#but prepare for me to be annoying this week!!!

[mewn1verse]

Tepidarium

w.c: 3.3k, slight yan mydei x gn! reader, slight tweak in canon, post 3.2, a little pick me before Phainon becomes Phangry 💀, Phaidei if you squint (don't squint it's clear as day), mentions of blood, death, depression, and no other warning because it's pretty vanila (⁠・⁠∀⁠・⁠).

It was near the last quint of the curtain-fall hour when your teleslate vibrated with a message. The screen showed the message from one of your older colleagues–

“Prepare the bath chamber, the crown prince is coming.”

You paused, double-checking the text, trying to make sure it wasn’t a lag in the golden threads, which had gotten a little slack since the siege against Nikador. He wasn’t due to arrive for another two days. The journey from the Abyss of Fate to Okhema should’ve taken at most five days, if not a week. Did the battalion finish their patrols early?

You had no answers to your brewing hypothesis, only more questions. It would take you at least an hour to warm up the bath this late into the day, and fifteen minutes more to ready the bath chamber. Without another thought to feed your anxieties, you rushed from the main baths to the Court of Seasons, leaving your friends bewildered with no explanation in your bath gown. 

Mydeimos, the Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos, and the Chrysos Heir called Mydei, had chosen you as his bath attendant. It was unheard of for the Crown Prince to use the bath for leisure rather than recuperation, and when the rumours spread through the golden threads all across the city, even the Chrysos Heir closest to him bit back a laugh. 

You didn’t question it. Who were you to deny the direct command of your tribe’s leader? Though he had assured you time and time again that it was less of a command and more of a request, if you could take his stoic disposition at face value. 

Even if the Crown Prince refused to supplicate your inquiries, your resume made up for it. Having worked at the Court of Seasons long enough, despite being a Kremnoan, you were also one of the few attendants intimately familiar with the Court’s hot baths. The intensity of the baths makes even the mightiest of warriors admit defeat. It was only natural that Mydeimos would turn to somebody who could bear the brunt of his extreme baths.

Yet, Mydeimos needed you for anything but your expertise; indignity seeped into your bones every time he made you stand near the door, refusing to let you perform your duties. He had no other reason binding himself to you other than to serve him; nevertheless, he did pick you, and you were obligated to serve him as he saw fit.

‘So much for my last shift,’ you grumbled, annoyed by your time stolen yet again by the prince. Thank Nikador, you reached in time before you could face his vexatious visage, finding the baths empty. 

Not even the inebriated acolytes of Phagousa were anywhere to be found. It would be easier for you, then, if you still bore the gods' favour. 

You picked various helpings of fruits and desserts you know he would like from the dining table, and you didn’t forget to get the pitcher to the brim with his favoured beverage– pomegranate juice with bits of goat cheese. The dismal red swirled into a muted pink hue, the tartness of fresh fruits wafting in the air. 

The bath, with the changed water, heated up in no time with Georios’s blessings. Bath salts tickled your nose after they dissolved completely into the water; it was a mild yet strong fragrance suited to him. 

You checked the temperature twice, adjusted the tray to his preferences, put out oils that he used after his baths, and waited patiently, akin to a dog waiting for its owner to come back home. 

But an hour passed before agitation completely overwhelmed you, your foot rapping aimlessly over the tiled floor. You hadn't experienced such terrible anger before, and you were a Kremnoan who were known for their brutal customs.

Mydeimos was anything but tardy. No matter how he had treated you he had never disrespected you with such indignity. Either you have been had or something else happened–

The large doors suddenly swung open, revealing the man you had been waiting for. You turned around, you clipped automatic greetings ready on your tongue, but they died a swift death under the harsh gasp you gave out involuntarily.

There he was– your patron, your king, and a guardian of Okhema, standing so perfectly still you thought he had been embraced by Thanatos. The golden locks that spun gold under the light of the Dawn device looked ashen, his braid half undone and thoroughly mused. 

His complexion didn't fare any better. Mydeimos’s pallid face remained stone still, like a corpse, but you knew better that death’s shadow could never shroud him.

You didn't ask, you didn’t move, you couldn’t move; you remained rooted in place, processing the events unfolding before you. 

Mydeimos walked, no, limped towards the dressing chamber as if his body were a burden he could bear, brushing past you. His eyes never met yours, and you desperately wanted them to. 

This man…. he couldn't be Mydeimos. He was the man who had driven you mad for the past months with his impeccable grin and authoritative voice, someone who would rather have you read books to him like a lullaby than help him in the bath, all the while gifting you with opulence far beyond your station just for playing sentry. 

He treated you with far more familiarity than you were comfortable with, yet in all that time, you were never acquainted with the other parts he had hidden away so skillfully.

A heavy thud broke you away from your reverie. 

You glanced up to see his armor and adornments laid bare on the ground without care. You swiftly grabbed the baskets to put them in the cubicle, your hands shaking as you did it. 

His clothes, meager as they were, didn’t fare any better. You could mistake them for rags, even though they were made of the highest quality silks, as they loosely hung from Mydeimos’s body, and he tore at them more as if they had personally offended him. 

You didn’t try to help him remove his clothing, fearing the same treatment as the poor fabric, and remained unmoving behind him with a towel to tie to his waist. 

The prince disregarded you once more, your existence a passing image to him, and sauntered towards the tub, nude and uncaring. 

Don’t cry, you told yourself, your lips quivering, yet tears spilled anyway, either from fear or hurt, you couldn’t tell. Your fingers quaked under the towel’s weight as you put them on a nearby kline. Don’t cry, you told yourself as you made your way back to your usual post, not seeing the hand about to curl around your arm. 

The recoil you suffered from his strained pull knocked the air from your lungs. You started wide-eyed in disbelief, before quickly shutting your eyes closed. 

Mydeimos had marched back when he found you turning his back on him, his body partially wet. He tilted your chin up, his warmth all but diminished, to face his once firm but benevolent gaze. You found none. Instead, a yawning chasm enveloped his sun-lit eyes, something ancient, the depth of them drawing you closer. 

Is this what he faces after each death? This endless abyss? 

His lips parted, but no voice expressed his reason. He merely looked, and looked, and looked. The prince petted your cheek, his worn finger wiping the tears you didn’t know had slipped. Maybe he was apologizing, expressing his regret through his actions rather than words. 

In a way, it was much like him, even when you would rather he talk than soothe. 

You thought providing him space rather than comfort might be better for him and you, though you had severely misjudged the situation in your panic. Mydeimos would rather seek solitude than companionship, but he could never completely turn it away; you knew of this after two weeks into your professional relationship. 

At present, the last thing he could ask for was desolation; the intoxication of death must have tormented him into fraying his sanity, and he didn’t want to dwell on it alone. 

You placed your palm over his, hoping he would feel reassured through your quivering hand. He observed it, his eyes softening at the gesture. 

You led him back to the still-heated bath. You were sure that if you hadn’t, you would have bolted out of the room. You sat on the edge of the tub, peering at him as he sat down. Mydeimos seemed slightly placated, the air of tension easing a little, his shoulders sagging slightly. The marks adorning his golden body shone, ruby-like and mesmerizing. 

His back faced the mural depicting the myriad-eyed lord of the skies casting their gaze upon the earth-born. The blood and dirt that you hadn’t noticed on him turned the water murky, and in his current state, he couldn’t wash himself properly. 

You took a washcloth to remove the remaining grime before putting the oils on his body. No scar remained on his undying body, not even a blemish to leave its mark, but what couldn’t be seen physically had expressed itself in other ways. Mydeimos the Undying. What a fitting name. 

“I-I am sorry,” you dropped the cloth into the tub, your grip slacking. You looked at him, finally speaking, finally sounding like himself, yet the first word he uttered was an apology? And to a servant?

“Whatever for, Your Highness?” You tried to keep your voice steady. 

Try as you might, the king you served was a warrior first and foremost, able to tell at a single glance that fear had still gripped you. The one emotion Kremnoans scoff and sneer at.

He passed the cloth back to you, his touch lingering longer, before pulling away, staring at the wall. “I’ve imposed something on you that wasn’t yours to soothe. That is what the apology is for. As for coming here, unannounced,” he looked you straight in the eye– “consider it to be your last duty.”

“My last duty?”

“Yes, after this, you will serve me no longer. Rejoice, attendant,” he motioned for you to bring him the goblet, which you do, your head spinning at the newfound information. 

What did he mean by ‘serve no longer’? Had he picked another attendant? Or had he sworn off the public baths altogether? 

