#but if that is right; then you might be saying it as a...way to tell me how to calculate the consequences.

[strangerexee]

(1) ᴛᴏʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ɪ ʟɪᴋᴇ ɢᴇɴᴛʟᴇ ɢɪᴀɴᴛꜱ | ᴇʟɪᴀᴊʜ "ꜱᴍᴏᴋᴇ" ᴍᴏᴏʀᴇ

𝙼𝙾𝙳𝙴𝚁𝙽!𝙶𝙰𝙽𝙶!𝙰𝚄

pairings: Elijah "smoke" Moore x black!fem!reader

𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢: 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚣𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝 | 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 | 𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚐/𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚜 | 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎/𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 ��𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛 | 𝚝𝚘𝚡𝚒𝚌 𝚍𝚢𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚜 | 𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 (𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚜), 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 | 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝-𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚢 | 𝚃𝚆𝙸𝙽 𝙲𝙾𝙽𝙵𝚄𝚂𝙸𝙾𝙽 | 𝚜𝚎𝚡𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗.

You weren’t even supposed to be out that night.

Whole week had been trash — your boss on your ass, car acting stupid, apartment loud as hell with neighbors fighting through the walls.

You needed a break.

So when your girls hit you up — “Bitch, we outside tonight, put some heels on” — you said yes.

You didn’t even think twice.

Short dress. Glossy lips. The kind of heels that said you might make a bad decision if the right man breathed on your neck.

The club was packed — lights flashing, bass thumping deep in your chest — and you felt yourself finally breathe when you got a drink in your hand and a song you loved came on.

You were dancing, laughing, living your little free life — when you felt it.

Eyes.

Heavy.

Watching.

You turned your head — slow — and caught them across the room.

Two of them.

Tall. Built like trouble. Dark eyes gleaming under the lights like wolves in the woods.

And fine?

God help you.

One leaned back against the wall — arms folded, chewing on a toothpick — looking at you like he already knew what you tasted like.

The other was talking to some girl, but his eyes? Still on you.

You swallowed — heart hammering.

Your friends screamed when the song switched — dragging you further onto the dancefloor — but you kept glancing back.

Who the hell was that? You couldn't really tell.

Fast-forward twenty minutes — you outside cooling off, drink in your hand, scrolling on your phone.

And he stepped to you.

The one from inside.

Black jeans. Black hoodie. Gold chain swinging. Those heavy-lidded eyes eating you alive.

“What’s your name, lil’ mama?” he said, voice low and slow.

You squinted up at him — heart pounding — but your mouth moved faster than your brain.

He was tall in that way that made you straighten your spine, hoodie hanging loose on that broad-ass frame like it was clinging for dear life. Gold glinted at his neck, catching the low streetlights, and the way his eyes moved—

Slow. Unhurried. Heavy-lidded like sin itself.

He wasn’t blinking. Wasn’t smiling either. He was watching.

And it was doing something to you that your little glossed-up, club-ready self hadn’t prepared for.

You scoffed lightly, not letting your eyes linger too long on his mouth, or his hands—veined, tatted, big enough to make your thighs press a little closer.

“Who, me?” You sipped your drink. “I don’t know you like that, sir.”

That “sir” was sweet. Smart. Maybe a little sharp.

And it made his jaw tick.

He dragged his tongue across his teeth, slowly, like he liked the way you tasted already.

“You gon’ know me,” he said. “Sooner or later.”

Lord.

He didn’t say it loud. Didn’t say it with a smile.

Just…stated it. Like gravity. Like fact.

You swallowed hard and tried not to show how hot your neck was getting.

He took a step closer.

Not enough to scare you. Just enough for the space between you to feel smaller. Warmer.

You leaned back against the wall casually, trying to play it cute—but your pulse was thudding. Your friends were still inside, probably throwing ass to the beat, and you were out here flirting with a man who could’ve been the devil’s body double.

“What’s your name?” you asked, voice smooth.

He smirked—but barely.

“Smoke.”

“That your real name?”

“Nah. But it’s the one you need to remember.”

You hummed, glancing down at your phone. Trying not to melt.

You had heard the name before. People whispered about him.

And his brother, Stack.

The Moore twins.

Trouble in two different fonts.

But Smoke? Smoke was the one they said moved different. Quieter. Crueler.

The one you didn’t want mad.

He didn’t act out.

He handled shit.

And here he was. In your face. Asking your name like it wasn’t probably already in his notes app under “sweet lil’ thing in that pretty dress.”

“You dangerous?” you asked him, tilting your head.

“What you think?” he said, voice low. “I look dangerous to you?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

Didn’t need one.

Because the way your lashes dipped told him plenty. The way you bit the inside of your cheek, looked away real quick like you weren’t all hot in the chest…

Yeah. He knew what time it was.

But still—you had the final move. And you weren’t about to let him play you into giving it all up like a dumb little groupie.

So instead—you smiled.

Real pretty.

You put your hand out slow, took his phone when he offered it, and dropped your number in.

Just your first name. Nothing more.

He looked down at it like it was gold.

And when you handed it back—you leaned in. Light. Soft.

Kissed his cheek.

“That’s all you getting tonight, smoke.”

And then you turned—heels clicking, dress swaying—walking right back into the club like you hadn’t just left the king of the damn city standing there with your number in his hand and a smirk blooming slow on his face.

He didn’t even chase you.

Just watched.

You woke up in your bed with one heel still on and glitter in your eyelashes.

Head pounding.

Mouth dry.

Phone buzzing.

“Ughhh…”

You rolled over and squinted at the screen.

Smoke (Mobile) 9:07 AM.

Hell no.

You tossed the phone face down and curled back under the blanket. Mind still foggy with club lights and too many tequila shots, feet sore from dancing in heels you should’ve thrown out two summers ago.

The night felt like a dream.

A blur.

Except him.

You remembered him crystal clear.

That voice. That smirk. That goddamn cheek kiss you gave him like some sweet lil’ Southern belle.

You groaned into your pillow.

Why did you do that?

Phone buzzed again.

Smoke (Mobile) 9:12 AM.

Back-to-back?

You side-eyed the screen, biting your lip.

And then—

Third call.

Smoke (Mobile) Incoming Call…

You stared.

Then finally hit ignore.

“Sir, it’s not even 10am,” you muttered, dragging yourself upright.

You made it to the kitchen, sipping orange juice straight from the bottle like a menace, still in last night’s dress with one strap slipping off your shoulder.

You rubbed your temples, then your phone dinged.

Unknown Address shared a location with you.

Your stomach flipped.

No name. No message.

Just a red pin hovering over your damn building.

You froze.

Then another message dropped.

“Come open the door”

No punctuation.

No emojis.

Just that.

Your eyes snapped to the door.

Was he joking?

You tiptoed over, heartbeat in your damn mouth. Peeked through the peephole.

And there he was.

Black hoodie. Hood up. Leaning against the wall like he owned the entire floor. One hand in his pocket. Other hand holding his phone. Head down.

Smoke at your damn front door like he’d lived there his whole life.

You didn’t even think.

Just unlocked it.

He looked up when it clicked open — and that slow, heavy gaze rolled over you like smoke under a door.

“Damn,” he muttered, eyes dipping down your body. “You always look like this in the morning?”

You pulled the door open wider and stepped aside, blinking up at him.

“How the hell you know where I stay?”

He stepped in without answering, brushing your shoulder — his presence thick — that quiet heat pouring off him again.

He looked around slow. Clocked your messy counter, the couch, the half-dead plant in the corner.

“You live alone?”

“Yes, sir,” you said, arms crossed. “You still ain’t answer—”

“I will get to that,” he said, low. “I asked a question.”

You stared at him, mouth open.

He just smirked.

“Relax,” he said. “Ain’t like I kicked the door in. You let me in.”

Damn.

You did let him in.

Something about the way he stood — tall, calm, like a storm in a hoodie — made your mouth dry.

You cleared your throat.

“I need a shower.”

“Go ahead,” he said, tossing himself onto your couch like it belonged to him. “I’ll be here.”

You blinked.

He pulled his hood down, leaned back, spread his legs — just making space. His gold chain caught the light. His eyes flicked to you.

“Go on, baby. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

You stood there like a deer in headlights, every nerve buzzing.

You turned and headed to the bathroom — lowkey speed-walking — and locked the door behind you.

Your back hit the wood. Chest rising and falling.

Why was this man in your house?

More importantly—

Why did it feel good?

You stripped, hot all over, and stepped into the shower.

Let the water run over you while your mind raced.

He was sitting on your couch.

Comfortable.

Knowing damn well you were naked in the next room.

And your heart was pounding like you liked it.

You stepped out, dripping, towel wrapped around you, and cracked the door open to peek.

He was still there. Phone in hand. One knee bouncing slow.

“You good?” he called out, not even turning around.

“Yeah…”

You closed the door fast and leaned against the sink.

He didn’t knock.

Didn’t ask to come in.

Just showed up.

Showed up and sat there like he belonged.

And maybe that was the scariest part.

Because some twisted, hungover, half-dressed part of you?

Kinda wanted him to.

Anyway —

You weren’t about to be that girl. Walking out in a towel like you ain’t have an ounce of sense. He was fine, yeah. Dangerous, yes. Built like everything you knew you should run from…

But still.

You had dignity.

Even if you did keep looking at yourself in the mirror—checking your face, adjusting your curls, heart thudding like you had something to prove.

You took your time. Went out the bathroom and into your bedroom.

Lotioned slow. Fresh pair of panties. Cotton shorts. Cropped tank top, soft and snug, your favorite one that always sat just right.

Simple. Cute. Still had a little “you can leave if you want, I ain’t pressed” to it.

Even though you were very much pressed.

You stared at the door for a second.

Took a breath.

Then turned the knob and stepped out.

The scent of your vanilla body cream followed you like a cloud as you moved through the hallway—each barefoot step slow, hesitant, but steady.

And there he was.

Smoke.

Exactly where you left him.

Leaning back into your couch like it was a throne. Legs spread. One arm tossed over the backrest. Phone gone now—he was looking at you.

Eyes dragging from your face, to your neck, to your waist, to your thighs.

Slow.

Like he was learning you.

“You clean?” he said, voice low, warm.

You nodded once.

“You still here?”

He smirked.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

“You mad about that?”

“I ain’t say that.”

He nodded, eyes never leaving yours.

“But you thought about it.”

You shrugged, stepping into the kitchen to pour a glass of water—partly to distract yourself, partly to avoid looking back at him.

He watched you move, the way your shorts hugged your curves, the way your fingers curled around the glass.

“You let all strangers up in your spot like this?”

“You a stranger?” you asked, turning to lean against the counter.

His lips curved.

“Not after last night.”

You swallowed and sipped slow, heart tight in your chest.

"I kissed your cheek — you're acting like we fucked."

He wasn’t loud.

He wasn’t boastful.

But something about the way he said it — like you were already his — made your skin hum.

“So,” you said, setting the glass down. “You just…decided to pull up? No warning?”

“You ain’t answer the phone,” he said simply. “You gave me your number, yeah? Thought that meant something.”

You squinted.

“So you tracked me down?”

“Didn’t have to,” he said. “You know how many people know you? Or watch you? You too pretty to be out here thinking nobody’s paying attention.”

That made your breath catch.

And he saw it.

He leaned forward a little, elbows on his knees, voice dropping deeper.

“Don’t matter how late you leave. Don’t matter what you post or what you don’t. Eyes on you. Always. I’m just the first one to say something about it.”

You didn’t know if you were flattered or terrified.

Maybe both.

But you crossed your arms, trying to act cool.

“You always this intense?”

“Only when I want something.”

That shut you up.

Because that gaze? That posture?

He didn’t look like he wanted your number anymore.

He wanted you.

And not in some quick, messy way.

No.

He wanted to pull you. Keep you. Figure out how your day started and ended. Learn what made you tick. Put his name in your phone and in your mouth, just to hear how it sounded.

He wanted to sit on your couch with his hood off and his legs wide and look at you like you were already home.

And it was scaring you.

Just a little.

“You hungry?” you asked finally, voice smaller than you meant.

He leaned back, eyes raking over you again.

“I’m good. Unless you cooking.”

“You ain’t getting all that today, sir,” you said, smiled a little. “I’m still hungover.”

“I could fix that.”

You gave him a look.

He just chuckled — low and short — like he already knew he’d wear you down eventually.

And maybe he was right.

Because when you sat down across from him, arms still crossed, biting the inside of your cheek —

You didn’t tell him to leave.

But the quiet stretched out thick between you.

Not awkward — but heavy. Heavy like smoke after a fire. The kind of silence that made your skin itch ‘cause you felt like you were supposed to be doing something, saying something — but he was doing just fine saying nothing.

His eyes moved slow when he looked at you.

Not greedy, but precise.

Like he was trying to clock your tells. Your tics. The way you blinked when you got nervous. The little tongue poke when you were being smart.

Made you wanna fidget.

But you didn’t.

You sat on that couch, one leg crossed over the other, arms still tucked under your chest like a shield, trying not to let your eyes drop to the gold chain hanging loose around his neck.

That chain was disrespectful.

“So what you do?” you asked finally. “For work. For money. Or is that a rude question?”

Smoke snorted low — amused.

“What I do,” he said, dragging the word out, “ain’t always something you ask in daylight. Especially not when you still smell like vanilla body oil and got your knees showin’.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Sir—”

“But since you asked,” he cut in, “I got a few things. People call. I handle it.”

“So vague.”

“You want details, or you want the truth?”

“Both.”

He smiled—slow, lazy, like it tasted good in his mouth.

“Truth is, I move weight. Truth is, I don’t clock in nowhere. Truth is…” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees again, head tilting just slightly. “I don’t let nobody tell me what to do. Been that way since I was fourteen.”

You blinked.

He didn’t sound like he was bragging. No hype, no theatrics. Just matter of fact. Like he knew what he was and wasn’t about to apologize for it.

“So you are perilous.”

“I’m useful.”

“That what they call it now?”

“Only when I’m being nice,” he said, eyes dipping low as he glanced over your body again, “which I usually ain’t.”

You felt your breath catch. Again.

God, this man was good.

“I feel like I should tell you I don’t get down with all that,” you said, voice light, deflecting. “I like peace. Quiet. I like my little paycheck and my little business and my little sanity.”

“And yet,” he said, “you still gave me your number.”

Damn.

He had you there.

You leaned back, lips pursed.

“You’re real sure of yourself.”

“Nah,” he said. “I’m just sure about you.”

You looked away.

Because what the hell do you say to that?

No man ever told you that before—not like that. Not like he meant it.

Not like he already decided that the two of you were something, and your mouth just hadn’t caught up yet.

“You ever get tired?” you asked. “Of acting like nothing scares you?”

“You ever get tired of pretending you don’t like when I act like that?”

You snorted, surprised.

“You good at reading people?”

“I’m good at reading you.”

That stopped you. Again.

You felt your arms uncross before you even realized you were doing it.

Like some part of you was already surrendering.

Your voice was softer when you said, “Why me?”

Smoke let that question sit.

Then —

“’Cause you smart. Real smart. But messy with it. Like you trying to keep it together and falling apart at the same time.”

You blinked.

Hard.

“And you pretty,” he added. “But you don’t lead with it. You act like it ain’t your weapon. That’s cute. Dangerous too.”

Your throat got tight.

“And I like the way you talk. Mouth slick. You got fight in you. But your eyes? They stay looking for something. You tired, but not done yet.”

His voice dropped.

“I like that.”

You weren’t sure what emotion was creeping up your chest, but it was hot. Heavy. A little scared, a little intrigued. A lot turned on.

You leaned your head back on the couch.

“You always do this?” you asked. “Pull girls in with that therapy voice and street prophet energy?”

“Nah,” he said. “You special. I don’t do repeat games.”

You swallowed again.

"Right, right..."

Felt your stomach knot.

“You staying long?” you asked.

“Long as you let me.”

You looked at him.

He was still sitting back like he owned the room. But now his hand was resting on his thigh, slow-tapping, like he was thinking about moving.

Like he wanted to.

“Don't you got a brother?” you asked randomly, needing to ground yourself.

He nodded.

“Twin.”

You tilted your head.

“Fraternal or Identical?”

“Identical.”

“So there's two of you running around town?”

Smoke smirked.

“Yeah. But he ain’t me.”

You smiled — real slow.

“Noted.”

He tilted his head.

“Why? You planning to test it?”

“I don’t repeat games either.”

That made him grin — wide this time.

“Told you,” he said. “You real slick. Keep playing like that and you gon’ have a hard time getting rid of me.”

“Who said I wanted to?”

You didn’t even mean to say that out loud.

But the way his eyes lit up? Whew.

“Aight then,” he said, voice silk. “Now we getting somewhere.”

You rolled your eyes, checking the time without meaning to.

He’d been on your couch longer than some of your exes lasted in your bed. Legs spread like he paid rent here. Voice low and lazy like he had nowhere else to be.

So you said it.

“You don’t got shit else to do today?”

Smoke turned to you with that half-smirk, half-squint thing he kept doing. Like every word out your mouth amused him more than the last.

“I mean, I’m flattered,” you added, kicking your bare heel against the floor. “But I know y’all street boys don’t just sit still like this. Ain’t you got corners to stand on or money to count or something?”

He snorted.

“You think that’s all I do?”

“Ain’t say that,” you shrugged. “But I know you didn’t wake up and decide to play house on my couch. I’m not that fine.”

“You are that fine,” he said easily. “I just got better taste than time.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Boy, whatever.”

But he didn’t respond.

His phone buzzed.

Once. Then again.

You clocked the quick glance he gave it. The screen lit up bright across his thigh. He tapped it, turned it face-down, didn’t move.

“What’s that?” you asked, leaning a little.

“Nothing.”

“Your girl?”

That made him grin. Head tipping back a little as he stared at the ceiling like he couldn’t believe you asked that.

“You think I’d sit this long in your house if I had somebody else blowing up my shit?”

“I don’t know. I’ve seen men do worse for less.”

“Ain’t my girl,” he said, straight-faced now. “If I had one, I’d have said it.”

You gave him a long look.

Didn’t say anything else.

But then the phone rang.

Loud. Sudden. The name flashed up — too quick for you to catch it — but his mood shifted the moment he saw it.

Just a flick of something. That calm-mask tightening.

“Yo,” he answered, standing up.

His tone dropped. Business.

He turned away, walked toward your door.

You stayed on the couch.

Didn’t ask.

You weren’t stupid. You didn’t need the details. Man like him? Phone call like that? It wasn’t brunch plans.

“Aight,” he said into the phone. “I’m on my way.”

He hung up.

Turned around.

And there it was — the shift back.

That calm he wore like armor.

You didn’t bother asking what it was. You already knew better.

Instead, you pulled your phone into your hand and scrolled. Just enough to let him know you weren’t pressed.

He watched you for a second. Then:

“Lemme get a kiss.”

You scoffed — head jerking up.

“You for real?”

“Deadass.”

“You wasn’t even here ten minutes and now you tryna act like this our place. Boy, please—”

“C’mon, baby,” he said, slow and syrupy. “You not gon’ do me like that.”

And the worst part?

You folded.

Not fast. Not right away.

But slow, like butter melting on hot bread.

You rolled your eyes — hard enough to give attitude — and stood.

“You so needy,” you muttered.

“You like that.”

You walked over.

He was already smirking.

And when you got close enough for him to reach — you knew.

You knew what he was gon’ do.

Still leaned in.

Still let him pull you in soft. One hand to your lower back, the other brushing your jaw.

His lips found yours like he’d kissed you before.

Like he’d been thinking about it since the second he saw you.

The kiss was slow — firm. Not sloppy, not rushed.

Just pressure. Warmth. Intention.

And right when you started to lean in deeper—

Boom.

Not one, but both his hands slid down to your ass.

Gripped.

Full palms, full squeeze.

You pulled back just enough to give him a look.

“Really?”

“You surprised?”

You tried to step back.

He didn’t let you.

Just stood there with that fucking smirk, hands still in place like they had a right to be there.

“You gon’ let go?”

“You gon’ ask me nice?”

“Smoke.”

“Aight, aight.” He finally eased up. “Go on then. I’ll call you.”

“Please don't.”

He leaned in one more time — kissed the corner of your mouth.

Then he was gone.

Door clicked shut behind him.

And your heart?

Still tapping a wild rhythm in your chest.

What the hell was that?

And why the hell did it feel like the beginning of something you wasn’t ready for?

[moondustbaby]

Everything He Needs

ceo!Rafe x gf!Reader

a/n: based on this request! 💌

Summary: Rafe’s ex resurfaces after four years, hoping to reconnect with the son she left behind—but Mason only knows one mom now, and it’s you, who’s been there every single day since. With protective Rafe by her side, You stand your ground in a moment that proves this little family isn’t going anywhere.

⸻

Rafe didn’t usually forget about meetings. Especially not the kind that had him pulling Mason out of preschool early and racing through town with his tie half-undone. But when he saw the name on the appointment email — Savannah Harding — his stomach dropped straight through the floor.

He didn’t tell you until the next morning. Not because he wanted to keep it from you, but because he didn’t know how to say my ex who signed away custody of our son wants to see him again. That kind of sentence doesn’t come easy.

“Are you serious?” you asked, barefoot in the kitchen with Mason in your arms, his cheek pressed to yours like always. “After four years?”

“She left when he was barely two,” Rafe muttered, staring into his coffee like it might offer some kind of answer. “Now she wants to talk. I don’t know why.”

You’d been in their lives for about half as long as Savannah had been gone — two full years of morning pancakes, preschool drop-offs, late-night Lego cleanup. A year of those spent slowly falling in love with Rafe, and the rest spent loving him out loud. You weren’t just part of their routine — you were home.

You didn’t say anything right away. Just kissed the side of Mason’s head and looked at Rafe the way you always did when things got heavy — a silent promise: whatever this turns into, we’re facing it together.

—

The meeting happened at a park. Rafe’s idea. Public, neutral, safe. A place where Mason could play if things got weird — and they probably would.

When Savannah showed up, it felt like watching a ghost walk out of a past life. Same face, same voice. But none of the warmth or clarity you’d expect from a mother seeing her son again.

“Oh my god,” she breathed when she spotted him, eyes already glistening. “He’s so big.”

Mason clung to your leg, looking up at her. “Who are you?”

Savannah crouched, trying to smile. “I’m… I’m your mom, sweetheart.”

He blinked up at her, confused. Then looked at you. You gave him a soft little nod, hand on his back.

He turned back to her and said, deadpan, “No, you’re not. That’s my mommy,” and pointed straight at you.

Rafe’s jaw locked. Savannah’s whole face crumpled.

“I—I just meant, I had you when you were born,” she said quickly. “That kind of mom.”

“Oh,” Mason said. “But you left.”

You swear even the birds stopped chirping.

“Why don’t you go play for a bit, bud?” Rafe said gently. “You want to hit the swings?”

“I want her to come,” he said, tugging on your hand.

You crouched down beside him. “I’ll be right here, baby. I promise.”

—

“I didn’t come to take him away,” Savannah said the second Mason was out of earshot. “I just… I don’t know. I thought maybe he could know me. A little.”

“You didn’t want that four years ago,” Rafe said. “When you signed over your rights when he was only two.”

“I was in a bad place.”

“And now you want a reward for feeling better?” you asked, calm but cold. “He’s not something you get back when it’s convenient.”

She blinked, stunned. “I didn’t think it would hurt this bad. Seeing him not know me. Not need me.”

“He doesn’t,” Rafe said flatly. “He has everything he needs.”

She looked at you then — not in anger, but in realization. Like it hit her all at once. The morning routines. The skinned-knee band-aids. The way Mason looked at you when he was scared, or tired, or needed someone to celebrate a Lego build.

“I just thought I could maybe be a part of his life again,” she said.

“You were a part of his life,” Rafe said. “And then you walked out. You don’t get to walk back in just because it’s easier now. Not when someone else has been showing up every day since.”

She didn’t argue. Just looked over at Mason, running across the playground, yelling, “Mommy! Look!”

“I see you, baby!” you called back, waving.

And that was it — the shift. The quiet moment where she finally understood.

“I get it now,” she whispered. “I really do.”

—

That night, Mason curled up between you and Rafe in bed, clutching his favorite stuffed dinosaur.

“Was that lady okay?” he asked, blinking up at you.

“She’s okay,” you said softly. “She just needed to see that you’re happy.”

“I am,” he mumbled, snuggling deeper into the blankets. “Can we get pancakes tomorrow?”

Rafe chuckled beside you. “You’ve had pancakes three times this week.”

“But mommy makes the best ones.”

You blinked fast and pressed a kiss into his hair. “Okay. Pancakes it is.”

