#how could we NOT know this. how. i love you

[kilojulietsierra]

Just In Case (Dr Jack Abbot x FemaleResident!Reader)

Summary: He had given Robby so much shit about Collins. "Really brother? One of your residents?" Then you had put in a request to move to the night shift and Robby had fucking signed off on it.

Warning: all my content is considered 18+ only, smut, age gap unspecified, reader is one of Jacks resident, fluff, smut, angst, happy ending, as always barely proofread or edited plz forgive me

A quick note: I know I promised this forever ago, but I'll be completely honest, this is NOT the story I started out to write! But holy fuck it took over with a mind of it's own and I really love the way it turned out so I hope y'll do too!! also, again, shout-out to the gif creater above because this one's still my fav

ENJOY!

~~~~~

He had given Robby so much shit about Collins. "Really brother? One of your residents?"

Then you had put in a request to move to the night shift and Robby had fucking signed off on it.

Jack liked you from the jump. Smart, witty, a little dark like he was and not afraid to jump into the chaos with no need to know how deep. You had fit right in on his shift and for a long time you were just his best resident. His BEST, fucking resident, because God you were good. Every trauma, every code, every shitty shift you were right there doing the work and it was clear you loved all of it.

Jack had asked Robby one morning, "So, what's the deal? Why'd you let her go? You usually like to keep the star pupils to yourself."

Robby had just made that face at him, that annoying one with the shrug. "Thought I'd make her your problem for awhile."

Then the next night Jack had to split up you and the R4 in the middle of the hub. "What in the actual fuck are you two doing?" His presence had been enough to put some distance between the both of you, but you were pissed and the R4 was not letting it go.

"She walked all over my case."

"Because you were fucking it up! That girl did not have time to wait, and I told you that three times."

"And I told you to stay in your lane, I'm your senior resident."

"You are a dipshit, that was going to kill that girl by lack of action."

"Enough." Jack didn't yell. He didn't need to. He stood, hands clasped behind his back, face hard and waited.

"Dr. Abbot, she has authority issues, and it's interfering with her patient care and everyone elses."

"I don't have an issue with authority," If looks could kill the R4 would have dropped dead. Then you turned that look on him and it didn't have the venom in it, but the fight was there, that unwavering confidence, "I have a problem with misplaced authority."

Jack had held your gaze as you'd said it then nodded. He'd sent you both on your separate ways and excused himself to the bathroom where he took a leak and then stood with his hands braced on the sink as he stared himself down in the mirror. "What the fuck?" He whispered to himself as he rocked side to side and shook his head at his own reflection. He should've been annoyed at you two, not himself, but something about that look you had given him. It was like it had flipped some sort of switch. Like suddenly you weren't just his best resident, you were also…

The bathroom door swung open, "Dr. Abbot, we have a code blue coming in, ETA 5 minutes."

He nodded, "Set up trauma two."

Every shift after that he caught himself thinking things he should not be thinking about his resident. Yes you were his best resident, talented and dedicated, but you were also gorgeous. Not that he had never noticed, but now it was something he couldn't help but pay attention to. In between patients, when you passed by him or stood a little too close, he felt his pulse quicken. He couldn't help but watch you a little closer, the way you were so soft and calm with nervous patients, the way you didn't take shit from the combative ones. The confidence you had in your abilities and the drive you had to be better.

Your eyes. Those beautiful fucking eyes that never shied away from him. Your smile. Not big and bright or soft or sweet. No, the one that drove him fucking crazy? That was the tiny one, the barely there tick of your lips, up to one side before you could fight it back. That one was his favorite, because it felt like he had to earn that one. Like he had done something, just enough, to get you to crack. Like there was something you were trying to keep to yourself and if he said the right thing, did the right thing, you'd show him what it was.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had been a long night. A long week. Jack had gone up for some air and some quiet. He had his back leaned against the railing and hands in his pockets, eyes trained on the horizon.