 You heard a laugh, the familiar, exasperating lilt resounding in your ear. The prince grinned, and a subtle shine returned to his once-dead eyes as he sipped on his beverage. “Are you sad that you have been replaced?” His eyes shine a bit brighter with mischief; if not for his calling for strife, you would've thought him to be a paragon of Trickery. 

“Don't worry yourself to death, attendant, I am just merely tying loose ends before the inevitable arrives.” There he was, the King who tormented you so; The one whose countenance you could never remove from memory. 

And here you were, trying to be amiable, be agreeable for his sake. You gave him too much credit. 

“And what is this ‘inevitable’ that beckons your attention, my prince?” You paid extra attention to the sore muscles, using a bronze strigil to collect the used oil. The fear served as a fuel in plotting your revenge upon the prince. The lord of strife would be proud. 

“Ugh, I will not b-bore you with the details. Hey, a little slower with the fingers,” he grimaced, but never pulled away, instead leaning more of himself into your lap.

You nodded in understanding, a tight smile gracing your face, as you removed the dirt and caked blood from his nails. Carefully and precisely. 

“Huh, maybe the elders weren't wrong when they said that your hands worked like ‘magic’,” he observed, his tone observant and endearing. 

Maybe if you let me work, I could show more of my ‘magic’, you thought, sulking.

“The oils you are using today aren't the usual, though.” 

“They were a recommendation from Lord Phainon,” you said. 

The shadow that had previously looked over him like a blade had returned when you uttered the name, his eyes suddenly sharper, somber. Melancholy.

“....Phainon,” Mydeimos muttered the name, as if it were the first time he had said it. The perfect Chrysos heir who shared the battlefield with the Crown Prince, someone who couldn't be seen without the other. 

You thought better of it to speak, to ask of his sadness, but your glib mouth betrayed you too quickly– “Has something happened with Lord Phainon?” 

A silence stretched between you two. The warmth returning to him might have been a dream, for he turned quiet just as fast, not deigning to answer you for a long time. 

You had heard from your other Kremnoan colleagues, about how the prince refused to challenge the trial of strife and let an outlander take on the Coreflame, which should have been rightfully his. 

The scandalous inclinations aligning their thoughts saddened you for the prince. The weight of the crown drowning in patricide was enough of a burden on the despondent man; the weight of a titan would be more if not enough. 

A King and a Titan, but which would be him? Who would be called Mydeimos? 

He spoke, sensing your unease at the prolonged silence, “He failed the trial.” 

Your mouth dried. “Is he okay?” 

“The Deliverer is not a man who would crumble so easily, if that had been the case, he would've fallen by my hands a long time ago.” he stared at his worn palm that you had just massaged, the skin blooming into a healthy colour. 

“The Coreflame of Nikador has returned, but has no candidate to take up its authority.” 

Yet. 

You got the implication, the heaviness of the answer weighing in your gut. If Mydeimos took on the trial and became the demigod of strife, that would mean a return to the city of your tribe, Castrum Kremnos. 

But the way he said the words, as if he were tasting a dish for the first time, told you a different story. A different outcome that Mydeimos wanted. 

“I-I see.” You were no warrior. You hadn't held a spear since your childhood. In a way, you were more Okheman than you were a Kremnoan. Sitting in the baths, chatting away with patrons and colleagues, and washing away your troubles in the blessed waters of Phagousa suited you much better. 

Yet, listening to the woes of your prince only pierced your chest much harder. A Kremnoan would want a return to the glorious voyage of strife, but an Okheman would only shiver at the prospect of its return. 

“You don’t have to think too hard about it,” a thumb pressed upon the crease forming upon your brow. You scrunched your nose, surprised by it, as Mydeimos looked at you from your lap.

His head now rested comfortably on your thighs, as if he always belonged there, his lustrous, sprawled golden hair akin to a halo. He would make a fine titan, or a god-king, like in the tales of old Era Chrysea. 

“Phainon may have failed, but he will bounce back to his old self in no time, you’ll see.” Here he was, consoling you when he was the one looking for salvation in those waters. 

“I do not doubt Lord Phainon.” Your fingers find themselves in his hair. The noise he let out made you smile. “It is you, Lord Mydeimos, who…. has me worried.”

“Mydei.”

“Pardon?” He blinked at you from his throne, his eyes shining the way they used to, the way you’re familiar with. “Call me Mydei. It's a request, attendant.” Always a request, never an order.

Mydeimos was the king you served. Why would he try to be Mydei now, after all this time? A pit formed in your stomach, unable to comprehend him or this situation. You tried to, anyhow.

“Mydei.” You didn’t think you would be this sure of anything ever in your life. He smiled. It was one of the many times he did that night, and one of the few where he spoke this much when you didn’t expect him to. 

He didn’t come here as your king; he came just as Mydei. Just Mydei. 

“I’m glad that I occupy your thoughts this much, attendant. I was getting worried as well that you would abandon your king without a single thought if I told you this.”

“That would never happen,” you declared, scratching a particular spot that he liked, his face betraying his contentment. His happiness. “You are too grand a fixture for me to forget about.”

“That’s a relief, then,” he tugged at the stray hair framing your face, his voice unusually soft. “I am glad I came tonight, I wasn’t sure if I would get to see you again.” 

You paused, puzzled. “Where would I be, if not the baths?”

“That’s another relief, knowing I could find you here whenever I need you.” 

You never thought you would notice his red-stained lips, the gravity of his presence pulling you closer, closer to divinity, closer to devotion. Maybe he noticed yours as well, his gaze dipping lower than it should. 

You hadn’t thought of tasting the juice he drank from his lips before. What would it taste like? Would you find the tart sweetness of the fruit by licking into his mouth, his tongue melding along yours, or would you find a different flavour altogether? 

Maybe he had thought of it before you, before you could think about him like this, with your palms holding his face in reverence. 

You had never prayed to Nikador, not with the heart and passion the other Kremnoans do, but if you could choose a god to kneel to, it would be Mydei. Always Mydei. 

Yet this moment had come too late for both of you. 

Mydei abruptly got up, his back now facing you, when only seconds ago you could feel his breath, and took the towel you had put on the kline. 

He lingered near the threshold he had walked in from, no longer near demise or lunacy, his face half turned, like he didn’t want to leave. 

But he did, in the end, like he always did, giving you a brief ‘farewell’, his back the only thing you saw until his departure. 

You sat there staring at the door for a few good minutes, the water around your feet already cold. You didn’t know why, but you felt so cold. 

You knew he wouldn’t come back to warm you up like you both wanted to. He stopped being Mydei when the door closed behind him. 

Consider it to be your last duty. Even the flimsy threads holding you both together had been severed under the waters.

And something told you, something ancient, something cyclical, that it would be the last time either of you would see each other. 

Mydeimos took the trial just a day after his visit, becoming the demigod of Strife as well as the last king of Castrum Kremnos. He ended a nearly thousand-year-old dynasty with just word of mouth.  You swore you could see the fearsome General Krateros shaking his head dismally when he announced to the assembly in the Hall of Respite.

Having bid farewell to all, the king marched back home alone to fight back the black tide, just like his predecessor before him. He would never return until Era Nova dawned upon Amphoreus.

He bid goodbye to all but you, which was what you wanted to tell yourself when you almost smashed his favoured wine goblet against the wall, but he did say goodbye. 

Mydeimos had already made up his mind when he came to you that night, and he knew what you would say, would plead with him if he had told you, and he couldn’t bear to say no. Mydei could never say no to you.

But Mydei was also Mydeimos, and the king had a duty he was too deeply rooted in and a promise he couldn’t afford to break. So he left, breaking your heart because that was inevitable. 

And so you pray to the new god of war, with tears in your eyes, the new strife–

“May we never meet again, in this life or the next. And if we do, then may this reunion be born of strife.” 

[bl3upi3]

See You Soon

A/N: Not proofread, but I’ve been wanting to write a long-distance one-shot for a while. Requests are open if you have any ideas!

Word count : 2,943

Summary: After a random Minecraft tweet catches the attention of rising music star 2Hollis, you never expected a flirty reply to turn into months of late-night calls, care packages, and falling in love from a distance. One year later, after months of slow-burn connection, he books a flight to finally meet you in person and everything changes.

You’ve been dating Hollis for a year now. It’s always been a bit of a weird situation, it was long-distance from the start, since he’s constantly busy with his career and you were still finishing up at your local university. Meeting him in the first place had been a total surprise.