Rafe just looked at the two of you, all curled up under the soft bedroom light — his family. The one he fought for. The one he chose. The one that stayed.

༶⋆｡ﾟ☽✿⋆˚✧✿☾ﾟ｡⋆༶

a/n: ahh okay sorry this took so long to get up, i kept hating everything and rewriting it like 4 different times lmao anyways thank you for sending me headfirst into this emotional rabbit hole. 🙃

♥️ lani

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[yanderenightmare]

Gojo Satoru

♡ TW: yandere, noncon, incest, blind!reader, twin!satoru,

♡ FEM reader

Overprotective twin brother Satoru…

He was born with an abundance of cursed energy, while you got none and no heavenly pact or anything at all to show for being a Gojo.

You can’t even see curses. In fact, you can’t see at all.

It’s as if in the womb, Satoru harvested everything for himself so that you would always depend on him.

He sees it differently, though. He’s the older twin—and that means everything to him. You’re his. His good half. You were born with the heart, and he was born with the rest, all in order to spare and protect you.

“The royal guard walks at the front to keep the princess safe” is something he started saying when you were younger. “That’s why I was born first. To keep my princess safe.” 

He always holds your trembling face in his hands while saying it. And although you can’t see, you still feel it, how he’s sticky and warm, soaked with the blood he’s spilled—all in the name of protecting you.

You don’t think you were scared of your twin brother when you were toddlers, but you’re not sure. You were still young when he learned how to use his techniques. He’d never had any tolerance to speak of and no mercy to spare when that non-existent tolerance was tested. Still, of course, he’d never ever think of harming you.

That’s not what worried you…

No, rather, it was the staff and any other unsuspecting visitor you feared for and how they might have the misfortune of crossing the hair-thin tripwire that triggered your brother’s cold-hearted rage.

Maids were fired every other day—often after having suffered at his hands, sometimes with limbs missing, sometimes with senses lost. None of them could ever measure up to his standards, especially when it came to you. You were to be treated like a goddess, not a child, despite that being what you both were. His sister deserved only the finest and was to be dressed to new perfection every day, hand-fed only your favorites, and never ever allowed to lift even a single finger yourself. That’s how Satoru saw it.

And if anyone were to fail to understand that, they’d meet with his swift judgment. Even being blind, you’d still see the awful glowing blue of his eyes before the screams and the sudden smell of rust all around.

You remember the first time it had happened. Your nurserymaid had insisted it was time the two of you no longer shared the same bed—said it wasn’t proper. You must have been about six years old. One second, she was there. Next, you were covered in her.

The two of you had slept in it. 

No. Satoru had slept, tucked snugly against you as if nothing was amiss. 

You had barely slept since.

You never stopped sharing a bed. You’d tried at a point to tell him how it wasn’t right, how it wasn’t something siblings should do. He’d only asked you who’d put those silly ideas in your head. And you’d been wiser not to raise the thought again, fearing for the lives he might decide were responsible.

Still, despite his lack of moral restraint, you’re older before he decides sleeping in the same bed just isn’t enough anymore.

You’d always known of the way he looked at you. You’ve felt it. Always there as a silent voyeur during your dress fittings and baths, studying you in a way a brother shouldn’t. You’d done your best to ignore that ever-present feeling of yearning coming from him in those moments he’d touch you, feeling his long slender fingers run cold over your bare skin, always insisting on giving you a helping hand, to dress and to undress, to eat, to walk. 

You’ve always known what he’s wanted.

Still, you’d thought some type of decency would hold him back from ever acting on it. 

You realize now how foolish you’d been…

As head of the Gojo clan, he makes decisions as he sees fit and announces your engagement before the entirety of its ranks and members as if it were only obvious. And under the pressure of his six eyes, no one dares even utter a gasp at the outrageous prospect. No, all they do is smile and clap while giving their blessings.

In the end, you’re the only one who objects.

“Satoru?” you ask after the assembly. Walking, or rather wandering, unsteadily on your plank shoes in the direction of his voice, hearing him talk about clan matters he’s never bothered to include you in—it’s not for you to worry about, is all he’ll ever say. Always treating you like a child despite being the same age.

“Princess!” he exclaims, rushing over to you, holding you up as if you were in danger of getting knocked over by a sudden draft. “What are you doing up? How many times have I told you, just tell the carriers where you want to go and they’ll take you there.”

You purse your lips and bite your tongue from sounding too chagrinned. Embarrassed enough already to want to cause more of a scene. Only muttering, “I can walk fine on my own–”

But Satoru isn’t convinced, nor concerned with the same matters as you, much too busy with protecting you from the terrors of standing on your own two feet. 

“You’ll exhaust yourself. Come,” he decides, dismissing the elders he'd been talking to.

You listen to them leave, lifting a hand to call them back, “No wait, but–”

But nothing. As always, Satoru doesn’t listen. Picking you up without further bickering. He lifts you off your feet and carries you away like an infant, back to the cozy den of pillows and blankets he insists you sit on during assemblies, calling it your throne despite it not being much different from your bed.

He doesn’t set you down. No, instead, he sits down with you, holding you in his lap as he gets comfortable in the plush nest.

“So, princess? Did you like my announcement?” he asks cheerfully. Already picturing you in wedding attire—so hopelessly incapacitated in the heavy layers, how you’d need his help every step of the way, even with walking down the aisle. 

“We can’t marry, Satoru…” You break his line of thought with a mumble. “You’re my brother.”

You're unable to say it with your chest—rather, you only muster enough courage to whisper it. Feeling anxious about his reaction. All he ever seems to care about is dolling you up so you can sit pretty next to him. And for so long, he hasn’t allowed anything else. You have no idea what to expect now that you’ve finally asked. 

Of course, you hope he’ll respect your words and see reason, but somehow, you doubt he’s ever really thought or cared about what you think you want—intent on making all those decisions for you.

“Silly princess,” he starts, closing the distance between the two of you by cupping your face as he so often likes doing, stroking his thumb over your bottom lip. “Who else would we marry if not each other?” 

It’s as you thought. He doesn’t understand, nor does he care to. And still, there aren’t many options other than you trying to reason with him. Despite only being brave enough to do so by mumbling, “It’s—it’s… not right...”

To that, he just hums, nose-kissing you despite how you try to duck your head away—his voice dumbifying your worry, saying “Don’t you love me, princess?”

It’s an unfair question… beside the point, and yet to him, it makes the point. Still, there’s nothing else to say but “Of course, I love you, Satoru.”

It comes out as a croak, somewhat choked in the feeling of hopelessness, all of which he just finds so endearing. Rubbing your cheek with his thumb as he watches those milky eyes of yours grow teary.

“Then who’s to say it’s wrong?” he croons, kissing your forehead as if you’re a silly child crying over silly things, and further explaining it to you just so, “We’ve belonged to each other since birth. Marriage is just to appease society's structures. It means nothing compared to what we already have and have always had.”

His other hand kneads your midriff, keeping you snug against him as if sensing how you wanted to leave. But you don’t try it. No, you barely manage to shake your head.

“I love you,” he says, but it isn’t the same way you say it. No, it’s something far more disturbing. “Sometimes, I wish we were the only two people on earth, like it was when we shared the womb together.”

You shudder, feeling his breath hit your face with your heart causing a ruckus in your chest, telling you to do something to stop what’s coming.

“I want to be close like that again. Just you and me and nothing else.”

You accept it for a moment—his lips against yours. Thinking you had no choice. But as you sit there, willing yourself to stay still, a sickness starts climbing up from the pit of your stomach, until you suddenly can’t stand it anymore. 

And with both hands pushing him away, you shriek, “Don’t!”

Prying yourself out of his embrace, you throw yourself back so fast you end up falling out of the elevated throne bed. Still, the pain in your rear barely registers as you wipe your mouth free of the spit your brother had left behind. Cringing at the stickiness, feeling nothing short of abhorred, as if it were the last thing that should ever touch your tongue.

“It’s disgusting. I won’t. I—” You’ve raised your voice now, for the first time in your life. Your brows furrow as you put all your might into the next words. “I refuse.”

And then, as if almost regretting it, you swallow thickly. Ears burning for any sign of his reaction, everything remains silent, deadly so, only disturbed by the heavy ups and downs of your own labored breath. 

Until…

“Disgusting?” he repeats.

And you don’t know why, but something about the edge in his tone makes you whimper and shuffle back. It was as if something about the very air changed, feeling heavy, crushing, all of a sudden.

“No… You don’t mean that, princess.”

You hear his steps come after you, soft first, stepping through the pillows, then light against the marble tiles, unhurried, knowing you’re not able to go anywhere. 

“You’re just reciting whispers you’ve heard,” he hisses under his breath. Then, darker, growling, “I ought to cut out everyone's tongue. That’ll teach them.”

“No–” you object, but he’s done now with listening to you. 

Shutting you up instantly with a dismissive, “Don’t you worry your pretty little head, princess. I’ll teach you too. This is how it’s meant to be.”

You kick off your plank shoes at that, struggling in your heavy dress as you twist around onto your hands and knees before getting up, holding the many fabrics in your arms as you run—only… you have no idea where. 

Anytime you’d snuck out of your room to explore the grounds, trying to map out a route you’d never dared admit was for an escape attempt, your brother had always come and collected you before you’d made it down the first hallway. And so, blinder than blind, you’re completely lost even in your own home. And the panic makes you slip on your skirt before you’ve even made it halfway down the assembly chamber, accompanied by the awful sounds of your own fumbling being echoed back as if mocking you.

You hear him sigh heavily behind you. And then his hand grips your upper arm, harshly—in a way you’ve never felt. 

It’s enough to make you yelp, starting to thrash—panic in your chest, you’re shaking your head, trying to pull yourself free by pushing him away. “Please, Satoru—please, let go–”

Before you know it, you’re pushed flat against the floor. Cushioned by your weighty dress, it’s like a soft bed, but with the way Satoru holds a hand over your mouth and forces you down, you feel as if you’re drowning.

“Keep this up, princess, and eyes won’t be the only thing you’ll be missing,” he barks. Not even giving you enough time for the freight in your chest to settle before worsening it. “Run away, and I'll take your legs. Fight me, and I’ll take your hands. Keep talking back, and I’ll take your tongue too.”

Balanced between your legs in the mess of your skirt’s many layers, bearing over you with his back hunched, he keeps you pinned as your whole body starts to quiver. 

“Is that what you want?” he questions. “Is that what it’ll take for you to behave?”

More tears flow then, in nothing short of a storm. Flooding down your cheeks, wetting the hand he’d locked over your mouth.

It brings a pang to his chest, and he realizes what he’d just said.

He peels his fingers off your lips, then cups your cheeks instead, shaking his head. 

“No, princess, I didn’t mean that—you know I didn’t. I would never hurt you—you know that—”

He kisses your forehead again, then your nose, then your lips, then your neck, where he nuzzles himself as he continues to coo at you, “Sh-shh, princess. Listen to me. Listen to your big brother. I just want to love you. Won’t you let me love you?”

You sob, shaking your head, trying to crawl out from beneath him and the tongue he has against your neck, sucking and biting at your collar with a mouthful of heated words, “Trust me, princess. I’ll take care of you. You’ll see. Just like always. And there’s never been anything wrong with that.”

♡ GOJO SATORU masterlist ♡ JUJUTSU KAISEN masterlist

[luna-azzurra]

Ways I Show a Character Who Believes They’re the Villain in Everyone Else’s Story

╰ Behavioral Red Flags

They assume the worst intentions in themselves, even when they act out of love. They brought you coffee? Probably just guilt. They helped you move? Must be manipulating you so you "owe" them later. (They just care. But they can't believe that's true.)

They over-apologize for existing. You bump into them and somehow they’re the ones apologizing, looking like they've personally inconvenienced your entire bloodline.

They self-monitor everything. Every joke they make. Every word they say. Every look they give. Constant little glances at people's faces, desperate for signs that they’ve messed up again.

They let people treat them badly because they think they deserve it. Rudeness? Sure. Being overlooked? Of course. Public humiliation? Absolutely par for the course. Standing up for themselves feels wrong, like a thief demanding a refund.

They preemptively distance themselves when things get good. Got a close friendship brewing? Time to pull away before they find out I'm terrible. New romance? Better end it now before they hate me.

They assume jokes about "bad people" are secretly about them. "You know those selfish jerks who never change?" someone says. Their inner monologue: That’s me. They mean me.

They play up their flaws. Self-deprecating humor, but not cute self-roasting, deep, almost aggressive, like they’re trying to hand you the knife before you even think about stabbing.

They struggle to accept forgiveness. Apologizing feels natural. Being forgiven feels alien. Like wearing shoes on the wrong feet.

╰ Thought Patterns That Wreck Them

"Even when I try to do the right thing, I mess it up." Trying doesn't absolve them. Trying just delays the inevitable hurt they’ll cause someone else."People are nice to me because they don't know who I really am." Kindness isn't acceptance to them — it's a ticking time bomb, waiting to explode when the "truth" comes out.

"If someone is angry at me, they must be right." They don't even question it. Anger directed at them must be justified. They deserve it.

"If I succeed, it's by accident. If I fail, it's because I suck." Zero credit for wins. Full credit for losses. The math of their self-esteem is so rigged it should be illegal.

"If I ask for help, I'm manipulating people." Needing something feels like emotional blackmail in their mind. Better to suffer in silence than risk "forcing" someone to care.

╰ The Tiny Physical Tells

Laughing after their own serious statements, as if to soften the blow of speaking honestly.

Keeping their hands visible when talking (subconscious "I'm not a threat" behavior).

Flinching when someone raises their voice, even if it’s not directed at them.

Making themselves physically smaller—shoulders hunched, arms crossed, shrinking into themselves like they can disappear if they just try hard enough.

Dropping eye contact when complimented.

Holding their breath without realizing it when waiting for someone's reaction.

╰The Relationships They Gravitate Toward (And Why):

Fixer-Upper Friendships: They think they have to earn affection by being useful, by helping, by being "the strong one."

Unbalanced Dynamics: They let people use them because "at least I'm being helpful, even if they don't actually care about me."

Romantic Partners Who Validate Their Worst Fears: They often fall for people who treat them like they’re a burden—because it matches the script in their head.

Or... Relationships That Terrify Them: Because if someone genuinely loves them, they’re always waiting for the moment that person "wakes up" and sees the "monster" they believe themselves to be.

╰ How They Might Heal (If They’re Lucky)

(And if the author isn’t an emotional sadist. 👀)

A relationship where mistakes are allowed, not punished.

Someone calling them out, not for being bad, but for being unkind to themselves.

Tiny acts of trust that stick over time, slowly poisoning the idea that they’re inherently toxic.

Learning that being flawed and being villainous are not the same damn thing.

Being told, over and over, "You don't have to earn love by being perfect."

[paarksunghoon]

resignation (5)

SUMMARY: For the last six years, you’ve dedicated your career to ensuring Park Sunghoon never misses a day of work in his life. But you’re tired of endless days that seem to blend together, and seeing him living his fun, luxurious lifestyle makes you think about what else you might be missing out on. When Sunghoon finds your resignation letter on his desk, he does everything in his power to convince you to stay.

NOTES: unrelated to this fic, trendwave sunghoon has me acting UP. but also when am i not when it comes to him…my bf fr

WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: an incredible amount of sexual tension & fingering.

SERIES PLAYLIST + SERIES MASTERLIST

***

The first thing you feel when you wake up is Sunghoon’s fingers brushing the hair from your eyes. The second is the warmth of his hand. 

It startles you to see him sitting on the edge of the bed and so close to you. He chuckles at your reaction and watches you gather yourself when you remember you awoke in his guest bedroom and not your own. 

“Good morning, sleepy head.” 

Even his morning voice sounds like Heaven with how deep and sultry it is. You blink the sleep away from your eyes and Sunghoon continues to cradle your face as you adjust to the morning light peeking through the window. 

“What time is it?”

“A little past six. How’d you sleep?” 

You nuzzle against his palm and close your eyes. You miss the way he smiles down at you. “Really well, actually. You rich people have this sleeping shit figured out.”

He caresses you again. “You snore like a little kitten.”

“I don’t snore.” 

“Yes, love. You do.” You ignore him, and you ignore the pet name. 

“We have to get to work, don’t we? I don’t have an extra outfit and I don’t feel like showing up in the clothes I wore yesterday.” 

“We’ll stop by your apartment before going to work.”

You make a face. “We’ll be late.”

“I’m the boss,” he says. “I can tell you when to come in.” 

“Oh? This is a first for you.” 

“You need to take care of Pochi too, don’t you?”

“Hm. You’re right. I do miss my cat.” 

Sunghoon bends down and kisses you like he’s done this a thousand times before. He’s slow with it, moving his lips in tandem with you until you’ve truly registered that he’s kissing you. It’s a new sensation. It’s weird, neither good nor bad, just different. Sunghoon’s breath is minty and when you pull away, you’re surprised when he lets out a small whine.

“I haven’t brushed my teeth,” you tell him when he leans in for another kiss. Your arms brace his shoulders and you try to keep him at bay. He doesn’t seem to care, though, and steals another kiss from you. 

“You think I care about that?” Another kiss. Your cheeks heat up. 

“I dunno. I haven’t done this in a while.”

“Kiss your boss and wake up in his arms?” 

You roll your eyes and sit up, pushing him away while he laughs. “Dumbass. I haven’t kissed anybody in a long time.” 

“You’re doing just fine.” 

Looking at him makes your heart race for more reasons than one. Sunghoon is absolutely gorgeous from this angle, especially when he’s wearing casual clothes and sporting hair that looks like it hasn’t been brushed. He looks painfully normal instead of the high-demanding businessman you know him to be. Sunghoon looks almost approachable like this. If the two of you met under different circumstances, you might’ve gathered the courage to ask him out. 

On the other hand, there aren’t many times you can say you’ve awoken in a man’s guest bedroom with gentle kisses being pressed upon your face. It’s the first time anybody has ever woken you up like this, and it took a great deal not to immediately panic and push him away. It’s scary how nice being doted on feels, and you’ve only gotten a little taste of it with Sunghoon kissing you as soon as you awoke. 

This feels different than what you’re used to. Typically, Pochi makes her way to your face and nuzzles her own between your neck, the outside construction prevents you from falling back asleep when you're able to sleep in, and you usually wake up alone. What you’re not used to, however, is Sunghoon looking at you like he’s got stars in his eyes. The idea that anybody could look at you like that is alarming and unfamiliar.

“We’ve got plenty of time,” he says before bending down to touch your lips with his. “I can hear that little brain of yours working so hard.”

“My brain isn’t little.” He smiles against your mouth and gives your lips a peck. 

“Mm. Definitely not. My smart girl. I can still hear you thinking, though.” Sunghoon’s hand touches your outer thigh and it sends a shiver up your body. 

“Oh yeah? What am I thinking about?”

“How we’ll be late if we don’t leave in thirty minutes. You’re probably thinking about what clothes you have left in your closet and if Pochi ate breakfast.” 

“…Am I that predictable?” 

Sunghoon shakes his head and moves his hand up your thigh. “I’d like to think I’ve picked up a thing or two after knowing you all these years. You’re not the only one who observes, you know.” 

“Hmph.”

“Relax for me, okay?” He brings his other hand up to your cheekbone and caresses that spot. “I’m not in a rush. We don’t have meetings or anything important on my docket today.”

“You looked at my calendar, didn’t you?” 

He grins. “Might’ve taken a peek. It’s connected to mine anyway.” 

Sunghoon’s blankets are keeping you warm and toasty, and his touch feels like you’re being lulled to sleep. You find yourself at odds with the idea that Sunghoon could convince you to relax at this hour, especially when you have to stop by your apartment before going into the office. It’s not like anyone would notice either. Sunghoon’s colleagues are in and out of the building all day, some of whom don’t show up until late morning or early afternoon on account of personal business. You aren’t worried about what other assistants might think either, as you’re the assistant who has been there the longest. With the hierarchy system in place, it’s more believable that you’re in business with Sunghoon than being in bed with him.

Yet, some part of you doesn’t like that you’re breaking the routine you’ve built over the years. You’ve never spent the night at anyone’s place, much less on a weekday, and you don’t enjoy the fact that you haven’t seen Pochi. 

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten my promise,” Sunghoon says, pulling you out of your cycle of thoughts. He’s perched on the side of the bed with his elbow resting comfortable on the pillows and you look at him quizzically.

“What promise?” 

The look he gives you is akin to the way he looked at you last night. Suddenly, the memory of his hard dick straining against his sweatpants comes to mind. You’ve been so distracted by Sunghoon’s lips and sweet talking that you nearly forgot about the way he felt in between your legs. Sure, the fabric of your clothes acted as a barrier, but nothing could ever hide the way his dick felt pressed right against your covered cunt. 

Sunghoon leans down close to your ear like he’s trying to tell you a secret. You feel his breath touch the shell of your ear and that alone is enough to make you squirm. He must know, and you can tell by the way Sunghoon digs his fingertips into your skin just a little.

“I told you I’d make you cum today. Will you let me?”

Your mouth runs dry. You look up at Sunghoon and there’s nothing humorous about the way he’s watching you. His eyes are a deep shade of brown that stare directly into yours like he’s trying to hold himself back from being too hasty. It’s almost alarming that he’s being so forward with you at this moment. There’s not a hint of shyness that you can detect, unlike how you feel with your heart beating too fast and your uneven breath. 

Would it be so bad to indulge yourself in his request? It’s not like you’re getting any action beyond the quiet of your bedroom or with the only vibrator you bought yourself after a short stint of bad sex. The fact that he’s your boss is out the window. You know what his dickprint feels like and you’ve practically memorized the way his lips feel when they’re pressed against yours. There shouldn’t be any harm in letting Sunghoon pleasure you when that’s all he seems to want. 

Sunghoon watches you spread your legs from underneath the covers and grins to himself. He helps push the comforter off just enough to expose your legs to him. 

“Can I take these off?” he asks, fingers removing themselves from your thigh to the waistband of the shorts you’re wearing. He traces the hem and you suck in your stomach at the feeling of his hand being so close to where you crave him the most. 

You consent quietly because of the intensity of his gaze. He looks like he’s moments away from devouring you whole, like a boa constrictor who’s locked eyes on its prey. The shorts come off and he tosses them behind him, and you try not to care that he’s haphazardly throwing clothes he’s taken off of your body to focus on the moment. 

Like an instinct, you close your legs when you realize you’re only wearing underwear. They’re plain black cotton, nothing exceptionally fancy since you didn’t plan on having anyone see them. Sunghoon doesn’t rush hastily. He slips his large, warm hand between your knees and slowly guides himself up your legs until your body starts to relax. 

He must feel how nervous you are. It has nothing to do with him and everything to do with the lack of intimacy you’ve received in the past couple of years. It’s like your body locks on itself at this foreign sensation of somebody else’s hand on your body, even if it’s consensual and yearned for. 

He doesn’t rush, nor does he immediately push his hand towards your covered cunt. Sunghoon bends down to capture your mouth in a slow kiss, his plump lips pushing against yours like he’s trying to talk to you with his body. You’re not sure what to focus on—how smooth his hands are or how wet your mouth is becoming—but it all feels so good. For somebody who is as touch deprived as you are, it feels like a million sensations all at once. 

Sunghoon moves up the expanse of your thigh when your body starts to relax against him. Whether it be the sound of your lips smacking echoing through the room or getting used to his hands, your legs start to part before him. Sunghoon doesn’t break the kiss like you think he will. His palm slides up your leg until the edge of his fingers barely brush against your panties, and that alone is enough to make you gasp against his lips. 

“Want me there?” he asks through the kiss. “Need me there?” 

You can barely pay attention to his words when his hand is hovering above you. Sunghoon’s fingers trace the outline of your covered cunt and his seductive caress makes you squirm and buck your hips with every passing touch. When you manage to nod, he rubs you with the pads of his finger. 

Sunghoon’s touch is unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. It’s determined, almost like he’s got a mission he needs to complete. His fingers aren’t hesitant and scared to touch you like men from your past. Sunghoon’s touch is calculated and meaningful. He’s urgent about it, but unlike all the times you’ve had sex before, this doesn’t feel like he’s trying to get you off as quickly as possible before he gets his turn. 

Instead, it feels like Sunghoon might be as desperate as you are. He keeps a cool exterior for the most part and doesn’t allow others to see him let go of himself completely. You’ve been around him long enough to see cracks in his office persona, but Sunghoon maintains an air of professionalism when he’s not asking you to help him in his personal life, which doesn’t happen as often as people think it does. 