The access door opened and he furrowed his brow. Robby wasn't working today.

When he looked over his shoulder the last person he had expected to see was you, just standing there with one of your easy smiles. "Need me, you could have called."

You just shrugged as you came closer. "Don't need anything, Day shift is trickling in." You came to lean next to him. Close enough to touch. "You good boss?"

Jack glanced sideways at you. Your hair was falling down, eyes tired, smile careful. He had to fight the urge to lean towards you, close that distance just to touch, even if it was just your shoulder against his. He shook his head, "Just one of those nights. You good?"

You nodded, leaned over the railing carefully to look down, "Do you actually think about it? When you come up here or is it just... a thing you do?"

He's not sure he would have been more surpised if you had slapped him. He looked at you long and hard. When you didn't flinch, didn't shy away, he shrugged. "Depends on the day." Jack cracks a little smirk for you, to ease the tension.

You smile back at him, unphased, as you stood up a little straighter. His eyes track your every move as you lean across the railing.

Jack had been wrong when he thought he couldn't be more surprised if you'd slapped him. Becuase the last thing he would have ever expected was that you would lean across the railing and kiss him.

It wasn't anything crazy. A quick brush of your lips over his. Not long enough. When you didn't pull back all the way he watched you close. Studied you. "Just in case." You shrugged as you finally stepped back.

You were about to turn and leave when he asked, "In case what?"

You gave him another smile, this time with something in your eyes that you didn't try to hide from him as the sun crept up over the skyline. "In case tonight was one of those nights."

It wasn't. It was one of those nights, but not one of THOSE nights. Jack liked that it hadn't been some big thing. Quick and light. He liked that you hadn't hesitated. He liked that if it had been one of those nights, you thought a kiss would have changed something. It changed everything.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"You know, the park beers is really more of a day shift thing."

You turned to the side and inwardly scolded yourself for not hearing him approach. "No beer." You shrugged but didn't offer up anything else.

Jack took another step closer, "Thinkin' about that kid?" He shrugged his backpack up higher and waited for your response.

You looked him over and even after the night you'd had, you had to fight back a smile because he looked good. This was your favorite version of Dr. Jack Abbot. Cargo pants, hair a mess and he'd pulled his scrub top off at some point and had worked the last couple hours in just atight, black t-shirt. You took a deep breath, "You goin' to tell me I did everything I could?"

He shook his head, "You already know that."

You nodded, "Yep."

"C'mon, I'll give you a ride home."

"Why?" You looked up at him, skeptical.

The grin he gave you washed all that away, "Just in case."

You thought maybe it would be awkward, letting Jack drive you home after what you'd done on the roof four shifts ago. It wasn't. Then when he had pulled up in front of your building, you thought for sure it would be awkward, but it wasn't. He just put the truck in park and tipped his head to catch your eye, "Go get some sleep okay." When you didn't move right away, he gave you a little nod, "I'll see you tomorrow."

You felt sick to your stomach suddenly, like you had been very wrong. "Jack…If I…"

He draped his wrist over the steering wheel and his eyes were soft, "Tomorrows a new day."

"Get that from Robby?" you tried to swallow down the bile in your throat, force a smile.

Jack shrugged, gave you a smirk. "Maybe. I mean it, get some sleep."

You had started to climb out of the truck, but your hand paused on the handle. You were always something of a go big or go home kind of girl. So, you turned back, leaned across the console and didn't give yourself or Jack the chance to think twice. You kissed him again. More than a quick peck this time and the air rushed out of your lungs when his lips moved with yours, slow and steady.

You were about to pull back when you felt the hand that had been draped over the steering wheel cradle the back of your head and keep you there.

When Jack did eventually let you pull away his eyes locked onto yours. "What was that for?"

You whispered, scared to get your hopes up, "Just in case I don't get another chance."

He dropped his head back against the headrest and held your gaze, "If I promise you'll get another chance, will you go upstairs and get some rest?" When you nodded he cracked a little smile, "I'll see you tomorrow."