It started with a dumb tweet actually, something stupid you posted late at night about Minecraft villagers sounding like tired dads. You didn’t expect anyone to see it, let alone someone like him. But then he replied. Not just a like or a retweet, a full reply. Sarcastic, funny, and way too specific for someone who wasn’t deep into the game.

You didn’t even realize who he was at first. His username didn’t have the usual blue check. It wasn’t until you clicked on his profile out of curiosity that you saw the link to his music and froze.

It was that Hollis.

You figured it was a one-off interaction. But then he followed you. Then DMed you. You talked on and off for months, it wasn’t really your priority, but he was actually nice. Chill. Funny. You two bonded over video games and skating. You told him you wished you’d learned how to skate when you were younger. At this point, you were a full-blown adult who barely knew how to stand on a board, let alone do anything else. He said that if he could, he’d teach you himself.

Even after eight months of talking, you still hadn’t fully processed that you were actually chatting with the 2Hollis. Not until he FaceTimed you for your birthday. You’d mentioned the date once, in passing, and didn’t think he’d remember but he did.

You were lying on your bed, wrapped in an old hoodie, scrolling aimlessly when your phone buzzed. Unknown number. FaceTime.

You stared at the screen, confused. Then it clicked. Your heart did this weird little skip. You sat up, hesitated for a second, then hit accept.

And there he was.

At first, all you saw was the ceiling of what looked like a studio. Then his face appeared, a little too close to the camera, slightly blurry, clearly not prepared for this call either.

“Happy birthday,” he said, grinning.

You didn’t say anything at first. You just blinked at the screen, trying to connect the face you’d seen in a million edited music videos with the guy who’d sent you memes at 3 a.m. about villagers and skeleton mobs.

“What?” you finally muttered, breath caught halfway between a laugh and a panic attack.

“I said happy birthday, dummy,” he repeated, teasing.

He looked tired, not in a bad way. His hoodie was half zipped, hair messy, eyes soft. No lights, only red LEDs. Just him, holding the phone with one hand and a cupcake in the other.

You snorted. “Is that… for me?”

He lifted the tiny cupcake closer to the camera. It had a crooked little candle stuck in the center. “Yeah. Don’t get too emotional, it’s store-bought.”

You laughed, really laughed, the kind that made your cheeks hurt and your chest feel lighter than it had in weeks.

He grinned at the sound, like he’d earned something. You didn’t know it yet, but he’d remember that exact moment later. The way your eyes squinted when you smiled. The way your voice cracked a little when you tried not to laugh too hard.

You thought the call would last ten minutes, tops. He had a session to get back to. You were supposed to be writing a paper. But somehow, three hours passed. Just like that.

You talked about your day, the annoying professor who still called roll like it was high school, how you spilled coffee on your notes that morning. He asked questions, real ones. Like he actually cared. You told him about your final exams coming up, about how burnt out you were but too stubborn to quit. He told you he got that. That he used to stay up all night editing his tracks with cheap headphones and half a clue what he was doing. That even now, with all the success, he sometimes felt like he was just winging it.

Then, he got quieter. He talked about the future, not just music, but what he wanted, even if he wasn’t totally sure how to say it out loud. He said he didn’t think he could do this forever. That the industry felt like a maze sometimes. That part of him just wanted peace. Maybe a place outside the city. Maybe someone to build stuff with.

You didn’t say much. You just listened. And he let you.

At some point, your battery dipped below 5%, but you didn’t care. Neither of you brought it up. It was like neither of you wanted to be the first to hang up.

You ended up falling asleep with the phone still in your hand, his voice the last thing you heard low, warm, halfway through a sentence you never got to finish.

The next morning, there was a message waiting for you.

“Didn’t wanna hang up first. Sleep well, birthday girl.”

That was the night everything changed. After that, things between you got more serious. He started FaceTiming you whenever he could, before shows, after interviews, sometimes even in the middle of events just to show you around. It was sweet, getting little glimpses of a world so far from your small city.

Then the texts started getting flirtier. Subtle at first. Jokes that lingered a little longer, compliments that felt a bit more intentional. And slowly, it started to feel like something more.

The shift was gradual. One day you were teasing him about his obsession with Red Bull, the next he was sending you mirror selfies captioned “Rate the fit, or just pretend you miss me already.” You played it cool, obviously but your stomach flipped every time his name popped up on your screen.

You’d never dated someone like him before. Not just the fame, but the way he paid attention. Like the tiniest things you said actually stayed with him. Like he was taking mental notes just to surprise you later.

One night, after a particularly brutal exam, you got home to a package at your door. Inside: a hoodie from your favorite show, a bag of those weird chips you couldn’t stop talking about, and a hand-written note that just said:

“In case today sucked. Call me if you feel like pretending it didn’t.”

That was the first night you told him you liked him.

Like, really liked him.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just kind of blinked at you through the screen. Then he smiled. Soft, almost shy.

“I was starting to think I’d have to move to your city just to prove I wasn’t messing around.”

And from there, everything started moving faster. More late-night calls. More “I wish you were here” texts. More versions of you and him that started to feel less like a maybe and more like a plan.

It wasn’t official yet, no labels, no big talk but the way he said your name started to feel different. Like it meant something. Like you meant something.

And then, one night, you were on the phone, half-asleep, the screen dimmed and your voice low. You’d been talking about the stupidest things cereal brands, childhood cartoons, the weird kid in your class who wore flip-flops year-round and somewhere between a yawn and a pause, he said it.

“You know I’m not seeing anyone else, right?”

You blinked, sat up a little.

“What?”

He rubbed his face, like he wasn’t sure if he’d meant to say it out loud.

“I mean… I don’t know what this is exactly, but it’s not casual for me. Not just… fun. Not anymore.”

Your chest tightened. Not in a bad way, just in that overwhelming, oh-god-this-is-real way.

You were quiet for a second, long enough that he started to shift awkwardly on his end of the call.

“I’m not either,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “Seeing anyone else. I mean. It’s not just fun for me, either.”

His whole expression changed. Softer. Relieved. Like he’d been holding his breath for hours without realizing.

“Cool,” he said, eyes flicking away from the camera for a second. “That’s… cool.”

After that, he started calling you his girl. Casually, at first. In texts. In the way he’d say “You’d hate this place, my girl doesn’t even like crowds.” But hearing it, feeling claimed in that gentle, stupid, sweet way made your stomach twist every time.

Then one afternoon, a couple weeks later, it happened.

“What’s your address?”

You stared at your phone, confused.

“Why?”

“Because I booked a flight.”

“Hollis. What do you mean?”

“I’m coming to see you. Like… for real.”

You didn’t answer right away. You just sat there on your bed, staring at the message, your heart thudding so hard it felt like it echoed in your teeth.

“Are you serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“When?”

“Friday.”

It was Tuesday.

You hadn’t even brushed your hair that day. You were still in sweats, still half-recovering from your last round of exams, and now the boy you’d been falling in love with, slowly, stupidly, digitally, was going to be standing in front of you in less than three days.

You almost threw up. Then you almost cried. Then you called him.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” you asked as soon as he picked up, no hello, no intro.

“Because I didn’t want to give you time to back out.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop smiling. “You’re such a dick.”

“Maybe. But I’m your dick now, remember?”

You buried your face in your hands, cheeks burning. “I hate you.”

“You’re gonna love me by Friday.”

You didn’t sleep much that week. Every time your phone buzzed, you jumped. You started noticing how messy your room looked, how uneven your nails were, how you didn’t own anything remotely cool to wear around a real-life superstar. Not that he’d care, but still.

Friday came faster than you thought.

You kept checking the time like that would slow it down. Your hands shook when you did your makeup. You changed outfits four times, then ended up in the first one anyway.

You got to the airport early, way too early. You paced near arrivals, trying not to check your phone every two seconds even though you knew exactly when he landed. Your leg bounced nonstop. You kept looking toward the automatic doors like a dog waiting for its owner.

You didn’t know how to act at first, your feet stayed rooted to the floor, your mind suddenly blank. You were kind of shy, frozen, like your body hadn’t caught up with what was happening.

But Hollis didn’t hesitate. The second he saw that hesitation in your eyes, the half-step back, the nervous grip on your sleeve, he smiled and pulled you straight into him.

His arms wrapped around you like it was second nature, like he’d done it a thousand times already in his head.

“C’mere,” he mumbled, voice muffled by your hair. “Don’t do that nervous thing. It’s just me.”