He brushes his thumb over your sensitive clit and it has your hips bucking by his touch. You’re embarrassed by how much he’s turning you on, and he hasn’t done anything yet. Are you that depraved? 

Before you know it, Sunghoon’s hand covers the entirety of your cunt. You marvel at how big his hands are and ask yourself why you’ve never noticed them before. He’s got his expensive black plated watch with silver accent on, the one he wears everyday without fail, and you tense. Something about Sunghoon’s accessory puts you in a frenzy. 

“You’re so worked up,” he says with a short laugh. “When’s the last time you relaxed?” 

“I don’t relax.” 

He tuts. “That’s your first problem. You don’t let go.” 

Well, it’s hard with so little time and too many obligations. Sunghoon probably knows it too, but that won’t stop him from reprimanding you for pushing yourself past your limit. 

“God, you’re so wet already. I can feel you through your panties.” His words nearly have you choking. Since when is Sunghoon bold like this? Is he like this with other girls, too?

Sunghoon pushes them aside and eyes your bare cunt. It makes you feel shy, which isn’t something you feel very often when you’re with him. But at this moment, you feel like you’re out to gain some kind of approval from him because he’s looking at it like he’s trying to inspect it. Knowing you didn’t prepare yourself for him to look at your naked lap makes you feel somewhat awkward and unprepared, but Sunghoon looks like he couldn’t care less. You pulsate around him and he groans quietly when he notices.

“That’s so good,” Sunghoon mutters as the tips of his fingers slide down your entrance, coating himself in your wet slick. The subtle intrusion makes your head spin. “Do you always get this wet?”

“W-Well, it’s been a long time since anyone touched me the way you are.” 

He grins. “Do your fingers not work?” 

“Sunghoon. This is so embarrassing.” You try to cover your face with a spare pillow, but he laughs and tosses it away from you.

“Surely my fingers will do the job. Yours are so much smaller and shorter than mine.” 

Sunghoon pushes his middle finger into you and stops when it’s half way inside. He watches you from where he sits and watches your breath hitch by how your chest has nearly stilled. 

You don���t protest nor push him away and he takes it as a sign to push his finger deeper. Sunghoon feels your smooth walls envelop him the more he maneuvers his finger in and out of your pussy, and you don’t know if you love or hate the way Sunghoon is smiling down at you. It’s like he knows he’s got you underneath his spell when he’s got you acting like this. 

“Doing so well,” Sunghoon mumbles, tongue licking the corners of his mouth as he salivates at the sight before him. His abdomen tenses and his dick swells in his pants. “Can’t believe you’ve been hiding her from me.” 

Your face warms up when he talks about your cunt like that. But it makes you gush even more, and it starts to splash onto Sunghoon’s wrist the more he thrusts into you. 

He adds another finger and cherishes the deep, loud moan that comes from deep within your chest. Your hands brace his free arm when he picks up the pace until the entire room sounds like plat plat plat. Sunghoon expertly curves his finger until he’s reaching parts of you that you’ve always thought to be unreachable. 

His forehead starts to sweat and his arm flexes. Every vein in his arm comes to your view and you feel yourself clenching around his fingers when you truly notice how well-built Sunghoon is. He’s got muscles and biceps that make you wonder what it would be like for him to pin you underneath his body. 

“Shit,” you curse. “C-Can’t believe you’re good at this.” 

He smiles wickedly. “I’m good at everything, aren’t I?” 

“Not good at checking your texts. Not good at that.” You yelp when Sunghoon thrusts his fingers inside of you at a faster speed. It’s pushing you towards your orgasm the more he moves.

“What was that?” he asks with his ear turned towards you as you gasp for air. “What did you say?”

“Not good at texting.” You manage to say it between harsh breaths but it seems to egg him on even more. Sunghoon pushes his hand harder against you until the heel of his palm rubs against your clit.

“Not good at texting? Who says I need to text you, anyway?”

“I do,” you choke, holding onto his arm as your nails dig crescents into his skin. “You need me.” 

“I need you?” His fingers don’t let up. You nod anyway.

“Brat,” Sunghoon mocks. “But you’re right. I do need you.” 

The way you clench around him makes him yearn to see you come undone like the beautiful mess he knows you can be. His hand aches from fingering you at lightning speed, but he’ll be damned if he stops now.

“Need you to cum more than anything,” he says while chuckling. “I need that.” 

Sunghoon says it halfway between desperation and with arrogance like he knows he’ll get what he wants. He knows you won’t fight him on it either because he knows how badly you want to cum. If not by the way you grip his body, then because you’ve mentioned how many times people have left you high and dry over the past few years. It seems unfair to edge you right now.

It doesn’t take much for you to crash. He stills his fingers when he realizes you’ve come to your orgasm, letting your hips rut against his palm as you chase your high. Coming undone before him is a beautiful sight to see and Sunghoon drinks in the way your hands move from his arm to the bedsheets underneath you. You try to grip onto them for stability as your hips grind against his hand while you finish on him. 

When your eyes open, the room has gotten significantly lighter from the sun peeking through the sheer curtains. Sunghoon has made you forget about the time. You push your head up and pucker your lips for a kiss. He gives into your request right away and gently rubs your aching cunt, pushing your panties where they belong before kissing and touching you slowly.  

“You’re so hot when you cum.”

“Bet you say that to all the girls,” you mutter against his kisses.

“Nuh uh. Just you.” 

“Mhm. I’ll believe that for now.” 

Sunghoon doesn’t get up until he’s sure you’ve returned to a state of consciousness and doesn’t leave your side until you sit up by yourself. He keeps his mouth attached to you while you steady your breath and find it in you not to feel completely mortified that you’ve allowed yourself to be vulnerable in front of him. He doesn’t seem to hear your racing thoughts when you’re kissing him, and you feel your worries ebbing away. You don’t think you’re ready to decipher why that is.

He brings a rag soaked with warm water and pries your legs open with little resistance. Sunghoon gently wipes your inner thigh and pulls your panties aside again, cleaning your cum from your skin. This makes you feel more self conscious compared to his fingers rooted deep inside of you, but you try not to look away. Sunghoon looks calm and focused, like he’s getting paid a lot of money to look after you. He spends a bit of time making sure you’re all cleaned up before throwing the rag in an empty hamper. 

“Let’s get going, hm?” Sunghoon says absentmindedly when you stand from the bed. He doesn’t make a fuss about his dick straining in his sweatpants and steps out of the room before you can even think about returning the favor. Sunghoon moves around his house like you’ve been there a million times before. 

“We still need to go to your place. Is there a café by your place that you like? We can stop for breakfast before heading into the office.” 

His nonchalance pleasantly surprises you. But you think you prefer his attentive care over being left alone in bed to deal with the aftermath of feeling alone once your partner has left the room. Sunghoon doesn’t leave until he’s sure you’re walking behind him.

It’s nice.

***

Nabi texts you just before you and Sunghoon leave his place to lets you know Pochi is back in your apartment with breakfast and a new bowl of water, and attached a cute video of Pochi jumping onto bee favorite spot on your couch. It makes you coo out loud, to which Sunghoon laughs at.

“You really love this cat, don’t you?”

“Pochi is my child, Sunghoon. Of course I love her.” 

“When did you adopt her?”

“The third year I worked for you.” You’re stuck between looking at him and the scenery outside as he drives to your apartment. “I was pretty lonely after a bunch of my friends moved away from Seoul. My little brother has always told me I resemble a cat growing up and suggested I get one.” 

“Sunoo, right?”

“Yeah. It’s funny though. When we were younger, our personalities were completely switched. I was the extrovert and he was the introvert. Seems like we changed over time.” 

“Why does he think you’re like a cat?”

“I don’t like being around people very much and it’s hard for me to open up to strangers. He jokes that I have to be the one to warm up to people before anyone can really get to know me.” 

“So, what, you need people to leave you alone before you decide you like them?”

You laugh. “Yeah, I guess so.” 

“That’s funny. I think I’d describe you as a lion.” 

“A lion?”

“Still a cat, just more powerful. You run the hell out of my inbox.” 

You roll your eyes. “Haha. So funny, Sunghoon.”

“I’m serious! You’re so good with meeting new people and getting them under your fold. I would’ve never assumed you don’t like being around people with how good you are at making connections.” 

“It’s for work, though. I turn on the charm because it’s good for business. At the end of the day, we all use each other just a little bit. In my personal life? I guess I can make a friend or two, but there’s never any time to meet new people.”

“This job eats you alive, doesn’t it? I feel the same way sometimes.” 

“It’s fun and it makes my week interesting. I’ll give it that.”

“It’s time for something new, huh?”

“Yeah. It is.”

Sunghoon swallows the unwanted feelings that creep into his mind. 

“How do I get your cat to like me?” he asks suddenly. 

“My cat?” 

“Yup. Who else?”

“Why do you want to get in her good graces?” 

“I don’t want to get mauled when I meet her for the first time.” 

You laugh. “You won’t get mauled, Sunghoon. She’s pretty shy and it takes her some time to get to know new people.” 

“Sounds just like you.” 

“Mhm. We’re twins.” 

“Seriously, though,” he says, glancing at you. “I’ve never been around cats much. My parents are dog people. How do I get a cat to like me and not spook them?” 

“Well, your best bet is to ignore their existence until they come up to you. They’re a hunting breed, you know. You shouldn’t make any sudden movements if you can help it. If you find yourself making eye contact with Pochi, blink slowly. It lets her know you aren’t a threat.” 

“Ignore your cat?”

“Foolproof way to get her to be okay with you in the room if I’m not there.” 

“It sounds like you’re trying to set me up.”

You gasp. “Why the hell would I do that?” 

“I don’t know!” Sunghoon says with humor. “Maybe you’re trying to get back at me for all the years we’ve worked together. You and Pochi could’ve made an alliance to kill me.” 

“Right,” you say sarcastically. “Me and my domesticated cat want to put a hit out on you, even though she’s a fraction of your size and I’m trying to help you find a new assistant.”

“Exactly. See? You’re following my logic.”

“You’re so stupid.” 

Sunghoon pulls up to your complex and parks his car on the street underneath a large tree. You make a split second decision and invite him up to your apartment so he doesn’t have to wait in the car and waste his gas by keeping the engine on to avoid sitting in the frigid air. He doesn’t make a joke like you think he will, especially since Sunghoon made you come an hour ago. Instead, he nods and follows you through the front door. 

The journey to your third floor apartment is nerve wracking. Is your apartment tidy enough? Is it clean? Is there any lingering dust that Sunghoon will notice? His house is far cleaner than your apartment will ever be, and while you pride yourself on keeping a tidy home, your two hands are no competition for the cleaning crew Sunghoon hires every week.

He seems excited enough. Sunghoon fills the silence by vocalizing his observations and particularly likes that your lobby has a state-of-the-art machine that can prepare coffee and espresso in various different ways. He likes that the mailroom is safeguarded by a touch key entrance and likes how the lobby is decorated. 

When the two of you arrive at your apartment, you hear Pochi meowing from the other side of the door. To your pleasure, your space isn’t as messy as you thought it might be, save for the throw blanket you forgot to fold after watching an episode of Castlevania. Pochi jumps down from the armrest and waddles her way to your feet when Sunghoon enters your apartment and closes the door behind him. 

You’re too busy locking the door and crouching down to sift your hand through her soft fur to notice Sunghoon surveilling your apartment like he’s in a museum. He sees your dark green couch and all of the decor you have in frames. The living room is far smaller than his, but he thinks it represents who you are perfectly. 

“I missed you, baby,” you say as Sunghoon looks down to where your body is and takes off his shoes one by one while Pochi rubs her small body against your ankles. You’re cute when you talk like that. 

“Why’d you name her ‘Pochi’?” he asks when you make your way deeper inside of your apartment. He watches you throw your jacket on the back of the couch while Pochi follows and climbs up the piece of furniture to get closer to you. 

“Pochi means ‘spot’ in Japanese,” you tell him. “You see these spots on her ears? I thought she looked so cute and unique when I saw her at the animal shelter. We bonded pretty quickly and I would always kiss both of her ears when we were first getting to know each other. She gets annoyed if I don’t kiss both of them and only one.”

“Really?” 

“Mhm. Watch.” 

Your lips come to touch her ear. You pull back soon after and Sunghoon watches Pochi sit back and watch you with the other side of her head like she’s waiting for the other kiss. When you don’t move to complete the routine, Pochi meows until you relent and kiss her other ear too. 

“She’s so cute. Pochi might as well be my daughter with how well she listens to me.” 

“You’d look cute with a girl.”

You look at Sunghoon, bewildered. 

“You’re certifiably crazy, Park Sunghoon.” 

He just shrugs. “I’m just saying.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Let me change my clothes and put some makeup on, then we can head out. Make yourself at home. It shouldn't be more than ten minutes.” 

When you disappear, Sunghoon hears the faint click of your bedroom door and walks to your couch to sit. He can hear you walking in your room in the dead silence of the morning when Pochi looks at him like she’s trying to figure out if he’s a threat or not. He follows your instructions when she tilts her head and looks away from her. 

Sunghoon notices pictures that line your fireplace. He doesn’t recognize anybody except for you, but adores the way he can see how much you’ve grown up. There are pictures of you and your childhood friends together, one of you he assumes is on vacation, and a few of you and your college friends littered throughout your space. It makes him realize there’s more to you than meets the eye, and for as long as he’s known you, Sunghoon gets the feeling he’s only scratched the surface.

He also tries not to think about the fact that his hands know what you feel like. Flashes of the early morning run through his mind. He loves the way you sound when you’re about to climax and had to keep himself in check before he made any rash decisions that the two of you would later regret. Sunghoon shifts in his seat and does his best to will his yearning because the last thing he wants is to sport a boner around Pochi, just for you to walk out and see him like that. What would you think of him then?

From the corner of Sunghoon’s eye, he sees Pochi grooming herself and tries to blink slowly when she makes eye contact with him. He feels silly and looks away when he starts to laugh at himself. In all of his years working with you, Sunghoon never thought he’d be playing nice with your cat. 

You emerge from your bedroom looking polished, and Sunghoon is impressed you were able to pull yourself together in fifteen minutes.  

“How do I look? Presentable enough?”

His eyes glance up and down your body. 

“Stunning as ever.” 

“Be serious, Sunghoon.” 

He walks to you and puts both of his hands on your hips, dragging them down to your waist before pulling your body flush against his.

“I’m serious. So gorgeous.” 

He learns in and slots his lips between yours, gently holding your body against himself. You get lost in it too, recalling the way Sunghoon’s fingers felt inside of you as he squeezes your body. The familiar ache emerges before you can even think about it, and you find yourself clenching against absolutely nothing. You think you’re somewhere between desperate and pathetic at this point, but Sunghoon can’t see or feel you down there for you to give a shit. 

“We should get breakfast,” you mumble against his mouth. 

“We should.” He doesn’t stop kissing you and your hands come to gently grip the lapel of his suit jacket. 

“There’s a place around the corner. Killer croissants and good espresso.” 

“Mhm.” Sunghoon pulls your arms away from his body to turn you around and press your ass right against his crotch, effectively caging you against his body while his lips litter short kisses down your neck. “Could eat you for breakfast, though.”

The moan that escapes your throat makes you feel embarrassed, but it makes Sunghoon’s pride swell. 

“W-Work,” you choke out as Sunghoon’s hand touches you above your work trousers. His fingers make out the ridges of your folds and slots his index finger between them. “We need to get to work.” 

“You’re no fun.” Sunghoon pouts and lets you go, but not without giving your cheek a kiss. 

“You are such a fucking menace,” you say as you scold him. “In front of Pochi too?” 

“She wasn’t even looking. Relax.” 

You look and find that Pochi is indeed nowhere to be found. She’s perched on the windowsill behind your curtain and you breathe a short sigh of relief. 

“Did you make nice with her?” 

“I ignored her, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

“Good,” you say with a definite nod. “She’ll like you in no time.” 

“I’m not so sure about that? It feels counterintuitive to ignore an animal if you want them to get to like you.”

“Cats and dogs are different, though.” You unlock your door and slip your shoes on at the same time after you’ve double checked that everything you need is in your work bag. “Dogs need love and affection all the time. Cats pick and choose when they want to receive it.” 

“Is that why your brother calls you a cat? Because you’re picky about all the people you let into your life?” 

He follows you out and watches you lock the door. 

“Mhm. I wouldn’t have let you touch me if I didn’t want you to.” 

“Is that so?” 

“Don’t think you’re special just because you’re my boss, Park. Keep up.”

“Oh, I intend to.”

***

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[somanyideassolittletime]

To be loved is to be changed.

Pairings: Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader

Summary : 3 ways you changed Jack, and one time Jack changed you.

Warnings: fluff, Jack is in love with his wife, language, grammar inaccuracies (maybe? idk), so much fluff I felt giddy writing this.

Author's note: I love Jack so much, enjoy!

| one

Jack, albeit all of his typical stereotypes people use to box him into, is secretly tech-savvy. It comes with the job, he supposed. Working in a field where technology is always evolving, he learnt to adapt, and he learnt to love it. It started with geeking out when the newest, most updated machine was delivered to the hospital, up to buying himself handheld medical pieces of equipment delivered to your door – he would wait for you at home before unboxing the most recent ‘toys’ he ordered, and he would talk your ears off about how cool and innovative it is. 

You loved it, you loved hearing him talk passionately, you love that even after all this time working in his job, he still finds wonders in it (it doesn’t help that he looked so hot with his forearms flexed, knife in hand, while opening the package).

He understands technology, he does. But he doesn’t get the idea of FaceTime. He wasn’t a big texter himself; nothing beats the good old phone calls, where you can get your point across without fear of miscommunication on both sides. Even when you dated, you never went as far as FaceTime; it was always a phone call with a promise of meeting each other, and now that you are married, sharing his home, he still doesn’t get it.

“Why do you even need to look at their faces when you call? What matters is what you say, y’know, besides, it’s awkward to call someone with your phone far away from your ears,” He once said while holding you tightly in his side, cuddling in his far too comfy leather couch. Both of you watching a movie, where the scene of people facetiming each other just finished. You laughed at him back then, nudging his sides, “Eh, don’t knock it till you try it, hon.” 

What a turn of events now for him, as you were called away across the country for a few guest lectures and seminars for two weeks. Away from Pittsburgh, away from him – that he finds himself thankful for whoever invented the damned thing. He’s sitting on his bed, currently deprived of your presence beside him, when he decides to try out FaceTime. 

 “Hi, handsome,” you pick up on the first ring, he’s greeted with the face he’s been missing for the past few days, smiling at him. He sighs in contentment, he finally gets to see your face. “Hi, sweetheart.” 

He can hear you rustling around, looking for something to prop up your phone before you settle on your water bottle. Your screen is now steady. You grin at him, “Finally getting the whole FaceTime thing now, huh?” 

He huffs, “Don’t wanna get used to it, i’d rather have you here.” he starts, “But yeah, thank god shit’s exist. Been so long since I've seen that face.” 

“I’ve been here four days and you turned grumpy, huh?” You tell him, referring to the text Dana sent you earlier, “Your husband is Mr. Grumpy. Med students scared to approach him all day” 

“What do you mean?” You’re still grinning at him, you’re afraid your cheeks might be too sore to talk to the faculty tomorrow. “Dana texted me, said you were being bad teacher.” 

He groaned, “I’m annoyed at everything, it seems.” he mumbles just loud enough for you to hear him on the other end. He’s holding the phone a little too close to his eyes, he squints to look at you. You noticed it, “Wear your glasses, hon.” He hates wearing his glasses, which you know, but he’s squinting so hard you’re afraid he’s gonna get a headache later on. He’s contemplating debating you, but he knows that you’re right; he’s getting too old to see something so close to his eyes now. 

“Ugh, fine. Wait,” he puts his phone in the bed, now his screen is showing the ceiling of the bedroom you share back home. A few rustling and groans later, you find yourself looking at Jack wearing his glasses. Your breath hitched. The sight of him in his glasses always gets to you, even after all this time. “Looking good, Dr. Abbot,” you joke. He smiles, “You’re Dr. Abbot yourself.” You frowned mockingly. “I was looking at my reflection, y’know.” 

He laughs, and your heart aches to be with him. You missed him as bad as he missed you, it seems. You lift your phone, standing up now, he’s curious, “What are you doing?” You reverse the camera now, showing your room. “I’m doing a room tour. Now shut up and listen to me yap.” 

He gladly obeys, he loves listening to your voice, he watches as you explain everything in your room, from the bathroom, the wardrobe, the bed, all the way to the balcony. His eyes caught something when your camera points at your desk, a familiar bottle of cologne – one he’s been wearing for ten years – so he decides to jab at you. “Is that why I can’t find my cologne in my bag?” You turn the camera facing you, and he’s glad now that he can see your face again. “I miss you. Sue me.” You stick your tongue out at him. How he wishes to wipe that shit eating grin from your face. 

“I’m suing you for that with a lifetime with me,” he says earnestly. You look at him fondly, “Jack Abbot, I didn’t know you get sappier the further we departed.” He puts his phone on the nightstand, angled so that you can still see his face, pulling the comforter up to his chin. 

“I miss you so much, baby,” you blegh at the nickname, phone now back at your desk, “You sounded like a teenager,” he chuckles, he looks at you putting on your glasses, the light from the laptop reflecting in your eyes. “Talk to me,” you say.

So he did, he tells you about the shift he’s had today while you’re typing away at your laptop, looking at him every once in a while. He tells you about the boy who went berserk, hands flailing around, making Langdon drop the scalpel in his hand, dropping it to his prosthetic feet, panicking the entire trauma room, only for him to be unfazed. You laugh fondly at him, eyes twinkling with the same mesmerization you only hold for him (and for a crazy innovation that you find interesting). 

He’s holding his yawn, but you know better. His eyes are glassy now. “Go to sleep. It’s late,” you say, he obeys you, taking off his glasses, relaxing into his pillow. “Don’t turn it off,” he says softly, eyes fluttering. You shake your head, “I’ll turn it off when you snore,” he huffs, “what? You snore.” you start, “But I need to hear you snore to sleep nowadays.” you explain. 

His eyes are half-closed now, and he finds himself relaxed, hearing your breaths on the other side, keys clacking softly. “I love you,” he whispers to you. You stopped your typing, now looking at his eyes fully closed, “I love you too, goodnight, hon.” 

For the next 7 days, he finds himself loving FaceTime, finds himself looking forward to FaceTime with you every night before he sleeps, and like other technology he once frowned at, he finally gets it. 

| two

Jack is not a man of pop culture, he never understands the appeal of it. He rarely watches movies by himself, let alone pop culture movies or series. But you loved it to no end, you often ask him to watch those movies with you, ranging from sci-fi, fantasy, to superhero movies, whatever you want to watch, he’ll gladly oblige. He’ll pretend to be uninterested in your series whenever you watch it alone with him moving around the house. But you always find him standing behind the couch, watching the show intently, before finding him beside you, starting to give commentary on what's happening on the screen. And slowly, he finds himself enjoying watching those movies and series with you. 

He loves watching you explain to him about the complexity of a character you like, loves hearing you badmouth a character you hate, and when you both find yourself watching sci-fi movies with futuristic technologies, he finds himself falling a little harder, hearing you explain to him the concept of the technology in said movies. “I don’t understand a single word you just said. Is this what you feel when I explain procedures to you?” he once asked you. You nodded, “Yeah, pretty much, but you’re hot when you’re explaining it. So I love it,” you said to him. And he agreed with you on that one. 

Jack was covering the night shift tonight, it’s Halloween night, so he’ll find himself drowning in patients in costumes, no doubt. You had dropped him off earlier with a kiss on his cheek and a promise to pick him up later in the morning.  

He’s talking to a ten-year-old kid in a yellow uniform, one he recognized as a Star Trek uniform when Ellis enters the room, “I got this, Abbot. You go ahead,” she says to Jack. Jack nods at her before saying, “You’re in good hands, kiddo.” Ellis looks at the boy in the bed, saying, “Well, what do we got here, Mr.Spock?” The kid was about to protest when Jack reactively says, “He’s Captain Kirk,” Earning a look from Ellis. He fistbumps the kid and leaves the room, fully trusting Ellis. 

The rest of the shift is pretty slow, filled with kids getting food poisoning from the candy being given away, typical drunks, and some OD patients from parties. It was now one hour left in the shift, everyone was either hanging by the hub or just doing a frequent check for their patients. He was charting when Shen and Ellis approached him.