~~~~~~

Giving you a ride home became a thing, not after every shift but more and more.

It felt like you both just craved that little bit of time alone, together. It wasn't even something seedy or scandalous, he would just... drive you home.

Sometimes you'd kiss him, sometimes he'd reach out for your hand and hold it the whole way to your apartment. At some point it turned into drive thru coffee. He didn't just pull up out front anymore, he'd park in a spot and you would talk.

Jack told you about his wife first. The broken part of him figured; get the rough stuff out of the way first. If you were going to change your mind that would do it, and he'd rather deal with it sooner than later. He told you and you had just held his hand, your thumb working circles over his palm with tears in your eyes. "I don't have the words Jack, God I wish I did..."

He didn't need you to have the words. The look in your eyes unwavering and the grip on his hand was enough. He had just shaken his head, throat still hoarse and had lifted the back of your hands to his lips. That was enough.

He told you about his leg. You never flinched once and this time it was him that stroked his thumb over your palm. Back and forth, where they rested together on the console. You had just leaned forward, held his gaze and told him it made him more of a man.

He told you about his PTSD, explained his little visits to the roof, told you about his therapist. You said you were proud of him, and leaned over to kiss him and steal the last bagel bite out of his lap. Jack had grinned, watched the way your face lit up to see it, even if your eyes were a little misty. "I want to tell him about you..." Jack waited, watched you like his life depended on it. Because, even then he knew this couldn't be casual, not for him, and if it was real he was going to do it right.

You had laughed and he panicked for half a second before you leaned in to kiss him again. "You mean, we've been working together this long and you haven't already complained about me to your therapist?"

He laughed, and God it felt like a gulp of air. He sank his hand into your hair and slammed your mouth to his. Kissed you like you'd never been kissed before.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The morning you had whispered, "Come upstairs?" He'd thought he might combust then and there. He had searched your eyes. Those gorgeous fucking eyes that never wavered under his. He'd never forget the pretty way you bit your lip, or the way your eyes flashed with something he hadn't seen yet when he gave you one more quick kiss and turned off his truck.

Any lingering thought or rationalization that you could be something casual went out the fucking window the moment you let him press you up against the inside of your apartment door and kiss you the way he'd been wanting to for months.

The way you gasped and moaned so pretty for him when he pinned your wrists over your head with one hand and slipped the other inside your scrub pants. "Jesus Christ sweetheart..." He murmured into your ear when he felt how hot and wet you were for him.

"Jack," Your eyes fluttered closed as he eased the first, thick finger inside you, "Shit." You fidgeted, tried to chase his hand with your hips, but you didn't fight his hold on your wrists or the way he pressed you into the hard surface. You groaned, showed your teeth in something between a smile and a snarl as he gave you a second finger, but did not change his rythym.

He kept his strokes slow, steady, deep. Kissed every part of you he could reach at this angle. Your neck, the hollow of your throat the shell of your ear, before always returning to your mouth. "Feel good?"

You nodded, frantic, gave him an airy, 'Mhmm."

"Yeah?" He mouthed at the soft spot just below your ear as he finally sped up his movements and felt the way your pussy quivered and clenched around his fingers. Jack smiled as he moved up to rest his forhead against yours, "Yeah..." He answered himself as he studied your face, felt the warm puffs of air as you panted and gasped, his palm resting over your clit as he drove his fingers deeper.

"Oh shit, shit," Your words cut off with a groan as he pressed against the little bundle of nerves harder.

"Yeah?" He licked his lips and fought back a smirk as he kissed you softly, pulled his fingers out and circled them over your clit. Firmer, faster. "Going to cum for me already, aren't you sweetheart?"

"Yeah." You chased after his kiss like you needed it to breathe, your weight sinking into his hand begging for more.

Eyes locked on yours, foreheads together he gave you a little nod, "Yeah, go ahead," He sped up the circling of his fingers until both of you were breathing heavy, "Go ahead, sweetheart, go ahead."