You exhaled against his chest. That was the first time you really let yourself feel it, the warmth of him, the weight of him, the reality of him. He held you like he wasn’t in a rush to let go.

When you finally stepped back, he kept one hand at your waist, just resting there, grounding you. His other hand reached up to brush your cheek.

“You’re shorter than I expected,” he said, teasing but gentle.

“You’re taller,” you shot back, blinking up at him.

“Damn. You got jokes in person too.”

You smiled. “I’m funnier in 4D.”

He laughed. Neither of you really knew what to say after that. It was that weird limbo between we already know each other and we’re meeting for the first time.

So you just stood there for a second, looking at him, letting your brain catch up to your heart.

“Ready to get out of here?” you asked finally.

“Only if you’re the one driving,” he said, slinging his bag over his shoulder with a grin.

You shook your head. “You’re insane if you think I’m letting a sleep-deprived singer who just got off a five-hour flight take the wheel.”

“Fair,” he said, falling into step beside you. “But I still call aux.”

You rolled your eyes, but your fingers brushed his as you walked, and when his hand found yours without hesitation, you didn’t let go.

Hollis stayed for three days. He wanted you to show him around your town, your favorite coffee shop, the park near your apartment, even your campus. A few people recognized him as you walked together, especially near the university. You instinctively kept a bit of distance, unsure how to act. You weren’t ready for his fans to know about you.

You’d seen how they reacted online every time he so much as looked at a woman. The thought of them finding your account, tearing you apart, turning you into some meme, it scared you more than you wanted to admit.

Still, he didn’t seem to care. He wanted to do everything with you, pay for every activity, take you on little dates like you were the only person that mattered. Movie theatres, late-night dinners, long conversations back at your place with your legs tangled under the blanket.

He didn’t rush anything. Just made space for you, like he’d always been part of your routine.

The last night of his trip, you stayed up way too late again.

You were both curled up on the couch, an old movie playing in the background neither of you were really watching. His hoodie was draped over your shoulders, still warm from his body, and your legs were tangled under the throw blanket like they’d always belonged there.

You were leaning into him, your head resting just under his jaw, when he tilted his face toward yours, voice low.

“You’re quiet.”

“I’m sleepy,” you lied.

“Mm.” He shifted slightly, his fingers brushing a slow line along the inside of your arm. “Nah. That’s your ‘I’m overthinking something’ silence.”

You hated how well he read you.

“I just… don’t want this to end,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer right away. His hand found yours under the blanket, fingers lacing through yours slowly. Deliberate.

“It doesn’t have to,” he said. “Not really.”

You turned your head toward him, your eyes meeting his in the dim, flickering light from the TV. “You’re leaving tomorrow.”

“Yeah. But I’m still yours.”

Your heart was a mess in your chest.

He leaned in a little closer, his voice lower now, softer. “You know I haven’t even kissed you yet.”

“I noticed,” you whispered, trying and failing to sound unimpressed.

“Yeah?”

You nodded, your lips barely parting.

He traced a fingertip along your jaw. “You want me to?”

You swallowed, your pulse thudding somewhere near your throat. “Yeah.”

“Say it.”

You hesitated, breath shaky. “I want you to kiss me.”

His lips ghosted over yours, not quite a kiss, just a test. A tease. His hand cradled the side of your face like you were something fragile, sacred.

And then he kissed you. Slow. Deep. Like he was trying to memorize it. Like he already knew it wouldn’t be enough.

Your fingers fisted the fabric of his hoodie. His thumb slid across your cheekbone.

He pulled back just a little, just enough to breathe, to look at you like he wasn’t sure how the hell he’d gone so long without doing that.

“That was worth the wait,” he murmured.

You smiled, dazed. “Yeah?”

He nodded, brushing his nose against yours. “Yeah.”

Neither of you moved for a long moment. It wasn’t just the kiss it was everything behind it. All the calls. All the teasing. The random memes at midnight, the shared silences, the way he remembered things you didn’t even realize you’d told him.

You finally leaned your forehead against his, your voice soft. “You’re gonna forget what I look like the second you’re on the plane.”

He frowned. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

He shifted a little, sitting up just enough to pull you fully into his lap, your legs on either side of him now. His hands rested on your hips.

“I’m not forgetting any of this,” he said. “You’re not… some side thing. You know that, right?”

You didn’t answer. But you didn’t look away either.

“I’m gonna leave,” he continued, “and it’s gonna suck. But I’m gonna text you before I even get on the plane. And I’m gonna FaceTime you the second I land. And I’m gonna keep showing up. As much as I can. Until I can do it for real.”

“For real?” you echoed.

“As in… permanently. Not a visit. Not just three days. You and me, no lag. No screens. I want that. Eventually.”

Your heart twisted, in the best way possible.

And you knew deep down he meant it.

So you kissed him again. Not because it was the dramatic thing to do, but because you couldn’t not.

And later, when he finally did leave, when you stood at the gate and watched him disappear past security, your chest ached.

But it didn’t feel like goodbye.

It felt like see-you-soon.

Because you had something.

Something real. Something rare.

Something that started with a stupid Minecraft tweet and ended here.

And you were only just getting started.

[sugarushwriting]

ot7 vampire enhypen — human blood bank series

season 4, part one

adult content featured — read at own discretion

“tell me all your deepest, all your darkest desires.”

you sat up terror written across your face. breathing rapidly, you began gasping for air, your body burning up from the nightmare that has been taunting you for the past week.

those silver canines flooding your dreams over and over again like it was something you desired or craved in life. but it was something you feared.

once coming to, relief washed over you. realizing that’s all it was, the nightmare. your breathing slowly began to go back to normal. suddenly, your clothing felt too tight, too damp. your sweat had soaked your night clothes.

you put your head in your palms, taking a deep breath preparing to get out of bed. 3:03 am.

quickly getting up, you slung the shirt off and grabbed a random oversized shirt that you’ve stolen from your best friend, same with taking off your sleep shorts and slipping on clean boxers you’ve as well stolen from your best friend.

when you walked out of your room from your dorm to your shared kitchen space with your roommate, the last thing you expected to see was that said best friend leaning over your fridge with a cooked, frozen waffle hanging from his mouth.

“kim sunwoo, what are you doing?” you asked, hands on your hips.

sunwoo turned to you with a cheeky smile, biting the waffle, holding it in his hand, “oh uh,” he began, his cheeks flushed red.

you shook your head with a smile. “how did you even get in?”

“your roommate was leaving when she saw us coming up.” sunwoo smiled.

it was no shock yunah was leaving at random hours of the night. you got used to it pretty quick. she told you she had bad insomnia and would take random runs when she couldn’t sleep.

“us?” you asked concerned, and that’s when you heard the water in the bathroom running, and soon after, a drunken eric stumble out.

“dude, my hands smell like cherries!” eric laughed, holding his hands out. when he saw you, he quickly put them down and whispered, “oh shit, did we wake you up?”

“no,” you sighed. “couldn’t sleep.” you smiled towards the two who looked at you with concern. “did you both stumble to my dorm because you couldn’t make it home?”

both pouted and nodded. they couldn’t handle their alcohol well. “jacob and yeonjun left us in the dust!” eric pouted.

“oh too bad.” you feaned sorry. hopefully their drunk asses wouldn’t bother you too much on why you couldn’t sleep, and soon would be sleep themselves. “so who wants the bed, who wants the floo—,”

“bed!” sunwoo called dibs and ran to your room with his waffle. eric scratched his head with a huff.

“not fair! he always gets the bed!” eric gruffed.

“well, become her best friend and you’ll get the bed for once!” sunwoo stuck his tongue out at the younger one.

“he would literally try to kill me if i tried to steal you from him.” eric chuckled.

you patted eric’s shoulder soothingly, “come on, let’s get you two to bed.” you told him walking into your room. “and don’t even think about throwing up in my room!”

7:23 am

this time when you woke up, you were sweating for a different reason. you were smushed between two growing boys on your bed.

sitting up, sunwoo laid on one side, eric on the other. he had completely abandoned the makeshift bed you made for him on the floor.

“eric!” you moaned annoyed, shaking him awake, him close to the edge. he grabbed onto your bare thighs.

“mhm, no.” he moaned back, cuddling deeper into your blanket.

“fine.” you huffed, crawling off your bed weirdly, a smack landing to your ass, and you turned around frowning at none other than sunwoo.

“hands to yourself, jerk.”

“where are you going?”

“going to get coffee. i was wondering why i didn’t sleep well. it was because i was squished between you two. and not in a good way.” you started grabbing jean shorts and a random shirt from your drawer.

sunwoo smirked, “and a good way would be?”

