, the trees gave way to a patch of cleared ground—uneven, mottled with patches of gravel and moss, as if the world itself had tried to reclaim this place and only half-succeeded. In the centre stood a gas station. 

You stood still for a moment, just outside the reach of the clearing, listening.

Nothing.

No birds. No footsteps. Not even wind. Just the low, hot breath of the forest pressing against your back and the distant rot of something that had died weeks ago and hadn’t yet stopped stinking.

Your hand tightened around the hilt of your knife.

The trail led here. The subtle one—the real one. The one you’d followed from a snapped vine near the creek bed, the one someone had tried too hard to make look accidental. Every turn had confirmed it. This was no rogue worker. Whoever came here knew how to cover ground. How to double back. How to make blood smear like accident and not direction.

There was something about the air that changed before you even stepped inside—a stillness too deliberate, like a breath held too long, like the world itself was waiting for something to break. You crept along the outer edge of the station, careful to keep your footfalls light, your weapon drawn but low, ready but not aggressive. The siding flaked beneath your fingertips, warm and brittle, the building groaning faintly as the wind caught under the eaves. It should have felt abandoned. It didn’t.

Your gut twisted—not with fear exactly, but with a pressure you didn’t know how to name, like your body was trying to warn you before your mind could catch up. Something was here. Someone. It wasn’t a logical feeling. There were no clear signs. Nothing disturbed. Nothing broken. But still, the closer you got, the stronger the feeling became, like gravity itself was trying to pull you inward.

By the time you stepped through the rear entrance—door creaking on its hinges but offering no resistance—you already knew you weren’t alone.

You didn’t shout. You didn’t call out commands. You just stood there for a moment, breathing through your nose, trying to place the shape of the unease that had started to bloom beneath your ribs.

The air was soured by time—thick with rust and mildew and motor oil, sharp with the scent of old blood and dust, the kind that clung to your clothes and your tongue long after you’d left. Sunlight cut through cracks in the roof, casting long, ghostly columns across the wreckage of the station’s interior. Aisles leaned at odd angles. Packaging had melted into the shelves. The silence wasn’t clean. It was full of ghosts.

You stepped forward, slow and careful, scanning between the shelves. One aisle at a time.

“This isn’t gonna end well for you,” you said, your voice cutting the silence like a blade—not shouted, not loud, but firm and cold and clear. A statement, not a threat. Not a warning - just a fact.

There was no response. Not right away. Just the sound of breath caught mid-motion. Like someone had frozen behind one of the shelves.

“Come out where I can see you,” you said, stepping deeper into the rows. Your voice didn’t shake. But it wasn’t steady, either. There was something brittle at the edges now. A warning crack before the collapse.

The sound of your voice slammed into him like a hammer to the sternum—low, steady, not shouted, but heavy with something he couldn’t name, like truth dragged raw across gravel. It was unmistakable, even wrapped in grit, even worn at the edges by survival. It was you. It was your voice, but it wasn’t soft the way he remembered, wasn’t teasing or warm or sarcastic. It was clipped and direct, sharpened down to the bone like everything else in this world, and that was what undid him.

His back pressed harder to the metal shelf behind him, and his fingers tightened around the knife in his grip, not from intent to use it but because it was the only thing tethering him to the moment. His pulse was everywhere—in his throat, behind his eyes, pounding in the tips of his fingers—and the breath he tried to take caught halfway and dissolved into nothing. He didn’t move. He couldn’t. He wasn’t sure he remembered how.

Something inside him began to crack, slow and silent like ice shifting under weight.

He hadn’t imagined it.

It wasn’t one of the dreams that taunted him in the half-sleep of a cold floor and a concrete cell. It wasn’t the whisper that followed him through every labor shift, the one that sounded like her laugh, like her sigh, like the first time she said his name in the dark. This wasn’t the echo of memory warped by grief. This was now. This was real.

And yet, he didn’t answer. Not right away. Because something primal in him still feared the truth. Still believed that turning that corner would cost him everything if he was wrong.

But then he heard her boots crunch forward—one, then another. Steady. Careful. Getting closer. The sound of her moving cut through him sharper than any blade.

His eyes flicked toward the end of the aisle, just a sliver of light between broken shelves, and for a heartbeat, he caught it—just a glimpse.

A shoulder. A lock of hair. The edge of your jaw. The line of your arm steady on your weapon.

And it hit him all over again, harder this time, like the wind knocked out of his lungs and the floor pulled out from under him all at once. His knees went weak, his grip faltered, and the breath he finally took sounded more like a sob than a sigh, though he kept it behind his teeth.

You were standing. You were walking. You were alive.

Your were real.

But you didn’t look like the woman he used to fall asleep beside, or the one who used to hum under her breath while cleaning blood off her knife. You didn’t move like someone who’d ever been held gently. Your body was all tension, your eyes cold and alert, like softness had been trained out of you one wound at a time. The version of you standing there now looked like someone who’d been surviving instead of living—like the world had stripped you down to the parts that could fight and buried the rest somewhere too deep to reach.

And yet it was still you.

“I’m not in the mood to chase,” you said, each word carved from the grit of your throat. “And I’m sure as hell not in the mood to kill someone who’s just hiding. So don’t make me.”

He didn’t know how long he stood there, half-concealed by the shadows of the aisle end, barely breathing, barely thinking—just staring, heart thundering with the impossible weight of recognition because it was you. And yet not you. And that paradox alone left his mouth dry, his pulse skittering, and his knees dangerously untrustworthy beneath him.

There was something in the way you held yourself that made the air feel thinner. You didn’t look fragile. You didn’t even look afraid. You looked sharpened—reforged in fire—and he didn’t know whether to be proud or devastated that the world had made you into this. For one breathless moment, he let himself believe that he could keep watching you like this forever, that you wouldn’t vanish again if he blinked too long. That the grief choking him since the pit had been a lie.

But then the toe of his boot knocked against a broken glass bottle, and the sharp scrape of it skittered across the linoleum like a gunshot in the dark. You reacted before the sound even finished, instincts firing faster than thought, and before he could lift a hand or even fully turn, your weapon had snapped to attention, pointed straight at him from across the aisle with lethal, unflinching precision.

He lifted both hands immediately. His knife dropped to the floor with a dull thud, his fingers opening like surrender was the only language he had left, and still, he didn’t speak. He didn’t dare. The only thing that moved was his chest, rising and falling in jagged rhythm as his eyes stayed fixed on yours, drinking you in like a man starved.

And you… you couldn’t move either.

The moment your eyes landed on him—on his face, his shoulders, the familiar set of his mouth—you stopped breathing entirely. You didn’t lower the weapon, not at first, not even when the shape of him settled into clarity. Your body held position like a dam holding back floodwater, and for a single, suspended second, all you could do was stare, too stunned to speak, too stunned to blink, too stunned to accept the thing your heart already knew.

It was him.

Alive.

Real.

And standing at the opposite end of the aisle like a ghost resurrected just for you.

You weren’t sure if the sound that came out of you was a gasp or a sob or some mangled hybrid of both, but it broke whatever spell had been holding you in place, because your fingers loosened ever so slightly on the grip, your arms trembling in their sockets, the gun still aimed but your certainty dissolving. His name rose in your chest, but it got caught behind your teeth, too thick with disbelief, too sacred to release without proof. Because if you said it, and it wasn’t really him, you wouldn’t survive it.

But he didn’t vanish.

He didn’t speak either.

He just stood there, hands still raised, eyes still locked on you like if he looked away you might disappear all over again. And that was when you finally let the weapon drop—not all the way, not at first, but just enough to acknowledge what your heart was already screaming.

You didn’t know whether to run to him or collapse where you stood.

But you knew one thing, deep and feral in your gut—this wasn’t over. It had only just begun.

Your lips parted before the sound came, breath catching halfway up your throat as if your body had to fight to let the name escape. You hadn’t said it in days. Or maybe weeks. You’d whispered it to yourself in the dark, in the cold, in the quiet between orders and silence, just to remember the shape of it—but this time, it felt like a prayer you weren’t ready to finish.

“Daryl?”

It came out cracked. A question. A confession. A hope.

And then he exhaled.

That’s all he did—just let out a breath so full of disbelief and wonder it shook loose the silence between you like the final piece of a collapsing dam. His hands, still raised in surrender, trembled once as a smile twitched—small and ruined—at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. His body said everything. The slack in his shoulders, the sting in his eyes, the way his lips moved around the unspoken words like he wasn’t sure his voice would hold.

“Yeah. It’s me.” 

Not empty—but full in a way that felt overwhelming. A silence packed with heat and scent and movement and memory, like the whole room had bowed to make space for the impossible thing happening between you.

Your gun hit the floor with a thud that didn’t echo.

Your feet moved before your brain did.

One second you were standing there, arms trembling, heart breaking open like a wound that had never truly closed. The next, you were running—sprinting across the ruined tile, your boots slipping slightly on the broken glass and torn paper, not caring if you fell, not caring if you bled, just needing to reach him, to feel him, to prove he wasn’t made of smoke and memory.

Daryl closed the space between you like he’d been waiting his whole life to do it, his steps heavy and uneven, like his knees couldn’t decide if they should give out or carry him faster. His eyes never left yours, not even when you collided—so hard and fast that it knocked the breath from both of you, your chests crashing together with the force of everything you hadn’t dared feel until now.

You sobbed into his shoulder the second his arms locked around you.

There was no delay. No awkward pause. No question of whether he would catch you. Daryl wrapped you up like he’d been born to do it, his hands clawing at your back, his head burying into the curve of your neck, his arms caging you in like the world might try and steal you from him again and he wasn’t about to let that happen. You could feel the noise that came out of him, low and ragged, less a sound than a breath that caught in his throat and turned to something half-feral, half-frightened, all love.

You didn’t hold back.

Your body shook so hard you nearly dropped to your knees. Your hands gripped the fabric of his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you upright. The sobs came fast, ugly, unrelenting, like everything you’d buried just to keep breathing had finally broken the surface and refused to stop. You could smell him—blood, sweat, dirt, smoke—and it hit you like a memory so strong it felt like drowning. You pressed your face into his collarbone, breathing in deep, desperate gasps, like scent alone could prove it was him.

He lifted his head to look at you—really look at you—and the moment your eyes met, the air between you seemed to collapse. His gaze was glassy, flickering with a hundred emotions all fighting for room, the disbelief carved so deep into his expression it was as if he were afraid to blink in case you vanished. He needed to be sure, to confirm with his own eyes that this wasn’t a trick of the light or some final mercy dream sent to soften the blow of grief.

And when the truth settled—when his mind caught up with what his heart already knew—his head dropped against your shoulder, not from exhaustion, but from the sheer weight of feeling that overtook him.

You welcomed him without hesitation, your arms wrapping around him like they’d been searching for his shape this whole time. Your fingers clawed at the back of his shirt, trying to ground yourself, to remind your body that he was real, that this wasn’t a hallucination born from fatigue or hope or desperation. You sobbed, sharp and sudden, your face tilted toward him as the dam inside you finally burst.

You hadn’t let yourself feel it—not really—not until now. You’d kept the grief locked up tight, buried beneath obligation and instinct and survival, but now it was clawing its way out with a ferocity that terrified you. The pain of losing him surged through your chest like a second heartbeat, loud and uncontrollable, and now that it was out in the open, you had no idea what to do with it.

You collapsed into him, trembling, your hands fisting into the fabric at his back like you were afraid he might vanish if you didn’t hold on tight enough. Your breath hitched as you buried your face against his collar, the scent of him—earth and smoke and blood—ripping another cry from your chest. He was here. He was real. He was warm.

“I can’t believe it,” you choked out, your voice wet and raw. “You’re alive… you’re…”

His fingers curled tighter in the fabric of your jacket, knuckles white with the strain, like if he didn’t anchor himself to you, he might fall straight through the floor. His chest convulsed with a breath that never fully landed, just trembled apart in his throat, and then—like something cracked open deep inside him—he began to nod. Small at first, barely perceptible, then over and over again, his face buried in your neck, breath ragged, tears searing hot as they soaked into your skin. His whole body shook with it, not a sob exactly, but something quieter, more devastating—like surrender.

“You’re okay,” you whispered, again and again, each repetition softer than the last, unsure if you were trying to calm him or convince yourself. “You’re okay… I’m here… you’re here…”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. But the way he gripped you—arms tightening like he could press you into his bones, hand cradling the back of your head with a desperation that bordered on reverence—told you everything you needed to know. He had thought he’d lost you. And now that you were back, he wasn’t going to let you slip away again. Not even for a second.

His voice cracked where it met your throat, low and hoarse like it had been dragged over gravel. “But I saw you,” he rasped, the words catching on a sob that hadn’t quite landed yet. “They—I saw you, they—”

“I know,” you breathed, the sound of it already fraying as it left your lips. “They pulled the same thing with me.”

And that was when it hit him—the sob he’d been holding back since the moment your voice first cut through the dark. It didn’t explode from him; it collapsed inward, a sharp, uneven inhale that never made it all the way out, like he was still trying to wrestle it into silence even now. But you felt it—the way it rippled through his body, not just in his shoulders but down to his bones, like something had broken open beneath the surface and he didn’t have the strength to stop it anymore. He sagged into you, not dramatically, just a fraction—but it was enough. Enough to know that whatever kept him upright until now had finally given out.

You cupped his face before he could retreat again—both hands, firm and unshaking, holding him there like you could keep him from splintering. The scratch of his stubble burned against your palms, and still, you didn’t let go. His eyes met yours—those pale, wolf-bright eyes—and they were barely holding together. No trace of the man who had walked beside you days ago. These eyes were starved. Hollowed. Torn raw at the edges from seeing too much, from believing too little. They didn’t look like eyes meant to hold joy anymore. They looked like they were built for grief.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered, and his voice cracked on the word thought, like even saying it might kill him. “I saw it. I saw them—”

“I know,” you said again, but this time the words collapsed in your throat, your voice blown wide open with feeling. “I know, baby. I know.”

And something inside you broke, right then—something you didn’t have a name for. It cracked down your spine and shattered in your chest, left you trembling with a grief that didn’t have a place to go. There were no good words left. No logic. No plans. No promises.

So you did the only thing your body knew how to do.

You kissed him.

It didn’t feel like a kiss—it felt like impact. Like gravity reversed and slammed the two of you together with such force it shattered every lie you’d told yourselves just to stay alive. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was breathless and clumsy and soaked in panic, the kind of kiss that felt like drowning with your mouths wide open, like maybe if you didn’t inhale the other person fast enough, they might disappear again. His teeth knocked against yours in the chaos of it, his lips trembling with the sobs he couldn’t release, and your tears spilled freely, tracking down into the corners of your mouth, warm and salt-stung and unrelenting.

You felt the sound before you heard it—the low, helpless noise that scraped out of him from somewhere deep in his chest, something that sat halfway between a groan and a wounded animal’s cry. His hands were in your hair before you could register the movement, dragging you closer like proximity alone might make up for lost time, like if he could just fuse his skin to yours, nothing would ever tear you apart again. One hand fisted in the back of your jacket, the other trembling against the curve of your spine, sliding lower, frantic and reverent all at once, as if he didn’t know where to touch you first because he couldn’t stand the thought of not touching you at all.

He moved without thinking—pure instinct, pure need. Your body was suddenly pressed back against a rusted metal shelf, the cold biting through your jacket even as his mouth devoured yours, even as his breath poured into you like something sacred. His hands skimmed down your sides with a fever that felt more like prayer than lust, like he was checking to make sure you were really there, all of you, unburned and breathing. And then they found your hips, strong and decisive, and he lifted you—just like that. No hesitation, no warning, just that same animal desperation in the way his arms wrapped under your thighs and the way your legs clung to his waist like muscle memory.

You never stopped kissing. Not even for air. Not even when your back hit the floor and the stench of the gas station rushed into your lungs. You could’ve been lying in dirt or on broken glass or in the middle of a damn inferno and it still wouldn’t have mattered. The only thing that mattered was this—this unbearable closeness, this impossible proof that he was here and you were here and somehow, impossibly, you’d found each other again.