When your eyes fluttered and rolled back Jack didn't stop, only pressed you harder into the door and kissed you in the most unholy way as you came apart for him.

Slowly as you can back down he eased off the pressure of his fingers, slipped them back inside of you and relished in the little convulsions he felt as he gave you long, slow, steady strokes. He teased at your lips, kissing and nipping until you giggled and he finally released your hands from above your head. "Good girl." He whispered as he gave you a final kiss and pulled back.

The look in your eyes told him this probably couldn't be casual for you either.

You laughed when he ducked, lifted you up by the thighs and carried you towards your bedroom.

"Don't laugh, I'm not that old." He chuckled with you into the hollow of your throat. A chuckle that turned into a groan when you carded your fingers into his already messy curls and tugged.

He had laid you down on the bed and stripped you naked as fast as possible. Desperate to get his hands, his mouth on every inch of you until you whined his name and fisted your hand in the back of his scrub top.

Jack smiled against your hip, "What?"

"Off."

"What?" He asked again as he sucked a little bruise into the smooth skin before him.

You groaned, half annoyed and half giddy, and shoved at him until he looked you in the eyes, "Take your fucking shirt off."

He chuckled, gave you a grin and rose up to his knees so he could reach behind him and pull his scrub top and undershirt off in one go. Jack couldn't help but take that half a second, to watch you hum happily and chew on your lip, to let it stroke his ego, before he buried his face between your legs.

~~~~~~

He had put it off as long as he could, shoved the thought aside and focused all of his attention on you. But, eventually, you had pulled and clawed at him until he crawled over you to cover your body with his and kiss you properly again. Jack let you take some of his weight as he kissed you, soaked in the warmth and the feel of you under him.

He knew he'd have to take his pants off, that the prosthesis would be some sort of jarring reminder and this would all be over.

He focused on your hands and how fucking good if felt as you stroked up the muscles of his back, hooked your fingers over his shoulders and pulled him closer. The way your fingertips skimmed over his arms, squeezing his biceps and smiling under his kisses like you enjoyed the way he felt. It had almost been involuntary. The jerk of his hips when you had skated your nails low over his sides, too low, too close to the waistband of his boxers where the band peeked up over the top of his pants. The way he had rolled his hips against yours and gave you a hint of just how badly he wanted you.

You made that happy little humming sound again and stroked your hands up over his back and down again. FIngertips leaving little divots under them as they moved. "Jack," Your voice was soft, airy and tight, "Am I gonna have to tell you to take your pants off too?" You fought for his eye contact and for the first time he couldn't give it to you.

Jack buried his face in your neck and kissed over your pulse, whispered his answer there instead, "Sweetheart," He breathed deep and Jesus you smelled like sex and sweat and soap and everything good in this world. "Only way this really works, is if I take the leg off." He waited. Expected the worst.

When you tugged on his hair he caved, lifted his head and looked you in the eye. You held his gaze and opened your eyes wide like you were about to make a point and wanted it to land, "Then take the fucking leg off," You cracked a smile, "Or I'm going to do it, and I have no clue how it works so..."

Jack fucking loved you. He knew he loved you, because he had said the first thing that came to mind, "Want me to show you?" With a chuckle and a nod you kissed him and with no hesitation answered, "Yeah, kinda."

So, as awkward and unsexy as it was, he showed you.

He showed you how the mechanism worked, grinned at you and shook his head as you tried to pull it off the first time. He'd turned an embarrassing shade of pink when he'd warned you, "It's not going to smell good. You know that right?"

You had scoffed, rolled your eyes at him. "I'm a doctor. I'm sure I can handle it."

Jack couldn't remember the last time he had laughed this hard. Especially not in bed, with a sexy, young woman, where ten minutes ago the only thing on his mind had been fucking your brains out. Now, you were collapsed on his chest and cackling uncontrollably with his prosthetic leg in one hand dangling off the side of the bed. All he could do was cradle the back of your head and try to catch his breath, because even as you were laughing, you were peppering kisses over his chest and he swore that if this didn't scare you away he would never let you go.

When you caught your breath and sat up, you set his prosthesis down by the nightstand and leaned in to give him a quick kiss. "Now, take your pants off."

His eyes followed you as you crawled off the bed and walked naked to the bathroom. He tried to fight down the nerves as he did shuck his other shoe, sock and his scrub pants off, then pushed himself up to lean against your headboard. He listened to a cupboard open and close, water run. When you reentered the room and tossed a bath towel on the bed and crawled back to him with a warm, soapy rag in your hand he furrowed his brow.

"I fucking dare you to make one sponge bath joke. I swear to God." You didn't hesitate as you knelt in front of him and began to run the rag over what remained of his lower leg. Your fingers massaging the aching muscles as you went.

All Jack could do was shake his head side to side as he let his eyes fall closed and his body sink deeper into your pillows.