“a threesome,”

eric popped up from his sleep, alert like a pup. “i’m up.”

“go back to sleep sohn. only in your dreams would you two get a threesome with me.”

ᓚᘏᗢ

although it was just a little before 8 in the morning, the fall air made it worth it. autumn was one of your favorite seasons. halloween was less than a week away, and although you really didn’t care for halloween, you loved to see decorations and it means it was closer to your favorite holiday — christmas.

you preferred autumn weather but loved the christmas season and flavors.

and although it was late october and 8 in the morning, it was still 65° fahrenheit outside so it was still perfect for jean shorts, graphic tee, and a simple grey zip jacket with you favorite sneakers.

at the on campus coffee shop, you ordered your usual drink with a pastry, fingers drumming on the counter.

“ever thought about trying something new?” a smooth, deep voice sounded from behind you.

turning around to let whoever said that go next in line, your mouth gaped open at the tall guy, blonde hair, and dark clothing.

“ever thought about minding your business?” was out of your mouth before you could think. you quickly tucked you bottom lip inbetween your teeth.

the guy chuckled, paying the cashier after ordering. that’s when you realized that you also never paid after ordering.

the cashier went to help the other barista with the drinks. “wait, i never paid!” you called after her.

“no worries, i took care of it.”

you looked up at the blonde hair stranger. “oh, uh, thank you.” you bowed. “how can i ever repay you?”

before he could come up with an idea, the bell over the door chimed once again, catching your attention.

“mr. park?” you questioned aloud.

“i’ve told you and your classmates to call me jay, plenty of times.” your teaching assistant for english literature smiled. he came up to the counter, where you stood.

he looked over to the tall one, his smile going into a thin line. “riki.”

“jay.”

you felt the tension. “okay, awkward.” you mumbled. the barista saving you by calling out your name for your drink and pastry.

going to the pick up counter, you saw riki’s drink ready as well, and as you went to grab his attention both him and jay had disappeared.

you frowned. why would he let such a good coffee go to waste? you grabbed his drink as well, looking at the ingredients of what he had ordered. nothing close to what you had ordered.

however when you took a sip, wanting to try something new, your taste buds welcomed the new flavor openly.

leaving the coffee shop, you walked the distance back to your dorm, unaware you were being watched.

riki and heeseung on one side. jay and sunghoon on the other.

“she’s sweet. i wonder if her blood is too.” heeseung smirked. riki scoffed.

“if it’s like the lore says, it’s more than sweet. it’s addictive.” riki narrowed his eyes in on you. “and it’s just what i need to finish becoming the most powerful vampire on earth.”

“behind bang chan of course.” heeseung said matter of fact.

riki waved it off. “he’s hybrid, he doesn’t count.”

to lore, one taste of your blood, and rikis powers will be in full swing, full force. almost to the point heeseung might have to lock him away for a few days before he’s back out into the community.

riki remembers his first taste of human blood. he felt like a freak, but a powerful freak. it’s the reason he and jay never got along.

jay and sunghoon watched heeseung and niki with close eyes until they disappeared. “he’s not going to give up. do you think he knows about her ancestry?” sunghoon whispered to jay.

“he has to, riki has never been interested in a girl this much before. not since his first love, or his second love.” jay replied.

the enhypen brothers first love, sooha. how they’re all connected.

≽^•⩊•^≼

© work of sugarushwriting | do not repost as your own or translate

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Mine Now

Main Masterlist Mark Meachum Masterlist

Pairings; Mark Meachum x daughter!reader

Genre; family drama, emotional realism, coming of age, tragedy, police procedural elements, slice of life

Warnings; Terminal illness (Glioblastoma Multiforme – brain cancer), Parent death / Loss of a parent, Emotional distress / Grief, mentions of strong pain medication and physical decline, angst-heavy emotional themes (e.g., betrayal, fear of abandonment, watching a loved one deteriorate), crying / Panic / Breakdown moments, Implied medical neglect (withholding diagnosis)

Summary: An unexpected bond turns a broken girl and a guarded cop into family—until a hidden illness threatens to take him away.

4070 words

She wasn’t supposed to stay.

He was just supposed to watch her for a couple of days—maybe weeks. Some off-the-books favor wrapped up in a paycheck and a dead woman’s case file. Her mother had been murdered. No next of kin. No dad in the picture. Just a smart-mouthed, withdrawn fifteen-year-old with eyes too tired for her age and a heavy duffel bag she never unpacked.

But she stayed.

Mark Meachum had faced cartels, traitors, and black-ops messes so twisted he stopped counting the bodies. Yet nothing prepared him for late-night ice cream runs because she couldn’t sleep. Or the way she’d slowly crept out of her room, one sock on, hair a mess, mumbling, “You got anything sweet?”

And he did. He always did.

First it was a few Pop-Tarts in the cabinet. Then it turned into a full mini-fridge and a second pantry shelf—hers. Candy, chips, sodas she wasn't allowed before, and every movie snack known to mankind. Because she liked movie nights. And she never said it, but it was obvious—those nights were her favorite.

They watched everything. Action flicks. Horror. Some stupid romcom where she cried and he pretended not to notice. She fell asleep more times than not, halfway through the movie with her head on his shoulder. He always carried her to bed. Always tucked her in. Never said anything about the way her hand clutched his shirt like she was afraid he’d disappear too.

And maybe it was the first time she almost said it—"Dad"—that stuck with him. She choked on it. Blinked hard. Said "Mark" instead, but she looked so sad after that. Like she’d betrayed someone. Like she didn’t think she was allowed to love someone new.

But hell—he already did.

There were fights, sure. She snuck out once. Came home late. Slammed a door. He raised his voice, grounded her, scared the hell out of her and himself. But she cried. He apologized. They ate rocky road from the tub on the kitchen floor in silence until she said, “You yell like a dad.”

He chuckled. “You argue like a teenager.”

Her grin was everything.

Mark did things he never thought he’d do. He scared off teenage boys with just a glare and a badge. Snuck into Target with a hoodie up because she said she liked some pastel bedding set with strawberries on it. Came back with the whole damn collection.

“Why?” she asked, staring at the bags.

He shrugged. “You smiled when you saw it. That’s enough.”

She didn’t hug him. Not then. But the next morning he found a photo of them taped to the fridge, her scrawled handwriting underneath it: Me & the snack guy.

When her friends came over, he was annoying. Dad-level annoying. Poking his head in every hour with new chips, new sodas, extra fuzzy blankets.

“You kids good? Need reinforcements?”

“Mark! We’re fine!”

He grinned every time.

And then came her sixteenth birthday. He made it lowkey because she hated loud. Bought her a cake. Let her sleep in. Took her to the firing range for a private session, just them.

She said she wanted to be a cop. “Like you.”

That broke him a little.

And when they got home, just before she opened her last present—a silver necklace with a little key charm—he handed her a manila folder.

She opened it. Stared at the papers. Her name… with his last name next to it.

Her hand shook. “Is this…?”

“If you want it,” he said quietly, “you’re mine now. Officially.”

She didn’t cry the way he thought she would. Not big, loud sobs. Just quiet tears that slipped down her cheeks as she smiled at him like he built the whole damn world just for her.

“I wanted to call you Dad for months,” she whispered, voice cracking. “I just didn’t want it to hurt.”

He pulled her into a hug—tight, protective, his. "Call me whatever you want, sweetheart. You’re mine either way."

And from that day forward, she was.

His daughter. His kid. The best decision he never planned to make.

And for the first time in a long time, Mark Meachum believed in something again.

Family.

Her first birthday as his.

Officially. Legally. Emotionally? That had happened long before the paperwork.

Mark Meachum had circled the date in his calendar twice, even though she made him swear it wouldn’t be “a big deal.” Which, in teenage girl code, clearly meant “make it a big deal but act chill about it.”

So he did. He ordered her favorite pizza, stocked the house with sour gummies, Takis, and that stupid expensive soda brand she liked. Balloons—black and silver, because she was “too cool” for pink—and a soft birthday crown that she threw at him when he tried to make her wear it.

But she smiled. God, she smiled. That kind of real, unguarded grin she only gave when she was too happy to hide it.

“Seventeen, huh?” he said as she opened gifts, sitting cross-legged in the living room in her flannel pajamas. “Almost legal. Almost grown.”

“Yeah. Almost ready to move out,” she teased, nudging his arm.

He froze. “You shut your mouth.”