Every point of contact felt vital. His chest crushed against yours, his heartbeat thundering like a war drum under your palms. His thigh slotted between yours, grinding hard enough to draw a whimper from your lips, and still, it wasn’t close enough. Your hands roamed like you were blind, like your fingers were trying to memorize what your eyes still couldn’t believe—his shoulders, the scar at his collarbone, the line of his jaw and the curve of his skull beneath your palms.

Daryl didn’t talk, not really. Not when it counted. But right now, he was saying everything you needed to hear. Not with words—but with the way his tongue tangled with yours, the way his breath hitched when you rocked your hips up against his, the way he buried his face against your throat like he was trying to crawl inside your skin. You didn’t say anything either—not because you didn’t have words, but because language would’ve ruined it. Nothing could hold this. Not grief. Not rage. Not love. Only movement. Only heat. Only the frantic, aching choreography of two people who had forgotten how to survive without each other.

And that—that was your fluency.

This was how you spoke.

Your legs were locked around his waist like a vise, trembling with strain but refusing to let go, and your hands couldn’t stop pulling him closer, dragging at his back, his shoulders, clawing like you could anchor yourself in the curve of his spine and stay there forever. There was no space between your bodies, nothing but heat and panic and the sick, beautiful ache of reunion as he held you upright, one arm clamped tight around your lower back, the other braced against the broken floor to keep you both steady in a world that no longer was.

You couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t think. Every nerve in your body was alive with it—this collision, this reunion, this need that felt bigger than you, bigger than both of you, like grief made manifest in the shape of desire.

And he was unraveling right there with you.

Daryl wasn’t thinking in words anymore. He was running on instinct, acting on a hunger so deep it didn’t feel like lust—it felt like survival. His hands found your shirt and tore it open in one violent jerk, the sound of fabric splitting loud enough to make your breath stutter, and the second your skin was exposed, he was on you. Mouth hot, insistent, desperate as he kissed a line down your chest like it was a map he thought he’d never see again. His lips landed over your heart, over your ribs, over the spots he always touched, and now pressed into like they were proof that you were real, that he hadn’t imagined you back into existence.

You arched into him, hips tilting up, breath ragged as his mouth found your sternum, then lower. Of course—of course—he didn’t pass your breasts without worship, not even now, not even in the middle of a damn apocalypse resurrection. His hand palmed you roughly through your bra while his mouth trailed lower, fast and hungry and nothing like the teasing he used to do, because this wasn’t about foreplay or build-up. It was about claim. About remembering. About burying himself in you so deep he’d never have to crawl out again.

He was afraid.

You could feel it. In the way his breath hitched every time your fingers moved through his hair. In the way he touched you like you were on borrowed time. In the way his eyes flashed upward every few seconds, glassy and wide and unbelieving. He was terrified this was a hallucination. That if he didn’t fuck you hard enough, if he didn’t make you scream and cry and come undone in his arms, then you might vanish again.

But you couldn’t hold back the cry that tore out of your chest, your voice cracked and pleading as the emptiness clawed at your insides. “Daryl—”

His head snapped up, eyes locking on yours, face flushed and tearstreaked and so goddamn soft you thought you might break open from the sight of it. And when he looked at you, he didn’t see uncertainty or hesitation or fear—he saw you shaking beneath him, desperate and wrecked and alive, and it lit something inside him that had nothing to do with dominance and everything to do with belonging.

You were already lifting your torso, fumbling for his belt with clumsy, shaking fingers. It took too long. It always took too long. And when your hands slipped, when a frustrated whimper escaped your lips, he didn’t mock you like he usually would. He didn’t smirk or tease or make some offhand comment about how you couldn’t wait two fucking seconds.

He knelt there in front of you like something half-feral, trembling and breathless, and moved with that same single-minded urgency, his fingers flying to your jeans, dragging the zipper down like the delay itself was killing him.

You didn’t take your pants off. You shoved them down just far enough. You didn’t want preparation or patience. You wanted him. Now. You wanted him inside you so deep the ache wouldn’t go away for days. You wanted to feel sore. You wanted to feel branded.

His voice was hoarse and warm against your lips as you writhed beneath him, just a breath of comfort threaded through the chaos. “It’s alright, baby. I gotcha. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

It didn’t match what he was doing. His tone was tender, low, steady—but his hands were shaking as he hooked your underwear with your jeans and shoved them down in one rough motion. There was nothing slow about it. There was no grace in the way his fingers curled into your hips as he slid between your thighs, no hesitation in the way he groaned when your legs tightened again around his waist and pulled him flush against your body.

You shifted beneath him, the cracked linoleum biting into your bare ass, the brittle sting of broken glass tangled in your hair like a crown of thorns you didn’t dare acknowledge. Above you, a ragged hole in the station’s collapsed ceiling cast a shaft of silver light through the dust-choked air, illuminating your body like something divine—skin glowing pale beneath the grime, your chest rising and falling in frantic rhythm, eyes wild and wet and locked onto his like he was the last living thing on earth. And to Daryl, you were.

His breath caught in his throat. It was almost too much—seeing you like this, raw and spread out under him, haloed in dust and blood and light. You were wrecked. And holy. And his. Every part of him screamed to reach you, bury himself inside you so completely that nothing—not time, not fire, not the Creed—could ever sever what bound you together.

You tugged him closer, hips shifting, knees rising to cradle his body with your own like instinct had overridden every fear, every question, every word. The press of him against you sent a tremor through your spine, your muscles clenching in desperate anticipation, not just for pleasure but for proof. Proof that this wasn’t a hallucination. That he was here, real and solid and warm, the weight of him anchoring you back into your body after days spent floating on agony and denial.

“I need you,” you whispered, barely louder than the whisper of dust falling around you. “I need to feel you. I need to know you’re real.”

And he gave you that—without a word, without hesitation. Just a groan, low and guttural, as his hand slid beneath your thigh and hitched it high over his hip, aligning himself. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, breath scalding against your skin, the tremble in his arms betraying the fact that he was just as wrecked as you were—torn open by grief and stunned by hope.

And then, he pushed inside.

It was unbearable in its slowness, every inch a reclamation, every second a sacrament. Your body welcomed him like it had been waiting, like it had been hollowed out and shaped only to fit him. The stretch was divine, brutal in its pleasure, a burn that made your back arch and your breath catch and your fingers rake down the length of his spine because you couldn’t hold this, couldn’t stand it, couldn’t survive it unless he gave you all of it—his weight, his heat, his voice gasping brokenly against your throat.

He bottomed out with a low, breathless groan, and the moment he did, something in you shattered. You felt the tears break loose again—this time not from fear or grief or even relief, but from sheer overwhelming joy. From the way your body clenched around him in welcome. From the dizzying rush of feeling everything at once.

The sound that left your throat barely resembled anything human—it was a gasp, yes, but not one you recognised as your own. It scraped from your chest like something long buried, like a sob half-remembered from another lifetime, one where he hadn’t been ripped from your arms. You hadn’t known how hollow you’d become until the moment he filled you again, until the weight and warmth of him settled into the ache that had lived inside you since the day he was ‘shot’. Each slow roll of his hips sent another wave crashing through you—deep, thorough, grounding—and it was more than just sensation. It was reclamation. It was breath after drowning. It was colour bleeding back into a world that had long since faded grey. His mouth found yours again, and this time it wasn’t a kiss so much as a seal—a dam against the sound of your cries, which trembled high and frantic in your throat, cries not of pain or desperation but of raw, unfiltered relief. You were finally whole again, and that truth settled into your bones with every movement. After days of unbearable numbness, of walking through the world like a ghost in your own body, every nerve had been sharpened to a blade’s edge. You felt everything now—his hands, his breath, the press of his chest against yours—and It hit you all at once—a rush so heady it was almost narcotic, like pleasure waking every nerve at once after days of silence, flooding your system with heat, hunger, and the dizzying high of finally being alive in his hands again.

There was no rhythm. No restraint. Just the frenzied collision of flesh and feeling—each thrust growing rough with purpose, deep with urgency, like he was trying to brand himself inside you, like every stroke was a prayer and a promise and a plea. The heat of him filled you again and again, thick and relentless, until it felt like your body couldn’t possibly hold anything more—but you begged for it anyway, legs wrapped tight around his waist, hips lifting to meet every punishing drive of his. He didn’t ease up, didn’t slow, not when every sharp drag of his cock left you gasping like the air itself couldn’t reach your lungs unless he gave it to you.

It wasn’t about chasing pleasure. It was about surviving the ache. About staying here, in this body, in this moment, where you could still feel him—hot and hard and alive, grinding into you like he could carve your name into his bones. His breath came harsh against your mouth, mingling with yours, teeth grazing lips like he wanted to consume every sound you made. Every moan. Every desperate sob.

Your hands were everywhere—threaded in his hair, tugging hard enough to hurt, raking down the slope of his back, the curve of his spine, clawing at him like you could tear your way into his chest and never leave. You grabbed at his ass, urging him deeper, harder, faster, trying to keep him pressed so far inside there’d never be a world where he wasn’t. Your name broke on his tongue in pieces, ragged and reverent, lost between the kisses he planted against your throat, your jaw, your open, gasping mouth.

You didn’t just want him close. You wanted him fused to you. Imprinted. Etched into the wet heat of you forever.

“Yes—fuck, yes,” you gasped into his ear, the words high and ragged, cracking under the weight of everything pouring out of you at once. Your voice didn’t even sound like your own anymore—too breathless, too raw, too consumed by the white-hot bliss unraveling you from the inside out.

That did something to him.

His pace shifted, stuttered, then surged—all control lost. His hips slammed into yours with reckless abandon, faster, harder, as if the sound of your voice had lit a fuse in him he couldn’t extinguish. His whole body was shaking with the force of it, sweat slicking his skin as your bodies collided over and over in a rhythm that felt more like a goddamn resurrection than anything else.

“Fuck, I’ve missed you,” he choked out, the words torn straight from his chest, cracked and desperate. His forehead pressed hard against yours, breath fanning hot over your face, his eyes clenched shut like the intensity of it all was just too much to bear. He drove deep, hitting that spot that made your whole body jolt and seize, again and again, until the pressure inside you coiled so tightly you thought you might break apart from the sheer pleasure of it.

Your back arched with every thrust, your body dragged upward by the force of his hips before slamming back down into the ruined floor beneath you. You didn’t care. You didn’t feel anything but him—thick, hot, buried to the hilt inside you, like he was trying to fuck you into memory, into reality, into existence.

He was gasping against your skin now, his breath pouring out in short, ragged bursts that seared across your collarbone like open flame, each one edged with something rawer than pain and more desperate than pleasure. His jaw was clenched so tightly it trembled against the curve of your throat, the sinew in his neck taut like a man trying to hold back a scream, like the sheer force of what he felt was something he had to trap behind his teeth just to keep from breaking apart entirely. His grip on your hips had turned punishing, almost brutal, his fingers digging so deep into your flesh it felt like he was trying to leave something permanent behind—not just a bruise, but a mark that said mine, still mine, always. He didn’t mean to hurt you. But he couldn’t stop. Not when the way you moved beneath him was undoing every stitch of restraint he’d tried so fucking hard to hold onto.

He looked down for just a second—just long enough to watch the place where your bodies met, slick and desperate and shuddering with every movement—and the sight alone nearly ruined him. That was you. That was him, buried inside you so deep he swore he could see himself poking from inside you and forming a bulge in your lower abdomen. Your legs locked tight around his waist, your body rising to meet his like you couldn’t bear even a moment of distance, and it shattered something in him, something hollow and hungry and feral. You looked unreal like that—eyes wet and wide, lips parted, the flush of you spreading down your chest as your back arched again beneath him. The shaft of light spilling through the hole in the ceiling cast a pale, holy glow across your skin, catching in the strands of glass tangled in your hair and turning your entire body into something celestial, like you were a vision brought back from the dead just for him to worship.

Then his hands slid up, one latching tight into yours, pinning it down hard beside your head. The other followed, his fingers threading between yours like a lifeline, like if he didn’t hold on he might float away completely. And all the while he kept fucking into you—harder, deeper—his eyes locked to your face with a terrifying sort of focus, like he was watching for signs of life, of love, of you, and couldn’t afford to miss a second of it.

You could feel him everywhere—stretching you open, filling you to the point of madness, the weight of him driving every inch of his cock so deep inside you it felt like he might split you in two. You swore you could feel it in your chest, in your spine, curling in your throat like a scream that couldn’t find a way out. Every thrust hit like a vow, like a promise sealed with skin and sweat and everything he couldn’t say out loud. Like he was stitching you back together with every goddamn movement.

And you let him. You wanted him to. Because every bruising, fevered stroke didn’t just remind you that you were alive—it reminded you that you were his.

Your whole body trembling, not just from the pressure building at your core, but from the sheer impossibility of it all—him, here, real, alive, buried so deep inside you that your bones ached with the weight of it. Every thrust pulled a new sound from your throat, not just of pleasure, but of disbelief, of shattered grief curling into relief. The rhythm of his hips drove you toward the edge, but it wasn’t just ecstasy pooling hot and full in your belly—it was everything you’d buried to survive. Every scream you’d swallowed, every night you’d imagined him dead, every second you’d rehearsed how to live without him—it all surged forward at once, crashing up through your chest like a tidal wave.

He groaned into your skin, voice cracked open with the same unbearable ache you carried, every breath he took like he was drowning in you, like he couldn’t get close enough even now, couldn’t accept there was still space between your bodies no matter how deep he pushed.

And then something inside you snapped—not pain, not even climax, but a rupture of emotion that split you down the center. The first sob hit so softly it barely registered, just a breath stuttering against his neck, but the second followed quick and sharp, your face twisting into his shoulder as the flood broke loose. You were shaking beneath him, wracked with the force of it, tears sliding hot between your temples and his skin, gasping for air like you couldn’t tell where the sorrow ended and the joy began.

Daryl didn’t notice at first that you were crying. How could he, when every inch of his body was pressed against yours like a seal, like something sacred, like if he just kept moving—kept breathing you in and pushing himself deeper into your body—the nightmare might stay buried where it belonged. His face was buried in your neck, the heat of his breath scalding your throat in short, ragged bursts as his mouth moved blindly across your skin, dropping kisses that were more devotion than desire, lips parted in a prayer he didn’t know how to speak.

His hands were everywhere, cradling your head, skimming your ribs, dragging down your back with shaking fingers that gripped like he was afraid you’d dissolve if he didn’t hold you right. You felt like a lifeline beneath him, warm and alive and wrapped so tightly around his senses that the rest of the world ceased to exist. It wasn’t until your body began to tremble in a way that didn’t match the cadence of his thrusts—not pleasure, not urgency, but something softer and more broken—that he finally felt it. 

Not the tight grip of your thighs or the drag of your nails down his back—no, it was the break in your moan, the way the sound caught mid-breath like a sob in disguise. It was the way your whole body trembled, not from the pleasure winding tighter inside you, but from something else—something more profound. Lonelier.

He pulled back just enough to see you, to really see you, and what he found nearly gutted him. Tears streaking your cheeks. Not loud. Not wild. Just steady, silent drops that shimmered in the weak shaft of light cutting through the ceiling, turning your face into something ethereal and wrecked and so fucking beautiful it made his chest ache. There was glass in your hair—tiny glints of it catching the light like stars—and he couldn’t tell if the shimmer on your lips was sweat or salt or both, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that you were crying, and he hadn’t even noticed. His heart punched against his ribs, and his body stilled completely, the rhythm faltering to nothing as his hands gentled in an instant, afraid he’d gone too far, afraid he’d gone too far and hurt you.

“Hey,” he rasped, the word cracked and broken at the edges, like it had clawed its way up from a place too deep to name. “Baby—”

His voice landed against your skin like an apology he hadn’t had time to shape, but already meant with everything he had. And the moment he stopped moving—just the second his hips stilled, just the breath between one heartbeat and the next—something in you snapped. The emptiness, that terrible hollowness where his rhythm had been, flooded your chest like a tidal wave, choking off your breath, making your arms seize tighter around him like maybe if you held on hard enough the cold couldn’t reach you.