“Hey, Abbot. How’s the stormtrooper guy?” Shen asks him. He’s currently scanning through his memory, not finding a single stormtrooper costume in his recollection of the night. “We haven’t got a stormtrooper,” He frowns at Shen. Shen points his fingers over Jack’s shoulder, he turns his head – now looking at a man in a Mandalorian get-up, his helmet on the chair beside the bed – he turns back to Shen, “That’s a fucking Mandalorian, good to go in a few hour, ” Shen doesn’t say anything, opting to look at Ellis beside him. Who, for the second time that night, gave him a weird look. He’s been doing medical procedures that might be crazy ballsy for some, but never once he received that look from either Ellis or Shen until tonight. 

“Okay, you know what, what the hell?” Ellis starts, “You corrected me earlier cause of a fuckin costume, and now, what the hell, man?” Jack shrugs, “What?” Shen points his finger at Jack, his voice accusatory, “Dude, you only ever turn your TV on for penguins games, now you tellin me you know fuckin sci-fi shit, now.?” Jack looks at him, “Wrong, I turn on my TV for the Steelers and Pirates too,” he says casually. 

“Ugh, you know what we meant. Since when do you even watch that stuff?” Ellis says exasperatedly. Jack crossed his arms, shrugging, “My wife likes that stuff.” He says that so casually that Shen and Ellis might combust at his tone. 

Shen laughs at him, “Holy shit, you’re whipped.” Jack smirks, “Yeah, I wouldn’t get married if I weren’t.” his hands find the ring in his necklace now. Fully smiling at Shen and Ellis, both of whom groan at him. “Ughhh, please be a simp somewhere else, not here.” Shen rolls his eyes. 

Shen and Ellis walked away from him before he muttered, “God forbid a man is in love,” smiling to himself with the thought of you in his mind. 

So slowly but surely, he understands the appeal now that he can see how your eyes lit up every time he referenced something. And like any other form of entertainment, he once cringed at, he finds himself enjoying and looking forward to the next time he has you curled up beside him, whispering theories he doesn’t get. Anything that makes you happy, it seems, makes him happy. 

| three

Jack is a man of many talents, but not of many coffee orders. He takes his coffee as plain as possible. Black, no sugar. He never ordered his coffee sweet, not before he met you at least. For him, coffee should be something simple, he doesn’t need extra flavor in his coffee, he just needs it to fuel him through the day. 

But you? You take your coffee as abstractly as possible. Though you do enjoy a plain black coffee once in a while, once the occasion calls for it, you actually prefer some flavor and sweetness in your coffee. 

“black , no sugar, please. What about you hon,” he asked you, ordering for himself to barista; he never ordered for you since he knew he would botch the task. “Uh, let me think. I ordered the almond latte yesterday. I think I’ll go with hazelnut today, please. Thank you,” you answered to the barista, who punched in some buttons. Jack tapped his card to pay before moving over to wait for your order. 

“Here, try this. You’ll like it.” you said to him. He shakes his head, refusing to take a sip. “Just try it, I swear” he takes the coffee in his hand, sipping on it. Fuck. that’s good. He thought. He bites the inside of his cheek to hold back a smile, not wanting to give you the victory. You pointed at him victoriously, “aha! You like it don’t you.” he shrugged, giving you back your coffee. “Eh, black’s still better.” though you know that he actually enjoys it. 

But now that it’s been a while since the two of you went on cafe dates, he finds himself missing your random coffee order. So when the opportunity comes for him to drink your coffee order, he’ll take it. 

“Hey, I’m ordering coffee, your usual?” Robby asks him, typing in his notes app to list everyone’s coffee order. Jack thinks for a second before answering him, “I’ll have a vanilla latte,” earning a raised eyebrow from Robby, who types it down without question before moving over to the others. Making a mental note to ask him later on. 

It was a while later when the order came in, and everyone stopped by the break room to take their coffee. Jack is greeted by Langdon and Robby inside, both holding their coffee. Langdon doesn’t even think before handing him a black coffee, one that Jack doesn’t take. “It’s not mine,” he says, walking over to the table, reading the labels in each cup before settling on his order. 

He holds it in a way that the label is visible to Langdon, who looks at him weirdly, “a Latte? Really? Vanilla latte?” Langdon asks him. Jack sips on his coffee before entertaining Langdon, “What? It’s good,” he answers. Langdon, who looks at Robby as if saying, dude, you seeing what I’m seeing???. Robby teases him, “Yeah, I don’t think that cuts it, brother.” 

Jack huffs, sipping some more, “Fine. My wife takes her coffee like this.” he wants to look annoyed, but he can’t bear himself to do it; not when he just drank your coffee order, being reminded of you seems to have that effect on him. 

“I’m a married man myself, but I never even order my coffee her way, man.” Langdon laughs at him. Robby smiles at him, putting his hand on Langdon’s shoulder, slightly leaning toward him. “I believe we are seeing Jack in love. What is it? To be loved is to be changed?” says Robby to Langdon’s who laughed at Jack. 

Jack wants to retort something smart as usual, but somehow, he doesn’t want to. So he opted to just smile at both of them before taking his coffee outside the break room. 

Because yeah, he might realize himself that his preference is changing, but what Robby said earlier was right, that he’s in love and that he’s loved – and he wouldn’t change that for the world. 

But the next time the two of you went on your cafe dates, he would still order his usual, not because he wanted it, he ordered it because for him, nothing beats the mischievous smile you gave him after asking him to try your coffee. (and it doesn’t help that he liked seeing your lip product mark on his cup after you drink his coffee, and that both of you just did an indirect kiss) Though that was a thought he’ll keep to himself forever. 

+1

“How do I look?” you walk into the living room, twirling your body to Jack, who is sitting on the leather couch, now looking at you. You were sporting a Penguins jersey with a big 87 on the back, CROSBY above it. You were offered a sideline ticket to the Penguins game by your friend, which you excitedly accepted. So here you are, getting ready for the game with the Penguins heartbreaker’s Jersey on you. 

Jack smiles at you. “Well, you look like you’re drowning in it, Mrs. Crosby,” he says coyly. You frown at him, walking over to him, “Jack, as much as I love Sid, I actually prefer being Mrs. Abbot,” you say to him, leaning down to give his lips a peck.

Jack puts his hand on your waist, capturing your lips on his. Pulling back, Jack let out a breathy chuckle, “Yeah? Say that after you see him, hon. You know I’m straight, but he’s hot as hell,” he jested. You laugh at his confession, about to say something when you hear a honk in the driveway. Jack walks you over to the door, opening it for you.

Jack pecks your lips once again before saying, “Stay safe, okay? I love you.” You smile, kissing his cheek, “I will. Love you too.”

It’s almost midnight when you come home, and the Penguins won, so it was a victorious night out in your books. You open the door slowly, not wanting to disturb Jack, who should be sleeping by now. You can hear the TV still turned on in the living room, so you decide to check it out.  

Jack was sprawled over the couch, the light from the TV illuminating his figure, his prosthetic placed by the table, as much as you want to move him to the bed because you know that his back would scream at him tomorrow if he spends as much as an extra hour on the couch, he looked so cozy you can’t help yourself, so you lay down on the couch, joining him. 

Your movement startles him at first, but upon seeing that it’s you, he relaxes, “Hey,” he whispers into your ear. “It was fun, wished it was with you though,” you confess to him. His arms now caging you, drawing soft circles on your back. It was quiet before you started.

“Jack,” you whisper softly, he hums, acknowledging you. You continue, “I think you broke me.” Jack stops his hand, pulling his head just enough to look you in the eyes. “What do you mean?” you snuggle further into his chest before saying, “I don’t find Sid attractive anymore.” 

“Huh?” Jack asks, You sit up, placing your hand on his stomach. “Imagine, I was that close with him, I could practically see his pores, Jack.-” You put your hand in front of you, in an attempt to emphasize just how close you are to The Sidney Crosby earlier. “But all I can think about is eh, he’s okay. Jack’s way more attractive.” Jack’s entire body warms at hearing your confession. 

He’s about to comment before you put your hand that was previously on his stomach to his mouth, not allowing him to speak, “No, you don’t get it. It's THE SIDNEY CROSBY, Jack. You know how much I love him, right?” he nods against your hand, now smiling as wide as ever. You lift your hand from his mouth, continuing your explanation. “I was supposed to be entranced by him, Jack. But I kept on thinking that he had nothing against you.” 

“You’re putting me on a damn high pedestal now, hon,” he says jokingly, though his eyes shows nothing but adoration looking at you. 

You lie back on the couch again, cuddling him. “Nah. I think I just love you too much that I find any other guy to just be….mid.” 

He chuckles, resuming his hand motion on your back. “I love you too, so much.” You don’t say anything after that, you're both snuggling, the TV playing softly as background noise – the intimacy of this moment has nothing against anything else. 

You both stayed that way for a while until you mentioned to him that you needed to move before you both fell asleep on the couch, so you walked over to the bedroom, Jack behind you, searching for the remote to turn it off, seeing the highlight of the day on the screen, with crosby’s goal earlier. He smirks proudly at the TV, remembering your earlier admission. 

Sid 0 - 1 Jack. 

[mallory524]

a bunch of teenagers

bob x reader

(she/her)

pictures from pinterest

summary- Bob has really started to like you, but he assumes you don’t feel the same way about him. You do though, and everyone seems to know that except Bob… and apparently also Walker, who really thought he had a chance

warnings- thunderbolts* spoilers kinda, thunderbolts being roomies and hanging out yayy, pining, slight jealousy, bob not feeling very confident :( small mention of void stuff, slightly suggestive mention, john walker likes you and of course that goes absolutely nowhere, bucky is getting too old for this foolishness, hand holding, fluff

word count- 1443

notes- i will write for any of the thunderbolts, you guys, the obsession has reallyyy set in

The view of the sunset from the Watchtower is a beautiful backdrop for an already nice evening with the group. You’re all sitting around, waiting for Bucky to come back with food for everyone. Alexei is telling some awfully embarrassing childhood story about Yelena, who keeps trying to cut him off mid-story. "No listen, I was a small child-"

Bob is listening and occasionally laughing, but he’s focusing on you more than he’s focusing on the story. You’re sitting right next to Alexei and trying really hard not to laugh at his story (for Yelena’s sake) but occasionally you cover your face as your whole body shakes with laughter. Bob loves it. He loves seeing you smile. He feels like he’s being weird so he looks away, but he quickly notices that he’s not the only one looking at you.

Walker, who’s sitting right across from him, keeps glancing your way, too. Bob’s never considered before that Walker would like you, but it's not surprising. Of course he would. You’re so funny and smart and you’re tough, but you can also be so kind and, of course, you’re absolutely beautiful... Walker would have to be so dumb to not to see all of that, but it doesn’t mean that Bob approves of this at all.

He doesn’t think Walker is right for you, and he's never considered that you might see Walker that way, but now the idea is in his head and he hates it.

Walker can be a real jerk, (and of course he’s got some rage issues), but he is good looking, and he’s actually able to help on missions. Bob has to stay back most of the time. Plus, sometimes Walker can be pleasant. Sometimes.

Walker also doesn’t risk showing you your most awful traumatic memories every time you touch. Bob’s mostly got it under control now, but it doesn’t matter because now he’s got the mental image of you and Walker touching and that makes him feel nauseous. The idea of you and Walker-

He doesn’t realize he’s been intensely staring down Walker until he looks up at Bob with the most confused look on his face and mouths “what??”.

Even the mere idea of something happening between you and Walker is bothering him, and he can't get it out of his head. I don't know why I'm upset. It's not like I ever had a chance.

After dinner, everyone starts to split up and do their own thing around the tower for the rest of the night. Of course, no one bothered to clean up after themselves, so you take it upon yourself. Bob walks over and hands you another dirty plate. “Sorry”, he says with a shy little laugh.

“Aww dang", you say with a chuckle, "Thanks for actually handing me your dishes, though. Ava left hers on the floor”, and the two of you quietly snicker.

Bob awkwardly fiddles with random things on the counter, as if one of them will give him another excuse to stay there and keep talking to you. You suspect that's what he's doing, but you never know exactly what's going on in his head. Whatever he's doing, it's endearing. Although, you find everything about him endearing: his smile, his little laugh he does every time he's nervous, his messy curls that are starting to fall over his eyes...

You realize neither of you have said anything in a while. "Hey, how are you feeling tonight? You've been extra quiet", you tell him with a sweet smile.

Bob panics, "No, what? I'm fine. Um. I'm just tired, that's what it is", and he smiles at you, but then the direct eye contact is a little too much for him and he redirects his smile to the tile floor.

"Okay, just checking", You aren't sure if you believe him, but you're not going to push it. "Hey, did you see that video where-", and you start talking about something else.

Yelena walks back into the room to grab her phone, and she smiles and rolls her eyes when she sees you happily talking and laughing together.

At some point, Walker strolls in and soo casually leans against the counter, (he thinks he's being really cool), and thanks you for cleaning up, completely ignoring Bob, who is standing right there and helping clean up, too. Bob glances at you, trying to see if you act any different when Walker's around.

As Walker steps back into the hallway to go to bed, he stops walking for a second and glances back at you from afar, until a voice totally pulls him out of his thoughts.

“Don’t even think about it”

“Geez Bucky, don’t sneak up on me like that”, Walker says before turning back to look at you and Bob again. “But seriously, do you think I should go for it?”

“No”, Bucky says with no hesitation.

“Well don’t think too hard about it.” Walker responds sarcastically and crosses his arms defensively.

“I’m not just saying this to be disagreeable. Everyone knows she kind of…” Bucky starts to say before trailing off.

“What? What is it?”

Bucky hesitates and then decides Walker isn’t going to let it go. He leans in and quietly says, “Everyone around here kinda thinks she likes Bob.”

He’s dumbfounded. “Bob?? You cannot be serious. There’s no way that-”

“Watch it, John”

“No, you know I love Bob! But come on, don’t you think if I put the idea out there that maybe she’d at least consider it?”

Bucky groans dramatically, “Ughh I do not want to be involved in all this. I’m just letting you know I think you’d be... unsuccessful”, and as Walker rolls his eyes and walks back to his room for the night, Bucky notices that Bob’s down the hall, and has apparently been listening to the entire thing.

Bob quickly walks up to Bucky. “Do you think that’s true? Actually?”, he says in a hushed tone, with what can only be described as big hopeful puppy dog eyes.

Bucky mutters something under his breath about his new team being “a bunch of teenagers” and then turns to face Bob again. “I mean, she hasn’t said anything to me, but it’s pretty clear. Yelena and Ava were talking about this earlier and they think so, too.”

Bob can’t believe this. There’s no way. He doesn't want to get his hopes up, but if 4 of his friends think so, then maybe it really is true?

Bucky puts a hand on his shoulder. “Ask her to get lunch with you or something tomorrow. You can decide for yourself.”

Bob starts to frantically shake his head, “No, no I can’t do that, it would be so embarrassing if she didn’t want to.”

“Come on, man. She’ll want to. You should probably do this soon before Walker beats you to it”, Bucky says with a little laugh.

That was enough to convince him.

The next afternoon, you’ve been training for a bit, and now you’re going over some random important documents the group was sent. You see Bob over at the counter, so you decide to walk over and pour yourself some tea, too.

“Hey, Bob”, you say cheerfully, and he turns to look at you.

“Hi”, and he pours the tea into your mug without you having to ask.

You thank him and then look in his eyes. He’s clearly thinking about something. “Bob?”

“Would you like to go get lunch with me today?”, he says out of nowhere. He says it like he thinks that if he didn’t ask you now, he never would. Which is probably true. Any more time to think about it and he might've convinced himself it was the worst idea ever.

You smile warmly at him. “Yeah I’d love to. What time were you thinking?”

Bob is so caught off guard by your positive response that he almost doesn’t answer. “Uhh, we could go in half an hour. If that works for you, of course.”

“Yeah that works. Thanks Bob!”, you say, and then you gently pat him on the shoulder and leave the room to shower and get changed. Bob stands there for a second, hoping he didn't just imagine all of that.

When the two of you are ready, you slowly take his hand, and he lightly squeezes your hand back and smiles at you.

Over on the couch, Ava smiles, and Bucky pats Walker on the back with no real sympathy. "Told ya".

Walker kind of scoffs, but he can't help but smile just a little as he watches Bob step into the elevator, happily holding your hand.

[reignpage]

The Best Kind of Remedy

Synopsis: in which your herbalist boyfriend, Geto, has just the thing to cure your ailments Warnings: smut, established relationship sex, penetrative sex, sex whilst under the influence (smoking weed), dubcon?, thigh riding, dirty talk, degradation, lots of praise, unprotected sex, creampie, handjob, brief fingering, spitting, dacryphilia, cum eating, personification of the pussay, not proofread Word Count: 3.1k

Herbalist!Geto is your boyfriend — you can always count on him to cure your ailments with a conversation, sometimes even with just a glance. He has green tea bags ready for your morning bloating, elderberry syrup for your colds, and aloe vera compress for burns, among other things.

Visits to his clinic on Friday nights are routine; you show up just as he’s closing, and he gives you a small smile when he lets you in. “Hey, was just about to text you.”

“Long day?”

Popular and well-respected, he gets customers from all over the country. They swarm to his clinic in hopes of securing a face-to-face consultation with the man himself, eating up every advice, and treasuring each prescription. He’s trustworthy, smart, observant, innovative, and so damn hot. Long hair tied at the back, broad shoulders stretching out the lab coat he wears, and smelling of something floral and earthy, you don't blame any of the girls who come in just to ogle at him.

“A little tiring but I feel energised now that you’re here.” He brushes a lock of your hair back, thumb tilting your chin up so he can get a good look at you. “You haven’t been sleeping well again?”

Herbalist!Geto shrugs off his coat, revealing a loose black shirt underneath, which rises up when he stretches out the lethargy in his bones, revealing a seductive sliver of his boxers and the sharp cut of his abs. 

“I’m exhausted but I can’t rest; I feel on edge all the time.”

He's quiet for just a second, analysing the depth of your dark circles and jittery limbs. There’s an odd glint in his eyes when he places a heavy hand on your head and says, “I might have just the thing.”

That’s how you find yourself in the backroom, sitting on his sofa next to him. He’s rolling up a joint with expert hands, sprinkling a green line across the paper, shaping it into a neat little cone. Fingers pinching the air, he rolls it back and forth, and when ready, puts it up to your lips.

“Go on, pretty girl.” A little nervous, you eye him first and he waits patiently. You lick the edge of the paper, keeping eye contact, even when brings it up to his mouth and licks exactly where you did. It’s sealed and he taps it against your lips like some kind of good luck ritual. “This is your first time, right? Well, then, you’re going to have to listen very carefully to me. Can you do that?”

You nod. 

He tuts. “Use your words, pretty.”

“I’ll listen.”

“Good girl.”

Window open, he seems at ease when he lights the spliff and takes a deep inhale, immediately slumping back into the sofa, arm thrown over the back right behind you, and legs spread so far you’re trying hard not to stare at what’s between them. “Start off with a light inhale. Just suck gently, like you’re sipping from a straw, and don’t hold it for too long. Only a second or two and then breathe out. Got it?”

Smiling, you follow his instructions. It smells earthy, like him, with a hint of something sweet. Embarrassingly, you’re coughing not even a second after you’ve inhaled — it’s dry in a way you weren’t expecting. Head falling onto his chest, his amused huff shakes you a little.

“Sorry, baby. Here, drink some water.”

Just as you’ve gulped down a whole cup of water he had prepared like he knew this would happen, you grill him about this part of him he’s been hiding. “I didn’t know you smoked weed. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Blowing a puff into the air, away from your face, he shrugs. “Always forgot. I don’t smoke too often; don’t ever want to get reliant. But I’ve been growing my own, experimenting, trying to find the best kind. I didn’t want to make you smoke anything less than perfect, after all.”

You’re leaning against his chest, too scared to reach for another puff so you settle for listening to him instead. “There are different types of weed?”

“Yeah. Different strains of weed, just like growing any kind of plant. Some people mix different things into their harvest based on preference. I’ve mixed all sorts of juices with mine. This one has a hint of strawberry — thought you might like to taste something a little more familiar.”

The air’s growing thicker and hazy. Even from one inhale, you’re already feeling more relaxed, like time’s moving slower. “Hmm, this is kinda nice. I want more but I don’t want to choke; it’s humiliating.”

Head tilting back, he pecks you on your lips, tenderly. 

“Don't be embarrassed. It's just me. Come on, I’ll blow it for you. Open for me. That’s it.” Hot air, tasting ever so slightly like strawberry and him, fills your mouth and you swallow, letting it float into your lungs. "Better?"

Nodding, you climb onto his lap, suckling on his lips, seeking more, unable to help yourself. Something is making you feel restless even though you’re slowly melting into your most relaxed self. “Sugu…I feel weird.”

Herbalist!Geto’s free hand smoothes your hair, calming you. “You’re alright, baby. I’ve got you. I had a feeling you’d get worked up.”

“The weed’s making me horny?”

A slow grin appears on his face. He tilts his head, slightly mocking, and says, “You haven’t had nearly enough to go all empty in that pretty head of yours. Look at you. You’re grinding on my thigh and you don’t even realise? That’s adorable.”

You gasp and glance down. He’s right; you’re rocking back and forth on his muscular thigh, leaving a wet trail over his cotton pants whilst your skirt pools around your hips. Senses heightened, you can’t stop, not when the friction feels so good and he’s flexing his thigh to urge you to an orgasm. 

“Hmm, I treat you to my weed and you thank me by feeling good by yourself? Maybe I should start calling you my ‘selfish girl.’ You’re making me feel all lonely here.”

An apology is muttered against his lips. Clinging onto his shirt, you use him as leverage to get into a rhythm. The haze is emboldening you and the only hint of surprise that pops up on his face is a quirk of a brow when you fish out his hard cock. It’s thick and pretty — he keeps it tidy down there and the dark pink tip makes your mouth water. Leaking pearlescent drops, you use it to lubricate his length. Then, you rub up and down in time with your grinding, keen to see his lips part and his eyes go glossy. 

“Poor baby doesn’t like cumming by herself, does she? No, of course not. But you’re already making a -hah- mess on my thigh so you might want to -ngh- pick up the pace otherwise we’ll both be very disappointed, won’t we?”

Shuddering, the corner of his mouth twitches when he feels your thumb rub his slit, running it down a bit of his foreskin. Exposing more of his sensitive skin to the air, he has to take a puff to stop himself from cumming too soon. 

Herbalist!Geto’s head is thrown back, long, slender neck looking so delectable you mouth kisses all over his skin, smiling when he groans. “I thought weed was s-supposed to make you less tense, not more mean.”

He laughs and blows the smoke right into your open mouth. “That’s a lot of —tighter, baby, rub my tip too, you know just how I like it, yeah, good girl— a lot of -hah- talk from someone who always cums hard after being treated a little mean.”

True to his words, you cum all over his leg, tightening your hold on his cock subconsciously and he grunts with the sudden pressure. 

“Ah, Suguru! Fuck, so good.”

Palming your thigh, he smiles to himself when you slump on his chest. “Got a filthy mouth on you. Should wash it out, shouldn’t I?”

You’re just about to get up and lap up his length when he stops you. 

“N-no, don’t think I can wait.” Panties pushed to the side, you embrace the fingers he slides inside your sloppy pussy, stretching your gummy walls in preparation for this cock. You’re moaning, emboldened by the curling of his fingers against a spot inside that renders you breathless. “Hmm, you’re so tight. That the weed or have I not been taking care of you recently?”

A squeal leaves your lips when he withdraws those fingers without waiting for your answer and pulls you down on his leaking length all in one go. It’s almost painful, but the smoke you’ve inhaled is dulling and heightening your senses all at once — you can’t feel the pinch of the stretch but you can feel every vein, every throb, every inch of his cock filling you up completely. 

“Sugu,” you whine, “not so suddenly.”

Herbalist!Geto chuckles. “Sorry, baby. Just couldn’t -hah fuck you’re too tight- h-help myself. You know I love feeling you stretch around me.”

Tears spring to your eyes from the stretch. He throbs inside you. Once. Twice. 

“Pretty baby crying for me? Oh, you spoil me.” Fallen tears are licked up, thoroughly hydrating and fuelling his teasings. "Once you've adjusted, get to work, alright? Want you to show me how grateful you are."

Leaning back on his wide-spread thighs, you offer him a great view of your pussy lips wrapping around his girth. There’s already a light sheen of wetness coating his length and the sight is making him lightheaded. Slowly, you begin gyrating, grinding in circles so you can get used to the ache before your thighs are pushing up and down. He shoots you a wink when he senses your growing embarrassment at just how sloppy you've gotten and so quickly. 

"Hear that? Pretty pussy's saying, 'Thank you.' Polite little thing, isn't she? She needs to be rewarded, no? So go on, ride me."