She laughed, leaning against him like she used to. “Relax, I’m not going anywhere.”

Except… someone was coming over.

Six someones.

Boys.

One of them had asked if he could bring a few friends by to “celebrate,” which turned into a mini movie night, which turned into Mark seriously reconsidering whether prison time was worth it.

He answered the door like a grim reaper in jeans and a black tee, arms folded, eyes stone-cold. The first boy flinched when Mark didn’t move to let him in.

“You're here for her?”

“Uh… yes, sir. Just friends. Just watching a movie. Very PG. She said you’d be home the whole time?”

Mark blinked once. “Damn right.”

The boy gulped. “Cool, yeah. That’s… cool.”

By the time all six were seated in the living room, looking visibly uncomfortable under Mark’s very present, very armed cop energy, his daughter peeked into the kitchen and whispered, “You’re scaring them.”

“Good.”

“Mark.”

He grunted. “Fine. I’ll be in my office. But I swear to God, if one of them so much as breathes in your direction—”

“I’ll mace them,” she finished. “I got the travel size in my sock drawer.”

He smirked. “Atta girl.”

Still, he checked in every twenty minutes. Came in with fresh popcorn. Brought extra soda. Gave each kid the look again. When one boy offered a slice of cake to her with too much enthusiasm, Mark nearly broke the plate from how hard he set it down beside them.

Eventually, most of them left—except one. The brave one. The tall one with floppy hair and a dimpled smile that made Mark’s chest tighten in warning.

She was walking him to the door when he caught her giggling at something the kid said.

Mark leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “It’s past ten.”

The boy’s back straightened like he was in basic training. “Yes, sir. I was just leaving.”

“Good.” Mark stepped forward, towering over him. “Happy you came by. Hope you enjoyed the cake.”

“Y-yeah, it was really good—sir.”

Mark smirked slowly. “You didn’t get any.”

The boy blinked. “Huh?”

“You didn’t eat any. That was a test. You failed.”

The kid made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a yelp and bolted.

She turned on Mark the second the door shut.

“Really?”

“I didn’t like how he looked at you.”

“He blinked.”

“Too slowly. That’s pervy blinking.”

She groaned, but she was smiling.

Later that night, they sat on the couch in the dark, birthday candles long burned out, the movie credits rolling.

“Thanks for today,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder. “It was really good. The best one.”

He kissed the top of her head gently. “Seventeen years old. Still feel like you’re five sometimes.”

“I still feel like I’m your kid,” she murmured.

“You are my kid.”

She looked up at him with teary eyes. “Even with boys in the picture?”

Mark pulled her into a tight side hug. “Especially then. Because someone’s gotta scare the crap out of ‘em. And I volunteer as tribute.”

She laughed through a sniffle. “God, you’re embarrassing.”

He handed her a second slice of cake. “And you love it.”

“I do,” she whispered. “I really do.”

She didn’t say Dad out loud. But she didn’t need to.

The word was all over the photos on the wall, the snacks in the fridge, the defensive threats issued at the front door, and the quiet way he held her every time she forgot what safe felt like.

She didn’t come home smiling.

That’s how Mark knew.

No “Hey, I’m back!”

No music blasting from her room.

No smell of microwave popcorn she swore helped her “think better.”

Just silence.

And silence? Silence from her was loud.

Mark waited. Gave it ten minutes. Fifteen. Then twenty-five. When she still hadn’t come out of her room, he knocked softly.

“Kid?”

No answer.

He opened the door and found her curled up under the comforter he bought her two birthdays ago—the strawberry one. The same one she’d once said felt like safety.

She was shaking. Quiet tears soaking the pillow.

He didn’t say anything. He just sat on the edge of her bed and waited.

After a few minutes, she whispered, “He dumped me.”

Mark’s jaw clenched.

“I didn’t even see it coming. He just… said I was ‘too much.’ Too emotional. Too serious. Said he didn’t want a relationship with someone who thinks about the future all the time.”

Mark was silent for a long beat. Then:

“What's the little bastard's last name?”

She let out a laugh-sob. “No.”

“I just want to talk. With a bat. Just a friendly bat.”

She rolled over and pushed her face into his side, shoulders still trembling. “You can’t beat up every boy that breaks my heart.”

“I can try.”

She laughed again. This time, it didn’t hurt.

He stayed with her for a long time, rubbing her back while she cried. Didn’t offer dumb platitudes. Didn’t say “you’ll get over it” or “he wasn’t worth it.” Just stayed. Just listened.

When she fell asleep on his lap, tear-streaked but breathing easier, he stayed right there until morning.

Two weeks later, it was her birthday.

Eighteen.

The legal threshold to adulthood.

To the rest of the world, she was grown.

To Mark, she was still the kid who used to steal his hoodies and draw hearts on his paperwork.

But this year felt different.

She sat with him on the back porch, legs tucked under her, staring out into the yard. There were cards on the table, a half-eaten cake, and a new pair of boots that matched his—because she asked for them. Not as a joke. Not for fashion. But because they were what he wore when he was training.

“I want to apply to the academy,” she said quietly.

Mark blinked. “You sure?”

She nodded. “I’ve been sure since I was fifteen. I just… I didn’t want to tell you until I was ready.”

He looked down at her hands—scarred from training, knuckles bruised from the self-defense class he insisted on sending her to. Then he looked at her face. So much of the girl she used to be… and the woman she was becoming. His heart swelled and ached at the same time.

“You’ll kill it,” he said softly. “But it’s not easy.”

“I know.”

“They’ll tear you apart. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally.”

“I’ve been through worse.”

He paused, then smiled. “Yeah. You have.”

She was quiet a moment, eyes flickering over to him.

“I’m not moving out,” she said suddenly. “Not yet.”

Mark tilted his head. “You don’t have to explain. You’re still figuring things out.”

“No.” Her voice cracked. “I’m not ready because I just got you. I just started calling you Dad out loud. I just got to this life… this safe life. I don’t want to rush away from it.”

He reached over and grabbed her hand, holding it tightly.

“I don’t want you to rush out of it either,” he said, throat thick. “You’re eighteen, sure. But you’re still mine. You’ll always be mine.”

Her eyes filled with tears again, but this time they didn’t fall. She was stronger now. Not unbreakable—but she didn’t have to be. Not with him in her corner.

“So… you’re okay if I don’t go anywhere for a while?”

“I was kinda hoping you’d stay forever,” he smirked. “Make dinner sometimes, pay rent in the form of birthday cake.”

She nudged him playfully. “You’re lucky I like you, old man.”

He smiled. “You called me Dad earlier.”

“Yeah.” She looked down at their joined hands. “I did.”

He kissed the side of her head. “Best damn thing I’ve ever been called.”

That night, they watched a movie like always. She wore the oversized hoodie he gave her last Christmas. Her legs were curled under her on the couch. The boots were already broken in.

He’d already cleared a drawer in the office for her academy prep. Helped her pick out the good notebooks. Set alarms for early morning training runs.

Mark had her favorite breakfast waiting on the table before sunrise.

Burnt toast (because she weirdly liked it that way), eggs with too much pepper, and coffee she didn’t need but insisted on having “to feel grown.”

She came downstairs wearing gray sweats and a hoodie with “CADET” printed across the chest. Nervous energy radiated off her like static.

“You good?” he asked, pretending not to notice the way her hands were shaking slightly as she held the coffee mug.

She gave a slow nod. “Yeah. Just… you know. First day. Academy. Changing-my-entire-life kind of thing.”

He leaned back in his chair and gave her a look. “You survived the foster system, outlasted half the jerks in high school, and made it through that heartbreak sophomore year without stabbing anyone. You got this.”

She laughed softly, chewing on a piece of toast. “You’re really bad at pep talks.”

He smirked. “You’re still going, aren’t you?”

She nodded, shoulders back. “Yeah. I’m going.”

“Then I did my job.”

He didn’t walk her in—she didn’t need that. But he did follow behind in his truck until she parked, just to make sure she didn’t change her mind. She didn’t even look back when she walked through the academy doors.

But her phone buzzed an hour later.

Text from Dad:

I left a pack of gummy bears in your glovebox. For bravery. And blood sugar.

It had been four months.

Four months of bruises, 6 a.m. runs, shooting drills, debriefs, and yelling—lots of yelling.

Mark had stayed out of the way. Let her find her rhythm. Let her stand on her own.

Until one evening, he heard the garage door open early. The academy wasn’t out yet.