Daryl didn’t need to see the tears to know. He felt it in your body—the sudden change in tension, the way your grip shifted from want to need, the tremble that started somewhere low in your spine and worked its way up into your chest, into the way your breath caught like it had hit barbed wire on the way out. He didn’t need to look at your face. He just knew. Because this was you. His wife. The only thing in this world he could read without a single word.

Still, he lifted his head, not out of confusion but out of guilt, because he should’ve felt it sooner. He should’ve known. And the second he saw you—hair splayed out beneath you in tangled strands, cheeks streaked with silent tears that neither of you had registered until just now, your mouth parted like you were trying to breathe through the weight of a hundred lifetimes—his chest fractured wide open. Not because he didn’t understand, but because he did. Because he knew this wasn’t fear. This was grief. This was the part of you that had stayed quiet all this time, the part you hadn’t let yourself feel, not until he was finally here, not until you could fall apart safely in the arms that were supposed to have held you through all of it.

He reached for you like he couldn’t do anything else—fingers threading through your hair, brushing it gently back from your damp cheeks, his touch reverent, delicate in the way only a man who’s loved you for years can manage. His eyes scanned your face, drinking you in, not searching for an answer but for reassurance—for some way to convince himself that he hadn’t failed you entirely, that you were still letting him in. And what he saw gutted him. Not because you were hurting, but because you hadn’t told him. Because you’d carried it alone, thinking he couldn’t bear it, when all he ever wanted was to be the one who did.

“Didn’t mean to—” he started, voice wrecked and hushed against your mouth, but you cut him off with a desperate, aching noise that said don’t you dare.

You pulled him tighter before he could say anything more, your arms locking around his shoulders like a tether that would snap if you didn’t keep it taut. “Don’t stop,” you breathed, the words fragile but clear. “Please, Daryl. I need this. I need you-” you were still crying, not hysterically so but crying nonetheless. And he knew exactly why. Of course he did.  You didn’t have to ask him not to leave you. He knew you would’ve stopped him if it had been too much, and you knew without question he would’ve stopped himself if he’d thought it really hurt you. 

The weight of what it meant to lose him. The cold, gnawing stretch of time you’d spent pretending that hollow space inside you was survivable. The unbearable relief of having him here again, real and solid and buried so deep inside you that the line between grief and grace blurred entirely. You weren’t crying because it hurt. You were crying because it mattered—because every part of you had cracked open under the pressure of loving someone so completely that living without them had nearly killed you, and this… this was how you came back to life.

He leaned in closer instead, forehead resting against yours, hand gently brushing the hair from your face as his thumb followed the path of a tear like it was holy.

His eyes were soft and wild all at once—wide and glistening, like he was looking at the most precious thing he’d ever nearly lost. And his voice, when it came, was low and rough and reverent, shaking with awe, not pity.

“Shhh,” he cooed, barely more than a breath. “I know, baby. I know.”

And maybe you didn’t say anything back. Maybe you couldn’t. But you didn’t need to. Because the sob that ripped through you as you dragged him impossibly closer—the way you held him, gasping and trembling and utterly unguarded—was the loudest kind of yes. And that was it.

That was the moment the last piece of him shattered. The sob cracked you open, but what followed wasn’t collapse—it was hunger. Not just for his body, but for the life threaded through it. For the rhythm of his pulse beneath your palm, for the ragged breath he exhaled against your mouth, for the sweat slicking your skin where it met his, sealing you together like glue and desperation.

The tenderness in his eyes cracked into something else—something darker, deeper. His jaw clenched not with restraint now, but with the effort of not fucking you through the floor. And when you lifted your hips, grinding into him with all the need that had been choking you silent for days, he finally gave in.

He kissed you so hard it hurt, mouth crashing into yours with a force that spoke louder than any words ever could, like he thought if he kissed you hard enough, it might stitch the splinters back together, might fuse soul to soul and silence the ache. One hand cupped your face, thumb brushing away a tear he couldn’t stop, while another fell right behind your thigh, gripping hard, dragging you up and into him again, no hesitation, no pause, just the fierce, undeniable need to be inside you, to move in time with your heartbeat, to bury himself in every place you ached.

And when he thrust again—harder this time, rough and deep and aching—it wasn’t just sex. It was obliteration. It was grief and rage and love and resurrection, all tangled into the rhythm of two people who’d already lost each other once and would rather burn than let it happen again. Every thrust was a scream. Every kiss a promise. And everything else—the fire, the cult, the pain, the memory of your bodies being dragged away—burned away into nothing. Just heat. Just skin. Just the two of you, wrecking each other back to life.

He growled against your skin—not a sound of anger, but of helpless, full-bodied surrender—and pushed deeper, harder, rougher, until your body bowed beneath him and your cry echoed around the barren gas station. His hands weren’t gentle. They were frantic, anchoring your thighs apart like he couldn’t bear the idea of you ever slipping from him again. His palms slid beneath your ass, lifting you to meet him thrust for thrust, pace turning punishing, almost cruel—but never careless. Never thoughtless.

The pace grew sharper. Harsher. Like the tenderness had done its job and now there was only need, coursing through both of you like blood that had been frozen too long and finally remembered how to burn. His hands slid beneath your thighs, dragging them higher, pressing you open until your hips tilted just right, until every thrust hit the place that made your breath catch and your hands claw at his back without mercy.

You could feel it in your chest—the thunder of your heart matching the rhythm of his body driving into yours, so hard now it bordered on brutal, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t violence. It was release. It was the kind of desperation that lived in marrow, the kind that only surfaced when someone had thought they’d lost you forever and just got you back in the flesh, panting and crying beneath them like salvation.

His gaze dropped again to where your bodies met, where you took all of him again and again, where slick and need coated his length and your thighs and the floor beneath. He watched himself disappear into you, over and over, and something in his throat cracked open around a sound that wasn’t quite a groan, wasn’t quite a whimper, but something ruinous in between. His jaw clenched, but not to restrain himself—no, this time it was to hold back the tears that stung the corners of his eyes, the way his lip quivered when he looked at your face and saw nothing but home.

You tightened around him, a gasp catching in your throat, and your back arched again, like your whole body was trying to drag him deeper. He followed instinct, chest pressed flush to yours, forearms braced on either side of your head as he rolled his hips deeper, rougher, unforgiving now. He was panting into your mouth, groaning softly every time you clenched around him like your body was trying to keep him, claim him, never let him go again.

“Jesus,” he breathed, but it wasn’t a curse. It was reverence. It was awe. It was the sound of a man who had already died once and was being brought back to life by the way your hands gripped his shoulders and your heels dug into the small of his back and your cries sounded like they’d been buried for days and had finally clawed their way out.

It was obliteration in the truest sense—the complete undoing of everything that had come before. The silence. The fire. The nights spent thinking he was gone. The image of your own blood on concrete. The image of his body, still and crumpled, playing behind your eyelids like a curse.

Gone.

All of it burned away under the weight of him inside you—under the pressure of his breath ghosting over your mouth, of his fingers tangled in your hair, of his body colliding with yours in the kind of rhythm that came not from want but need. His hips snapped with purpose, not just to make you feel but to remind you that you were alive, that this was real and you were still here, and so was he, and you weren’t going to lose each other again. Not like that. Not ever.

You clung to him like he was gravity, like he was the only thing anchoring you to this plane of existence. And maybe he was. Maybe this wasn’t the world anymore—maybe it was something else, something made entirely of heat and skin and breath and sweat, something holy in its destruction.

Every thrust carved his name into your bones.

Every kiss spilled another vow you didn’t have the words to speak.

And everything else—the Creed, the fire, the bruises on your wrists, the ashes you’d swallowed trying to survive a world that wanted you gone—all of it melted into the background until there was only this. Only now. Only him, burying himself so deep inside you it felt like resurrection, like the act of being loved by him in this body, in this ruined, wounded flesh, was the only miracle you had ever believed in.

He wasn’t fucking you.

He was wrecking you back to life.

It didn’t take long—how could it, when every thrust, every breath, every word from his lips had been cracking open the shell you’d built around yourself like a second skin. The pleasure wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t even welcome at first. It surged through you with such sharp contrast to the numbness you’d carried for days that your whole body rejected it on instinct, muscles locking, shoulders bunching, jaw clenched in defiance against something that felt far too good to be real.

You grunted, half in warning, half in protest, the sound raw and confused as if your body didn’t quite know whether it was trying to escape or surrender. You squirmed beneath him, hips shifting as if to pull away, a hand pressing against his shoulder in panic, not because you didn’t want him, but because it was too much—too fast, too bright, too alive. The heat building in your belly was unbearable, a wildfire on nerves that hadn’t felt anything in too long, and the thought of letting it take you terrified you more than the emptiness ever had.

But Daryl didn’t flinch. He didn’t still or jolt or scramble to change what he was doing, didn’t retreat like he thought he’d broken you. He just stayed with you—deep and steady, deliberate and devastatingly tender, each thrust measured not for his own release but for yours, for your healing, for your ability to breathe through it without shattering into dust. His hips rocked into you like clockwork, the same kind of rhythm he’d set from the beginning, grounded and sure, like his body already knew exactly what yours needed before your mind could even catch up.

Your hand fisted in his shoulder, your mouth fell open against his cheek, and when the pressure inside you tipped too far—when it swelled too fast to contain—you broke. Not into bliss. Not into pleasure. Into panic.

“I can’t,” you sobbed, voice so high and wrecked it barely resembled yours, your legs trembling around his waist, your spine arching clean off the ground as your hands scrambled over his back like you didn’t know whether to cling to him or push him away. “I c-can’t, I can’t—Daryl, I—”

You didn’t finish the sentence. It cracked and burned in your throat, dissolved into another wave of sobbing so deep it shook your whole frame.

But he didn’t pull out. He didn’t stop.

His arm slid beneath your lower back, cradling you close, and his other hand came to your belly, wide and calloused and warm as it pressed gently down—right where the swell of him was buried inside you, right where your body clenched around him like it couldn’t bear to lose the fullness, the heat, the truth of him.

“Right here,” he whispered, not with urgency, not with lust, but with the kind of reverent softness that made your eyes squeeze shut. “You feel that, baby? That’s me. I’m right here.”

The pressure of his palm, the heat of him, the sound of his voice—it grounded you more than anything else possibly could. You whimpered, breath catching as your muscles locked again, your body trying to brace against the tidal wave building too fast to hold back.

“I don’t know how—” you choked, the words jagged, trembling. “I don’t know if I can—”

“Yes, you do, you can,” he breathed, and his lips found your cheek, your jaw, your temple, moving in time with the careful snap of his hips, deep and unrelenting, never breaking rhythm. “Let me help you, baby. Don’t fight it. Just stay with me.”

You could feel how close he was. Every muscle in his body was trembling with restraint. His jaw was clenched so tight it ticked beneath your fingertips, his breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts against your skin. But still, he didn’t rush. He didn’t give in. He held you steady while you unraveled.

“Look at me,” he whispered, and his voice cracked right down the middle, wrecked and reverent. He brushed the sweaty hair from your face with a hand that trembled more than he wanted it to. “Just let me do all the work, alright? Doin’ so good for me, all ya gotta do is let go for me baby, I’m right here.”

Your eyes fluttered open, blurred and wet and shining like glass, and the moment they locked with his, it happened.

The sob that broke out of you was pure surrender—an unfiltered, primal sound that ripped from your throat like it had been caged for days, maybe weeks. And when it finally came—when your body gave in and your climax hit—it was seismic, a rupture that began low in your gut and tore its way through every nerve ending you’d spent too long numbing. It bent you back like a bow, spine arching clean off the filthy gas station floor, mouth falling open around a cry so guttural it didn’t sound human, didn’t sound like you at all, except for the way Daryl’s name punched through it like an invocation.

Your legs locked tight around his waist, shaking uncontrollably, the tension in your thighs quivering against his ribs as if your body couldn’t tell whether it was coming apart or trying to hold onto him for dear life. Your nails dragged across his shoulders in frantic, clawing lines, your fingers curling into the ridges of muscle like you were anchoring yourself to the only solid thing left in the world. And he took it—every tremor, every sob, every ragged cry—with a steadiness that bordered on sacred. Not passive. Not detached. He was there. With you. For you. Every inch of him moving with the singular purpose of carrying you through the storm you’d been bracing against for far too long.

His hips rolled with quiet force, deep and slow and relentless, each thrust dragging a fresh cry from your throat, timed perfectly with the way his hands tightened on your hips, thumbs pressing bruises into the curve of your pelvis as if marking the moment into your flesh. His breath came in sharp, shallow bursts against your jaw, heat and want tangled with the desperate restraint in his chest, but his voice—God, his voice stayed low, rough, reverent.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his lips brushing your temple, his nose pressed to your hairline, inhaling you like a man who had been starving. “You’re alright, baby. Just let it happen. There you go.”

 One hand slid up your back to cradle your spine, the other dropping low to splay across your abdomen, grounding you where your body was threatening to levitate, thumb dragging slow, soothing circles just above where he was buried inside you. Every movement was deliberate, controlled, measured out like he knew exactly how much you could take, like he could feel every shockwave crashing through your body and was trying to absorb some of the impact himself.

He watched you like he always did in these moments—not just looking, but drinking you in, memorising the way your head tipped back, the way your mouth opened on a cry that broke halfway through, the way your eyes fluttered and flooded like something holy had split you wide open. It wasn’t just the way your body gripped his or the flush that lit up your chest and throat—it was everything. The rawness. The surrender. The way your soul seemed to burn through your skin when you fell apart for him.

“Fuck, baby,” he whispered, breathless now, like the sight of you had knocked it from his lungs. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful like this. Always are.”

And still he didn’t let go, just pressed kisses to your jaw, your neck. Still, he didn’t chase his own pleasure, as much as he was dying to do so, didn’t speed up, didn’t falter. He held you steady through it, hips dragging the last waves of it from your body as your limbs trembled and your breath hitched, as if he was the only tether you had to the world and he’d sooner break than let you float away.

Your body writhed, overstimulated and undone, tears mixing with sweat as you whimpered into his neck, barely able to hold your own weight. But he held it for you—held all of it. One hand slid between your shoulder blades, keeping your chest to his like he was shielding you from gravity itself, while the other pressed low against your belly, grounding you, pinning you in place with a gentle pressure right above where he filled you with his dick.

He whispered through it, lips brushing your jaw, your ear, the hinge of your throat. His hands stayed on you—one grounding your hip, the other still gently pressing into your abdomen like an anchor.

“‘That's it,” he whispered, lips against your ear, breath warm and wrecked and trembling. “Just feel it, baby. You’re doin’ so good. I got you.”

Even as his own body trembled, even as his jaw clenched and his back arched and his breath hitched in his chest like a man barely holding back, he stayed with you. For you. Because he knew what this was. Knew this wasn’t just about getting off—it was about being held. Being found. Being alive.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything but feel—every inch of your body lit up and trembling, a live wire sparking beneath his hands, his hips, his mouth. It was too much. Too much sensation, too much emotion, too much of him after so long without. You were raw from it, undone, and still he moved with that same aching reverence, each thrust anchoring you deeper into the moment like he knew you were slipping from the edges of it. You were tragically oblivious to another orgasm approaching you like a semi.

The orgasm that hit you didn’t just unravel you—it erased you. Your vision flared white, then dimmed, sounds muffled and distant, as if someone had dunked your head beneath warm water and held you there. The gas station vanished. The cold tile floor. The sting of your fingernails clawing down his back. All of it blurred into light and heat and the pounding of your own pulse as your body arched violently, legs locking around his waist before falling slack beneath you.

You didn’t faint, not exactly. But you went somewhere—somewhere too bright and too quiet to be real. Your arms dropped from around his neck. Your head lolled back. Your body sagged like every nerve had been cut loose at once.

And Daryl felt it instantly.

His movements faltered, breath catching in his throat as he blinked down at you, eyes wide with sudden, gut-punching concern.  “Hey,” he gasped, rough and shaking as his hand cupped your cheek, thumb sweeping across your clammy skin. “Hey, baby—hey, c’mon, stay with me, just look at me. What's goin' on?”