Barely been touched, and loud squelches are already coming out of your pussy, reminding you of just how well-trained your body is for him. Never wanting to disappoint him, you push your limbs to set a pace you know gets you both going. His breathy moans guide you, setting tingles all over your skin. 

Your shirt is pulled up and pressed to your mouth. You bite the hem, baring your tits to his eyes. “Missed my girls — was thinking about them -ngh- all day. S-still taste as good as they look?

He’s sucking a nipple, rolling the bud around with the tip of his tongue, flicking and suckling in rapid succession. Undeterred by your bouncing, he keeps his mouth full, groaning when you grind down on his balls. "Oh, yeah, my sweet girls."

Every bounce makes you lightheaded, dazed with pleasure. 

"Should come visit me more often. Was starting to think you hate me." He teases. 

Frantically shaking your head, you say, "N-no. I was just busy."

"Too busy for me?"

"Never."

He blows yet another puff of smoke into your mouth, enjoying the breathy mutter of gratitude that you give him. "Good. I'd be devastated if I —oh, fuck, baby, ride me faster, yeah, good girl— if I couldn't see you as often as I'd -hah- like. You know you're the only thing that keeps me going, don't you?"

"Yes, Sugu —ah, yes, yes, you're so big!"

Sucking a mark in between the valley of your breasts, he gazes at his work, licking his lips and loving the salty taste of your skin. "If I didn't love your pussy as much as I love you, I might start to get jealous over h-how much you love my -ngh!- cock."

Kisses to that gooey spot inside you by his angry cockhead has your pussy growing sloppier and sloppier until a thick creamy ring forms around his base and he can’t help but thumb it and bring it up to your lips. It’s dirty, it’s filthy, obscene, and you suck it up with no hesitation, tasting both of your juices on your tongue. 

Herbalist!Geto dives forward, smothering your moans. The earthy taste of strawberries mixes in, tongues wrapping around each other as he seeks out your taste, swallowing every drop of you. He grunts. 

Swivelling your hips, you have to pull back, gasping for air and finding nothing to bring you sanity. Your pussy’s gripping onto him like it could absorb his soul into your very being and the plap plap plap of your skin smacking against his is all you can hear. 

This is unlike your usual sex — he's usually much more controlled, much cleaner in his movements, more thoughtful in his approach. Now, you're seeking out your pleasure with no care in the world, just bouncing rhythmlessly and clumsily, slipping and sliding, moaning and whining, and he's letting you. 

It seems you're not the only one affected by the weed.

A cloud of smoke rises up from his mouth, jaw hanging from just how hot and heavenly you feel around him. You suck it in, swallowing the dry air. But then he’s pulling you back into yet another kiss, that puff being exchanged back and forth like a dirty game of tennis until it’s completely gone and you’re fuelled only by the sickly sweet taste of him. 

“Your stamina’s improved, hah. Remember your first -ngh!- first time riding me? Hmm, pretty? You could hardly last more -ah fuck! don’t squeeze down on me like that- t-than a couple bounces before you were drooling on my chest and begging me to f-fuck up into you.”

Wetly smacking back down onto his lap, your clit grinds down on his pelvis, teased and tortured. 

"Always so keen to make me feel good, aren't you?"

"Yes, yes, yess! Oh, fuck, so full. I feel so full."

Herbalist!Geto hums sardonically. "Silly girl isn't even listening to me. You say you want to be praised m-more but we both know you get wetter when you're called a dirty, little slut. My dirty, little slut."

His free hand travels down your ass, giving it a tight squeeze before he lays a not-so gentle slap against it just to feel you tighten around him. 

"Say it."

SMACK!

“Ah, Suguru! I'm your dirty, l-little slut."

You gasp. You could have sworn another vein grew on his long length, teasing your walls and catching onto your greedy pleats, desperate to keep him inside. 

Thick cock worms its way inside, forcing your walls to memorise every curve and vein on its way up and back down. He’s making shallow thrusts up, striking against your g-spot with expert skill. “Missed you so much, baby. All those customers drive me crazy — none of them follow instructions as well as you do.”

Herbalist!Geto's growing closer to a damn good orgasm; he always gets more sentimental at the brink of cumming and it's why your hips don't dare stutter as you work him again and again, taking him deeper and faster.

“I’m a -hah- good girl, that’s why, Sugu.” You grin. 

He plants a sloppy kiss on your lips, enamoured by that sparkly smile. “Hmm, you are. Always such a good girl. My best girl.”

Blunt completely forgotten about and discarded somewhere, both of his hands are clutching your body close to him. One is digging into the plush of your ass, loving the ripples of the flesh with every collision of your hips to his, and the other is groping your tit.

Hips so nasty and gluttonous, it steals grunts from him, ugly, unrefined sounds that he doesn’t care if you hear. “You’re close…I can feel it. Go on, pretty. Cum all over my c-cock. Show me -hah- how much you l-love me.”

Both of your eyes are glazed over, whether from the weed or from the waves of pleasure cresting, neither of you can tell. You just fight through the ache in your joints as you bounce faster and faster on his cock, fingers rubbing against your swollen clit, sticky and slippery. Inside, you can feel his cock stiffening, growing bigger and bigger ever so slightly and you know he’s about to burst. 

Foggy, the only thing in the room you can see is his face: bead of sweat dripping down his temple, strands of hair come loose from his bun littering his forehead, and his lips are bitten pink, matching the flush on his cheeks. He's beautiful.

“Fuck, the weed’s drying my mouth out. M-make yourself useful and -hgnh!- help me out, won’t you, baby?” Like it's been wired into your brain, a fat glob drips down from your mouth and onto his awaiting tongue before you can even process the command. Just as soon as it pools into his mouth, he’s swallowing it, eyes rolling back from the taste of you.“Such a good fucking girl. You're making me lose my goddamn mind.”

You cum first. 

Clinging onto him, you whimper, clit oversensitive from the weed coursing through your veins. There’s no rhythm to his thrusts, he’s simply chasing the pulsing of your sloppy cunt, cockhead kissing that spot inside you he loves so much before his orgasm quickly follows. 

Herbalist!Geto buries his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent and painting your walls white with a flurry of hot cum. It fills your entire body, almost as if you can feel it in your lungs and when you swallow, you delude yourself into believing it's reached your throat too.

The haze still hasn’t passed — it’s making your heartbeat so damn loud and you’re just about to ask if he can hear it but he beats you to the answer by pressing a tender kiss against your pulse, murmuring, “Me too. Mine’s beating fast too.”

Neither of you takes out his cock, much too content to let it soften inside you and much too tired to care that it’s unplugging all your cum out and making an even bigger mess on his lap. 

You’re dozing off, coming down with him when he slumps back into the sofa, letting your head rest against his chest. Deeply satisfied, you mutter, “We gotta do this again.”

“The weed or the sex?” 

Herbalist!Geto’s rubbing soothing circles on your back, pulling down your shirt and keeping you close. He chuckles when he hears you say, ‘both.’

“Whatever helps you sleep, pretty. I’m always happy to be of service, even off-hours, for my favourite client but let’s keep this bonus package between us, yeah? Don't need more of those people coming in here.”

Half-asleep now, you mutter, “Just for me?”

He lays a kiss on top of your head. 

“Only you.”

[arkaiveofurown]

you got drunk and seduced him

Pairings: Zoro x Reader, Ace x Reader, Law x Reader, Sanji x Reader

You had too much alcohol, so you decided to have a little fun.

Word Count: ~500 - 1,000 words

tag: suggestive

my masterlist here ♡

——

Zoro

The Thousand Sunny rocks gently on calm waters, the afternoon sun baking the deck as you sprawl on a crate near the training area, a jug of cheap booze in hand.

You’ve been tossing back shots for the better part of an hour, watching Zoro slice through the air with his swords, sweat glistening on his scarred torso.

That single-minded focus, the raw power in every swing, the way he grunts with effort—it’s doing things to you, things the alcohol only amplifies.

You’ve always liked pushing his buttons, seeing how far you can take it before that gruff exterior cracks.

And right now, with your head spinning and inhibitions gone, you’re ready to say some downright filthy things to the Swordsman of the Straw Hats.

You stand, wobbling a bit, and stride over just as he sheathes Wado Ichimonji, wiping his brow with the back of his hand.

“Oi, Zoro,” you call, voice thick with liquor and intent, stopping close enough to smell the salt and steel on him.

He glances over, one eye narrowing, already sensing trouble.

“What?” he grunts, short and sharp, but you just grin, leaning in so your words are for him alone.

“Y’know, I’ve been watchin’ you swing those swords, and I can’t help wonderin’ how good you’d be at handlin’ somethin’ else. Bet you could fuck me so hard I’d forget my own damn name, huh? Slice right through me with that big, hard—”

His face goes from annoyed to stunned in half a second, mouth dropping open before he snaps it shut, a rare flush creeping up his neck.

“The hell’s wrong with you?!” he barks, but there’s a roughness to his tone that wasn’t there before.

You laugh, low and dirty, stepping closer.

“C’mon, tough guy, don’t tell me you ain’t thought about it. Pin me down, cut loose— I’m ready for ya.”

Do you think he’ll bite, or just swing a sword at you to shut you up?

Zoro’s grip tightens on the hilt of Shusui, knuckles whitening, and for a moment, you think he might actually draw it just to scare you off.

But his eye locks on yours, burning with something that ain’t just anger, and he steps forward, towering over you.

“Keep talkin’ like that, and you’re gonna regret it,” he growls, voice low enough to send a shiver down your spine, the heat of his breath close as he glares.

You don’t back down, tilting your chin up defiantly, your smirk daring him.

“Make me, Zoro. I fuckin’ dare ya.”

The air between you crackles, thick with unspoken challenge, and his hand twitches—not toward the sword, but toward you, hovering just an inch from your arm as the Sunny’s deck creaks under the weight of the tension.

——

Ace

The deck of the Moby Dick sways under your unsteady feet, the salty tang of the sea mixing with the sharp burn of rum on your tongue.

Lanterns swing overhead, casting golden flickers across the weathered wood as the Whitebeard Pirates roar with laughter, their voices a chaotic melody against the crashing waves.

You’ve had one too many, the warmth of the alcohol buzzing through your veins, making your skin prickle with reckless abandon.

And there he is—Portgas D. Ace, lounging against the railing, shirt half-unbuttoned, his freckled chest glistening with sweat from the humid night air.

That cocky grin of his, the way his dark eyes glint with mischief under the brim of his hat—damn, it’s doing things to you.

Why not play with fire tonight?

You stumble forward, a sly smile curling your lips, your heart thumping like a war drum as you close the distance.

“Hey, Ace,” you purr, voice low and dripping with intent, “you look like you could use some company. Or am I too hot to handle?”

His brow quirks, that grin widening as he straightens, clearly intrigued.

Oh, this is gonna be fun.

You sway closer, the rum making your movements bold, your hand brushing against his bare arm—skin on skin, electric.

His muscles tense under your touch, and you can’t help but linger, fingers tracing the edge of his tattoo, the black ink stark against his tan.

“You know,” you murmur, leaning in so your breath ghosts over his ear, “I’ve always wondered how much heat you can really take. Care to test that with me?”

Ace lets out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling through his chest as he turns to face you fully, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your knees weak.

“You’re playin’ a dangerous game, darlin’,” he drawls, voice rough like gravel, but his hand finds your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer.

The heat of his palm sears through your thin shirt, and you press yourself against him, chest to chest, daring him to push back.

Your fingers slide up his neck, tangling in the dark waves of his hair as you tug lightly, whispering, “I like danger. Don’t you?”

His eyes darken, a flicker of raw hunger flashing through them, and you know you’ve got him hooked.

But then, in a swift move, he spins you around, pinning you against the railing, the cool wood digging into your back as his body cages yours.

“Keep teasin’ me like that,” he growls, lips hovering just above yours, “and I might just burn this whole ship down.”

Your breath hitches, the tension crackling like wildfire between you, and you can’t resist reaching up to graze your nails down his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heart.

What now—do you push him further, or let him take the lead?

——

Law

The Polar Tang’s dimly lit mess hall hums with the quiet clinks of mugs and the low murmur of the Heart Pirates unwinding after a long day.

You’re sprawled at a table, a half-empty bottle of sake in hand, the buzz in your head making the submarine’s steel walls feel less claustrophobic.

Across the room, Trafalgar Law leans against the counter, his sharp eyes scanning a medical text, completely oblivious to the party—or to you.

That stoic, calculating demeanor, the way his long fingers turn a page, even the damn spots on his hat… it’s infuriating how much you want him.

You’ve had enough of his cool detachment tonight.

With a smirk, you slam your bottle down, the noise cutting through the chatter, and decide it’s time to rattle the Surgeon of Death.

You stagger to your feet, the sake sloshing in your system as you saunter over, hips swaying with purpose.

“Captain,” you drawl, voice dripping with mischief, stopping right in front of him.

Law’s gaze lifts, those piercing gray eyes narrowing as he takes in your flushed state.

“You’re drunk,” he states flatly, already turning back to his book.

Oh, hell no. You’re not letting him dismiss you that easily.

With a daring grin, you reach for the hem of your top, peeling it off in one fluid motion, leaving you in just your bra—black lace, clinging to your curves.

The cold air of the sub hits your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat in your core as Law’s eyes snap back to you, widening for a fraction of a second before his jaw tightens.

“What the hell are you doing?” he growls, voice low, but you catch the faintest flush on his tattooed neck.

Leaning forward, hands braced on the counter beside him, you let him get a good look, your smirk wicked.

“Just givin’ you a reason to pay attention, Doc. Wanna check my vitals now?”

His fingers twitch around the book, and you swear you see a crack in that icy facade—will he snap, or keep playing the untouchable captain?

The room’s gone quiet, or maybe it’s just the blood pounding in your ears as you hold his stare, daring him to react.

Law slams the book shut with a sharp thud, his voice a dangerous whisper.

“You’ve got no idea what you’re starting.”

But he doesn’t move away, doesn’t call for Bepo to drag you off.

Instead, his gaze drops, lingering on the swell of your chest before flicking back to your face, a storm brewing in those eyes.

You tilt your head, tongue darting out to wet your lips, pushing him further.

“Then show me, Law. I’m all yours to dissect.”

His hand shifts, inching toward the hilt of Kikoku propped nearby—not out of threat but pure instinct—and you feel the air thicken, your skin prickling as you wait for his next move…

His long fingers hovering just above the blade’s grip.

——

Sanji

The kitchen of the Thousand Sunny smells of fresh herbs and simmering broth, a late-night sanctuary where Sanji works his magic.

You’ve wandered in after a few too many drinks with the crew, the buzz in your head making you bolder than usual as you lean against the counter, watching him chop vegetables with that effortless precision.

His blond hair falls over one eye, cigarette smoke curling lazily in the air, and damn if he doesn’t look good in that apron.

You’ve always known how to push his buttons—he’s a hopeless romantic, after all—and tonight, you’re in the mood to be his muse.

Swinging your legs playfully, you lean forward, letting your voice dip into something sweet and teasing.

“Sanji, darling,” you coo, drawing out the words as you twirl the bottle in your hand, “you always make such a fuss over Nami and Robin, but what about me? Don’t I deserve a little of that special treatment?”

His head snaps up, eyes wide behind that blond fringe, and the cigarette nearly falls from his mouth as he stammers,

“M-my lady, of course, I—anything for you!”

You hop off the counter, closing the distance, and pluck the cigarette from his lips, taking a slow drag before blowing the smoke right in his face with a wicked smile.

“Then how ‘bout you serve me somethin’… personal? I’m starvin’ for a taste of you, chef.”

His face turns beet red, hearts practically popping in his eyes, but there’s a nervous swallow as you press closer, your hand brushing his apron.

On the other hand, Sanji’s no fool—he knows when he’s being played with, doesn’t he?

He recovers fast, a suave grin spreading as he sets down his knife, turning to face you fully.

“Ahh, my sweet, you wound me with such temptation! But I am at your service—name your desire, and I’ll whip it up!”

His voice drips with flirtation, but you see the way his hands fidget, the slight tremor in his fingers.

You step even closer, your chest brushing his as you murmur,

“I want the main course, Sanji. Hot, messy, and all mine.”

His breath catches, eyes darting to your lips, and for once, the smooth-talking cook seems at a loss for words.

The pot on the stove bubbles over with a loud hiss, steam rising, mirroring the heat building between you as his hand hovers near your waist, hesitant but oh-so-close to touching.

[katemoneymartinsgf]

Jealous in Dallas |pazzi|

a/n: okay so i don’t know how to respond to comments so thank you @asiahoov12 for this request. Sorry i’ve been slacking guys. I got lots of recs and i’m trying to write for all of them. Thank you so much for taking the time to request something, I love it so much.

Request: Ok do one what Azzi is in Dallas at a bar with Paige and Paige gets jealous when someone try's to hit on Azzi

—

jealous in dallas

It’s not fancy. Just some Dallas spot with good music and a patio out back, packed but not too much.

Paige has one arm draped across the back of Azzi’s barstool. The other holds her drink loosely. She’s leaning in close, head tilted as Azzi tells her something about the playlist, something Paige won’t remember because her entire brain is focused on the way Azzi’s shirt fits her just right.

They’ve been like this all night — attached at the hip, close enough to share breath.

So when some dude in a denim button-down slides up next to Azzi and throws out a, “Hey, can I get you another?” like Paige isn’t literally touching her — Paige freezes.

Azzi blinks once, then glances at Paige.

Paige sets her drink down. Slowly.

Azzi opens her mouth to say something polite, but Paige beats her to it.

“She’s good.”

Her voice is calm. Not sharp. Not yet.

Denim Guy looks her over, confused. “Oh — I was talking to—”

“Yeah. I know who you were talking to,” Paige says, sliding her hand from the back of Azzi’s stool to the back of Azzi’s neck. Her fingers curl there. Firm. Claiming.

Azzi shifts slightly in her seat but doesn’t pull away. If anything, she leans into it.

“I’m just saying hi,” the guy tries again, still clearly not reading the room.

Paige smiles — but it’s the cold kind. The try it again and see kind.

“She’s not saying hi back.”

Azzi reaches up, laces her fingers through Paige’s.

“I’m good,” she tells the guy, voice even.

Paige doesn’t even look at him now. She’s looking at Azzi — jaw tight, pupils blown, like her blood’s running hotter than it should be.

“Let’s go outside,” she says, but it’s not a question.

Azzi’s already nodding.

-

The patio is quieter. A little breeze, string lights, the faint echo of music pulsing from inside.

Paige pushes Azzi gently up against the wall just outside the back entrance. Not rough. Not rushed. Just urgent.

“You didn’t even look at him,” she says, voice low. “You didn’t even entertain it.”

Azzi tilts her head, amused. “Was I supposed to?”

“No. You did everything right,” Paige mutters, stepping in closer. “I just— I saw his hand on the bar. Saw him lean toward you like I wasn’t even sitting there.”

Azzi wraps her arms around Paige’s neck. “And now what?”

Paige doesn’t answer. Just kisses her — hard.

It’s messy. Intentional. A little too much for public, and still not enough. She kisses her like she’s daring someone to look. Like she wants them to.

When she pulls back, breathless, she whispers:

“You’re mine.”

Azzi smiles. Calm. Steady. Dangerous.

She grips Paige’s jaw, guides her back in, and kisses her slow this time — deep, full-body, until Paige’s fingers tighten on her hips like she might come undone right there.

Then Azzi pulls back and says in her ear:

“And you’re mine, baby. So relax.”

Paige exhales like she’s never heard anything more grounding in her life.

But she still doesn’t let go.

Not all night.

-

They don’t leave the bar.

Paige’s hand stays on Azzi’s hip the entire walk back inside, thumb tracing slow, effortless circles through the fabric of her jeans like she’s not even thinking about it — like it’s instinct now, like she’s making sure the bar remembers.

Azzi grabs their drinks from the counter. Paige grabs Azzi from behind — arms low around her waist, chin resting lightly on her shoulder, voice brushing her ear like something private.

“You good now?” Azzi asks, handing her the glass without looking.

“No.”

Azzi hides a grin in her drink. “You’re ridiculous.”

Paige shrugs against her like she’s not bothered — like she’s always this collected.

“He looked like a ‘let me show you my truck’ kind of guy.”

Azzi hums. “Could’ve been.”

“I would’ve broken his jaw.”

Azzi finally turns in her arms, laughter soft under her breath. “You were so pressed.”

Paige’s eyes narrow — not in annoyance, just deliberate. Confident.

“Yeah. And?”

Azzi lifts a brow, still smiling. “You almost knocked the man’s beer off the bar with how fast you stood up.”

“Maybe I should’ve.”

Paige doesn’t say it loud. She doesn’t have to.

It sends heat up Azzi’s spine anyway — that mix of calm and danger, the quiet kind of possessiveness that doesn’t need attention, just presence. Paige doesn’t get loud. She just gets close. And she stays there.

Azzi slides her hands under Paige’s shirt — cool fingers against warm skin — and leans in.

“You jealous,” she says, “or just obsessed with me?”

“Yes.”

The answer lands heavy between them — no hesitation, no blink.

Azzi kisses the corner of her mouth.

“You love me.”

“I worship you.”

Azzi laughs, low and breathy, heart thudding in her chest.

“You were real quiet when I wore this sweater earlier.”

Paige doesn’t move. Just drops her hand lower, slides it down to Azzi’s thigh, and pulls her in — slow, commanding.

“I wasn’t quiet. I was fighting for my life.”

Azzi exhales. She’s still smirking, but her breath catches — because Paige is so unbothered in it all. Cocky, calm, and still completely wrapped around her.

“You’re so dramatic.”

“Some would call it possessive I think.”

“You’re whipped.”

Paige tilts her head. “Same thing.”

Azzi kisses her again, slower this time. Lips brushing her ear like a dare.

“You didn’t have to kiss me like that in front of the building.”

“I absolutely did.”

“Now everyone knows I’m yours.”

“Good.”

Azzi pulls back just enough to meet her gaze. “And they know you’re mine?”

Paige smiles — the kind of smile that makes Azzi forget everything else in the room.

“Let ’em try me.”

And Azzi — cool, composed Azzi — just laughs into her neck, arms looped behind her back like Paige is gravity.

She doesn’t move for the rest of the night.

And neither does Paige.

Because Azzi likes being wanted like this. She likes the weight of it — the steady hands, the unwavering attention, the fire just beneath Paige’s control. She likes knowing that even when Paige is calm, she’s still choosing her — loudly, fully, without apology.

[paintedrecs]

"Creative inbreeding" is such an apt term. It is, quite frankly, why I've pretty much given up on reading fantasy YA for the time being. A lot of the popular ones I'd been picking up - widely discussed, pretty covers, interesting summaries - are nearly indistinguishable from each other in terms of actual writing style.

Lead characters with copy/paste personalities. A love interest that hits all the popular tropes, even if the relationship doesn't really work within the story structure. A narrative arc that hits all the key stops along the way, like it's following a map. The same types of descriptions of food, clothing, towns, etc. I set the book down when I'm done and can't even remember who the author was without flipping back to that nicely illustrated cover.

I don't mean to criticize the authors, because obviously they're working hard, and it's amazing that they got their books out into the world. I'm just...tired of reading so many of the same stories, with different hats.

Part of it, I'm sure, is that people are writing what they think sells - and agents and publishing houses are probably picking up specific stories for the same reason. It's like Disney doing endless remakes of stories that were originally something creative and inspiring.

But you can tell when you're reading something that's sort of just...cobbled together from all the other books that person has encountered from within the same exact genre. They're assembling bits of everyone else's voices instead of developing their own. It might be readable, but it's not terribly memorable.

In one of my college lit classes, our final exam was to read excerpts from various literary works and write a short essay response identifying the authors and explaining our reasons. It wasn't a test to check whether we'd read and memorized everything by these authors - it was to see how closely we'd been paying attention to the ones we had read and discussed in class.

For instance, the Jack London excerpt wasn't from White Fang or The Call of the Wild - it was a paragraph from a short story we hadn't read, where you could pick up on setting, style, themes, tone, etc to say hey...I think this was probably written by him.

I still remember that exam because it was a pretty cool exercise that showed how distinct an author's voice can be, even for ones that carry over into different genres. (Jack London is a little bit of a cheat if you go "oh it's set in Alaska.") It's like hearing a song you've never listened to before and recognizing their voice, or identifying a painting without having to look at the signature.

And yes, you can see this in fanfiction, too: I used to enjoy trying to identify authors in fandom exchange festivals, before the anon switch flipped off and they were revealed. Sometimes I was wrong. Sometimes I got it right, and it was so fun!