~~~~~

Jack hadn't meant to zone out, but Christ it had felt too good. Your soft, capable hands working over the tension in his leg after a long shift. The relief it brought, physical and mental, was unbelievable. He barely noticed you had stopped until you had moved to straddle his lap and kiss up the side of his neck.

"Fall asleep on me?"

He chuckled, "Almost." and wrapped his arms around your waist to drag you closer.

"Feel good?" You copied his question from earlier, whispered it against throat.

"Too fucking good." His cock had softened some from the relaxation, but when he pulled you down to settle against him fully he could feel himself harden by the second. "You're too fucking good for me." He caressed from your knees, over your thighs, up your waist and ribcage, until his fingers traced over the line of your arms where they had wrapped around his neck.

"Don't say that." You kissed him, deep, and rolled your hips over him. Whined a little that his boxer briefs still kept you seperated from what you both wanted. The whine turned into a squeal as he flipped you over without warning, Put you on your back like you had started.

Jack hovered over you braced on strong arms. "You still want this?" He rocked his hips into yours and searched your eyes. He could see that you knew what he meant. Not just this, not just the moment, not just sex. Him. HIs past, his baggage, all the complications that a relationship with your attending would bring.

"Yes. All of it." You looked him in the eye and smiled. Cute and sweet. Drastically at odds with the way your hands were shoving his underwear down over his hips.

Then he watched those pretty eyes roll back in your head, because he wasn't going to waste another second not knowing what it felt like to be inside you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jack had panicked the first time he'd said he loved you.

He'd thought it from the start, but it had always felt to soon, too real, too say it out loud. To risk it.

Then he had woken up late one afternoon, after a restless few hours of sleep and you weren't in bed beside him. His mind, already primed for the worst case scenario after a long week, worried that you'd finally had enough. That he'd scared you away and you'd snuck off while he was asleep but, then he'd found you in the kitchen.

He paused at the corner and breathed deep as he watched you. Your back turned to him, in some t-shirt of his you'd dug out of a drawer to sleep in, hair tosseled from sleep. You were glaring at the coffee maker, arms crossed and swaying side to side, as if you could force the machine into expedience. He could feel the anxiety seep out of him as he watched you. Made his way to you.

"Where are your crutches?" Was how you greeted him, your voice rough and exhausted like him.

Jack just slid his arms around you waist and kissed the back of your head. Relished the feel of you sinking more of your weight back into him. "Bedroom." He shifted to place a kiss closer to your neck.

"Ja-ack"

"Wha-at?" He copied your tone and squeezed you tighter. He liked that you worried. With one hand he swept your hair to the side so he could kiss your neck and chuckled against it when you groaned. Annoyed, not aroused. "Been gettin' around just fine for over a decade baby."

You had grumbled, rolled your eyes, but leaned into him and smoothed your hands over his forearms, your thumbs traced the furrows in the muscle. "I know."