His voice cracked around the edges like a fault line splitting wide, that old rasp wrecked with worry. He shifted instinctively, one strong arm sliding beneath your back to cradle you close, supporting your weight like your bones had melted clean away—and they had. You were limp, pliant in his hands, your chest fluttering beneath his like a bird caught in the palm of a trembling hand.

Your lips parted on a soft, breathless sigh, lashes fluttering like you were trying to open your eyes, to come back to him.

His hand didn’t stop moving. Fingers threaded through your damp hair, brushing it back from your forehead with almost reverent care. “That’s it,” he murmured, voice low and raw with emotion. “You with me? Yeah? You’re alright, baby, I gotcha. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

His voice was wrecked. Wrecked and full of awe. Because even with his heart hammering in panic, even with his arms trembling around your body, he still couldn’t stop staring—couldn’t stop drinking you in, the way your skin glowed in the fractured light pouring through the broken ceiling above. Glass glittered in your hair like stars scattered in ink, your lashes damp with tears, mouth slack and lips swollen from his.

But he still hadn’t stopped. His hips still moved, slow and deep, instinct overriding thought. Relief washed over him; You were here. With him. You’d let go. And you were beautiful in it.

Your mouth moved—soft, slack, whispering nonsense or maybe his name—and your eyes finally opened, still dazed, still lost in the haze of aftershock. He watched the awareness bloom slowly across your face like sunlight creeping over the edge of a cliff. You were breathless. Glowing. Tears streaked your cheeks, but they didn’t come from pain.

He kissed your forehead, lips warm and firm against your skin, grounding you to him. “There she is,” he whispered. “Told ya I’d get you back.”

And you didn’t say anything—not at first. You just smiled, dazed and tearstained and impossibly soft, before wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your face into the crook of his shoulder like you were trying to fuse your bodies together completely.

And all he could do was hold you, breathe you in, and keep moving—slow and steady and full of everything he hadn’t been able to say.

You barely got the words out—breathy and slurred, more sensation than speech—but they shattered something inside him all the same. “Inside,” you gasped, voice catching in your throat, your eyes locking with his like you were offering him salvation. “Please, Daryl—inside, I want it, I need—”

And that was it. That was it.

His body jerked like you’d pulled a trigger, the last thread of restraint snapping clean in two. He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t ask if you were sure, didn’t second-guess—because he knew. Knew you, knew this, knew how long it had been building, how right it felt. His hips snapped forward hard, burying himself to the hilt as a guttural sound tore out of him—half-growl, half-moan, all surrender.

His brain short-circuited around the edges, every nerve ending hijacked by the heat of your body around him, the way you clung, trembling and gasping, like you needed this just as much. He chased that feeling down with everything he had, like coming inside you wasn’t just release—it was proof. It was ownership. It was home.

His body seized like something sacred had split open inside him, every muscle going taut beneath your hands, his breath catching hard in his chest as he drove himself as deep as he could go and stayed there. One last thrust, a stuttering grind of his hips that pressed you flush together, and then he was spilling into you—hot, thick, and endless—like his body had been holding back too much for too long and now it was all pouring out, every drop proof he was still here, still yours. His mouth dropped to your shoulder as a guttural moan ripped free from his throat, wrecked and helpless, the kind of sound that only came from a man giving everything. His hands were shaking where they gripped your waist, where they held you still, where they cradled the place your bodies met like he could feel the way he was filling you, the way you clenched and fluttered around him like you were trying to pull him in deeper, keep him there forever.

The room was spinning gently, like the world had tipped sideways and finally decided to stay that way. You weren’t sure if it was the high or the way your body felt so thoroughly used, so utterly wrecked in the best way imaginable—but something in your chest cracked open, and all that came out was laughter.

It started quiet—just a shaky exhale and a grin pulling at your cheeks, still flushed and wet with tears—but it grew fast, breathless and bright and disbelieving. You curled your hand over your face as the sound bubbled out of you, unstoppable, giddy, the kind of laugh that only ever comes after near-death and resurrection.

“Shit,” you wheezed, blinking through the haze, your chest rising and falling like you’d run a marathon. “I blacked out. I actually blacked out—what the hell—”

Daryl was still buried inside you, breathing just as hard, sweat-damp curls sticking to his forehead. But when he looked down and saw you—your eyes all crinkled, your mouth open in that ridiculous, beautiful laugh—something in his face softened so completely it almost broke you again.

He let out a low, breathless huff that was halfway to a chuckle. “Jesus,” he muttered, brushing your hair off your face with the back of his hand, eyes wide with mock offense and real relief. “You really had me goin’ there, woman. One second you’re clawin’ me to death, next second you go limp like a damn ragdoll. Thought I broke you.”

You snorted, still grinning like a lunatic. “You did. In the best way, though. Next time maybe ease up on the death-by-dicking. I saw heaven, hell and my Grandma.”

He let out a quiet huff, low and breathless, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh, and dragged a hand across his face like he still couldn’t believe you were real—alive, warm, mouthy as ever. His fingers brushed through your hair, tucking a damp strand behind your ear with more care than you’d seen in days. “She say hi for me?” he muttered, voice rough with something too raw to name, but the corner of his mouth twitched, just barely, betraying the grin he was trying not to let slip.

You grinned, already stretching like a cat beneath him, arms sliding up to loop around his neck with the kind of lazy confidence that only came from being thoroughly worshipped. “She did, actually,” you hummed, brushing your lips against his jaw as your fingers tangled in the ends of his hair. “Said if you keep that up, she might just pull some strings to keep you around a little longer.” You felt him laugh against your throat, low and rough, and the way his body relaxed into yours made your stomach flip all over again. Then his mouth found yours, soft at first—just a kiss, just the promise of one—but it deepened quick, and suddenly you weren’t so sure this was over.

The kiss hadn’t really ended. It had just slowed, softened, thinned into something weightless—like the last glow of a fire smoldering low. His hands roamed lazily over your skin, his hips shifting in the smallest, slowest rhythm, like the world outside of you didn’t exist. But your mouth kept going, even as your body melted into his, nerves still buzzing with leftover aftershock.

“I should probably be panicking,” you mumbled against his jaw, your lips brushing the stubble as you spoke. “Marshal’s gonna notice I’m gone. Someone’s bound to start asking questions. If they find my boot prints outside—”

He made a quiet sound in his throat, a distracted exhale that ghosted across your collarbone as his fingers finally found the clasp of your bra. You felt him working it one-handed, slow and clumsy in that way he always was when he was too preoccupied to focus. But you just kept spiraling

“Marshal’s probably clocked it by now,” you murmured, voice half-slurred with exhaustion and overstimulation, one hand absently trailing over Daryl’s shoulder. “Bet he’s halfway to setting the damn woods on fire lookin’ for me. Gonna be a whole thing when I show up without an escort and smelling like—”

You paused, blinking hard as Daryl’s mouth closed around your nipple.

“—like redneck,” you finished on a gasp, brows furrowing, breath catching sharply in your throat.

Daryl didn’t say anything at your jab, not with his tongue circling lazy and warm, not with the way his hands were working behind your back, clumsy in that single-minded way that meant all his brain cells had migrated south. The clasp of your bra finally gave, and you felt him exhale against your chest, low and almost reverent, like unwrapping the last damn Christmas present in the world.

“Anyway,” you managed, though your voice wobbled. “We’ll probably need to slip back soon, or else he’s gonna send a whole—oh, fuck, Daryl—send a whole damn—”

He sucked harder, just enough to make your spine twitch and your train of thought derail entirely. A soft whimper slipped out before you could catch it, and he pulled back just far enough to catch your expression with a crooked smirk tugging at his mouth.

“You finished?” he asked, voice gravel and amusement as one hand slid down to your hip, fingers splayed.

“Almost,” you muttered, chest heaving, eyes hazy but determined. “I was just sayin’ if he finds out I’m gone, he’ll—”

He dipped again without warning, tongue dragging slow over your other nipple, and your words crumbled with a breathy choke. His hands were everywhere—palming, teasing, pressing you down like he could memorize you by touch alone. Because he had.

You sucked in a shaky breath, fingers tangling in his hair. “Okay. Alright. Maybe that can wait a minute—”

“Damn right it can,” he murmured against your chest. And then, because you were still making tiny half-attempts to talk, even now, even with his mouth full of you, he pulled back just enough to give you that look—that exasperated, fond, completely ruined expression—and muttered, “Shut up, woman.”

You were still wrapped around him, your legs draped loose over his hips, your skin sticky and warm against the floor, and the air between you almost too full to breathe in. His mouth hovered at your chest, his breath hot where it fanned across damp skin, but it was the weight of him inside you that still anchored everything—that made your pulse slow down, your mind quiet, your soul crawl back into your body like it finally had a reason to stay.

Just the smallest shift of his hips, subtle and deep and slow enough to make your spine curve like a bowstring, your whole body sighing around the feeling. It wasn’t urgent this time. There was no clawing, no chaos, just the rhythm of trust, of comfort, of him easing the two of you back into motion like he didn’t want to scare the moment off.

You moved with him, your hips rising to meet each shallow thrust, the slick, slow drag of him filling you again and again like the echo of something sacred. His hands cradled your waist like you were something breakable, like he was terrified of pushing too far too fast, but he still kept going, steady and sure, his forehead dropping to your collarbone, his lips dragging blindly across your skin as he whispered something soft you couldn’t quite hear.

Your body responded before your mind did—back arching, thighs tightening around him, the stretch and pull of every movement settling low and molten in your belly. You pressed your cheek to his hair, your fingers carding gently through the strands at his nape, and for a moment, you just existed there—entwined, slow-moving, breathing each other in like the rest of the world had burned away.

He exhaled against your neck, rough and trembling. “Still with me?” he mumbled, voice hoarse, hands curling under your back as he rocked into you again, a fraction deeper this time.

You smiled, hazy and dazed and unbothered by anything but him. “Barely. But I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

And neither was he.

Not when the way you moved beneath him made his breath catch, not when your warmth pulled at him like gravity, not when the sound of your voice—wrecked and playful and still full of life—was enough to make his knees weak. His hips rolled again, just a little faster, his eyes finally lifting to catch yours.

And God, that look—you felt it more than saw it. Like you were the only thing that had ever mattered.

Neither of you had moved far—not really. Your legs were still loosely draped over his hips, heels resting against the backs of his thighs, your arms wrapped around him like you were trying to memorize the shape of him all over again. Daryl’s hands were splayed wide against your ribs, fingertips tracing absent circles just beneath your breasts, but the real connection—the one that neither of you dared speak for fear of breaking it—was deeper than that. He was still inside you, buried to the hilt, the fullness of him grounding you more completely than anything else in the world could.

And then, slowly—so slowly you almost didn’t register it at first—he started to move back and forth.

Not thrusting. Not fucking. Just a slow, rhythmic grind of his hips against yours, a smooth roll that had you sliding together like waves on a tide, every movement unhurried and devastating in its simplicity. The friction was low and steady, a deep ache blooming between your hips as your slick bodies rocked together, the drag of him thick and warm and maddening in the most patient, reverent way. It was less about building toward anything and more about staying here—right here—suspended in the aftermath, wrapped around each other like nothing else could touch you.

You mirrored him instinctively, your hips tilting up into every careful grind, your arms tightening around his back, mouth brushing along the curve of his shoulder. Your skin clung to his, sweat-slicked and flushed, every nerve ending burning in the low light. And God, it was slow—almost torturous in its tenderness, like your bodies had decided they weren’t ready to let go yet, not even an inch, not even now.

Daryl’s breath stuttered against your throat, warm and shaky and uneven. His forehead rested against yours, and he was watching you, eyes flickering from your parted lips to the way your brow pinched and then eased with every roll of his hips. You felt like a live wire beneath him, pulled so tight you might snap, but you didn’t want to stop—not when every slow grind of his body against yours felt like a prayer being answered.

He cupped the back of your neck with one calloused hand, his thumb stroking behind your ear as his other hand slipped lower, fingers curling around your thigh to coax it higher, opening you up further, pressing you closer. He wasn’t chasing anything. He was holding you in it—this sacred, suspended moment where you didn’t need to speak to understand, didn’t need to move fast to feel everything all at once.

And still, he moved—steady, slow, unwavering—his hips grinding into yours with a reverence that bordered on worship. Your foreheads touched, your breath tangled, your bodies rocked in that quiet, unbreakable rhythm, and you both knew without needing to say it: even after everything, even after the blood and fire and silence, this—this right here—was still yours.

Your hands rose to his face, fingers skimming over the bruises that marred his cheekbones, tracing the cut below his eye with a featherlight stroke. His jaw twitched under your touch, a sharp breath caught in his throat—but he didn’t pull away. He leaned into it, like he needed to feel your fingers more than he needed to breathe.

You kissed him then—not frantic, but deep and shaking, your lips dragging over his as your body rocked beneath him. He was still hard inside you, filling every inch, the stretch still sweet and hot. Every thrust sent a slow ripple through your belly, your walls clenching weakly, tender and swollen from everything you’d just given.

When your hips shifted, chasing him, your breath hitched. You weren’t done. You didn’t want it to end. Not yet. Not when the ache between your legs felt like proof you were alive. Not when the slick sound of your bodies still meeting filled the space like a heartbeat.

His hand slid up your thigh, curling around the back of your knee as he adjusted the angle, driving just a little deeper, enough to make you whimper softly against his mouth.

And when you clenched around him, head tipped back with a broken noise caught in your throat, he kissed the salt from your cheeks and kept moving—slow and deep and endless, like the only thing holding him together anymore was the way your body still wanted his.

“I can’t lose you,” he said, the words shaped more by breath than voice. “I won’t.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came. You were too full of him. Too hollowed out by everything else.

His brow furrowed as his hand cupped your jaw, holding you still like he needed you to hear it right. “I kept thinkin’… if I had to go back to her without you—” His voice broke on the word her, just barely. “If I had to look Dani in the eye and tell her her mama was gone, that I couldn’t protect you…”

He trailed off, shaking his head like the thought itself was poison.

“I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t -'

You felt his words more than you heard them—each one a tremor against your skin, his chest tight beneath your palm, his voice cracked and breaking open in the dark. He wasn’t crying. Not exactly. But you could feel the weight of it, all the same. The terror he hadn’t voiced, the guilt he’d been choking on for days. It pressed into the curve of your spine like a second heartbeat, like if you didn’t speak now, he might drown in it.

So you found his face with both hands, thumbs brushing over the dirt and blood at his temples, his jaw, his stubble. You tilted his head until his eyes met yours, and even then, he tried to look away. But you wouldn’t let him.

“No,” you whispered, your voice thick but steady. “You won’t have to do that. You won’t have to say those words.”

He stared at you, jaw tight, breath uneven, like he was waiting to be told it was just a lie. Just another dream that would vanish in smoke.

But you didn’t flinch.

“Dani’s still gonna have her mama,” you said softly, but with more strength than you expected. “And her daddy. Both of us. She’s gonna see us walk through those gates, hand in hand, same as we left.”

Daryl closed his eyes. His throat worked around something unspoken, and when he opened them again, there was water gathered at the corners—blinking stubbornly against it, jaw clenched like it might hold the rest of him together.

You kissed him then. Not frantic, not hungry. Just the press of lips meant to anchor, to promise, to stay.

“And you’re not gonna lose me,” you said against his mouth. “I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

He nodded, a silent, fractured motion, and wrapped himself around you like he didn’t quite trust the world not to take you again. And maybe you didn’t either. But that didn’t matter. Because in that moment, in the hush of the abandoned station with only the creak of the wind outside and the cooling sweat between your skin, the only thing either of you believed in was this.

You didn’t know if that was true—but it sounded like hope. And you needed something to believe in.

You moved together like nothing else existed. Not the wind battering the broken walls. Not the cult that tore you apart. Not the blood, not the smoke, not the wreckage that clung to your skin and memory like rot. Only this. Only the desperate push and pull of two bodies relearning each other by touch alone, breath by breath, heartbeat by heartbeat.