My favorite fic authors do often have a distinct tone and style that they carry through their writing, even while drawing from canonical sources and keeping it "in character." Just like the paintings from two artists sitting next to each other in front of a bowl of fruit will depict the "same" subject on the canvas, but with their point of view and personality in the brushstrokes.

Which is all just to say that I agree, so strongly, with the need to not only read if you're going to write...but to read widely and across genres. Across time periods and languages, too: I very much recommend reading stories from other cultures and other countries, to develop a wider view of the world.

If you only read modern YA fantasy written by US-based authors, your stories are...going to sound a lot like theirs, even if you don't intend them to.

If you read a ton of fic, you'll probably learn how to write something that aligns well with what everyone seems to like and gravitate towards in fandom. Maybe that's the goal. But even if you don't have the drive or the energy to write or try to publish original works, all the advice from earlier in this thread will help you in fandom.

If you want to write a story that isn't an entirely unique concept but IS your unique voice, you have to develop that voice through wider experience.

I've seen fanfic authors brag about how they never read at all, fic or otherwise...and quite frankly, it shows. You can only improve through practice, and some of that practice includes studying and learning from others, which can really be as simple as just sitting down with a cup of tea and a stack of books.

They don't have to be "literary." They don't need glowing 5 star reviews. They should just be what books are meant to be: a way for you to dive into a whole bunch of different worlds and time periods and discover the huge range of creativity that's out there for you to enjoy.

fascinating that when you tell people "you have to learn the rules to break them" when talking about drawing/painting etc everyone nods and agrees but the second you say "you have to read books if you want to write better" there's a horde of contrarians begging to be the wrongest people ever all of a sudden

[viaxslz]

⭔﹐⌗ ATTENTION ﹕ᶻz﹒

享受 ! .°. ݁₊ 𐙚 gn!reader, cw: established relationship, post argument, making up, cold shoulders, pet names, oh take me back to this era 😭😭, not proofread :P

CHAN

You’ve been giving Chan the cold shoulder for hours after your argument. arms crossed, death glare loaded, and air pods in even though they’re not playing anything. Chan knows he's in trouble. You’re not even acknowledging the dog pics he sent you. The dog pics. That’s when he knows it’s serious. Cue Chan pacing back and forth in the living room like a sitcom dad. He's googling "how to apologize to your emotionally intelligent but terrifyingly stubborn significant other who might actually kill you with their eyes." No real help. He decides to go with the classic Chan combo: guilt + dramatic flair + ✨stupid charm✨. Next thing you know, he’s dramatically fake-sniffling outside your door with a Bluetooth speaker playing “Apologize” by OneRepublic at full volume. “Baby… it’s too late to apolo—oh wait, no, it’s NOT too late! That’s why I’m here!” You crack the door open just to glare, and that’s when he shoves a plate of perfectly microwaved dino nuggets into your hands like it’s a peace treaty. “I made these with love. And regret. Mostly regret. But also love.” You’re still silent. So he pulls out his final weapon: a handwritten letter addressed to “The Love of My Life (Who Could Annihilate Me With One Look).” It’s full of sappy lines like “Your silence hurts more than leg day” and “You’re my favorite notification and also includes a stick figure drawing of you kicking his butt, labeled “Me if I ever mess up again.” You finally snort, trying to stay mad but failing. He gasps. “Was that a laugh? Did you just—was that forgiveness I heard in your nose?” You: “That was me trying not to choke on a nugget, actually.” Chan grins like he just won an Oscar. “I’ll take it.” And before you know it, you’re in his arms, still pretending you’re annoyed, while he whispers sweet apologies into your ear and asks if you want to co-parent a puppy someday because, you know, trust rebuilding.

LEE KNOW

Minho isn’t the type to beg for forgiveness. At least, that’s what he tells himself. In reality, he’s been sulking in the kitchen for an hour, dramatically peeling oranges like they personally offended him because someone (you) won’t talk to him after your argument. He’s not even sure who was right anymore. Probably you. But admitting that out loud would break his cool, and that’s illegal in Minho Land. Instead, he starts making increasingly loud commentary to his cats. “Soonyoung, do you think I was being unreasonable? Hmm? No? Exactly. At least someone understands me.” You’re in the next room, scrolling on your phone, clearly ignoring him. He walks by casually and accidentally drops a photo of you two on the floor. “Oops,” he says way too loudly. “Didn’t mean to drop this beautiful memory we shared when we were still talking to each other like normal, emotionally stable people.” Still nothing. You don’t even blink. That’s when he resorts to phase two: petty bribery. He slides a plate of your favorite snack across the table toward you without saying a word. There’s a sticky note on it that says: “I’m still mad but I miss you more. Don’t let the cat eat this.” You glance at it, unimpressed. So he ups the ante and sends you a meme one of himself, edited to look like he’s crying in a corner with the caption: “Me after realizing I can’t win a fight against my insanely hot and emotionally intelligent partner.” Finally, you let out a laugh, and he looks up from across the room like a cat that’s pretending it doesn’t care but has been watching you the whole time. “Oh, so you do still love me,” he smirks, leaning against the counter. You: “I still haven’t forgiven you.” Minho: “That’s okay. I forgive me for both of us.” You roll your eyes and throw a pillow at him. He catches it, kisses it dramatically, and says, “Tell your representative we accept the terms.” Later, he lets Dori sit in your lap while he curls up next to you, whispering, “I hate fighting with you. Let’s not do that again. Unless you’re into angry make-ups. In which case, I’m very available.”

CHANGBIN

Changbin messed up. He knows it. You know it. The neighbors probably know it because you haven’t responded to a single thing he’s said in two hours and he’s been dramatically sighing every five minutes like someone just told him protein shakes were banned. He starts pacing the apartment like he’s mentally preparing for a final boss fight. Even his muscles look tense. He mutters to himself like a stressed-out drama lead. "Okay Changbin, you’ve survived leg day, you’ve survived Jihoon’s cooking, you can survive this." He tries casual tactics first. Walks by you holding a gallon of water like he’s not suffering. Drops a casual “sup” in the most broken voice ever. You don’t even blink. So he levels up: Operation Cute & Desperate. You hear rustling in the bedroom. Fifteen minutes later, he walks out in your hoodie, the one that’s comically tight on him and a headband with little bear ears. His arms are crossed. His face is dead serious. “I’m here to apologize,” he says, voice an octave higher. “As your oversized emotional support bear.” You blink. He waddles closer, overly dramatic. “I’ve been thinking about my actions. While lifting. And crying. Slightly. Okay maybe a lot. But my point is look into these bear ears and tell me you don’t miss me.” You burst out laughing. He grins like he just benched 300 pounds of forgiveness. But he’s not done. He dramatically pulls out a tiny tub of ice cream from behind his back like it’s an engagement ring. “I come bearing peace offerings and high-calorie emotional healing. If this doesn’t work, I’ll let you pick the next gym playlist. Even if it’s… ballads.” You, narrowing your eyes: “Even the sad ones with rain sound effects?” He winces. “Even those.” You pull him into a hug, bear ears squishing slightly, and he lets out a victorious sigh.

HYUNJIN

The argument was dumb. Like, really dumb. Something about the dishes and his suspicious ability to avoid them like they’re cursed. But now you’re not talking to him, and Hyunjin is spiraling. He’s lying facedown on the floor like a Victorian man fainting in a corset. Felix: “Dude, are you okay?” Hyunjin, muffled into the carpet: “No. My soulmate hates me and the world has lost color.” He tries texting you, but you left him on read. Tragic. So he gets creative. You walk into the living room and freeze. There’s a handwritten note taped to the wall that says: “In this house, i love and respect the queen (you). Even when she is intimidating and scary and not talking to me.” Below it: a trail of rose petals… leading to the kitchen… where you find Hyunjin in an apron, holding a vacuum cleaner in one hand and a spatula in the other like some kind of domestic apology warrior. “I have vacuumed. I have cooked. I have suffered.” You stare at him. He drops the spatula. “Do I get forgiveness points if I say you’re prettier when you’re mad?” You squint. “No.” He gasps. “How dare. I’m literally groveling. Do you know how much I hate crumbs on my socks? I vacuumed for you. That’s love.” You try to keep a straight face, but he’s got that kicked puppy look and there’s flour in his hair. It’s… kind of adorable. “I’m still mad.” He nods solemnly, walks over, and holds up a crayon drawing of the two of you holding hands, labeled: “Me + The Love of My Life (please forgive me I am weak without you)” You burst out laughing, finally giving in. He beams like he just won an award. Hyunjin, hugging you tightly: “I’ll do dishes every day this week.” You: “And next week.” Hyunjin: “Let’s not push it.”

HAN

Han is not handling this well. You're ignoring him and he’s been pacing the room like a raccoon on Red Bull. The argument was over something stupid (probably him forgetting to text you back because he was distracted by a pigeon outside), but now you’re giving him the silent treatment and he’s one sad meme away from spiraling. He sends you a voice note titled “Please Listen or I Will Cry in Public” You open it. It’s just him saying “hi” in 27 different accents, followed by a long sigh and then: “I miss you. Also, I stubbed my toe and I feel like that’s karma.” Still no response. So he launches Operation Desperate But Make It Stupid™. You walk into the kitchen to find a post-it note stuck to your favorite snack: “This snack is yours. So is my heart. Please take both.” Then there’s another note on the fridge: “If this is where the cold stuff goes, why are you being so cold to me :(((((” Another one on the toilet: “I flushed my pride. Let me back in your heart.” You’re trying not to laugh, but it’s becoming physically impossible. Then you hear him yell from the living room: “BABY PLEASE I CAN’T WORK UNDER THESE CONDITIONS. I TRIED TO WRITE LYRICS AND THEY TURNED INTO A SAD POEM ABOUT YOUR LEFT EYEBROW.” You peek your head out and he’s sitting dramatically on the floor with a ukulele he can’t play, strumming random strings while freestyle rapping an apology. “I was dumb and now I’m numb, You’re my queen and I’m your crumb, Forgive me please, or I’ll become…A worm.” You: “…A worm?” Jisung: “An unlovable worm.” You finally burst out laughing. He scrambles to his feet like he just got a Grammy and hugs you tight, not letting go. “I’m sorry. I was dumb. I always mess things up but I don’t wanna mess us up. You mean too much to me, even more than ramen. That’s serious.” You: “Even more than convenience store ramen at 3am?” He gasps. “Don’t make me say it again. It hurts.”

FELIX

You’re mad. And Felix? He’s a walking apology wrapped in sunshine and panic. He’s been following you around the apartment at a five-foot distance like a sad Roomba. Every time you turn, he freezes like he’s been caught committing a crime. He tries whispering your name dramatically like a telenovela character. “Y/N… Y/N, please… don’t do this. Not like this. Don’t ghost me while we’re still in the same house. It’s emotional terrorism.” You ignore him. So he leaves and comes back wearing the most ridiculous outfit known to mankind: your fuzzy pink robe, heart-shaped sunglasses, and a single oven mitt. “Look,” he says, dead serious. “This is what losing your affection did to me. I have no sense of fashion. No sense of self. I tried to toast bread but forgot to plug in the toaster.” You raise an eyebrow. So he ups the ante. Grabs your plushie and gently makes it “walk” toward you with a high-pitched voice. “Hi! I’m Mr. Snuggles and I think you should forgive Lixie because he’s really sorry and his freckles are crying.” You cover your face trying not to laugh. “Help what???” Then he puts the plushie down, sighs deeply, and finally drops the crack for a second. “I know I hurt your feelings. I didn’t mean to. I’d never do anything to make you feel ignored or unimportant, but I messed up. So… I’ll keep making a fool of myself until you smile again.” You glance up, and he’s got his arms wide open like a dramatic K-drama confession, still in your robe. You: “You look like a chaotic sleepover aunt.” Him, with the brightest grin: “But am I your forgiven chaotic sleepover aunt?” You sigh, walk over, and hug him. He melts immediately, nearly collapsing with relief. “I’ll be better,” he murmurs into your shoulder. “I promise. Even if I have to learn how to use the toaster properly.”

SEUNGMIN

The argument was small but loud. And now you’ve gone full cold shoulder. No eye contact. No banter. No sarcastic jabs. Nothing. For Seungmin, that’s worse than death. At first, he tries to out-ignore you out of pure spite. He walks past you dramatically sipping water like he’s never been hydrated a day in his life. Slams the cup down. Sighs. Doesn’t look at you. Repeats. Then he escalates. You walk into the kitchen and the fridge has a post-it that says: “This is where cold things go. Just like your heart apparently.” You spot your favorite snack on the counter. The packaging is untouched… but there’s another note: “I was going to eat this out of petty revenge, but I remembered I’m a good person. Unlike some people.” You almost laugh. Almost. Later, you hear him muttering while gaming: “Wow, teammates who actually listen… must be nice…” You finally lose it and throw a pillow at him. He catches it midair like a smug little gremlin and smirks. “So you can still see me. Thought I turned invisible.” You: “You’re so dramatic.” Seungmin, fake offended: “I haven’t even started yet.” Then he softens. Just a little. Barely. “I don’t like fighting with you. And I definitely don’t like not talking to you. I’m still mad, but I miss you more.” He walks over, hands in pockets, and says it without looking directly at you. “I’m sorry for being a jerk. I’m working on it. Please don’t stay mad too long, okay?” You stare at him. He stares at the floor. “…Also I may or may not have named your pillow Kevin and cried into him last night.” You: “You WHAT—” Seungmin: “Shhh. Kevin and I are going through a lot.”

JEONGIN

Jeongin, immediately after the argument: “I don’t care. I’m not apologizing. I was RIGHT.” Jeongin, 20 minutes later, whispering to Hyunjin: “She’s not looking at me. Should I fake an injury?” Hyunjin: “What kind?” Jeongin: “Emotional.” Cue Operation Unbothered (but obviously very bothered). He starts acting extra around the house. Slams drawers. Loudly types on his phone with the keyboard click sounds on. Walks past you with exaggerated sighs and occasional mutters like: “Guess I’ll just go be emotionally damaged… ALONE.” You stay silent. Now it’s desperation hour. He walks in wearing a crown made from a cereal box, holding a mop like a sword. “I have returned from the Kingdom of Regret. I bring apologies and emotional growth.” You blink. He bows deeply, knocking the crown off his head. “Your silence wounds me, fair lady. I shall now sing of my sorrow.” You: “Jeongin, don’t—” Too late. He whips out his phone, plays the most dramatic instrumental music he can find, and starts fake-sobbing like he’s in a historical drama. “Forgive me, for I was young and foolish—AND STUPID. MOSTLY STUPID.” You’re cackling at this point, and he breaks character instantly, grinning like he just won the lottery. “AH, SHE SMILES. I AM REDEEMED.” You: “You’re so annoying.” Him, smug: “But… forgiven?” You roll your eyes, tug him into a hug, and he melts instantly, still holding the mop. “Next time,” you mumble, “just say sorry like a normal person.” He grins into your shoulder. “Where’s the drama in that?”

PERM TAGLIST 📌🔖 ──── @the-sea-called-history02 @oc3anfloor @queenofdumbfuckery @whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @my-neurodivergent-world @bookswillfindyouaway @beal-o @velvetmoonlght

[itneverendshere]

LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - SIXTEEN

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: angst; mentions of abortion; grief; mental and physical health issues;

Your last coversation with Rafe had been a week and a half ago.

It didn’t ruin you, nor did it magically fix you, but at least it didn’t leave you sobbing. That was progress.

In that time frame, you had three doctor appointments. Two for the anemia, which still left you weak even when the sun was out. And one for the baby.

Rafe offered to come; it mattered to him. But you didn’t let him yet.

You were okay with him or, at least, okay enough to look at him and not feel like screaming and “okay” didn’t mean ready. Letting him into that room—to hear the heartbeat, see the tiny body growing inside you—would be handing him access to the part of you that was still so new it trembled, the part that was what was hurting most. 

The morning after your conversation, your phone buzzed earlier than it should. 

You squinted at the screen.

Sarah <3 Calling...

You slide the answer button with a groggy sigh. “Hi?”

“Okay, don’t think I’m crazy,” she said immediately, “but… did something happen last night?”

Like clockwork, your brain started coming up with excuses. Say you went to bed early, you didn’t see him. 

Your stomach dipped. “Uh… what do you mean?”

She huffed, “I called Rafe an hour ago. Wanted to make sure he was okay, y’know? I drove him home. But this morning, I checked in again. He picked up, and—he sounded different.”

You remained silent. Different how? You wanted to ask. But you already knew.

“Calm! Genuinely okay for the first time in months,” she emphasizes. “Which is rare for him lately. And the only time he ever sounded like that was when you two were—”

You chewed the inside of your cheek, weighing your options. You could lie, keep this between you and Rafe for a while longer, say maybe therapy was finally kicking in, or he got a good night’s sleep, or anything else.

“He came over last night.”

“…Oh.”

You stared at a spot on your ceiling, the memory of Rafe's voice spinning in your head. “We talked.”

“You talked?” Sarah repeats. You could practically hear the raised eyebrow. “Talked? Or did you throw something at his head?”

You let out a tired laugh, the first one of the morning. “No. Talked.”

“Okay. Wow. I mean… I’m happy. You two needed that.”

“Yeah.”

“And? Did you… tell him?”

You hesitated, letting your eyes drift shut.

“I told him everything, Sarah.”

 “Wait. Everything, as in... everything everything?” 

“…Yeah.”

“Everything?” She still wasn’t sure she heard you right the first time.

Your throat tightened. “Yeah.”

“Holy shit."

You had watched the blood drain from Rafe’s face the second you told him about how far it had gone, how sick you’ve been the entire time. You remembered his hands; they’d gone still, then started to shake.

You weren’t mad at him then, not how you used to be. You were tired of being the one who knew what it felt like to wake up in a body that could betray you at any moment.

Sarah’s voice cut back in: “And how do you feel now?”

You blinked back into the present.

“I don’t know. I think it broke him a little.”

“Good,” Sarah muttered, not meaning to be cruel, just matter-of-fact. “He should break a little.”

“I didn’t feel like I wanted to hurt him either.”

“That’s something,” Sarah said gently.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “It’s something.”

You sat up against the pillows, the room dim with morning light.

“He offered to come with me to the appointments. I said no, but he still offered. That’s new.”

“Do you wish you had said yes?”

You thought about it.

“No. I think I need to be in that room alone for a while.”

“You did something really brave."

You didn’t feel brave, though; you felt like someone standing on an isolated road with no map, with a body that hurt in ways it shouldn’t. A baby that might or might not make it and a man you used to love still orbiting you like a planet you couldn’t land on safely.

Sarah was quiet for a second, then said, “Are you gonna talk to Topper?”

You sucked in a breath through your nose, not surprised she brought him up. You swore she and Rafe were more alike than what they let on.

“I don’t know.”

It wasn’t a lie. You had thought about it, more than once, since Rafe mentioned it. You debated texting Topper, calling, and asking if he still kept that dumb contact name in his phone for you.

He had stopped being just a cousin when you lost your family, turning into your almost-brother.

But you've been so angry, in pieces. Letting yourself feel that anger had been necessary, you didn’t want to fake forgiveness before it was real; you had to be able to look him in the eye without flinching at the memory of what he’d done.

The bitterness in your chest had started to quiet after a while, not gone, but calm enough to think clearly.

After talking to Rafe, who’d torn your heart in such evil, deeper ways, you’d swallowed your pride, bitterness, and pain for the sake of peace. Your peace of mind, that is, not his.

You needed closure more than you craved revenge nowadays. Acting civil, even with someone who broke you, was a step toward healing yourself. 

How could you give that grace to Rafe and not to Topper? Your cousin who hurt you, yes—but less. If you could offer space and civility to the boy who shattered your trust, you could extend honesty and an open door to the one who merely cracked it.

“I don’t know how to look at him. I don’t know if I’ll yell or cry.”

Sarah was quiet again.

You smacked your forehead. “It’s stupid. I forgave the guy who ruined my idea of love, but I’m still bitter at the one who flaked on family.”

“It’s not stupid,” she said. “You expected more from him.”

“I’ll talk to him eventually.”

Sarah didn’t push. “Okay.”

You texted Rafe five days later in the afternoon, not particularly eager to ask him for a favor, but alas. The conversation had to happen somewhere private. Your house, not a public scene. God forbid it happened in public again, where some kook could overhear—or worse, Ruthie.

You knew she was still lurking around him, trying to win him back; she never wasted time running off to her group chat, turning it into gossip.

“Tell Topper to come by my place Friday at 7.”

You stared at the screen before hitting send. No emojis or small talk, only instructions. Rafe read between the lines, you know he did—he always had. It didn’t take him long to reply.

“Okay.”

Topper showed up exactly at seven, not a second earlier or later.

You watched from the window as his car idled out front like it was nervous too. You left the gate and doors unlocked, so he had to open it himself. When he finally walked through the main door, you were on the couch, half-sunken into a pillow you didn’t like anymore.

“Hey,” he said, awkwardly waving from a distance.

“Did Rafe threaten you, or did you come willingly?”

Topper flinched. “I came 'cause you asked.”

“I told you. There’s a difference.”

He looked around your living room, scared you might bite him. 

Fair. 

“You look... tired,” he said, as if that was a neutral observation.

You arched an eyebrow. “Yeah, growing a human while hating most people around you is exhausting. Shocker.”

“Right,” Topper muttered, hands stuffed in his jacket, hoping he could disappear inside it. He was still standing there like a dog that got caught pissing on the rug, eyes never staying on you for more than a second.

“You want water or something?” You reached for your sarcastic vein, hoping to make him squirm. “A moral compass while you’re at it?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t you dare say you didn’t mean to.” Your voice rose, not yelling yet. “You didn’t ask. You didn’t come to me or knock. You went through my shit like a creep, found one phone number, and assumed.”

“I thought you were sick!” he said, like that excused it. “Rafe said you were off, that you looked pale, tired, not like yourself—and I got worried!”

“No,” you snapped. “You got nosy. You played spy for Rafe because God forbid I have one fucking private thing in my life. You found that number and ran to him like a little lapdog.”

“I didn’t know it was—”

“But you told him anyway!” You retorted. “And guess what? You were right.”

He flinched as if you had punched him, but you didn't want a recurrence of the last time you saw each other.

“I thought he already knew.”

 “Are you stupid?” You spoke through gritted teeth. “Why would he know? We broke up."

“I’m sorry.” He apologized again, this time with a smaller attitude. “I didn’t think. I just—I thought you needed help.”

“Help?” Your eyes narrowed. “I needed two boys whispering behind my back about my uterus like it’s public property?”

“Oh, come on,” he barked, shocking you into silence. “So you can forgive Rafe—Rafe!—who fucked you over in every way that matters—but I get crucified for screwing up once?!”

Your jaw had clenched in defiance.

“I didn’t forgive him, and that’s not the same.”

“Isn’t it?” He stepped forward now, finally showing some of the Topper you used to know—the one who didn’t roll over. “He broke your heart. You talked to him before you spoke to me; you’re texting him when you need something. You’re playing a fucking peace treaty with him.”

“Top—”

“I make one shitty call, yeah—a really bad one, I own that—but I thought you were in danger. And I don’t get a second chance? I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

You stared at him, the room pulsing with shame. There was the part you hated: he was right. You’d twisted the narrative to make yourself the victim in every corner, and yeah, you were the one who had been hurt the most—but that didn’t make you righteous.

You made peace with Rafe because it was easier than holding on to that brand of pain. But Topper? He was family, which made it worse when he hurt you—it made you hold him to a higher standard. 

You sat back down, hating how much that hurt—how scared he looked of you, as if you were a landmine instead of the person he used to eat cereal with in pajamas on summer mornings. The girl who cried next to him because you got your period for the first time and thought you were dying, and he just sat there, pale-faced and googling it in a panic like you’d been shot.

Yeah, he fucked up. But not like Rafe, not with malice.

Topper didn’t want to hurt you; you knew that. You always knew that, but you’d been… scared. And so angry. That was what it was, wasn’t it? Not betrayal per se—exposure. You’d felt naked and defenseless, and Topper had been the one to fuck you over.

“I know I’m being unfair,” you admitted quietly. “I know. But I’m not mad because you were wrong, Topper. You chose to go behind my back.”

He didn’t say anything.

You sighed, “With Rafe...at that point, I expected it. No with you."

“I didn’t want to break anything. I panicked.”

“I know that now. But it was easier to stay mad at you. If I forgave you… I had to admit how scared I was that Rafe knew.”

“You’re allowed to be scared.”