He walked downstairs and saw her standing in the kitchen, still in full academy uniform—boots laced, belt clipped, her last name stitched over the pocket.

His heart stopped.

She looked so real.

Not playing dress-up. Not pretending.

She was becoming this.

“Hey,” she said, cheeks pink. “They let us out early after drills. I… I wanted to show you.”

Mark didn’t say anything for a second. Just stared. Then slowly walked over.

“You look…” He cleared his throat. “You look like you belong.”

She grinned, proud and bashful all at once. “Yeah?”

He nodded, brushing a bit of lint off her shoulder. “Uniform suits you. You stand taller in it.”

“I kinda feel taller in it,” she said, biting her lip. “Also kinda like I might throw up. But still taller.”

He laughed, then pulled her in for a tight hug.

“You’re gonna be better than I ever was,” he said quietly. “Hell… you already are.”

She whispered into his shoulder: “Love you, Dad.”

He kissed the top of her head. “Right back at you, cadet.”

The crowd was bigger than she expected.

Rows of families. Applause echoing off the walls. Flashbulbs. Salutes.

But she only cared about one person in the audience.

Mark was front row, standing in the aisle like he couldn’t sit still, wiping at his face when he thought no one was watching.

When her name was called, she marched forward, boots steady on the floor, shoulders square, and heart pounding.

She shook hands. Took her certificate. But when she turned to the crowd, she only looked at him.

He clapped like hell. Like he’d waited his whole life for this moment.

After the ceremony, she found him waiting by his truck, arms crossed, trying to look calm but failing miserably.

Before he could speak, she launched into his chest, squeezing him tight.

“I did it.”

“You damn right you did,” he said, hugging her back just as tightly. “I’ve never been more proud of anything. Ever.”

“Really?”

“Kid, I’ve busted crime syndicates and jumped out of helicopters. Nothing compares.”

She stepped back and opened the box in her hand—the one that held her academy pin and badge.

Inside, tucked next to hers, was a smaller velvet pouch.

“What’s that?” he asked.

She pulled out a second badge. His old one.

“I found it in your drawer,” she said softly. “Thought it should stay with mine. Side by side.”

Mark stared at her, emotions clogging his throat. “You sure?”

She nodded. “You gave me everything. A name. A home. A future. I don’t get to this badge without yours first.”

He didn’t say anything.

He didn’t have to.

She slid both into a display frame—one brand new, one seasoned and worn.

Two badges.

Two legacies.

Father and daughter.

“Guess we’re a family of cops now, huh?” she teased.

Mark chuckled. “God help the boys you pull over.”

She grinned. “Good. They’ll need it.”

And with the sun setting behind them and the city stretched out ahead, they walked toward the truck together.

She knew something was wrong.

Not because he said anything—he hadn’t.

Not because of a limp or a dramatic collapse.

But because Mark Meachum—the man who could take a bullet and still grill dinner an hour later—forgot to pick her up.

She waited outside the precinct after her patrol, watching as officers left in pairs, chatting, laughing, tired but steady. But her dad wasn’t there.

She called. No answer.

He texted fifteen minutes later:

"Sorry, kid. Got wrapped up in something. Meet you at home?"

But when she walked through the front door, he wasn’t on the couch. Not in the kitchen. Not in his usual chair reading the paper like some grumpy grandpa.

He was asleep in bed. Fully dressed. Shoes on. Sweat on his neck. Pale.

And that’s when she noticed the pill bottles on his nightstand. Not just pain meds—strong ones. Prescribed under his name, not hers. Some recent. Some nearly empty.

The drawer was slightly open.

She hadn’t meant to snoop, but something deep in her gut screamed.

And when she opened it, everything changed.

Scans.

Medical forms.

Discharge papers.

A folder labeled “Glioblastoma Multiforme – Inoperable.”

And photos—grainy, black and white MRIs with a mass. A massive, sickening thing pressing into the left side of his brain.

She couldn’t breathe.

He woke to the sound of the papers hitting the floor.

Mark’s eyes blinked open slowly. Groggy. He winced like light stabbed into his skull.

And then he saw her.

Standing at the edge of the bed, holding the scan in shaking hands. Tears already pouring down her cheeks.

“…How long?”

His voice was barely above a whisper. “Not long now.”

She gasped like he’d stabbed her. “You—you knew? You’ve known and you didn’t—you didn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t want this to be your last memory of me,” he rasped. “I didn’t want to ruin what time we had left.”

She dropped the photo. “That’s not your choice to make, Dad.”

He flinched at the word. At the way it shattered out of her.

“Do you know how many days I’ve looked at you and thought, ‘God, I hope I’m as strong as him one day’? How many nights I stayed up hoping I made you proud? And you were just—what? Counting down? Letting me go to work while you lay here dying?”

Mark sat up slowly, hand gripping his skull like it might split open.

“I didn’t tell you because I am proud of you,” he said, voice breaking. “You made it. You’re living. You’ve got a future I won’t be around to see—and I didn’t want to weigh it down with this.”

She knelt beside the bed, clutching the edge. “But I want you there. I want you at my promotion. I want you when I fall apart. When I screw up. When I meet someone. When I—” Her voice cracked. “When I get married. When I have kids. I want you to know them.”

His hand found hers, rough and cold. “I wanted that, too.”

“Then why didn’t you let me fight with you?” she whispered. “You taught me how to stand tall. Why didn’t you let me help you do the same?”

Mark’s eyes filled—truly filled—for the first time since she came into his life. “Because I didn’t want to watch you fall apart every time I got worse.”

She buried her head in his chest, sobbing, curling into him like she was fifteen again, hiding from the world in the only place that felt like safety.

“I’m scared,” she whispered.

“So am I.”

The next few weeks were different.

She stopped staying out late. He stopped pretending he was fine. She picked up more shifts so he wouldn’t have to. He stopped hiding his bad days.

She took over the pill schedule. She handled the groceries. He let her. He let himself be taken care of for once.

And when the really bad days came—when the pain blurred his speech, when his hands shook too much to hold a cup—she was right there.

Reading him her reports. Telling him dumb patrol stories. Talking about the future even when he couldn’t answer.

And one night—when the sky outside was bruised purple and his breathing was shallow—she sat by his bed and whispered:

“Do you remember the first night I called you Dad?”

His lips curled into a faint smile. “Movie night. Ice cream.”

“Yeah.” Her hand clutched his. “That’s how I’ll remember you. Not like this.”

He blinked slowly. “Good.”

“Don’t go yet.”

“I’ll try.”

When he passed, it was quiet. Peaceful. No hospital. No strangers. Just his daughter—his kid—holding his hand, her badge clipped to her chest, his old one resting in the other.

Months later, at her promotion ceremony, the Commissioner handed her a new badge with her new title.

Sergeant.

She gave the speech they asked for. Talked about perseverance. About sacrifice. About legacy.

But when the room cleared, she pulled out a worn display frame.

Two badges. One new. One faded. Side by side.

She set it on the edge of the stage, kissed the glass, and whispered:

“You were right, Dad. I made it.

But I didn’t do it without you.”

And even though he wasn’t there…

She knew he was proud.

[jane-writes-stuff]

"I'm Just a Bartender" - Luke Hughes Imagine

A/N: Welcome to my blog. It's been years since I've last written an imagine. I had major writer's block and personal issues going on. I'm back but I don't really know for how long. Pairing: Luke Hughes x afab!reader Warnings: insecurities about self-esteem, ...

"Yo, [Y/N]! Pass me the prosecco please!", you heard your co-worker Trent shout to you. You quickly passed him the bottle while finishing the drink you were preparing for the customer in front of you.

Suddenly you heard a few shouts coming in from the direction of the door. You had the subconscious reaction to roll your eyes. Trent laughed at you because he knew why. Some NHL players whom are regulars at the bar you work at. You lowkey despised them because they were always rowdy and would stay late if they didn't have practice in the morning. Which annoyed you, a lot - especially when you wanted to be home on time for your cat, Oreo.

Your little fluffball has terrible separation anxiety after being left for dead on the street before you saved him. After a few weeks he got to know your schedule and when you would come home late he would ignore you for a couple of days. You, of course didn't want that because he wouldn't eat the food you'd serve him. Such a stubborn little kitten you had.