The rhythm you found wasn’t rushed, wasn’t desperate like before—it was slow, reverent, a quiet conversation of hips and breath and the slick, aching slide of him still buried deep inside you. Each slow grind sent a ripple through your spine, a soft hum low in your belly, and you clung to him—not from fear this time, not from the ghost of grief clawing behind your ribs, but simply because you could. Because he was here and he was yours, and the weight of his body felt like home pressing into all the right places.

Your hands threaded through his hair, keeping his forehead pressed to yours, and for a long, swaying moment, it felt like the whole world was just skin and breath and the slow, coiling heat curling between your hips. He whispered something then—something low and hoarse and sweet against your mouth, something like “that’s it, baby,” and “feel so good round me,” and “mine, always,”—and it unravelled something in you that hadn’t dared come forward the first time. You felt it start in your chest, in the centre of your ribs, a warmth that spread like sunlight beneath your skin, melting every last bit of tension from your body.

You didn’t flinch from it. You didn’t fight it this time.

Instead, you let yourself fall into it—let your body arch to meet him, your breath break against his jaw, your thighs tighten around his waist as the pleasure rose steady and deep. Your orgasm bloomed slow, like a flower opening in time with his hips, and when it crested, it felt like the kind of surrender that didn’t tear, didn’t burn. Just opened. Welcomed. Wrapped around you like a blanket you’d been missing your whole life.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders as your voice broke, not loud or wild, just soft and reverent, a choked whisper of his name carried on a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. And Daryl held you through it—his hand pressed firm against your lower belly again, his other curled beneath your head, his body grinding into yours with a rhythm that said he never wanted to stop feeling you like this, never wanted to be anywhere else. He kissed you through it, mouth warm and open and grounding, whispering your name between every breathless praise.

“Atta girl,” he murmured, voice frayed and trembling, eyes locked on your face as you came undone beneath him. “Shit, baby, I’m-”

And then he stilled, breath catching sharp in his throat, hips jerking once—twice—and he buried himself as deep as he could go, letting out a sound like he’d been holding it in for years.You locked your legs around him, hips lifting instinctively to draw him as deep as he could go, needing to feel every throb, every shudder, every last drop of him fill you up. His forehead dropped to yours again, his whole body shaking against you as he spilled into you, breathless and broken and so profoundly there it made your chest ache with how much you loved him.

You both stayed like that, trembling and tangled and far too full of each other to move, the world outside forgotten. Your fingers threaded into his hair, your nails dragging down the damp line of his spine, holding him there, inside you, where he belonged. You could feel it all—his pulse through his cock, the tremor in his thighs, the helpless twitch of his muscles as he emptied himself into you again, slower this time, but no less complete.

Wel... things can nly get worse from here.

____________________________________________________________

Taglist:miss0giarra, jovialcatduck, brianna-merlim

[aeolianblues]

Hm. Optimising code is one thing but I feel it's a whole separate topic of discussion from choice of languages. Sure, at the end of the day, nothing is going to beat the speed of lightweight languages that are one layer above assembly. The fastest solution to everything is 'code it in C'. But the more you work collaboratively in larger groups, the more you have to reach a fine balance between efficiency, usability and readabillity/maintainability.

I work with data scientists and with engineers who use our code. Sometimes you will sacrifice the quickest and most efficient code for readability. Apart from just good commenting and documentation, I've also stopped used lambda functions because it makes life easier for the data scientists to read (some of them use lambda functions exclusively. Some of them are also big stackoverflow googlers, that's all I'm saying).

I was working on some Keras code for image recognition within an engineering team. The engineers work close to the hardware, and work in Linux environments to control their motors, so there was a lot of C++ and ROS code in our database (Robot-OS). Could've trained CNNs in C, but I would've started killing people if I had write Tensorflow and Keras functions in C++ or Java— think I read somewhere that they're deprecating Tensorflow for Java but don't quote me on that...

When the complexity of a task goes up, it does make sense use the right tools for the job. I agree that, e.g. not every game needs to be rendering ultra-high resolution polygons or whatever (I am not a game dev, clearly) and software that once was written in a few 100 megabytes really shouldn't take up 50 GB today, but you should still be making sure you're using the right tools for the task, and sometimes part of the 'task' just is that your code should be easily accessible and not mystical four years later. Still falls under the principle of 'don't be an asshole'.

Anyway, the intention of this post was 'stop bullying Python coders, they know what they're doing. Worry about the new legion of 'coders' that ask ChatGPT to write all their code for them and may not even know what half their code does. That's one hell of a way to get inefficient, Frankenstein code and also clueless devs who won't be able to fix their own shit. They've given it a name to try and make it seem legitimate, I think we should bully them instead before this becomes a widespread problem/'

I don't like that the dev community picks on people who are most fluent in Python, when the ChatGPT-using "vibe coders" are right there. At least Python babies are coding. Bully the non-coders instead.

[frankskaren]

frank castle | the game plan…:

this is so random and brainrot esque, i apologise - hasn’t been proof read, i’m literally writing as i watch the game plan (2007) for the millionth time.

frank castle. the punisher. a vigilante. your ex. your daughters dad.

frank weren’t intentionally an absent father, you two were a short lived romance that plummeted sooner than expected, but one good thing came out of it that you were always too scared to contact him about, a baby.

stella who was now nine - almost ten, was almost painfully your twin, although she got that slightly crooked smile from frank… and that irritated nose scrunch… and his personality but other than that! she was all you!

though, she was always curious about her father - not that you ever kept it a secret but it came naturally of you to be a little blunt about it, he weren’t the best of men anymore this and he’s never really in a place long enough to catch him that.

she was almost ten though, and my god, was she fixating on daddy-daughter trope films or the nineties remake of the parent trap, so naturally the guilt ate at you through the television screen on her sick days off from school… saturday movie nights… eating takeout breakfast on the couch.

she had a couple upcoming competitions within dance and gymnastics in new york, you were busy with a court case in london that same week, so you sucked it up, and got her on the next flight to arrive to a trusted friends, karen page.

you worked within the same industry, though it was never mentioned the both of you had connections with frank - so, you can imagine the heart attack she neared when your daughter verbally annotated that a note on karen’s fridge had her fathers name on it.

"frank, i’d appreciate you picking up the phone before i’m ill all over my apartment!" karen muttered to herself with clear irritation and anxiety in her voice while stella slept contently in the next room at the late hour of 2am.

frank got karen’s many, many voicemails, resulting to his mind slipping into over drive and turning up to karen’s place by the time she was falling asleep from deprivation two hours later.

"what do you mean you got my kid?" he grumbled, quietly thanking karen for the beer she handed over to him.

"i mean, i’ve got your kid sleeping in the next room and im spending the next week taking her to sports practices and competitions, on behalf of her mother who is currently over three fucking thousand miles away — seriously frank, why am i the one doing this?" karen whispered, clearly bewildered but respecting the fact she had an innocent child in the next room asleep.

"i didn’t know about her, karen, i haven’t been contacted - cause i can’t be contacted! i mean shit, the last relationship i had was my marriage, you know that!" frank whispered back, his shaking hand almost sending the beer bottle to smash on the floor beneath him.

karen finally let up, and told frank you were stella’s mother. you two were together barely a year before he met the woman he married, had children with and… saw them die.

he was momentarily bitter he hadn’t gotten a chance to be apart of this child’s life, irritated you hadn’t made contact considering you knew karen…but a rational part of him understood - it weren’t exactly rare news what frank had been through.

frank insisted on seeing her - when she woke up of course. it scared him shitless sure, but he’d be damned if he let karen continue to do what he should be doing as a father.

and for that week, he experienced both the most timid and most confident personality from his little girl.

"my mom was a ballerina…" stella responded to his question of why she did so much dancing as he assisted her in putting on her pointe shoes, gently wrapped and tying the ribbons, almost up her shins before she correct him that they simply needed to be at her ankle area.

that night stella spent the evening teaching her dad how to correctly point his toes, persuaded him into stretching with her and using the back of karen’s sofa as a ballet barre to teach him plié’s, chassé’s and many-a positions.

"just ‘cause you only met me this week doesn’t mean you’re gonna get away with everything little girl, you don’t talk to me like that!" he’d reprimand in an argument, he never dared to yell at her but it was often a stern telling - he learned she was painfully prone to pushing buttons.

"i hate you! i want my mom!" stella would screech across karen’s apartment - loud enough karen could hear it as she walked up the many flights of stairs.

she never meant it of course, but she was always put in her place much more gently with you - it shown when she’d go to karen for comfort after a bicker with frank, though when she finally did lean into her father with a sorry the pair were almost reduced to tears… that night karen found them tucked away in the twin sized bed in the guest room, franks legs dangling off of the foot of the bed while he and stella were meshed together in a cuddle as they both slept. it was probably the first night in a long time frank slept uninterrupted by his last haunting him. he spent her last days in karen’s with her, "accidentally" falling asleep in order to stay the night.

"princess, you performed in front of me, and you know what? you did so well - so so well, you even taught me ell, you’ve nothing to be afraid of they’ll love you honey." frank would comfort her backstage before her shows on that weekend, hell he was so proud of her he had nelson, murdock and page tickets to view his baby’s show.

he’d bring her a bouquets of flowers, not far off her size, when the shows came to a close - he wouldn’t shut up about how much he enjoyed seeing her perform as they sat together in a booth at a diner, eating burgers, sharing fries and treating her to a ridiculously large milkshake as she knelt up on the seat to drink it in franks zip up hoodie from the car over her leotard and tights.

and if karen almost experienced a heart attack, you neared heart failure upon walking into karen’s apartment to see the man you haven’t seen in over ten years, your baby’s dad.

"mommy!" stella screamed, almost louder than she had in her screaming matches with her dad this week - who could’ve vomited from the anxiety within him at hearing your voice for the first time in so long after the drop of your bags.

"hi my baby! oh, i missed you so much!" you were almost in tears, you felt awful for missing her competitions or to calm down her pre-performance jitters, not getting to take her to your old favourite spots in the city you used to live in or point out the hospital she was born in during a late night drive like you had once hoped to.

"she - she got first in her competitions… and uh, she did so good throughout the shows she had, should be proud of her." frank spoke for the first time, he sounded petrified to do so as he handed stella her award.

karen calmly recommended the both of you to talk outside, which the both of you complied before she had the chance to physically kick the pair of you out.

he’d never heard so many apologies spew from your lips - you were always so stubborn, that the few apologies he remembered were rather begrudged, and you had your reasons for it, it always stung him slightly that you were so bordered up and to yourself during your relationship with him.

"she’s a sweet kid, reminds me a lot of you." he complimented, his half crooked smile almost instantly reminding you of stella.

"oh yeah, how many screaming matches did she have with you?" you’d joke, subtly sniffling and keeping the tears firmly in place.

he’d laugh, "a couple, not as many as i had with you i assume - how come you never got karen to tell me before? you know i’d of been there the second she was born." his voice became more vulnerable at that point, even toying with his own knuckles the same way his daughter had been doing this last week.

you admitted you had no idea he knew karen, apologising for the fact it all should’ve gone differently throughout stella’s early childhood - but it comforted him to know his little girl had such a caring parent who she was glued to the hip with, your conversation went on for quite some time, but at some point the pair of you had to get back to the child on the other side of the door.

"how… how long are you staying in new york for?" he whispered, naturally leaning towards you now.

"until wednesday, she has to go back to school at some point." you confirmed with him, just as quiet when you spoke.

"can we arrange to do some thing with her, together? and maybe we ourselves arrange something for just us?" he spoke, with a smile you wouldn’t even be able to smack off of his face on that last part.

you’d nod, feeling almost as fuzzy as you did when you first got stella back in your arms, "we can definitely do that…" you began as you turned the door knob to enter karen’s apartment, "sorry if stella went on about me saying you’re not as good of a guy as you once were and all that."

franks head cocked to one side with a loud chuckle, "she ain’t said nothing of the sort… so you’ve got some explaining to do now."

[spectral-devotee]

Wicked Game

Summary: You picked the wrong time and place to board the subway

Warnings: DARKFIC! Sound the alarms weeeuuu weeuuu, MDNI +18 ONLY, chikan, heavy non-con and coercion, female reader for pronouns and anatomy, very public sex, slight agoraphobia, very depressed reader with extremely unhealthy coping mechanisms, exhibitionism, choking/asphyxiation, a little bit of piss kink if you squint, stockholm syndrome at the end maybe(?)

Disclaimer: Written after @undyingdecay mentioned the Yelena tag needed some love.

Not my usual cup of tea but who’s writing amirite. This is meant to be Pre-Thunderbolts Yelena, but like, very close to the start of the movie. Please bear in mind this is a darkfic, so obvs some OOC-ness is in order. I have not seen Hawkeye nor any other media involving Yelena aside from Thunderbolts, so this (hopefully) adds to the inaccuracy of the character.

I kinda have a sequel in mind(?) Who knows, depends on my inconsistent writing teehee. If you have any ideas I’d be open to hearing them. The song referenced by Yelena is Last words of a shooting star by Mitski in case you’re wondering.

As always, sorry for any mistakes. It’s my first time writing for Yelena, English is not my first language and my editing is piss poor. All likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated. 

Hope you enjoy! U w U

Word count: 4.9k

…

There was a heaviness to the air. There had been for a while. 

Not the humid kind, when you knew rain would fall sooner rather than later, or the one you’d find in forests, carrying the fragrant stench of trees, moss, and wet soil; it wasn’t even the one that came with the polluted air of big cities. No, that’d be far too simple for what Yelena would describe the all-encompassing heaviness that surrounded her. The one that haunted her mind, filled her nostrils and left her empty all day, everyday.

Another ‘errand’ for Valentina meant another miserable assignment where she knew she’d made the world a little bit worse of a place to exist in. The kind of job normal people would be disposed of if they had seen what she had done. The kind of job that would make her toss and turn in her bed as soon as she’d try to sleep off the day’s stress only to be faced with the recollection of what her hands did. 

Yelena re-adjusted her white hoodie –her only mundane comfort– over her head as she kept walking towards the subway entry, barely visible under the metal scaffolding to the side of the building. 

She knew what the heaviness was, of course she did, she was just too afraid to admit it to herself. She felt lonely, completely and utterly alone in the world. But what could she do about it? It was far easier to ignore it, push it aside, shove it deep into her unconscious until another bottle of cheap alcohol made its way to her hands. 

The same hands that had committed various atrocities for a good day’s pay.

What’s worse is that it’s not even about the money –well, not completely. Yes, she needed to finance her civilian lifestyle, there was no one else she could depend on. She could not afford a year off to try and find herself in Cabo, neither would her cheap vodka magically appear in her –admittedly small, and empty– apartment. She still had to pay for utilities like water, electricity and gas she wasn’t even using with all of her ‘work trips’.

She had her own savings, a few secret accounts under other identities that could keep her afloat if needed be, but Yelena didn’t like relying solely on them. Not when her ‘job’ gave her something akin to a purpose in life. As disheartening as it was, running Valentina’s errands was still enough motivation to get up from bed, clean her seets, comb her hair, and dust off her home before locking the door behind her every other day. 

A memory sprung; there was a song at the back of her head, it was almost gone. She tried remembering to no avail, the lyrics hitting almost too close to home to hum properly.

“And I am relieved that I'd left my room tidy. 

They’ll think of me kindly when they come for my things”

Blue skies turned gray as the stomping of her boots against the concrete soon got drowned by the heavy rain. First one, then two, then thousands more droplets started falling over the tall buildings that plagued New York like vultures stalking over their next prey. Maybe the rain would have been the culprit behind the heaviness, if not for the fact that it had followed her for many days now –weeks, months, maybe. Yelena rushed her step, swiftly making her way through the crowds of people cramming the stairs. 

The air got hotter and hotter still as she made her way down to the platforms. The sea of people making it almost impossible to see which train was her’s. Indistinguishable murmurs echoed all around her, words she recognized and those she wasn’t even sure existed mixing together in a cacophony that did little other than remind of a very pressing matter: how long had it been since she had last talked to someone?