You looked up at him.

He shifted awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “So… you’re pregnant. And Rafe’s the—uh…”

You lifted your brow questioningly, not expecting the conversation to change tone.

"The donor?" he asked tentatively.

“What the fuck, Topper."

“I don’t know the terminology!” he argued. “I didn’t want to say ‘baby daddy’—that felt too Jerry Springer.”

You rolled your eyes. “You could’ve just said ‘the father.’”

“Oh.” He blinked. “Yeah, that’s—yeah.” He looked at you again, a little sheepish. “So… I’m gonna have a nephew?”

You almost wanted to laugh. It wasn’t funny, but for a second there, it felt like you were living in a cute movie moment, about to pull out an ultrasound and cry happy tears and pick out baby names.

Topper had always been softer than you.

You leaned into the couch again, head tipped to the ceiling. “I don’t know if it’s gonna…” Your throat locked up for a second. “If it’s gonna make it.”

Topper’s face dropped, and he was confused. “What do you mean?”

“I have anemia,” you say. “Severe. It’s why I’ve been so tired. I nearly passed out walking up the stairs last week.”

He swallowed. “But they’re treating it, right? Pills or something?”

You shook your head slowly. “Iron supplements aren’t enough. I’m doing treatments every week.”

The hope drained from his face, replaced with fear or guilt, trying to morph into protectiveness.

You kept going because once you started, it was easier to spill than stop.

“There’s a chance… a pretty decent one… that I won’t carry full term. And even if I do—if I survive that—there’s a chance the baby won’t.”

“But it’s a chance,” he said, almost begging. “Not a sentence.”

“It’s a gamble. I don’t know if my body’s strong enough to win.”

Topper looked gutted. He sank into the armchair across from you, hands clasped between his knees, looking like a kid who just found out the monsters under the bed were real the whole time.

“When were you gonna tell me?” he asked finally.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I didn’t want to make it real; it makes it harder to pretend I’m fine.”

“I don’t give a fuck what you said last time; I am your family,” he choked, eyes red. “You don’t get to die on me, do you hear me? You don’t.”

You stayed still, letting him spiral because he needed it. You knew what it felt like to be scared into saying too much.

“That shit’s not fair.”

His hands were shaking.

“I’m not dying, Topper,” you said, because he needed to hear it. Even if you weren’t sure. 

He looked at you with wet eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” he muttered for the third time, and it was no longer about what he did. “Do you even… want this? Any of it?”

“No,” you replied, “I found out too late to get an abortion.”

You keep the rest of the information hidden away.

He nodded. “Yeah. That’s… fair.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “God, what kind of person does that make me?”

“The honest kind,” he added, without missing a beat.

“You’re not gonna try to make me feel better?”

“I figure if I try to wrap it up in some bullshit about silver linings, you’ll just want to throw something at me.”

You almost smiled.

“Did you tell Rafe all this?”

“Yeah. I did.”

“Really?

You nodded again, slower this time. “And more.”

Topper swallowed that. His mouth opened, then closed again, wanting to ask what “more” meant, but he thought better of it.

“Wow.”

You moved in your seat, arms tightly wrapped around your midsection.

"I was upset that he found out before I was ready to tell him. But a part of me also wanted him to see and feel it.

Topper looked at you, still piercing it all together. “So, why did you tell him?”

“I needed to.” You didn’t sugarcoat it. “It was gonna stay stuck inside me, and I was hoping that it would hurt less. That he’d carry some of the weight too.”

Topper ran a hand through his hair. “Did he?”

“Yeah.” You cleared your throat. “But that’s enough misery for one day, so...” You forced a breath that was exactly a sigh, forcing levity into your voice, “What have you been up to these past few weeks?”

Topper blinked, being the one caught off guard now.

“Uh—honestly?” He scratched the back of his neck. “I spent four days trying to get the stains off my Loewe shirt after you threw the drinks on me.”

You let out a snort. "Good. I hope it’s ruined.”

“Almost was,” he said, with exaggerated pain. “It was a limited drop. I tried vinegar, peroxide, baking soda paste—”

“And?”

“I couldn’t get it out,” he admitted. “But Sofia did.”

Hold on.

Your head snapped toward him, suddenly not blinking. “…Sofia?”

He paused, realizing the trap a second too late. “…Yeah.”

“As in Sofia, Sofia?” Your voice was constricted.

He responded with a nod at first.

"Yeah. She came by. She’s, uh, been around.” Topper’s face twitched. “We...talk? Sometimes, since that night. She saw the shirt and offered to try. She’s good at that kind of stuff—fabrics, whatever.”

You looked at him as if he had grown a second head.

Your eyes didn’t budge. “Uh-huh.”

You recognized the tone in his voice and the way he pronounced her name. Oh, my God.

This fucker cared about her.

You couldn’t process it at first—because it was Topper. You squinted at him, hoping that if you looked hard enough, the truth would pixelate into something different. 

You knew that voice. You’d heard that every time your cousin fell for someone he shouldn’t, like when he said Sarah’s name at fifteen, high on the fantasy of her, long before she ever gave him the time of day. You heard it again when he stupidly gave Ruthie a chance.

And now…

Your voice sounded flat. “You like her.”

Topper flushed immediately. “I didn’t say that. She’s...pretty.”

“You don’t have to.” You had already sunk back into the couch, dragging a throw pillow over your face. “Pretty?” you echoed, sitting up straighter, hands dropping to your lap. “That’s the word you’re going with?”

He looked defensive, shrugging. “What? She is.”

“You’re unbelievable. Do you only fall for girls you’re not supposed to?”

"What does that mean?" he inquired.

You tossed the pillow at him. "Sarah? Ruthie?”

He scowled. “Okay, first of all—” He stood and rubbed his temples. “It’s not like that.”

“It is like that. You’re already defending her.”

You wanted to hate her, but she wasn’t a villainous bitch who went after your man for sport. She was a girl who saw an opportunity and seized it, openly expressing her emoticons. She was overly polite in groups. That made her a little pathetic in your eyes—but it also made her honest. Even so, you were never going to like the girl.

“I’m not—okay, I am, but that doesn’t mean—” He stopped himself. “It’s not serious.”

You blinked at him across the room, expecting resentment to bloom in your chest again, but it didn’t. This was not a backstabbing betrayal or a desire to one-up you. It wasn’t personal.

“You have a crush on Sofia.”

You felt exasperated. Maybe vaguely annoyed, but not mad. And shit, wasn’t that the strangest part? Your claws didn't come out for the first time in months.

You shook your head and let out a soft, disbelieving breath.

“Topper. She's—she’s not like us.”

“I know.”

“And what exactly are you planning to do with that information, Romeo? You gonna start bringing her to country club mixers?”

“I like talking to her. And she makes things feel less...”

You went quiet.

He looked at you again, brows drawn. “You think I like her?”

“I know you do,” you said, more tired than teasing.

Topper sat back down. “Shit.”

You hummed in agreement, "You know Ruthie's going to kill her, right?"

Topper groaned, “Don’t say that.”

You gave him a look. “Why? It’s the truth.”

“She won’t—she’s not—Ruthie wouldn’t actually—”

“Oh my God, Topper.” You leaned forward. “Ruthie keyed a girl’s car because she thought she flirted with you. What do you think she will do once she realizes the girl she has been having pool parties with and pretending to laugh with for months is talking to you?

“She doesn’t know yet!”

“She will.”

He nodded slowly, as if facing death. “Yeah. She will.”

You despised the part of yourself that understood Sofia, that knew that even if she was the one who stepped into Rafe's life after you had left, she did so with a genuine heart.

Your arms tightened around your stomach.

Topper was staring up at the ceiling. “Ruthie's going to destroy her.”

You scoffed.

He laughed dryly, devoid of humor. “Sofia’s sweet.”

“She better learn how to bite.” You weren’t trying to sound cruel, but maybe it came out that way because the second it left your mouth, Topper's gaze shifted to you.

"She is not like Ruthie," he explained quietly.

Or me, you thought to yourself. Sofia was good, not performatively.

She had goodness that still made you roll your eyes, hardly believing it could be real without strings or hidden self-interest. But that girl truly trusted that people meant well and rooted for happy endings.

That had to be nice.

You dion’t know what that kind of believing felt like; you had spent too long preparing for the worst. Hope got you here. Sofia would cry when she was hurt, but you would burn down the entire room before admitting you were bleeding.

“No. She’s not.”

Ruthie was always prepared to pout and smile as she stabbed you in the back. You knew because you would done it too. Once. Maybe more than once. But she was a different breed; she never got hurt and only hurt back.

“It’s not important,” he muttered. “It’s not like Sofia likes me anyway. We’re friends. She’s still in love with—”

He stopped mid-sentence and you only watched the words die in his throat.

“She’s still in love with Rafe,” you finished for him, letting out a small sigh, gaze flicking away, eyes fixed on nothing. “I know she is.”

Topper scrubbed a hand down his face. “How did we get here?”

You looked back at him, tilting your head. “Do you think you're the only one doing the falling?”

He grimaced. “I didn’t think I was falling at all.”

You hummed, nails digging into your sleeves. 

“If it makes you feel better, I don’t hate her. I’d sleep better if I did.”

He looked at you sideways. “You don’t?”

You hesitated. “I don’t like her; I’ll never like her. But she didn’t steal anything from me.”

Topper opened his mouth to say something, then stopped. Whatever he was going to say, he must’ve decided it wasn’t worth the lie.

“I think she wants to move on,” he said instead. “She’s trying. She knows he’s in love with you, still. She’s angry about it,” he added, softer this time. “At the way it all played out.”

You swallowed. “She should be.”

God knows you would've done a lot more damage if you were in her shoes.

He let out a groan.

“Dude, it’s been so long since you’ve been a sappy bitch; this is making me uncomfortable.”

“Shut up.”

“Who are you, and what have you done with my cousin?” Topper teased, tossing a couch cushion at you as if you were thirteen again, trapped in summer vacation hell with only mosquito bites and each other for company.

You tossed it right back. “Don’t act like you didn’t cry during Marley & Me, asshole.”

He huffed, “I had allergies.”

You rolled your eyes. “Whatever helps you fall asleep at night.”

When he looked at you again, he was still smiling; you were both in this strange limbo of pain and healing, treading through all the shit that had happened.

"I missed this," he stated abruptly.

You cast a glance at him. “What?”

“This. Fighting over dumb shit. "Talking to you," he said, picking at a loose thread on his shirt's hem. “Felt like I lost you.”

You looked down at your lap. “You didn’t lose me.”

For a few weeks, it felt as if grief had permanently divided you, and neither of you knew how to get back to normal. But sitting there now, it didn’t feel so far away.

The old you would’ve let that comment slide, pretended you didn’t hear it, or made a sarcastic joke. 

“I’m glad you told me,” you said quietly, nudging his leg with your foot. “About her.”

“Regretting it already.”

You smiled. “Shut up. I can understand why you like her."

You missed being someone who believed that those who loved you would never hurt you—at least not on purpose. Topper had been stupid, but he was trying. Genuinely trying to understand why it mattered so much.

He gave you a side-eye. “You just said you’ll never like her.”

“I won’t. But that doesn’t mean I don’t think you’d be good to her.”

A beat passed. “Are you sure you’re doing okay?”

"Today? Yeah.”

Topper let out a low chuckle, the familiar sound tugging on something deep within your chest. "You’re gonna be fine.”

"Yeah?" You raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah. You’ve got a good heart beneath that bitch exterior," he teased, but his eyes were genuine.

You didn’t want to admit how much that bit of vulnerability—shit, even just his words—meant to you.

"Missed you too, asshole."

"Good."

“But if Ruthie shows up with a baseball bat at your door, I’m not bailing you out.”

He snorted. “Noted.”

Rafe stared at the wood floors in his therapist's office, a vein in his temple showing. 

"Rafe?" Dr. Keller called, pen still against her notebook. "You said you were ready to talk about it."

He wondered how the fuck he was going to get the words out.

"Yeah. I... I don't know where to start."

"You don’t have to say it perfectly."

Rafe nodded as his fingers twitched in his lap.

“She told me.”

Dr. Keller tilted her head. “She told you about...”

“The baby,” His eyes flicked to yours, “And everything else. What the doctors said.” His jaw clenched. “She looked so calm when she said it, she's already making peace with it. She was more worried about others than herself, and I…I don’t know what to do with that. How am I supposed to be okay with any of this?”

What if you died? What if you died and Rafe was stuck here—left with a crying newborn that was supposed to be yours but feels like a ghost of you? He exhaled shakily and violently shook his head, trying to push the fear that was crawling up his spine away.

“I swear, I—I can’t breathe sometimes, thinking about it. If she doesn’t—if she doesn’t come outta this, then what? What am I supposed to do? Raise a kid alone? Be the guy who tells the kid why their mom’s not there? Me?” He scoffed again, “I can’t keep my own shit together. You know what I did after? I drove to the docks and sat there. I didn’t realize I’d been there for hours until my phone died. Just... stared at the water. Tryin’ not to think about what it’d feel like if I jumped in.”

His eyes darted to Dr. Keller for a second before looking away shamelessly.

“I wouldn’t, okay? I’m not... I’m not gonna do that. But what if I mess the kid up the same way I got messed up? What if I scream, or drink, or disappear for hours, and the kid grows up thinking that’s normal? What if I become him?” The last word burned coming out of his mouth — him meaning Ward, the monster behind his bloodline.

Dr. Keller watched him, her pen resting motionless on the page now.

“Rafe,” she started, carefully, “you’re carrying a lot more than grief right now. You’re carrying fear, guilt, and a future you feel completely unprepared for.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

“You mentioned the thought of becoming your father,” she continued, gently. “That’s not a small fear. That’s generational trauma and you’re trying to break that cycle with zero margin for error in the middle of a crisis.”

“And what if I already am him and I’m just too stupid to see it?”

“You’re not him,” Dr. Keller gave him a tight-lipped smile. “You’re scared of becoming him. That’s not the same. Your awareness, the self-loathing, it's proof enough that you’re trying; you care."

Is that supposed to make me feel better? Rafe wanted to snap, but it stuck in his throat; he did want to believe her. 

“Trying doesn’t bring her back.”

Dr. Keller nodded slowly. "You’re mourning her before she dies; this is called anticipatory grief. And it’s paralyzing. But… she’s still here.”

He closed his eyes; the words should have been reassuring, but instead felt like a curse. For now. But how long?

“Do you want to be there?” she asked softly. “If the time comes?”

His eyes snapped open. “What?”

“If something does happen...would you want to be in the room with her? Holding her hand?”

Rafe opened his mouth — then closed it. The image slammed into his chest: your hand going limp in his, that godawful beeping.

“I’d rather it kill me than let her go through that alone.”

Dr. Keller paused for a second before responding again, "Thank you for saying that.”

Rafe sneered. “Don’t thank me. It’s the bare minimum.”

His knee bounced, fingers drumming against it now, twitchy.

Classic Rafe.

“She was scared. I could tell, even if she was trying’ to be calm about it. That fake smile she gives when she is making things easier for everyone but herself." He laughed under his breath, “Always thinkin’ about everyone else.”

He dragged his hand down his cheek, the heel of his palm pressing firmly against his eye socket.

Dr. Keller’s voice was calm. "You said she appeared at peace with it. How did that make you feel?"

“It pissed me off,” Rafe snapped, sitting back hard in the chair, the memory shoving him. “It made me wanna shake her. I’m not even close to ready to let her go.”

“That’s not how this works, Rafe.”

“I know that. I do. But if I’d been anyone else, we wouldn’t be talkin’ about what happens if she dies.” He scratched at the back of his neck, agitated. “I should’ve protected her better."

“You can’t protect people from fate.”

“No,” he said, bitterly. “But I should’ve been the one to get hurt. Not her, never her.”

Dr. Keller leaned across her legs, as if talking to a child. Rafe hated that—that way she leaned in patiently like he was going to lose it if she used a firmer tone, as if he was a sulking boy. It made him feel smaller, somehow, back on the porch steps at seventeen, bleeding pride and fury while Ward talked over his head like he wasn’t there. 

She must've noticed the change in his posture because she pulled back instantly.

“I’m not here to judge you. You’re not responsible for what’s happening to her. You didn’t cause this.”

"If I hadn’t gotten her pregnant in the first place, she wouldn’t be sick. She’s... she’s been so fucking sick, and I—"

"Stop."

Dr. Keller's voice was loud enough to stop him from spiraling.

"Rafe, you can’t keep doing that. You’re blaming yourself for things that you can’t change. Yes, the pregnancy put a strain on her body, but it wasn’t a choice that caused this. You were not the one who decided that she was going to have severe anemia, these things happen.”

“She almost didn’t tell me,” he muttered. “She was gonna go through all of it and not tell me she might—” His breath hitched, voice cracking.

Dr. Keller’s brows pinched in sympathy. “That’s because she cares for you.”

"I know. That’s what makes it worse; I don’t deserve any of it.”

 “What happened after she told you?”

He swallowed hard, his throat tight, similar to swallowing broken glass. “I cried. In front of her. She held me. She’s the one whose iron’s so low she can’t stand some days, and she held me. I told her I’d take care of her, that I’d—” His voice faltered. “I meant it. I don’t know if she believed me.”

The silence fell like dust.

Dr. Keller spoke cautiously. “Do you want another chance to show her that you mean it?”

Rafe looked up, his eyes rimmed with red.

"I want every chance. I want her to hate me, scream at me, and call me selfish, if it means she’s still here to do it. I want her here.”

She waited for him to settle before pivoting.

“May I ask you something?”

He nodded, scrubbing his eyes with the back of his hand, angry that they remained wet. "Yeah. Go ahead.”

“When did you realize you were in love with her?”

His brows lifted, and he dropped his gaze back to the floor, a hint of a real smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, almost imperceptible.

"The first time I saw her," he admitted quietly.

Dr. Keller didn’t write that down. 

“We were kids. She had these stupid braids in her hair and this pout on her face ‘cause her mom made her wear a dress she hated. And I remember thinking, 'Shit. That’s her’.”

He huffed a breathy laugh through his nose. 

“I didn’t know what love was back then," His throat bobbed. "That night, I asked my mom—‘cause I felt weird. Not bad weird. Just... warm. And I asked her what it meant when someone made you feel like that. When you’d do anything to sit next to them or punch anyone who made 'em sad.” He paused, exhaling shakily. “My mom smiled and said, ‘Sounds like love, baby.’ I told her that was stupid; I was too young to be in love. She said, “It’ll wait for you’.”

Dr. Keller glanced up then, but still didn’t write. The recorder between them was already doing its job.

"The love you feel for her is your compass. Neither your guilt nor your fear. That’s what will get you through this. And it’s what will help you raise your child too, if it comes to it.”

“Just want her to know I’m tryin’. Even if I’m scared shitless, I’m want to be the guy she thought I could be.”

“You’re already becoming him,” She nodded. “The moment you walked in here and chose to speak instead of staying silent, you became him.”

“She waited for me, all these years. I’ll wait for her too, however long it takes.”

Rafe hadn’t been sleeping much.

He hoped that by finally letting it all out in Dr. Keller's office, something would settle. But if anything, he was restless.

He’d taken to pacing the house, rubbing his thumb raw over his knuckles. Anything to stop thinking. He was fed up with that shit.

When his brain got too loud, he felt it—the old itch in his bones. The voice that said just a drink. He’d gone down to the liquor cabinet once, stared at the bottle, hands shaking. Thought about calling Barry, just to talk. Or not talk. 

But he didn’t pour the drink or make the call.

It was a little past noon when Sarah showed up at Tannyhill. He heard the front door open, the sound of her voice calling out for Wheezie, and he tensed where he stood in the kitchen. He wanted to back out to the dock, or into his truck, or anywhere her eyes couldn’t pin him down.

He stayed put.

Sarah came to a stop in the kitchen doorway.

“Rafe.”

He didn’t look at her, only ran his hand down his face, the skin along his cheek red from where he kept doing that—rubbing, scraping.

“Wheezie’s not here,” he mumbled. “She’s at choir practice.”

“I know.” Her tone was less accusatory than it had been the previous few times they spoke. “I came to see you.”

“Great. You’ve seen me.”

“You look like shit.” She set down her keys. “She told you.”

He nodded once.

In another life, you would’ve told him first. That thought looped itself over and over, winding tighter around his throat every time it passed through. If things had been different—if he had been different—you would’ve trusted him enough to say it before Sarah.

“She didn’t flinch,” Rafe said, more to the floor than to her. “Acted like it was another Tuesday.”

He braced for the lecture—a speech about stepping up or being better, some bullshit he already told himself every night.

Instead, Sarah walked over. "That’s how she is. You know that.”

He nodded again, stiffer this time. “I feel like if I blink, she’s gonna—"

Sarah gave him a look. “She didn’t want to tell you, but she still did.”

Rafe's throat felt parched as he burned holes in his hands. “I don’t think she expects me to stick around.”

 “Can you blame her?”

He winced, curling his shoulders, hoping to make himself smaller.

“Did she...?” He had to stop himself. The words tasted wrong.

Sarah waited with arms crossed loosely.

"Have you seen her? Did she seem like she’s…” He clenched his jaw. “Like she’s getting worse?”

“She’s tired all the time. Can’t keep food down sometimes. Fainted last week during treatment and told the nurse not to call anyone.”

He averted his gaze and clenched the counter's edge until his knuckles turned white.

“I would’ve been there.”

Sarah arched her brow. “Rafe, you left her.”

He gave a rough sigh, tipping his head back. The ceiling provided little comfort. He had been staring at it a lot lately—at night, in the early mornings, whenever sleep refused to come.

“You can’t disappear and expect her to wait with the door open.”

“I haven’t been sleeping.”

“I know.”

He pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek. “I’m scared.”

Sarah’s expression didn’t change. “I know that too.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“You already do. You love her.”

“She hardly cried, Sar. Is that normal?”

Rafe was aware of the consequences of ignoring it and continuing. That shit didn’t vanish; instead, it buried itself deep, carving its way around your entire being.

“She cried enough already,” Sarah confessed. “She’s tired.”

He didn’t want her to fall apart for him or cry so he’d feel better. But he was terrified you weren’t letting it out at all, that it was going to eat you alive like it had him.

He’d stared at the bottle that morning, stomach sick. Not because he craved the burn, the familiarity, but because drinking was easier than dealing with this helplessness, this love.

The urge was there, caged and pacing.

Rafe could feel it some mornings before his feet hit the floor, but therapy helped. At first, he thought it was bullshit, but when it was him and the silence and all the thoughts he couldn’t outrun, it started to make sense. And it worked—sort of. Worked enough to get him out of the house, to make him want to be good.

For himself. For you.

These past few days, however, he wasn’t sure if it was enough.

He’d done rehab before, for coke. Back when it was clear he was ruining his life at ninety miles an hour. He hadn’t needed anyone to spell it out for him—he’d looked in the mirror and known he wasn’t human anymore.

Drinking didn’t get that bad, at least not in the same explosive way.

He hadn’t driven drunk or gotten violent or collapsed in public. But it slipped in, and it started around the time Ward died—almost four months ago. Everyone kept telling him he was fine now because he had money, a house, and a second chance.

He decided to quit on his own. 

What if it came back? What if he needed more?

He didn’t want to end up on that floor again, have you or his sisters walk in and find him like that. He wanted to be better.

Rafe clenched his jaw, dug his thumb into the same spot on his knuckle, “You think I’d be a better dad than Ward?”

Sarah clicked her tongue. “Low bar, don’t you think?”

“Sarah.”

“You think he asked himself that question? Lost sleep wondering if he was screwing us up?” She scoffed. “He just did it and moved on. You’re not Dad."

The screen door banged open right then, footsteps thudding across the porch like a stampede, which only one person ever managed to pull off in flip-flops.

“Hello?” Wheezie’s voice rang out. “Anybody home? I swear, Rafe, if you ate the last of the garlic knots again—”

She skidded to a stop in the kitchen doorway and blinked. Her eyes bounced from one sibling to another, and her mouth popped open.

“Wait. Are you two…” Her pupils shrank dramatically. “Talking? Like, with actual words?”

Rafe huffed.

“We talk sometimes.”

“No, you shout,” Wheezie said, grinning like a lunatic now. “Or someone storms out. Or something gets broken. This is… peace talks. Historic.”

“We’re not that bad,” Rafe argued, though his tone said even he didn’t believe it.

“You’re so bad,” Wheezie laughed, dropping her choir folder on the table and tossing her shoes into a corner. “This is beautiful. Sibling bonding. I might cry.”

“Dramatic much?” Sarah snorted.

“I’m underfed; let me have this.”