The coffee maker beeped, but you made no move to reach for a cup. Jack liked that you worried. He liked that you took up space in his home, in his life. He liked that you'd taken over half his bathroom, that his sheets smelled like you, that your car had a spot in his garage. He liked that you'd started teasing him about trying to get out of your lease as much time as you spent at his house. Hell, he'd pay off your fucking lease if it meant he could have you here, with him, all the time.

He wrapped his arms around you impossibly tighter and squeezed, smiled at the content little hum you let you and the way your head dropped back against his shoulder. His lips pressed against your temple, barely a kiss, "I love you."

There was no shocked expression on your face, no teary eyes, or fumbling words. Just that little smile, that ticked up in one corner, the one that he'd loved from the start. "I've been patiently waiting, but you were starting to make me nervous." You stood up and turned around in his arms. Smile wider as you wrapped your arms around his neck and your eyes flickered when he tightened his grip on your waist again. Locked you against him, arms flexing the way you always liked. Your lips brushed his briefly and then you pulled back to look him in the eye, "I love you too."

Saying it, finally, felt amazing. Like a weight off of his chest.

Hearing you say it, knowing that you meant it... felt like CPR, something bringing a piece of him back to life.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The two of you had mismatched shifts all week because you had covered some days for Cassie while she had court. So, if you saw eachother it was only in passing, at home or at the hospital. This would be your last shift on days before a weekend off and you would be back on nights, with Jack. Where you belonged.

Jack caught a glimpse of you as he walked in, but continued towards the hub where Robby was already packing up his bag like he was in a hurry.

"Hey brother, sorry but I got a thing, I got to run." Robby picked up his bag and met Jack at the corner of the station. "Your girl is goin' to do the handoff." He gave his friend a smug look as he held his fist out.

Jack scoffed, gave Robby the first bump, but gave him a shove with it. "Don't do that, and don't act like I don't know what your 'thing' is." Jack stared him down, "Let me know how it goes."

Robby nodded, "Yeah, I will. Have a good night man."

Lena and Dana looked up at Jack in unison as he dropped his bag into the chair and together they said, "She's in fifteen."

Jack scowled at the two of them, "Why are you all like this?"

Lena just chuckled and ducked out to get to work. Dana grabbed her jacket and wrapped her hand around Jacks arm, "Just a heads up, someone, I won't name names, has been hounding her all day. Playin' twenty questions about Dr. Abbot, so… she might be a little salty."

With a deep breath he shook his head and draped his stethoscope around his neck.

Dana chuckled, "She doesn't know… so, it's harmless. Just watch your step with your girl. she's had a long one." She grabbed her bag and paused as she moved to step around him, "For what it's worth, the sooner you start wearing a wedding around here again the better for all of us I think." She gave him a wink.

Jack leaned down just enough they were eye to eye. "Dana… go home."

She gave him a smile and a wink, smiled a little wider when his scowl cracked, "Fifteen."

Which is exactly where he found you, right outside the room typing on one of the portable stations.

Work had always been work and honestly he loved you even more for that, because there was something sexy about the fact that you had the self control to keep home and work seperate. Most of the time. You were still his best resident, by far, and now his senior resident. It was fun for him to see you thrive with that responsibility. It was also fun for him to occasionally toe that line, get that little rise out of you that he'd pay for later.

Today, he felt like pushing that boundary. So, he took a quick glance around before he stepped up close, bumped your shoulder with his and tipped his head to whisper.

"Think carefully about what you're about to say, Dr. Abbot."

He bit back a smirk, definitly feisty tonight. "Ready to come back to nights?" He leaned a little closer than necessary and dropped his voice, "Where you belong."

You continued to type, never even looked at him, "What's it worth to you?"

"How about you finish up here, go get some rest, and I'll show you when I get home?"

That got you a little, he could tell by the way you bit the inside of your cheek and a little color appeared on your neck.