It kept pestering her, even if it shouldn’t. She was the one who chose complete solitude, to keep to herself. To distance herself was to protect what little remained of her sanity after losing so much in her life already.

The heavy sliding doors opened in front of her. Yelena entered the wagon, the structure rocking under the weight of many passengers stepping inside at the same time. She made a beeline for the back of the train, resting her body against the metal frame that kept swinging even as the sound blared from the speakers. Yelena lost herself to her thoughts.

Valentina was the obvious answer; she was the one who called her whenever a new job was available, but it had been a while since Yelena opted for messages. They were quieter –she’d concluded– it was only in case she was on a mission and silence was necessary. She couldn’t afford not being silent while working, it was her only advantage, everything else was pure arduous labor. That and she had started to find Valentina’s voice increasingly obnoxious as time went on. Her fake, honeyed voice reminded her too much of her own tactics when she pretended to be someone else to gain people’s trust.

Mel may have been the one other person she last spoke to , if only by mistake. She had accidentally called Yelena in the deep hours of the night –something about a change in plans, the target had changed locations– missing the last memo Valentina had given her. The call was nice, if only because Yelena had gone a while without uttering a word to anyone –cute, that record had been long surpassed by her actual one– and quite enjoyed a little bit of banter with the young assistant.

Sadly, that call was cut short as soon as Mel saw the all-caps, bolded, and underlined instruction of “NO CALLS, ONLY MESSAGES” Yelena’s last conversation with Valentina ended up with. “Oh, my– Sorry, I didn’t see the last memo Val left, I’ll be sure to send you the details to your next targ –Job. Your next job– over mail. Good luck!”

Metallic screeching came from under the train as it stopped. It had arrived at the next station. 

The assassin turned to look at the flickering light on top of her, the dirty socket only a reminder of how many stations were left before her stop. The wagon opened its metal doors again after a few seconds of hesitation, letting a few people out before others squeezed in. By now even the people standing up were cramming against each other, no longer protected by the unspoken social contract of personal space.

A common scene, no nuance to it. She was used to days like these, dull. That was until you got on the wagon at the next stop.

You looked like you had just gotten out of class, carrying your uni’s bookbag in one arm. Your clothes didn’t match the weather outside, as if you were prepared for a nice summer’s day at the park that was cut all too short by the rain suddenly deciding to personally ruin your plans basking in the sun. Your feet carried you in front of her while you squeezed water off your red sweater. While not scrapped, your knees had seen better days not basked in mud.

The past few minutes of your life ran through Yelena’s mind like a movie: you’d gotten out of class early so you decided to go for a walk. Maybe you flunked your exams, maybe you were celebrating your astounding notes. It was hard to tell with you looking at the floor. You walked for a while –your shoes were very worn– before you found the perfect spot to read when the raindrops started falling. You walked back out, then you ran as if your life depended on it, only for your umbrella to break one of its stretchers, forcing you to run even faster ‘till you made it to the station.

It was your heavy panting that brought her attention back to you. She could almost see the puff of hot air coming out of your mouth with every exhale. Your cheeks had a modest red-ish tint to them, framed by the drops of water –or sweat?– cascading down your temples. A million questions ran through her mind. What do you sound like? Is your voice deep or pitchy? Are you from around here? Where do you live? Would you like to grab a coffee with her? 

As if on cue, you turned to look at her. Yelena froze, seemingly having forgotten what human connection felt like.

Only you were not quite looking at her, but the wagon’s yellowing wall behind. It made sense; you had no way of reaching the metal supports with all the people pushing and squeezing in your way as the rush hour had finally set in. You were frantically looking for a place to lean on, trying not to fall down while you dried yourself.

Then came a sudden stop, the brackets howling like banshees in the dark tunnel. Your face unceremoniously plopped on her shoulder, basking you with her faint minty scent, courtesy of the 3-in-1 shampoo, soap, conditioner she brought with her for light travel. 

None of you dared say a word in those few seconds; you found her quite intimidating. There was something off that didn’t quite fit the mental image you had rendered of her in only a few seconds.

Maybe it was just your usual anxiousness, the same that made you check three times if you had locked your door before going out, the same that made you get up at 4am to get ready for your 9am lecture because you didn’t want to be late, or maybe it was the same that had landed you in the doctor’s office far too many times because your hands kept trembling out of control. Or maybe you just needed to listen to what your friends told you and learn how to chill the fuck out. 

There was certainly something wrong with her. You just didn’t want to find out what exactly.

The wagon regained speed as her hands found themselves on your forearms, holding you firm. “You ah… you look bad. You can lay back here– uhm, take my spot” Yelena’s raspy voice surprised her. She was not usually one to take pity on poor passengers with bad luck, but you were a nice exception. A gorgeous exception, if she had to admit.

You were half-expecting the woman not even noticing you, but of course you just had to stumble and force her to see you. “Haha, I know. I had a bit of a long day. I– Uhm. Thank you so much, you’re too kind!” You rushed to take the place she had left for you behind. It was still warm where she had leaned on, though not much. 

Silence lingered as you shuffled your way behind her, away from all the other passengers. 

The blonde woman –who had very graciously given you her spot at the rear end of the wagon– looked unbothered in front of you, holding on to the metal tube closest to her. Her clothes looked worn the same way one might say a book was worn out after having been read, and re-read over and over again. They were torn in places that were either a result of comfort or fear of change, like those middle pages you read, and re-read like you haven’t read them at least 15 times.

Her gaze seemed distant, like she too had a long day putting on a nice enough outfit, combing the endless matts off of her hair, cleaning a week’s worth of accumulated trash from her apartment so as to not freak out her friends who have been looking looking all over college for her because none of them have seen a trace of her in more than fourteen –almost fifteen– days. Only to go on a picnic with said friends who, by the way, cancelled at the last minute, leaving her to fend for herself under the heavy rain. Perhaps you were just projecting, which was the most likely reason why you were still staring at her.

Stalking was not your strong suit, she had to have noticed you looking at her. 

Welp, no better time than the present to fix your wet clothes. You ducked down, slightly raising your leg, trying to attach the plastic strap that had fallen off your shoe while running down the stairs. You made a mental note to get rid of that pair. It was ruined, why bother?

The slight shuffling in front of you caught your attention again, like you needed any more excuses to turn your unrelenting gaze to her. The woman’s sweater had risen up only a few inches, leaving her midriff perfectly exposed for you to take a peek. 

Scars painted themselves in faint, seemingly random, patterns across her stomach. A few ran back upwards, extending along her left side like traces of –hopefully– paper cuts. Another looked like it had been made many years ago, a wide scar spreading near her ribs. 

Then you noticed the bruises, those were new compared to the scars. One blooming red for you to see peeking from under her waistband.

You would have minded your own business –kept your findings to yourself, as you usually did– had you not noticed one more crucial detail: right there, under her waistband too, stood a gun. 

Another halt in the train’s movement made you lose your equilibrium. Too astonished to utter a scream –or even a gasp– your hands grabbed onto her waist by reflex, effectively stopping your imminent fall. Your head now lay pressed to her abdomen, her eyes glued to you.

The lights flickered, letting you know the water was fastly deteriorating the subway system. You could only hope to make it back to your apartment before nightfall.

“I’m going to start thinking you’re doing this on purpose if you fall all over me again” Her icy tone hit you like a bucket of cold water. Your hands quickly retracted from her waistband, fingers bending through the belt loops. You could see why her tone came so stern, you must have looked like a creep waiting for a chance to touch her. It was no wonder why she carried a gun on her, she must be used to getting this sort of attention everywhere she goes.

“N- no! I swear it was an accident. I didn't mean–I’m so sorry. I’ll uh… keep to myself, my stop is not too far away. Sorry” You stumbled through apologies and promises. Another mistake to add to today’s eventul list of them.

Certainly, the day could not get worse.

Or maybe it could, because the doors to your stop had just closed.

The sign with the name of your stop written in big white letters –mocking you behind the foggy, dirty sliding doors– disappeared in the distance. The crowd in front of you seemed obscene now. Aside from the russian woman you had just pissed off, there were various other individuals. People who looked just about far too done to deal with your bullshit shoving them aside in a hurry while trying to make your way towards the door in the coming stop.

You could skip a stop, yeah. Two would be a little worse, but still not bad. You could take the next sub back, no worries. The only thing stopping you from that was the woman. Still, painfully in front of you even after all the bullshit you had pulled in the last 20-ish minutes.

“Hey, uhm. Do you think I could–” Your words stopped at your throat, refusing to keep coming out of your mouth. Her glare intensified, like she was taking a peek into your soul. “Sorry, I just need to uhh. I mean– I get off in the next station” Your hands awkwardly making gestures, compensating for your lack of talking skills.

A breathy “Alright” came from her, letting you sigh in relief. She moved aside, making quite a lot of space in front of her for you considering the cramped wagon.

You only needed to not bother her, take a few steps under her arm –still firmly set on the metal tube– move past the crowd of salarymen and frat boys, and finally get off at the next station. Your feet led you in front of her, ready to pass her and make your way to the sliding doors. Easy, impossible to screw up. 

That was until an abrupt turn to the right shoved you into her body once more fucking time. It wasn’t even that brute of a push, if anything it was only a slight butt of friction that brought your back and her chest together.

“Ah, so you are like that,” Her voice evoked confidence, like she was expecting your ass to end up rubbing against her clothed mound and your legs to part just enough for her baggy jeans to catch on your panties. As soon as the shock of your sudden fall left you she moved her leg upwards, feeling out your underside “you could’ve just said so”

“W– wait. I’m not–” One of her hands wrapped itself over your wrist, twisting your arms until you were facing the back of the wagon, leaving behind the red –now purple– indent of her fingers on you while her other hand made its way to your neck. There her thumb traced lines just below your jaw, a movement that would’ve otherwise been a sensual gesture shared by lovers now lay you playing along to save your life. “Please stop I–”

The wagon grew indefinitely bigger, dark and desolate. Your every breath felt like needles were puncturing your lungs. The people were still there, just distant. The lights were too bright, the air too stale, you felt too much at that moment, like the world would collapse all over itself and take you with it.

“I’m gonna let you in on a little secret,” She whispered directly into your ear, so only you could hear the filth spewing from her mouth “you are alone here, nobody will help you” Her hand turned your face to the side, making you face an indistinguishable mass of people laughing and talking, as if purposely trying to ignore the two of you.

“I– I didn’t mean to do that. I’m sorry, I’ll leave, I promise I won’t tell” That only made her grip go tighter. Possessive. It made you feel safe in a twisted manner, like no one could touch you but her.

“I know you wouldn’t, солнышко. You fear me. You’re afraid about what I want to do with you, what I will do to you” Her tongue licked at your earlobe “I was thinking of letting you go after you saw the gun. Really, I did, but then you rubbed your filthy pussy against me…”

“N-no, I didn’t– ” Her thumb started pressing harder, reminding you she was in control of your breathing. “S-stop, please. We’re in public– ”

“ –and you just love that, don’t you?” You could hear a smile etched in her face by her tone alone. She pushed her body to yours, her knee parting your legs from behind. 

“I’ll scream” Would you? Or better yet, could you with the way she kept holding on to your throat?

She hummed in response. “Sure, you can try, but that would only end up with one of my bullets going through that thick skull of yours in less than a second” One of her fingers hit your temple, mimicking her words “If you’d prefer, I could give you a demonstration” She moved, as if reaching for the back of her jeans.

“N- no. I believe you” A nervous laugh escaped you as her thigh became nestled between yours, gnawing away at your defenses with every stroke to your core. “C– can you at least take me somewhere private? I don’t want–”

The woman kissed at your neck, slowly savoring you inch by inch like the prey you were “You wouldn’t like me like that.” A small bite to your neck “All alone, me and you? солнышко, you don’t know what nonsense you keep saying. Here you actually stand a chance”

Your eyes strained trying to look for help. A saviour, a hero in shining armor hidden among the crowd ready to jump to your rescue. Where were those American symbols of justice in spandex? 

Alas. Where they–? They were watching you. The salarymen leered at the way she assaulted your body while others simply turned away. The men closer in age to you were worse, way worse. They were laughing, making crude signs at you. Not one of them seemed disturbed about the scene unfolding in front of them. 

“No heroes to rescue you, see?” She was right. No one would save you. 

You knew as much because you’re sure you wouldn’t intervene if you were just another passenger. You’re too much of a coward. That’s how you usually stir away from situations like this.

“Eyes on me” Her voice. Has it always been this magnetic? “This is how we’re going to do this,” Her hand left your pulsating wrist, the indent of her fingers fresh on it. “You’re going to take what I give you so long as I please, exactly how I please” You choked on a gasp, ready for the worst possible outcome. “If you manage to do that, I will let you go” Her hand ghosted your leg, a cruel mimicry of asking for consent.

“Really!?” You raised your ass, giving her further access under your skirt. Sick. That’s what you were. No sane person could be getting worked up from being groped in public.

“Yes” Callused fingers found your panties fast. Two fingers dipped between your legs, rubbing long stripes over the cotton cloth “What do we have here? –Ah, there you are. You’re going to tell me this,” Her fingers ducked under the flimsy fabric, scissoring at your folds until her fingers were coated with your slick “is not what you wanted?”

And you were not that scared, were you? There was something to her, that’s what you kept thinking over and over again. A heaviness that, like her aggression, came from something deeper within her. A loneliness that ravaged everything she touched in its fury for existing. That you understood, for you too felt it everyday.

Maybe it was just that you were despery to feel the touch of another human being after being cooped up inside your apartment for too long. Or maybe it was that today was the first day in a long while since you’ve mustered up the courage to go out. That was all you came up with to justify your following actions.

Such is your luck.

Your hand reached behind you, looking for her warmth.

“My glock is too far back, you’re not going to make it” She continued assaulting your pussy with her experienced hand while her hips rubbed against your barely covered ass. You tried telling yourself it was her who kept frotting you against her mound, that the way your skirt raised against the front of her baggy jeans was just a coincidence, even though you knew it wasn’t.

“I’m not reaching for the gun” You angled your hand lower, aiming for her waist; effectively pulling her closer to you. It was her turn to be startled, or so you guessed by the way her fingers stopped. 

So you did the only other logical thing. Your hand slithered over to her zipper, slowly dragging it lower. The metallic vibrations were a nice respite from the noise around you. Then you found it, what you had been looking for in the past agonizing seconds since you had made up your mind: her briefs. You slipped your hand below, following the happy trail extending down her lower abdomen, but not before she stopped you.

“Now what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” She pushed her entire weight against you, constricting your lungs. All air escaped you in a second, like she had squeezed the oxygen out of your every cell. 

But you persisted. Even when your legs threatened to give out from pleasure alone, your hand kept reaching for her. If she wasn't going to let you touch her, then you'd help her touch you. 

Your fingers tangled with hers as she massaged your wet folds. You moved her fingers to your clit, the poor bundle of nerves all too puffy. 

A hot, burning sensation filled you. You hoped it was a panic response to her asphyxiation and not arousal.

Her other hand was soon making itself known under your red sweater, tentatively exploring your every curve. An endearing gesture, if not for the context. She traced every stretch mark, dimple, and birthmark she could feel out. “You… ah– you’re actually enjoying this, aren’t you?” 

She took her sweet time with you, like rain about to fall down. First the heaviness in the air –humid, cold– then little by little making itself known before, all of a sudden, an unapologetic torrential water stream destroyed everything in its path. She did just that by shoving two of her fingers deep into your cunt, leaving your clit alone to swell and ache without her touch.

You found your lungs were taking air in again only when a gasp tried to escape you, its sound muffled as you bit into the neck of your sweater. Your walls clenched over her fingers as she flexed them inside you. She had found it, that tender spot that made you see stars.

“Wh– what even is your –ghnn– ah– name?” You asked between sobs. She seemed taken aback, but her ministrations didn’t stop. Instead, she planted a kiss on your neck. Too genuine to mistake for malice, yet harsh enough not to let you melt into it.

“Yelena” You were putty in her hands as soon as she gave you her name to moan out. 