“You’re such a dork.”

“I live to serve,” Wheezie bowed. Then she perked up. “Wait. Are you staying? For dinner?”

“I hadn’t really—”

“Please,” Wheezie cut in, clasping her hands like a cartoon orphan. “We never all eat together. It’s always me and a sad grilled cheese and whatever Rafe finds in the freezer. We have chicken tonight! And mashed potatoes. Homemade, not the weird box kind.”

Sarah cast Rafe a suspicious glance. “You made mashed potatoes?”

"I peeled them," he flatly stated.

“He actually peeled them!” Wheezie was beaming. “With that weird frown he gets when he’s concentrating. It was adorable.”

“Jesus Christ,” Rafe groaned, turning away, hiding the flush crawling up his neck.

“Come on, Sarah. Please. One night! We’ll even let you pick the playlist.”

Sarah hesitated for a moment before sighing and returning her gaze to Rafe. He didn’t say anything, only gave a small nod.

“Fine,” she relented. “But I’m picking good music.”

“YES. Oh my god, this is the best day ever. Historic peace treaty, family dinner. I’m writing about this in my journal.”

She dashed off to set the table with the zeal of someone preparing for a royal banquet.

Rafe and Sarah watched as she left.

“You know she’s gonna talk our ears off the whole meal,” Sarah said.

“Better than the quiet.”

Sarah gave him a brief stare before nodding. “Yeah. I guess so.”

[inbabylontheywept]

How is your life so interesting

Normally, I just kind of laugh this question off, but I've been asked enough times I'm gonna take an honest stab at it.

So, the first thing worth considering is whether the story itself is all that interesting, or whether I am just a good storyteller. My most popular story is about cutting a lot of worms and half, and crying, and then being comforted by my mom. That's not a terribly uncommon or hard to imagine event. A lot of my stories more about the telling than the substance.

There are also some stories that are weird, but they're weird in ways that I also find, like, relateably weird? It might just be that I knew a lot of athletes in college, but I don't think eating raw eggs is that weird. Eating 15 in one go is, but I was roommates with a guy that ate like, three for breakfast, three in his in-class protein shake, and another three at dinner. That guy was attending ASU on a gymnast scholarship, but also, he genuinely ate 5 dozen eggs a week. That seems much more normal than eating 15 in one day.

To say nothing of eating raw onion. Tons of people eat raw onions. It baffles the non-onion eaters, but it's a super common thing. Especially in Mexico.

Some of the stories happen because I am better at noticing story-worthy events than most people. I can't tell you how many times I've been in public, and seen someone do some weirdass thing, and then had to nudge my wife and to get her to watch it too.

If I had to point to the parts of my life that are truly, genuinely, bafflingly weird, they would be my dating stories, and. I dunno. My general thermonuclear dumbass event posts. And I can break down why those two are interesting pretty simply:

I was unbelievably bad at dating. The majority of the time, that just meant that there was a few minutes of stilted small talk and never get a call back. But the thing is, Mormon culture strongly encourages dating as like, a social-practice thing, and I was very motivated to get good at it, so I just kept trying and trying and I think I went on at least 200 first dates before meeting my wife. I genuinely believe that if anyone went on 200 first dates, they would get some pretty incredible bad date stories too. Especially if they had autism. I know I write well, and I can sound very charming here, but it took me a very, very long to get decent social skills. I am just a disturbingly persistent learner.

I am very convincing. This is helpful when I am interacting with other people, because it can do things like, convince them to let me into their secret facility, or convince them to not vote Republican again, or to save at least put the company match into their retirement accounts. But when I'm just debating something with myself, my convincingness works against me: I am very good at tricking myself into believing that bad ideas are, somehow, actually good. This is part of why I have so much sympathy for the right wing lunatics that I work with. Every time I meet a crazy person I go, ah, but for the grace of God, go I. Anyway, this does an unfortunate thing where my excellent verbal skills drive my poor decisions, which results in the very odd combination of welll written, articulate stories about someone being A Fucking Idiot. Like the condom bomber story. I think this is also why most of the lawyers that I meet are insane in their personal lives.

Anyway, those are my theories! I'm gonna tag @lizardho because we mostly had the same childhood, but she has a better grasp on what normal people look like than me, and perhaps she'll have her own theories on the weirdness of our lives.

[mmmilkweed]

I'm still here!

hi all, just wanted to update y'all on how I'm doing.

Thank you, sincerely, from the bottom of my heart, for the kind messages and anons. Every single one picked up a tiny piece of me and placed it back into its original place. I cannot thank you enough.

.. There's no easy way to say I'm still not doing good. BUT! I am doing *better.* Even if just a little, I consider it a win.

Mornings are a heavy issue. The past two, I've thrown up. Not today though, so that's a win right? Nightmares plague me - even today I caught myself dreaming that, once again, my words have been used against me and I was left alone, with only hatefull paragraphs to keep me company. Had I not realized I didn't have my phone in my hands when I woke up, I might have thought it was real. Man. Just another reason to have an aversion to my phone!!

I found a new.. Man, I never thought I'd use this word. I found a new trigger for my, what I can only assume, are panic attacks. Discord notifications. Just seeing the icon on the notification bar has my heart in my ears and I can't breathe. I still don't know how to efficiently calm myself down from these. While walking helps, I sit back down and it starts again. My job requires me to sit!! I've begun just brute forcing past it.

My appetite has completely vanished. I usually eat a decent amount through the day, but for the past 4 I've hardly been able to finish a single plate of food in a day. Yesterday I struggled with a can of monster. I LOVE MONSTERRR and yet I kept nursing it the WHOLE day. I was so mad... I'm going to go to my favorite restaurant soon, gonna work on getting my appetite back up.

On the way to my atelier, the song that inspired Timeless!AU came on: For Her by Jeremy Jordan. I adored this song. It meant everything to me, it's going to be on my Spotify wrapped from how much I listened to it. I.. Can't. Anymore. I put it on blast, I couldn't bring myself to skip it - and still, even when I was walking my heart beat faster than it should and I suddenly found myself out of breath. Negativity seeped into my favorite song. Figures

Still - it brought me some clarity. Past days I've really been feeling like a monster - but For Her made me remember that the AU really was always meant for this unrequited love, the whole thing somewhat inspired by the Great Gatsby and a dream that's just out of reach. How could I let myself be deluded so much? How did I let their words get to me so deeply that even I began questioning myself? ESPECIALLY since they don't me at ALL?! I saw someone say something so outrageous it become an inside joke with my friends! That really helped to disillusion me. I hope that with time, or with enough replays, I can find comfort in For Her again.. And I will. Jeremy Jordan is too good not to listen too

It's not all bad, though. I know I've been venting, yet I have to tell it at least to someone that's not my wife. Poor thing, I feel bad for her. She shouldn't be weighted my mistakes.

now let me tell you about the good too.

Oh there's so many amazing people in this community. Like each of you. Like my community on discord. Like my closer contemporaries. Discord notifications are not as scary when I see a certain groupchat or even server. Yes, while my heart skips a beat - I've laughed far more than cried. I can't thank them enough. I'll never bring it up to them, I don't need to drag down their mood, so I'm telling yall instead.

I've begun drawing again. I feel like I understand Shadow Milk Cookie on a very personal level now. If his demeanor changes going forward... I'm probably projecting.! Oh I've gotten to the point in rock bottom where I imagine PV helping me out with stuff. Man that's embarrassing to say. Akctually everything here is embarrassing to say - I still feel ashamed my body has such a visceral reaction to.. All of this! I digress. I began drawing again. I'm happy with what I have, can't wait to start showing yall.

I've begun scrolling Twitter too. In small doses. My modteam suggested it, and woah, it helped scrolling through the splatoon tag. I can't just up and leave it, as it's my current main source of income. I'm watching CRK tiktoks too! Slowly.

I'll try to be stead fast in my recovery - I've come to realize there are people who are dependant on me, they look to me to see how they should react. I did not see that before, and for that, I also apologize. Many have pointed out I'm new to this, and only now did I realize just how right you were. Especially as someone whos always kept to a side line - having a voice baffles me.

[allllium]

Just a Bit of Fun

[ Jack Abbot x Reader ]

~ Fluff, WC: 3749

~ Mostly gender neutral but there is a section using female pronouns, pls let me know if you want another version with other pronouns

-------------- banner coming soon -------------

- Reader is keeping a big secret from Dana, accidentally.

Fortunately, the ER today has been pretty slow. Not that you'll say out loud but only a couple people are left out in chairs. You're struggling to get a snack out of the vending machine. Everyone knows this one is a money thief but it's the only one with your favorite snack.

While you're distracted, Dana uses it as an opportunity to talk to Robby about her newest issue within the ER. It's not a real issue at all, but no one dares to say it to her face.

"Call me old school, but I don't understand it." She says, just directly out of your earshot.

"Well-" He begins, but obviously Dana cuts him off quick.

"Don't you call me anything with the word old in it."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it." Robby chuckles. "I don't get it either but it's not any of our business." He knows exactly what she's talking about. It's the only thing he's heard from her in a couple days now.

"Of course it is. This is my ER, all of its my business." He doesn't contridict that it's her ER, but he can't stop his grin at her dramatics.

"Stop being a gossip." He lectures her as usual. Of course it's not her fault, she gets bored.

"Hey, you want to know too. Don't even deny it."

"Obviously I want to know but I'm not gonna sneak around behind their backs." That and he knows more than he'll let Dana see. She'll have his head on a silver platter if she finds out you told him before her.

"What are we gossiping about?" You whisper from behind them. Not meaning to sneak up on them but they were standing right in your path.

"You're just as bad as Dana." Robby rolls his eyes at you. He does that a lot.

"Don't be talking shit out in the open if you don't want me to be curious." You tell him in a lecturing tone. "That's on you, Buddy."

"We were not talking shit." He hates when you call him buddy, that's why you do it. Robby isn't usually one to talk shit but on a few occasions you've caught it happening.

"Uh huh, quick defense there." You smile at his dramatic huff. Once you get to him, he's not nearly as intimidating. Now you can poke fun at him all you want.

He doesn't grace with you a verbal response before giving up and walking away.

"He's no fun." Dana mutters under her breath. You look over in her direction, forgetting she was there for a moment. You should know better, she's always there.

"That's okay, we're fun enough for him too." You walk around the counter to sit down and take a breath for a moment, while you can.

"What are you doing here, kid? I barely ever see you in the daylight." She takes a seat in the chair next to you.

"Filling in for Collins. Robby asked me to while she's on vacation. Night shift will do without me for a bit." You fidget by moving back and forth in the chair. You and Collins have bonded a lot through the years. The nature of her vacation isn't a happy one.

"I don't know." She immediately disagrees. "Abbot might fall apart without you by his side."

You can see the mischievous smile forming.

"What's that supposed to mean?" You turn quickly to face her head on.

"You know what I mean, I never see one of you without the other."

"He's not here right now is he? Besides we work different days a lot."

"Not if it's up to the two of you." She shrugs with a laugh.

"We work well together." You deflect in disbelief. What is she getting at right now?

"I bet you'd be good at a lot of other things together too." She keeps her head down as she says it, you know she's struggling to get the words out through her laugh.

"Dana it is way too early in the morning for you to be saying stuff like that." You tell her in astonishment. "Have you no shame?"

It takes her a full moment to stop laughing at her own words. You get the urge to walk away but you know she'd chase you down.

"I'm just saying, you two would be good together."

"Dana. You can't be encouraging me to have sex with my boss."

"Why not? It's never hurt nobody."

"I am walking away from this conversation right now."

"C'mon, hon, just live a little." She calls after you.

You shake your head harshly as you walk away and her laugh echos through the hall.

You know neither you nor Jack have actually told anyone other than Robby that your together, but you didn't think she would still be this oblivious.

You can't explain why you played along instead of coming out with the truth. At this point, you might as well have fun with it.

The next day, Dana seems to be just as determined to get answers as the last. Your reactions to her teasing certainly didn't help.

"I don't see what the big deal is." You and Dana are sitting in the lounge, trying to eat lunch while there's not too much work to be done. Knock on wood this next couple days will follow a similar pattern. "We work together so what? You and Robby work together all the time and I'm not pushing you two into each other." She immediately gives you a look of disgust.

"Don't even try that, it's different and you know that. Robby and I don't look at each other the way you guys do."

"We don't look at each other like anything other than good coworkers." You tell her confidently, perhaps taking the joke too far. Honestly if she hasn't figured it out by now, that's on her.

"You are so full of shit."

"I think the older you get, the crazier you get too."

"Did you seriously just call me old and crazy in the same sentence?"

"Hey I just call it like I see it." You raise your hands in a joking defense.

"Abbot's a good looking guy, I know you see that." She wiggles her eyebrows at you.

"Well I'm not gonna deny that."

"So why not take the chance? It doesn't have to be anything serious."

"I like things how they are." You shrug and pay more attention to your food than necessary.

Whatever she's about to say next is cut off by McKay running in.

You're not paying attention to anything they're saying but Dana rushes out quickly and leaves McKay standing in the doorway. Robby probably needed her help with something.

"Are you fucking with her?" Mckay laughs as she looks at you curiously.

"So I'm guessing you know?"

"You guys are very obvious. Has she not gotten it yet?" You get up to throw away your lunch trash while she talks.

"Apparently not. I guess she figured I was single and Robby didn't tell her otherwise." You shrug and walk with McKay through the hall.

"Strange considering he's such a gossip."

"That's what I'm saying!"

"Oh that's a really pretty ring." You're standing by your locker when Dana appears. It's day three of her pushing for answers and one of those rare times where you get off on time.

"Huh." You look down and see the ring Dana is referring to. It's on a chain around your neck that must've come out while leaning over so much throughout the day. "Oh thanks, I didn't realize it was out." You quickly tuck it back into your shirt, before Dana asks too many questions.

"What kind of stone is that? It doesn't look like diamond." Of course she's gonna ask a lot of questions.

"Oh it's not, I can never remember the exact name of this one but I'm not a huge fan of diamonds." You explain while grabbing your other clothes out so you can get home as quick as possible.

"Why do you wear it on a necklace?" She asks in a knowing manner.

"Cause' knowing this place it would get lost or ruined otherwise. I'd do it with my other ones too but I wear a million of them." No lie in that statement.

"So why wear it instead of keeping it with the rest?"

"It's my favorite. I just like having it so close to me." Also not a lie.

"That makes sense, it is really pretty." She turns to pull stuff out of her own locker.

"Thanks. Uh, you have any plans after this?" You try to change the topic as casual as possible.

"Lots of sleep hopefully."

"I think that's all we can hope for at this point." You also want to go home and sleep. Especially because the house will be empty all night.

"Sleep well kid."

"See you bright and early." As soon as you're changed, you walk out and leave Dana to herself.

You give a quick goodbye to Robby, who of course hasn't even gotten close to finishing up yet. And then make your way outside when you're greeted with a familiar face.

"How was it today?" He asks from his position leaning against the wall.

"Not to bad. I think you should have okay night." You smile at him which shows off just how tired you are.

"I hope so."

"Well, I guess I'll see you in the morning." You say with a saddened tone.

"Goodnight Dr. Abbot." He pulls you in for a swift hug.

"Goodnight- or goodmorning, Dr. Abbot. Whatever it is to you right now."

"Go home and sleep, you need it."

"Sounds good to me." You pull away from him and both go your separate ways.

"I can't believe it." Dana exclaims just moments after you left. She immediately found Robby to talk to about what she just saw.

"What are you on about now?" He sighs as he always does when putting up with the gossips in the ER, especially Dana's.

"She was wearing an engagement ring, oh how did we miss this?" She seems personally offended by this piece of information.

Robby tries as hard as he can to hide his grin. He didn't miss anything, but again, Dana would have his head if she knew.

"That's why she's been so put off by the idea of going out with Abbot."

"Maybe she's just not interested in him. She wears a lot of rings that could pass as engagement rings. You probably just saw it wrong." He tries to offer a reasonable solution. One that doesn't make her even more invested in your romance life.

"No, it was different than the other ones. And she was wearing all day under her shirt. People don't do that with any old ring." She follows behind him as he walks around trying to finish off his work for the night.

"Why didn't you just ask her about it? She has no reason to lie." He comes to your defense.

"I did! Discreetly but the point still stood. She just said it was her favorite." She comes off even more exasperated than before.

"And you don't believe her because?"

"She is not good at coming up with excuses, I can always tell when she's trying to come up with something on the spot."

"Dana, please take this advice I'm about to give you seriously. Calm down a little bit. If she's hiding something it's for a good reason."

"What reason would be good enough to not tell me?"

"Ask her." He practically begs.

She gasps suddenly, "Maybe Abbot knows."

For the ten millionth time that day, Robby rolls his eyes.

"She knows." You resign as he walks in the door.

"Who knows what?" You hear him move around the living room as he puts everything down from the night.

"Dana. I don't know what she knows but it's something."

"Okay? And this is an issue because?" He walks into the kitchen to greet you as he talks.

"You're the one that insisted on hiding this." You lean into him as he puts his arms around your waist.

"At first. If you want to tell Dana go ahead."

"I can't! It would be weird now. It's been years at this point." He chuckles from behind you.

"I don't think it's a big deal."

"So says you. You work the night shift, you don't deal with Dana's craziness like I do."

"You'll be back on night shift soon enough."

"Oh honey, it's funny you think that'll stop her."

He let's go of you to grab something to eat.

"I know it won't. But I'm not the one dealing with it."

"Be nice to me, Jack. I'm struggling here." You're being totally dramatic about it but oh well at this point.

"How dare she care about your life outside of work." He says blankly as he focuses on finding food.

"You're not gonna find anything in there, we need to go shopping."

He shuts the cupboard and focuses more on you. "I think I'll bring you lunch later."

"Honey, you need to sleep longer than a couple hours."

He rolls his eyes, "No I don't."

You head to the living room to grab the rest of your stuff for your shift.

"You don't need to bring me lunch, I'll get something." He follows you into the room and sits down on the couch.

"It might help with your Dana issue."

"Shes gonna hurt me, isn't she? She's a lot stronger than she looks "

"Most likely."

"Good to see how concerned you are."

"I try my best." You laugh at his words and finish grabbing your stuff before pausing for a moment.

"Wait a minute, why are you here so early. You're shift isn't over yet?"

He glances up at you for a second before looking back at the TV.

"Did you clock out early so you wouldn't overlap with Dana coming in?"

"Of course not."

You burst out laughing. He gives you an unimpressed stare.

"Okay sweetie, whatever you say." It's hard to believe this is the most intimidating guy in the ER. "If she wants to get you, she will."

You let out an embarrassing yelp as Dana quickly grabs your arm and pulls you into the empty on call room.

"Was that really necessary?" You exclaim while she shuts the door behind you both.

"Yes, I want the truth." She crosses her arms over her chest and stares at you pointedly.

"Don't we all." You sigh dramatically.

"Seriously, kid. Who gave you that ring? I know it's an engagement ring. I looked it up." You roll your eyes at her. Of course she's still on this.

"I didn't know you knew how to do that." You mumble under your breath and throw your arms across your chest.

"Don't sass me or I'll tell everyone."

"Tell them what? You don't know anything." She squints her eyes as she thinks of what to say next.

"I'm going figure it out. We can do this the easy way or the hard way."

"Dana, I'm not scared of you."

"Yes you are."

"I spend every night working with Abbot. You are not on his level of intimidation." You shake your head with a smile at her reaction to this whole situation.

You're not entirely sure why this is something she's so determined to figure out but it fills your day with a tiny bit of entertainment.

"Just tell me." She demands, staring into your soul.

"Okay fine, I'm married alright. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Her face shows a mixture of confusion and happiness. Clearly she's glad to finally have a good answer.

"To who??"

"I have already given you more than enough." You brush her off and begin to leave the room she pulled you into.

"You're seriously not gonna tell me?

"I am seriously not gonna tell you."

"Wait, how long have you been hiding this?" She opens her mouth in shock.

"I haven't been hiding anything, you never asked. But it's been about three years now."

"You've only been here for two years. No wonder you've been so weird about Jack." She mutters to herself like she's finally putting the pieces together.

"Next time you won't assume I'm single will you?"

"No I will not." She laughs.

You walk off assuming that's the end of this particular conversation. You're not that lucky.

"So how does your husband feel about your relationship with Abbot?" She sounds very concerned. How the fuck is she not getting it right now?

"Well honestly he's not super fond of him." Why do you continue to make things harder for yourself. This would all be over if you didn't listen to Jack in the first place.

You know he was right to suggest it at first. Coming to work in a new place is hard enough without people knowing you're married to your new boss.

You really thought people would figure it out by now. But of course people never wanted to accuse either of you of anything, so they keep conversations quiet and didn't ask any questions loud enough for you to hear.

"I wonder why?" She asks sarcastically. She clearly sees something between you and Jack. What will it take for her to see what that something is?

"You are officially on my shit list!" Dana yells from down the hall.

"Oh yay." You whisper sarcastically. "What'd I do now?" You call back down to her.

"Someone is here to see you." She smiles scarily and pulls you by the arm for the second time today.

"Oh is my food here?" You're excited to finally eat and see Jack during the day. Although he's gonna get a very big earful about the importance of enough sleep, especially with a job as grueling as this.

"Yeah and you'll never believe who brought it to you." Sarcasm drips from her voice.

"The magic food fairy?" She's not impressed. You think it sums him up pretty well.

"Abbot. Dr. Jack Abbot. The man who worked all night and should be sleeping all day is instead here bringing you food. Why is that?"

"Do you need to sit for a minute? You seem a little worked up."

"I do not need to sit, I need to hear the explanation you two have been hiding from me." You accidentally let out a small chuckle at her antics. You don't know why this means so much to her.

"Why do you need an explanation for me to get my lunch?"

"First you hide your marriage-" You interrupt her quickly.

"I didn't hide anything."

"Then you admit your husband isn't real fond of Jack."

"Oh honey, you're getting so close." Will this be the moment she finally puts all the pieces together?

You look up to see Jack standing at the nurses station, smiling softly at you as you walk up. It's not big enough for most people to notice. Dana clearly, is not most people.

She stops walking, causing you to slightly bump into her back.

She turns around slowly to face you.

"Surprise?" You reveal, hoping she's finally figured out what's going on.

While she stands in her surprise, you walk over to your husband.

"I told you not to do this." You immediately reprimand him.

"Dana's glaring daggers at the back of your head." Is his simple response.

"Oh let her. She's having some big feelings and you don't get to change the subject that easily." You grab your food out of his hands.

"We haven't seen each other as much lately. Can't I do something nice?" He asks innocently.

"Don't act like you didn't want to see Dana's reaction." You place the food on the counter next to you so you can cross your arms over your chest. It's your power stance.

"What can I say? Karma for being a gossip."

You laugh aloud. "Says you! You listen to everything the nurses talk about and ask me about it later."

"That's not the same." You scoff at his denial.

"Uh huh, whatever you have to tell yourself sweetie." You smile widely at him. Suddenly feelings just how much you've missed him over these last couple days. "Go home and sleep. It's my last day on day shift for now."

"Good. Night shift goes a lot smoother when you're there."

"Aww are you saying you missed me?" You take a step closer to him and his awkwardness.

"No." What a motherfucker.

"Oh I see how it is." You feel Dana's presence come up beside you. "Get some good sleep so we can spend time together without you being such a grump."

"I am never a grump." He defends, his lip curling up just a smudge.

"Wow you're just full of jokes tonight, I see." He gives you a kiss on your head to hide his smile in your hair.

"Have a good shift." He tells you and gives a small nod to Dana before walking out the door.

"So? Figure it out yet?"

"How in the hell did I not know this?" She exclaims softly almost like she's saying it to herself.

"You never asked. No one did." You shrug with a chuckle.

"How long have you been together? He never mentioned anything." She plops down in a chair to continue the conversation.

"He's protective. He thought it would make things harder if people knew I was married to my new boss." You sit in chair next to her. You look around and see all the other doctors currently occupied.

"So as long as you've been here?" She chuckles quietly realizing all she missed over the years.

"Married for three years, together for six. We met at a bar when he was drinking in his sorrows." You remember the memory fondly. "I was gonna tell you when I realized you didn't know, but for some reason it didn't come out."

She laughs loudly at that. Loud enough that a patient to the left gave her a weird look.

"That makes sense. I'm just glad you're not having some weird affair with Jack."

"It's not an affair but it's definitely weird."

"Ha! Eat your lunch kid. I'm gonna hound you for details later." She stands up and gives you a pat on the shoulder.

"Wouldn't expect anything less."

~ low-key wanna write about how they met 🤔