Jack bumped your shoulder with his again as he turned to leave, "Come on," His voice back to normal, "GIve me the rundown so we can get you out of here."

~~~~~

When he got home he heard his police scanner going and smirked to himself. You had given him shit about it at first, but now you used it like a white noise machine.

He moved quietly through the house until he found you asleep on the couch in the living room in your comfy clothes. Jack knew that meant you had tried to stay up as late as possible, get your sleep schedule back on track. He leaned his right knee on the couch next to you and braced his hands on either side of you, one against the back of the couch the other on the cushion. Carefully he leaned in and kissed your cheek, "Hey sweetheart." Something in him loved that you didn't flinch, didn't jump awake, only grumbled slightly and then smirked as you awoke.

"Hey." Your voice was raspy with sleep and Jack couldn't help but move to kiss the side of your neck. You hummed and shifted to your back as you cracked your eyes open, "How was your night?"

Lips never leaving your neck he gave a simple answer, "Fine." His kisses moved, higher up towards the hinge of your jaw, "Ready to have my best girl back."

You chuckled, stretched under him and let your head roll to one side to give him more access, "Oh yeah?"

"Mhmm." his kisses became more and more involved, mouthing and sucking at your neck until he left a mark.

Wide awake under his attentions your eyes focused, "Ugh, no fair."

Jack chuckled as he pushed himself up, hovering over you at arms length. "What's not fair?"

Shifting to get comfortable you pouted, unconciously letting your legs fall open for him, as you tugged at the front of his tight, dark t-shirt. "I missed a sexy Dr Abbot night."

He couldn't help the wide smile as he shook his head, still not fully comprehending what it was about wearing cargo pants and a Tshirt instead of scrubs that did it for you. Jack was, however, man enough to admit that you liking it did something for him. "Sexy Dr Abbot night huh?" He shifted his weight, hIs left hand settling on the strip of skin that appeared just above your waistband as your shirt rode up.

You rolled your eyes but smiled, tugged on the shirt again, "Mhmm."

Jack caved, still smiling as he moved to lay down over the top of you, his smile widening as your hands moved under the t-shirt and stroked over his back, "Did you miss your sexy Dr. Abbot?" He teased as he kissed you, slipped his knee between your legs and pressed it against your core as he settled into you.

A little groan escaped between chuckles as your fingers dug into the muscles of his back, on either side of his spine. "Stop it."

"You're the one that said it." Jack chuckled with you as he shifted his weight slightly, drug his right hand the length of your body. From your throat, over a breast where he paused for a moment, palming it through your shirt in time with the way his tongue slid against yours. Then your hips began to move, of their own accord, grinding against his thigh ellictiing a moan, your lips separating from his as you threw your head back.

"Mhmm," Jack murmerd into your exposed throat, "Sure seems like you missed me." He smiled against your pulse as your hands scrambled with the bottom of his shirt. He let you drag it up over his head and then before you could pull him back into a kiss he peeled your bottoms off. Taking his time to toss them aside and then slowly caress his way from the arch of your foot, over the back of your knee and higher. "God you are gorgeous." His grip on you changed, hardened as he moved back over you. "Tell me you missed me baby." He mumbled into your mouth, groaning as he felt your hands move to unbotton his pants.

"You know I did." You smiled, nipped his top lip and watched him as your fingers wrapped around his cock.

"Oh, fuck..." His forehead dropped to yours, eyes closed and breath coming out in warm pants. "Fuck." He repeated as you stroked him, hand firm and confident, from base to tip and back. The muscles in his arms bulged and flexed as he held himself over you, fists clenching and unchlenching against the couch cushion as his cock hardened to your touch. "Baby..."

"What did you say earlier? Something you were going to show me?" You giggled, closed the short distance to brush your lips over his.

Jack smiled, ducked his head to kiss you properly and moved your hand aside so he could shove his pants and boxers down. Just far enough for him to enter you without preamble. Guiding his now achingly hard cock where it belonged. "God you feel too good sweetheart." He breathed the words into your mouth as he bottomed out, lowered the rest of his weight into you. "Too good."