Feeling your lack of resistance, Yelena inserted another finger into your snatch. Her every attention was on you, on the way your eyes didn’t leave hers for a second.

Each thrust of her digits to your G-spot brought you closer to your climax.

She read your every shiver and acted accordingly. Every time you heaved, she was there to trap your mouth with hers, flexing your neck at awkward angles that made you question whether you’d be able to move your head at all tomorrow. You were sure your tits would be visibly bruised under your bra after spending all this time under her desperate ravaging of you.

It was over before you even had a chance to fight it. 

You came with a whimper, all your force gone in an instant. Your knees buckled under the intensity of it, you felt yourself slump over her chest. You hadn’t yet fully registered your peak when she was already holding your limb body as you fell down. You were left at her mercy.

But you would soon discover that Yelena was cruel. 

Through your haze you could make out the disapproving mumbles of the passengers standing nearby. They talked about you like they had tried to help you, blaming you as if you had been looking for it. No one mentioned the word ‘abuse’, or ‘victim’. You were just a sexual deviant in their eyes.

And maybe you could have beared it all –the glances, the murmurs, the way they kept looking at you like you were s show for them to muse at– if not for the way Yelena's palm moved back to your unattended clit.

“S– stop. I've- I've already–” She shushed you with another hard shove to the wall. Your sight became slightly blurry after that.

“I told you to take what I give you” You tried closing your legs in vain “This is what I give you” 

More of your warm juices came out, soiling your panties and the floor beneath you in a small transparent puddle of your desire. You didn’t dare look down at the way she admired her fingers, fascinated by whatever divine revelation she found in her dirtied hand. Right then you felt very tempted to drop to your knees, alas her hold on you remained firm. 

You felt sated. Warm inside, like insects crawling on the warm soil after the storm. All you could think about was how much you wanted to curl back inside your bed and cry, tossing and turning either thinking about what she had done to you or how much you had liked it. 

A blaring announcement cut the silence between you like a knife. This was the last stop in the line, all passengers were asked to get off of the wagon. You looked at the masses walking by. None looked back.

“Ah, this is my stop” Yelena fixed your panties and skirt back in place, her hands lingering on your soft skin for a second. 

You expect her to leave you there, like your friends had, alone. Instead she entwined her hand with yours, pulling you with her. 

“Where are we going?” You tilted your head, facing her. Genuine curiosity stricken across your face, not quite understanding the severity of the situation yet.

“Back to my place, or yours, I don’t mind. I’ll take you there, get you cleaned up,” She shrugged, as if this was the most mundane thing in the world. “Mainly because you can’t stand straight to save your life”

A chuckle escaped you as you limped by her side “My hero”

[cupidstrace]

A Drive Without a Destination

Summary; He's your uber driver. You're crying in the backseat. Pairing; Toji Fushiguro x Reader

Content Warnings; loss (death in childbirth), gambling addiction, implied depression, implied passive suicidal ideation (not graphic or explicit)

It’s late.

The rain paints the city streets in streaks of vibrant light. You get in the car, and your driver – Toji, according to the name you can barely read through your tears – says your name with a glance to the rearview. You nod, voice stuck in your throat.

You’re crying. Not loudly. Just hiccups and a slow kind of sadness that tells you if you speak too much you might sob. You hold yourself together. “..sorry.”

He shrugs. “Doesn’t bother me.”

The car pulls away from the curb.

The radio is low, some talk station you’re not listening to, a murmur in the back of your mind. You catch glimpses of him through the mirror. Dark hair and dead eyes that indicate he’s just as tired as you are. Of what, you’re not sure.

But you’re glad it’s him and not someone who would ask if you’re okay.

You watch the buildings blur past with a kind of numbness that comes only after heartbreak, raindrops racing down the window like little suicides. You press your sleeve to your face and wish you were anywhere else.

You left too quickly. Said too little. Said too much.

Your phone buzzes, and you ignore it. There’s a dullness in your chest that doesn’t know how to settle.

His voice cuts through the silence. Not gentle or patronizing, but not cold, either. More like someone standing just outside the grief, offering a cigarette. Not a cure, just company. “Rough night?”

You hesitate. Then laugh, voice hoarse, raw from an argument that didn't need to happen. “Yeah. Something like that.”

It’s the first real thing you’ve said in hours.

He doesn’t turn around. Just keeps driving like you didn’t admit you’re unraveling.

“Someone die?” he asks eventually.

You shake your head. “Worse. I think I lost someone who’s still alive.”

He nods. Like he’s heard that before. Like maybe he’s lived it.

“My kid’s the only reason I ain’t a complete fuckup,” he says after a beat. “But even that.. s’hard. Holdin' onto people. Especially when they’ve got reasons to leave.”

You glance up. He’s not watching you, not fishing for sympathy. Just speaking. Like maybe he forgot for a second that he’s not alone in the car.

“She died,” he adds, like he’s commenting on the weather. “His mom.”

You sit up a little straighter.

“During labor. Whole place was chaos. Last thing I saw was her face, then they handed me a baby and asked what I wanted to name him.”

He lets out a short laugh. Dry. “Didn’t even know if I wanted to be a dad. Not without her. Sure as hell didn’t know how.”

You swallow. Something about the way he says it makes your chest tighten. You recognize the hollow in his throat, the humor in front of the ache.

“Stayed straight for a while. Tried, anyway. But hours don’t cut it, and bills don’t wait, and before I knew it, I was blowin’ rent money in a basement casino under a fake name.”

“But you’re still here,” you whisper.

“Yeah.. did shit I’m not proud of,” he nods, “shit I ain’t saying out loud, either. But m’still here, drivin’ around some sobbing mess at 2 am, so.. guess somethin’ worked out.”

The silence comes back, but it's heavier now. Not uncomfortable. Just real.

You don’t know why you say it, or why the words spill out of you all at once.

“I thought I had something real, and that it would be different, and I said goodbye, but it didn’t feel like enough, you know? Like I left the door open, and now all I’m doing is sitting in the doorway hoping he’ll come back.”

You exhale shakily. “I’m so tired of letting myself fall in love with people when I know they’re going to walk away.”

He doesn’t say sorry. He doesn’t say it’ll get better. Just hums like he gets it, and somehow, that’s easier to believe.

“Yeah. That’ll fuck you up.”

You’re a few blocks from your apartment when he hits a red light. The honks of traffic fill in the silence before he speaks. “Anyone waitin’ on you?”

You shake your head.

He doesn’t answer. Just turns the radio up a little, changing the station to some sort of R&B, like maybe the music can hold your hand for the last few minutes.

The city keeps moving. Keeps breathing.

So do you. For the first time all night, it feels like you can.

The car stops, and you stay in the seat like maybe it’ll ground you. Tether you to something real. You feel like you’re floating away, like everything around you is existing and somehow you’re not, and you won’t be able to hold on if you move.

You press your forehead to the window, eyes half-lidded, and wonder how long you could sit here before he notices you're not getting up.

Maybe, if you stay still long enough, the world will forget you first.

It's a quiet thought. Heavy, but not loud. The kind that settles in your bones and makes your gut drop with certainty.

Something shifts in the front seat.

Toji doesn't speak, but he turns to look at you. Like he gets it. Like he's had nights where the silence was the only thing that kept him from slipping through the cracks.

He offers you a slip of paper. “If you ever need a drive.”

You glance at it. Then back at him.

“Sometimes it helps,” he shrugs. “Lookin’ out the window without needin’ to go anywhere.”

Then, after a pause, he adds – quieter – "Better than goin' nowhere at all."

You stare. Then take the paper from his hand, and slip it into your purse. “..thank you.”

He just nods. “Take care of yourself, alright?”

The kind of filler phrase that usually means nothing. But from him, it feels heavy. Like a promise.

You muster a wavering smile and step out. The rain’s barely a drizzle now, but you pull your coat tight and walk to the door of your apartment.

You don’t look back. But you hear the engine idle until the lock clicks and you’re inside. And only then do you hear him pull away, slow.

You stand in the entryway, staring at the floor for what feels like forever. Still aching. Still empty.

But someone saw that and didn’t look away.

And somehow, that matters.

[writeonwhiskey]

act like you love me: ch 10 (18+ MDNI)

a/n: sorry for hurting your hearts in advance. i wanted to rehash some of the scenes from chapter 9 so we can understand where hyunjin's head is at with this, so it may feel a bit jumpy as we go from scene to scene. word count: 4.9k tracklist: Escape [ fic master list ]

10 - How It Should Be (Hyunjin POV)

WEEK 9

Craft services has become an unofficial hangout spot while we break for lunch. This entire day has been a tease.

Being around you and not having a moment alone? Torture. We aren’t even filming anymore—just the photoshoot after this—so I can’t even pull you back to my trailer to “run lines”.

It sucks.

So, here I am, chopsticks hovering over a paper plate of cold japchae, and I haven’t taken a bite in ten minutes. Not because I’m not hungry—with this miserable diet for the upcoming shirtless scene, I’m fucking starving—but because you’re sitting across from me with your head tipped back, laughing at something Han just said.

And I can’t look away.

You glance at me briefly. You don’t even say anything. Just that soft look, the hint of a smile, and it’s enough to mess me up.

We’re seated next to each other, close, but not close enough. Knees touching occasionally beneath the table. That’s all we can risk. But I want to pull you on my lap, make you laugh at something I say, and kiss you right here.

In front of everyone.

This secret has become more precarious than I anticipated. More consuming. Two months ago, you wouldn’t even look at me unless you had to. Now we’re…whatever this is. Spending nearly every night together. You finally letting me take care of you. Letting yourself be vulnerable and soft.

I fucking love that version of you.

I’m starting to think I love all your versions.

I’m called away by Seungmin to go over the shoot schedule with J.Y. Park when we return to Seoul. And for the first time in years, I hate the idea of moving on to a new project. Normally I’m excited. I like the pace. The turnover. But this? This feels different. We feel like the beginning of something.

And yeah—you’ve asked me to end it.

More than once.

But I don’t think you mean it. Not really.

And I'm used to this cat and mouse game we've been playing since the camping trip.

I text the others I won’t be joining them for dinner and wait across the lot from your trailer. When I hear the door open, I don’t dare turn around. I don’t want her to see me here, waiting for you.

But once she’s gone, I go to you.

You jump when I open the door. “What are you doing?”

I step inside, shutting the door behind me. “What are you doing?” I repeat, lip quirking up as you dart to the window. “She’s gone. I watched her leave.”

“I thought you left…were you waiting outside my trailer?”

It certainly sounds creepy when you say it like that, y/n.

“It seemed like you were ready to blow a gasket after she showed up. Your agent, right?”

You nod, leaning back against the counter with a sigh. I know that sigh. I hate that sigh.

“Everything okay?”

“Hyunjin…”

No. Don’t say it.

“…I think we really need to end this.”

There it is.

Again.

“What? Why?” I ask, although I already know what’s coming next.

You give the same script. That we work now, in secret, in this strange little world we’ve built, but once it’s over, we’ll fall apart.

You say it like it’s inevitable. Like there’s no point even trying, but I disagree.

I step closer, sliding my hands to your waist as you mention your agency using me.

“You won’t let them.”

“Of course not. I don’t want to use you for anything.”

“You could use me for some stuff,” I murmur, lowering my head to kiss you. You stop me with a palm to my chest.

“That’s not what I meant.”

I smile anyway. “I know. But I don’t care what anyone says.”

“You do care. About your career.”

Of course I do. But that doesn’t mean you’re disposable.

You have no idea how much I’ve been thinking about this lately. Wondering what the hell any of this means. Wondering what the future looks like if it’s just more lonely penthouse suites and new projects without you in them.

“So what—what do you want me to do? Pretend I don’t want you?”

“I don’t know…” you trail off. “Maybe stop looking at me like no other woman on this planet exists.”

I blink.

So you’ve noticed. And you’re still going on about ending this?

“They don’t.” You rest your head against my chest, and I hold you tighter. “You don’t have to be scared.”

It’s quiet for a moment as you, hopefully, let my words pour over you.

“You riding back with me?”

“I shouldn’t…”

“But you will?”

You sigh. “You’re making this really hard.”

“You thought breaking up with me would be easy?”

You let out a soft, sad laugh before replying, voice barely above a whisper. “There’s nothing to break up.”

Hm. You say that. But you’re still here. In my arms. Letting me hold you like this. You’re scared, sure…but you’re not done. Not yet.

I still have time to show you what this could be.

I kiss the top of your head and pull away just enough to catch your eyes.

“I’ll meet you in the parking lot.”

Because as long as you keep coming back—I’m not letting you go.

You sit beside me in the back seat, your head resting on my shoulder. The streetlights roll across your face as we glide past storefronts. You’re quiet, in that peaceful way you get when you’re tired but content.

With me.

And I don’t want to hide that, anymore. I like you. I don’t even know when it happened exactly…when wanting you turned into wanting to be yours.

“You hungry?” I ask.

You nod, stifling a yawn. “We can order in,” you mumble. Then you glance up. “Changbin, did you eat?”

I smile at that. You’re always so thoughtful and courteous with him.

“Yes,” he replies. “But I can eat again—if the boss will allow it.”

“Yeah, but you’re going to your room as soon as you’re full.” I warn him.

“That’s my secret, Cap,” he glances at me through the rearview mirror. “I’m never full.”

You shake with laughter against my side, and I wrap an arm around you, pulling you closer.

We ride in silence until my phone lights up. And I make, quite possibly, the biggest mistake of my life by looking at it.

Alessia [7:35 PM]: Dinner still on? 👀 You better not flake, Romeo.

I feel you sit up before I can fix my expression.

“Shit. I forgot about this dinner thing. My agent set it up with the stylist for that concept shoot in a few weeks.”

You nod. “Yeah, no worries. Work’s work.”

You say it like it doesn’t bother you. Like it’s fine.

But your smile doesn’t reach your eyes.

I want to tell you I don’t even want to go. That I’d rather be on your couch again, or mine, sitting way too close, pretending we’re still just co-stars even though my entire body feels like it knows yours now.

But instead, I say, “I’ll text you later?”

You don’t answer right away. Then finally, as you move to open the door, “Sure.”

I catch your arm and bring you back to me, hooking a finger under your chin. I gently turn your face and lean forward to kiss you, but there’s no reciprocation.

I stop and pull back to look at you.

Your eyes are dark and distant. Guarded.

“It’s just a work thing,” I offer softly.

“Even if it’s not,” you say, eyes on your hands, “it’s fine. We’re not dating, Hyunjin. We can’t.”

Before I can say anything, you open the door and step out.

“Have a good time,” you say.

And then you’re gone.

You don’t look back.

I stare at the closed door for a second too long.

Have a good time?

What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Are you angry? Are you testing me? Do you really not care at all?

None of those possibilities make me feel better.

Changbin reroutes us to the restaurant and the silence in the car makes how I’m feeling even worse.

When we arrive, I don’t get out right away. I sit there, gripping my phone like it’s going to give me an answer to my troubles.

“Come in with me,” I say finally, not even looking at him.

He doesn’t ask why. Just shrugs and follows.

The restaurant is one of those upscale lounge-type places—dim lighting, curved velvet booths, candles flickering on each table.

Alessia waves us over from the corner, smiling wide. She’s already had a drink, maybe two. She’s glowing, radiant in a low-cut black dress, and stands to greet me like we’re old friends.

“You made it,” she beams in English, her Italian accent thick. “I ordered that citrus thing you like.”

I nod and sit across from her. She doesn’t acknowledge Changbin until he slides into the booth beside me.

“You brought Changbin?” she asks, eyebrows lifting slightly.

“He’s my shadow,” I reply. It’s a joke. Sort of.

She laughs too loud at it, brushing her hair over one shoulder.

I glance at my phone under the table.

Nothing from you.

We order. The drinks come fast. We talk work—photo concepts, branding, upcoming schedules. She’s smart. Talented. She’s good at her job.

She’s also not you.

But you’re not mine. You’ve made that clear.

Why do you insist on drilling that into my head?

“You’re working with Donatella, right?”

I nod.

“Do you think she’d provide clothing? I know she’d serve your looks justice,” she smiles too widely at me.