When you looked at the stampede of hockey players - one stuck out like a sore thumb like always, Luke Hughes. With his 6'2" stature, you were able to pick him out of every type of crowd that frequented the bar. His good looks definitely had nothing to do with it. Definitely not. You undoubtedly didn't have a little teeny tiny crush on him because of his beautiful hazel(?) eyes or his nice smile or possibly not because of his charismatic but nerdy aura he gives off every time he orders. Because you know, Trent certainly hasn't hinted to you that he only wants to order with you when you're working. You would roll your eyes every damn time Trent would mention it. You'd think someone like Luke Hughes would be into someone ordinary like you. You had no special or striking features that would make men drop their jaws to the floor. You don't have an extraordinary body like the models you see on TV or in magazines. You were regular old Plain Jane. You were also 'definitely' not insecure about your body and/or face. You were just a Bartender, doing your job every time you had to come in.

"Hey, [Y/N]! It's always lovely to see you working.", you heard one curly headed guy say to you. You looked up to see Luke, of course, you would recognize his voice everywhere. "Hey Luke, totally not long time no see.", you said with a chuckle. Luke and his teammates, but certainly his brother Jack would frequent the bar a lot. Especially because you offered a place to dine as well - the food was good but surely not that good. You tried it some time and it did not sit well with your stomach and intestines. Maybe it was a wrong batch that time. He chuckled as well and winked at you. "Can I... get 8 beers and 3 soda waters, please?", he asked while turning around and counting the heads of his teammates. "Sure, will be coming right up.", you put in his order, stuck out your hand for his card and you quickly felt his hand brushing yours while he put his card in your palm. You felt a little shiver going down your spine when he did that. He definitely saw you do it because he gave you a small smile. Your cheeks blushed a little red but you quickly turned around hopeful he didn't see it.

When you were done with his order you put it on a tray so he could take it back to his table. As you handed him the tray his hand would brush yours yet again. You'd think it would've been on purpose and as you looked him in the face - that just confirmed it because he was smirking at you. That damn smile. You would always swoon about it, but silently. You gave him a stern look but it just made him smile more at you. As he turned around to finally go back to his table you let out a visible sigh, slumping down your shoulders. Which made your co-worker Trent turn towards you. "Was the little shit flirting again?", he asked. Even though he would joke about them or tease you about Luke, he had a aversion for hockey players because he got hurt by one and other co-workers had as well. He didn't want you to get hurt but he had an inkling Luke wasn't like those other players, who were well players. He had mentioned that Luke's aura feels like one that is looking for a long-term and steady relationship. He was an empath and all that. You would roll your eyes every time he mentioned it.

The night flew by like nothing. The NHL players were pretty tame tonight, even though they had won their game that had happened the same night. They would always get rowdy and let loose of their worries which would always concern you. But lately they have been calm and just chilling at their booth. You weren't asking for them to be rowdy, you were just appreciating the calm atmosphere going on at the bar. They had ordered a lot of drinks and each time Luke was the one getting the drinks. That too has been a common occurrence going on. Him joining you at the bar, sometimes flirt with you - sometimes use a random pick-up line he definitely asked ChatGPT about. It would make you blush, involuntary giggle or even roll your eyes at him. You wondered were the courage came from because usually he would just be friendly or even quiet when waiting for the drinks.

At the end of the night, pretty close to your closing time. He came up one last time, of course to handle the bill but he also did something else. He asked you out. He did what??? You were wondering if you actually heard him right?

"You said what?", you asked him astonished. He rolled his eyes at you and repeated himself with a chuckle. "I was wondering if you wanted to get some coffee with me some time.", he smiled at you while leaning on the bar you just wiped down. You stayed quiet in shock for almost a minute which made him awkwardly swing from side to side. You shook your head at first before answering. "But, I'm just a bartender.", you said with hesitation. He frowned at you. "What makes you say that?", turning his head down to the side, looking at you like a little puppy. You cleared your throat before answering. "I'm just some girl working here. Of course I have to be nice to you otherwise you wouldn't come back. I'm also just some plain chick from around town.", you said shrugging your shoulders. He frowned just even more which makes him really adorable but you gotta stay serious for the situation going on. "Why are you being like this, [Y/N]?", he asked truthfully. "I've seen you around town, yes. In the grocery store helping some old lady. At the park with your friends enjoying a picnic. I've seen you and I am seeing you right now. You are not just some plain chick or just a bartender. You are a lovely and certainly a pretty girl, I've had my eye on for weeks." He paused for a second, pretty desperately adding the next. "I just want to ask you at to get to know you in a romantic way. So please, go out with me." He added with a sigh, almost flopping down on the bar with his head and shoulders.

You looked at him astonished yet again. "I never would've guessed you feeling like that about me..." But quickly added the next. "And I would love to get to know more about it next Wednesday" This made him perk up at that. You quickly wrote down your number on the receipt he had lying in front of you and handed it to him. He stood up straight and made a little jump when he picked up his receipt which made his brother - you certainly hadn't noticed - holler at Luke. The two of them made their exit, but before the door closed on them, Luke made a quick turnaround and gave you a little wave. You quickly waved back before returning to your closing duties. Trent left an hour before this so you were glad you were alone at the bar. Only left with Chelsea in the back, who was cleaning up the kitchen as your bar's cook.

As you were laying in bed, you suddenly got a message from an unknown number. Guessing it was Luke you opened it.

I'm looking forward to next week! Let me know where you want to go and I'll make some space in my agenda. x Luke

You smiled at the message and quickly typed one back.

I'm looking forward to it as well. I'll think about it tomorrow and will let you know when and where. But the next date it will be definitely your choice! x [Y/N]

You got a next message in only thirty seconds.

Oh so there are already plans for second dates. I like your vision you have going on, keep that going! x Luke

You rolled your eyes, maybe you shouldn't have mentioned it as of now but yet you only dreamed about an opportunity like this.

Goodnight Lukey x [Y/N]

Goodnight Peach. Sweet dreams xx

You liked the nickname he gave you as you turned on your side to finally get some winks in.

[digyoman]

today is the three-year anniversary of the day that i watched the stand (2020) for the first time!

[legal-poppy]

i have a group presentation due tomorrow. i was the first person to add my stuff to the slides (last night). i made it cutesy and easy for me to reference when i record my part. one of my groupmates took it upon himself to redo the whole presentation and remove all of my formatting. it's not BORING. white and black and a hint of green. this is fr my last straw i hate being the only woman in a group full of men

[born-to-lose]

I GOT AN INTERNSHIP YEEHAW

[lieutenant-amuel]

Turns out my DVD doesn’t have the Bonnie & Clyde episode despite it being from season 1 so this is the first episode of Lilo and Stitch the Series that I have never watched before but watched now.

[cerbreus]

Literally nothing makes me more irritated than some guy I hardly know being fucking passive aggressive with me over trivial stuff. What the hell is up with these Minnesotans being knee jerk passive aggressive the second you aren't the most enthusiastic excited person alive..... 🙄🙄😮‍💨

[babsvibes]

3, 17, 19, 30!!

Thank you for the ask love and so sorry I missed it earlier!! Can I blame it on holiday preparation? I’m going to

3. What work are you most proud of (regardless of kudos/hits)?

Most proud of is a hard one, but if we’re looking at fics with little kudos/hits then I loved branching out with Taffy Covered Kittens. It was guaranteed to not interest people (platonic fic about side characters in a screenplay format??), but it made me laugh so I love that!

17. Your favorite character to write this year?

19. What’s one pairing you want to explore more of next year?

(posts the exact same picture as above)

Kidding kidding, I really want to branch out into more rare ships like tinimeke or Harley/Millie! That’s why I’m excited to host @seemoreseymoursbay, an event for rare gems, ships, dynamics, etc. so it’ll give me an excuse (and a deadline) to work on those fics!

30. Biggest surprise while writing this year?

Cheesus the Meatsiah. Like the fic in general was a surprise because I didn’t know I could write boblin smut, but I really love it looking back

[sirensea14]

Me with who

I trusted, Let you in

Let you see through my broken skin

Let you tell me, People would love me

Not get sick of me, Get rid of me

I know you rarely open your Tumblr from your browser but if ever you do so, well, sana matamaan ka.

[todayisafridaynight]

took a modern japanese history class just to flex on everyone that the only reason why i know so much about the meiji period is because im mentally disturbed about a franchise about criminals and they just so happened to make a game specifically about the meiji period

[smilesobrien]

doing another trek merch production run zz. picker notepads are coming back for anotha round ofc but mainly i think im probably best off focusing on voy... who does everyone most want merch of

[apilgrimsprogress]

i accidentally ordered beads without seeing that they were 6mm instead of the standard 8mm size and got super disappointed

but then I had the thought.......... miniature rosaries..........