“I could reach out to her team.”

This is the version of me people expect—the public Hyunjin. Charming. Neutral. Professional.

I sip the drink. It tastes like citrus and regret.

Somewhere between the third glass and dessert, the conversation loosens. Alessia laughs more easily. Her voice gets softer, the edge in it smoothing out.

She’s pretty. I know that. I’m not blind. I just don’t care.

But…you want me to care? You want me to notice other women? You think this type of night should feel good and be fun, right? This is what you expect for me?

Beautiful girls. Fancy drinks. Easy conversation. No risk.

But it feels hollow.

Because the only place I want to be right now is wherever you are.

And the worst part?

You’re convincing yourself you don’t want me. And even though I don’t believe you, you’re stubborn enough to walk away from me.

The thought alone drives a stake through my heart.

My head is foggy when I wake up around 3:00pm. Bits of last night flicker in and out of focus: the drinks, the candlelight, Alessia laughing too loud at Changbin’s jokes. Her voice in my ear as we exit the restaurant.

“Let’s go out the side,” she said, looping her arm through mine. “Less crowded.”

Then, the flash of cameras. Her hand on my chest. Lips near my cheek, then my mouth.

A kiss I didn’t want. A photo I didn’t see coming.

I scrub a hand over my face, grab my phone, and check my messages.

None from you, still.

Just as I go to put my phone down, I notice the slew of messages from my agency. There are links to several articles, all with terribly misinformed headlines as usual.

“Hyunjin Spotted With Vogue Italia Stylist After Hours—New Romance?”

“Kiss Caught On Camera: Hyunjin’s Secret Night Out”

Fuck.

I vaguely remember Changbin having a heated exchange with the paparazzi after I got away from them and into the car, but clearly that didn’t stop them.

I sit up. My heart is thudding now. I scroll, jaw clenched. Comment sections are chaos. Some fans are screaming. Others are celebrating. Rumors are starting.

Is this why you haven’t text me back?

I can only imagine how this looks from your perspective. But maybe this is what you wanted, what you needed to give you that final push to stay away from me. Maybe this is a sign showing you how quickly things could spiral out of control.

I text you first, hoping you’re still within reason and haven’t shut me out completely. Then, I text my agency that Alessia is off the shoot and to find a new stylist. Something about how that all played out last night is a little too suspicious for my liking.

My thoughts are a mess as I get dressed and head out. But I need to see you. I need to explain.

In today’s scene Jae-hoon is supposed to be unraveling. Broken down from his father’s rejection, clinging to the one place—and person—that makes him feel safe.

It’s not hard to get there today.

I sit at the table, a bottle of soju in front of me, the fake condensation dripping onto my hand. Felix is still fixing my makeup right until the moment they call “places”. My eyes go straight to you.

You don’t look back.

You haven’t, not since I got here.

It hits me harder than I expected. I thought maybe the text would break the ice. Or at least earn a glance. But you’re focused. Cold, even.

I hate it.

The cameras roll.

“I’ve been looking for you,” you say.

“Well. Congratulations. You found me,” I reply, voice heavy. “Want a drink?”

You answer, soft but firm: “No. You left without saying anything. I wanted to know what’s going on.”

I look up at you and everything clenches—my chest, my throat, my goddamn soul. You’re in character, but you’re also you. And all I can think about is what I actually want to say to you.

“Cut!” Chan calls. “Do you need your line, Hyunjin?”

I shake my head. “Let’s go again.”

Every take, I get a little worse. Because every time I look at you, I feel farther away.

Finally, Chan calls for a break.

You disappear behind the set and I follow, because I have to.

But our conversation does no good.

“I trust you,” you say, and my heart stutters—until you finish. “To get this scene done in a timely manner. Let’s focus on that.”

And just like that, the door slams shut again.

Back on set, we go again.

This time, I get there. Maybe because I’ve lived it now. Maybe because the pain I’m playing is real.

“My father thinks I’m weak…” I start. And it pours out.

By the time I deliver the final line—“Tell me who I am, then. Because without you, I don’t fucking know anymore”—my voice cracks.

Your hand is in mine.

And even though we’re acting, I wish—just for a moment—it wasn’t a scene at all.

"Cut!" Chan calls out.

You squeeze my hand, gentle and brief, comforting me but I don’t know where the line is between us and our characters anymore. My chest rises and falls too fast. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and glance around at the crew, pretending like the emotion was part of the job.

Maybe some of it was.

But not all of it.

Because the way I looked at you? The way my voice cracked on that last line?

That wasn’t acting.

I meant every word.

“Tell me who I am, then. Because without you, I don’t fucking know anymore.”

It’s not just dialogue to me. It’s a truth I’ve been trying not to say out loud.

You’re already letting go of my hand. Already standing. Already leaving the moment behind like it didn’t mean anything.

But I’m still sitting here.

Still reeling.

And for the first time on this project, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to let go of this character—because I don’t know where he ends and I begin.

Not when it comes to you.

When you confirm that you’re in your apartment, I throw on a pair of shoes and dart to the elevator almost instantly.

I knock at your door and you answer. Barefoot, tired, and you don’t say anything. You just let me in.

Getting no emotion at all from you is somehow worse.

“It wasn’t what you thought,” I start quietly. “We had dinner and drinks and talked about the upcoming shoot—Changbin was there the whole time.”

You raise a brow. That last bit was meant to be comforting, but perhaps it’s not. Given that I informed you Changbin is sworn to secrecy when we kissed at the club.

“She was flirty. I won’t deny that. But that’s normal, to me. Not ego. Just a fact.”

You remain unmoved.

“She kept saying how cold she was in the restaurant, so I gave her my shirt. And when we said goodbye, I went to do the cheek-kiss thing. It’s customary with Europeans, but she went in for my lips. I didn’t kiss her back. I swear, y/n. Not like that.”

I pause, watching you.

Still nothing.

“You don’t have to worry, I’ve had her replaced for the shoot.”

The blank look on your face is eating me alive. I feel like I’m grasping at straws, like the moment I’ve been dreading is finally here. You don’t want me to fix this.

You let the silence stretch.

“Okay,” you finally say.

Just one word? But you believe me?

No…something is still wrong.

“It happens in this industry,” you continue, almost too calm. “Exploitation and shitty misunderstandings.”

I exhale. For a second, it feels like we might be okay. But when I take another step closer to you, you hold your hand up to stop me.

“But just because I understand it doesn’t mean it changes anything.”

My heart falters. “Why not?”

“We aren’t dating. We’re not a thing, Hyunjin. Whether what you just said was true or not, it changes nothing. We need to end this.”

“True or not?” I echo. “So you don’t believe me?”

“I do. But that’s not the point.”

I frown. “It should be. After everything, I feel like we owe it to ourselves to see if there’s more here. To make our choice based on what we want?”

“Hyunjin…no.”

“Why not?”

You gesture between us. “Because you’re…you. I’m barely starting out. You know how this goes—rumors, scrutiny. It’s not just unwise, it could be career suicide for me. So this is my choice. This is what I want.”

You’ve expressed the same concerns multiple times and I know, I get it. You’re new, you’re talented, and you’re already under a microscope. You’re afraid that being with me would have people accusing you of being the girl who slept her way to screen time.

But don’t you understand I’d do everything in my power to prevent that from happening?

“But…it felt real, right?”

You swallow hard. “It did…but that doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

You close your eyes and shake your head. “I appreciate you coming to tell me. But we can’t do this anymore.”

When you open your eyes again and look down at the ground, I can see it written all over your face. You’re trying so hard to be strong and it makes me second guess my actions. Would it be easier for you if I just let you go? But being this close to you, I can’t understand how that would make sense.

[ SONG: ESCAPE ]

I take a tentative step toward you, and you don’t move away.

We’re close, but not touching.

“We only have three weeks left on set,” you murmur, finally looking up at me. “We can’t do this again.”

Another step closer and you stay in place. I can feel the sparks radiating between us in this moment. Your resolve is slipping.

“But I don’t want to leave it like this.”

I search your face, and then I do the thing I shouldn’t do.

I kiss you.

Hard.

You kiss me back.

And that’s all it takes.

The second your mouth touches mine, I know I’m fucked.

Not just turned on. Not just desperate. Fully gone.

The kiss is chaotic. My hands dive into your hair. You clutch at my neck, my shoulders, pulling me closer like you want me under your skin. Like you need me there.

Trust me, I would live there if I could.

“We can’t,” you whisper against my lips—but your hand is already beneath my shirt.

“Then tell me to stop,” I taunt, kissing your jaw, your throat, that spot beneath your ear that always makes your breath hitch.

You don’t.

Instead, you peel my shirt off, your fingertips trailing heat down my sides. I help you out of your shirt, and when our skin collides, my entire body lights up. Then we’re stumbling—through the living room, down the hall, unable to keep off each other.

“I could take care of us,” I say, rough and reckless. I mean it. “You wouldn’t have to worry.”

You laugh bitterly, pushing me against the hallway wall. “I’m not a trophy wife, Hyunjin.”

You come back to me, kissing me as you push my sweatpants down. I step out of them before lifting you, and your legs wrap around my waist as I pin you against the opposite wall.

“That’s not what I meant,” I murmur, my lips brushing along your collarbone.

“I’m not something to keep hidden in a penthouse either.”

“I wouldn’t hide you.” I kiss you again, rougher this time, like I’m trying to burn the promise into your mouth. Like I can make you believe me.

You drop to your feet, slip out of your pajama bottoms and underwear. Then drop down to your knees.

Fuck.

One of your hands grips my thigh. The other wraps around the base of my cock, and I look down just as your lips part to take me in.

My head hits the wall, my hands find your hair, gripping tight, helpless to do anything but groan as you suck my cock with urgency. Your words aren’t matching up to your actions—all you’re doing is reminding me that you want and need me just as much.

“Fuck, y/n—your mouth…”

You moan around my cock and my knees nearly give out. Your hand strokes what your mouth can’t reach, your tongue tracing the underside with precision.

Then your other hand disappears between your legs.

“You touching yourself?” I pant. You nod, eyes locked on mine as you suck even harder. “Mmm, yes. Play with yourself for me, jagi. Get that pussy nice and wet for me.”

You moan again, louder this time. I start thrusting slowly into your mouth, and when you don’t pull away, I push my hips forward, going deeper. And you take it all.

“That feels so fucking good,” I growl. “I don’t want this to be the last time. Don’t make me lose this.”

I pull out, wiping the spit from your chin with my thumb. I grip your jaw between my fingers and squat down so we’re eye-level. I need you to hear me, to see me when I say this.

“I’d burn everything I’ve built to the ground if it meant having you,” my tone is soft, but the words are a dangerous promise.

A flicker of something passes through your eyes—hope? Fear?

You don’t respond.

I pull you to your feet and kiss you, tasting myself on your tongue as we stumble toward the bedroom. We make it onto the bed and the moment your body is fully pressed against mine, something in me shatters.

I can’t lose you.

I line up at your entrance, dragging the head of my cock against your folds. You’re soaked—dripping, actually—and it drives me insane.

“You want me to stop?” I ask, teasing you with shallow thrusts. Just the tip, in and out. Just enough to make you squirm.

You gasp, clutching at my shoulders.

“Answer me.”

“Hyunjin,” you groan, hips chasing mine.

“This has to end, right?” I push a little deeper, then pull out again. “You can walk away from me without missing this?”

You’re panting now, writhing beneath me, your fingernails digging into my back.

“Just fuck me,” you beg. “Please.”

“Tell me you can do that,” I whisper, biting your bottom lip.

“Hyunjin, please,” you breathe.

I sink into you with one long, deep stroke, and we both moan—loud and broken. Your pussy wraps around me like it doesn’t want to let go, and I curse under my breath at how fucking tight you feel.

I kiss down your chest, teeth grazing your skin, and latch onto your nipple, sucking hard as I start to fuck into you. I grab your thighs and push them higher, opening you wider, going deeper.

“You feel unreal, y/n,” I groan, watching your eyes flutter shut.

Your pussy contracts around me and I can feel how close you already are. But I want more. I want to drag this out until you’re shaking.

“Tell me,” I murmur again, pulling almost all the way out. “Tell me you can just forget about this.”

“I—I can’t,” you cry out, head tilting back.

I pull out completely.

Your eyes shoot open in protest, but I kiss my way down your body before you can say anything. Down your chest, your stomach, until I’m nestled between your legs. I push your thighs apart and look up at you.

“You say we’re done…but your pussy says otherwise, jagi.”

Then I bury my tongue in you.

You gasp, hips jerking as I lick from your entrance to your clit, swirling my tongue slowly, teasing you.

“I should leave,” I mumble against you. “Let you go, right?”

You moan my name, fists tangled in the sheets, and I groan when your hips buck against my face.

“But I’m not that strong, y/n,” I say, licking circles around your clit now. “I want you too much.”

Your thighs shake. You’re close again. I slip two fingers inside you and curl them just right.

“Hyun—fuck—Hyunjin!”

“That’s it,” I taunt. “Come on my tongue. Let me have it.”

You break apart right in front of me, your thighs trembling around my head. I groan, licking you through it until you’re twitching and whining.

I sit up, my mouth wet with your cum, and crawl back over your body.

“Still want this to end?” I ask, licking the taste of you from my lips.

You yank me down into a kiss, to have a taste yourself, and then push me until I’m on my back. You straddle me without hesitation, reaching between us to line my cock up.

“I should say no,” you whisper, voice chock full of that same disdain from week one as you slowly lower yourself onto my cock.

“Then say it,” I grit, hands gripping your thighs as I thrust into you.

You start to move, slowly at first—hips rolling in lazy, torturous circles. I want to throw my head back onto the pillows, but I also don’t want to take my eyes off you. You look so fucking good on top of me.. Skin flushed. Breathless.

“You were made for this cock,” I say.

“You’re so full of yourself,” you hiss, riding me faster.

“Only when I’m inside you,” I growl, reaching up to cup your breasts. “Only when your pussy is squeezing my cock like this.”

You slam your hips down harder, again and again, until I sit up and wrap my arms around you, chest to chest. I kiss you, still thrusting into you, but the rhythm is messy and wild. But I don’t care, I need to be this close to you right now.

Fuck that. I need to be this close to you always.

But I’m terrified that even this reminder of what it’s like when we’re together won’t be enough this time.

“Turn around for me,” I say, voice hoarse.

You climb off and I guide you onto your stomach, yanking you up by the hips until you’re on your knees, ass in the air. I take a second to admire you again—back arched, pussy still dripping for me.

I grip your hips and slide back inside. It feels calming.

Like this is mine. Like you’re mine.

You drop your chest to the bed, arching your back further, your ass bouncing perfectly with every thrust.

“Gonna fuck you so good you forget why you want this to end,” I say, pounding into you raw and fast. “Gonna show you why you should be mine.”

You throw your ass back against me, crying out with every thrust. I slip a hand between your thighs and rub your clit again.

“I’m gonna come,” you moan. “Fuck—I’m so close.”

“Do it,” I pant. “Let me feel you come on my cock, jagi. I need it.”

You moan as your thighs shake. Your pussy clenches around me so tight I can barely breathe. I keep going, chasing my own release, hips snapping into yours.

“Shit—y/n—I’m—fuck—”

I come hard, groaning through my teeth as I collapse over your back, my whole body shuddering.

And even as I roll off you, chest heaving, heart racing…I already know what this was.

A crash, not a landing.

You roll over and pull the blanket to cover you as the silence consumes us.

“This doesn’t change anything,” you say softly.

I sit up and swing my legs off the bed, my back to you as my head drops. “I know.”

I don’t try to hold you.

You don’t ask me to stay.

But neither of us move for a long, long time.

a/n: i have nothing to say other than i'm sorry 🥹 but we'll get them on the right track by the end! pinky promise.

@hwangjoanna / @hanniesbubuwife / @straycat420 / @tsunderelino / @dessianna1 / @akindaflora / @tirena1 / @krayzieestay / @ehstay / @spookiesakura / @aria-again / @sakuraseyebrow / @brekkers-whore / @sailor--sun / @velvetmoonlght