Your whole body trembled underneath him as you moved to wrap your arms around his neck and keep him as close as possible. You dug your fingers into his hair, into the muscles of his shoulders and back, your legs wrapped around his hips as they moved against yours. "Jack..."

"Yeah baby?" Jack asked as he dropped a hand to your thigh, thick fingers digging into your flesh as he held you closer, fucked you just a little harder. "What's wrong?"

You let out a half chuckle half groan, your nails digging into the back of his shoulder blade, "Absolutely nothing." Your chuckle turned into something like a breathy giggle as he rewarded you with a particularly deep thrust. "Just, shit," you writhed under him as he moved the hand at your thigh between your bodies. His thumb working slow, teasing circles over your clit in time with his thrusts. "Just, you don't wanna take your prostthetic off?"

He smirked against your clavicle as he mouthed his way across to the opposite side of your neck. "Don't need to be comfortable right now baby," He picked up his pace, his thrusts and his thumb over your clit, moved harder, faster, "I need to feel you cum for me." Jack wasn't taking it slow after that, and the sounds you were making for him only motivated him to fuck you harder, faster, like he hadn't had you in a month not just a week. "So be a good girl and cum for me," The hand not playing with you slid under the back of your neck, grabbing it from behind, cradling you and applying pressure in a way that had your eyes rolling back and your back arching up off the couch. Lips against your ear, his own breathing ragged, "Need to feel it baby."

"So close, i'm so close, please, shit, Jack, I'm so close." You scrambled, tried everything in your power to drag him into you.

Jack just grinned, "I know, I know." He dropped a kiss against the shell of your ear, "Trust me," His voice was strained but his tone still steady, still soft and clinging to control. "You know I'm gonna take care of you baby, you know." When you nodded enthustically his grin widened, "Take a deep breath." When you didn't respond, he slowed his thrusts down, short and shallow, and when you whined, jack repeated himself, "Breathe. Relax and breathe."

As soon as you shuddered underneath him and took a long, deep breath, eyes slipping closed as you tried to do as he said, Jack whispered, "Good girl." HIs thumb stroked up the line of your carotid once and then settled over it, applied the perfect amount of pressure that made your head swim.

"Oh fuck...." Your mouth hung open and you moaned out his name.

Slowly Jack picked up his pace again, "Another deep breath baby."

You sucked in the air through your nose and moaned because you knew what came next. Because there was a timer running in Jacks head from the moment his thumb pressed down, and once that timer started there was no more teasing or playing, only fucking you as hard and as fast as he could. The whole time murmering every dirty thought that had ever crossed his mind. How you were his good girl, his best girl, all the depraved things he wanted to do to you, how you took his cock so well, and felt so fucking good. How you moaned his name so pretty, how he wanted to fucking ruin you, fill you up and never let you go.

When that timer in his head hit zero, he'd lift his thumb, let the blood rush back to your head and drive his cock into you as hard and as fast as he could, rubbing your clit furiously until you would shatter.

Your nails would dig into his back and you'd gasp for air, and for more. Then he'd snap, his ears would ring with your highpitched whines and his back would ache and he would empty himself inside of you. His hips never stopping until his vision cleared and he could feel the scratch of your fingertips through his hair, the hammering of your heart against his own.

"Jesus Christ," You whispered it, a sexy, satisfied giggle behind it, "I still don't understand how..." You paused for a deep breath and your pussy shuddered around him, "It happens so fast when you do that." You smile as he mouths at the side of your neck.

"Which is why," He tips your face to his so he can kiss you properly before he manhandles you around, swapping places with you so he's on his back and your draped over top of him, "I only do it when I know i'm not going to fucking last." He laughs at himself, drags you down into a vulgar kiss as he reached down to shift your hips and settle you properly. His softening dick still inside you and mess between you.

Jack laid there for a moment and closed his eyes, listened to you breathing slow to match his, a wave of comfort washed over him as he wrapped his arms around you and held you close. You settled into his grasp and hummed, a happy little sound in the back of your throat as you curled around him. Both of you half naked and spent on his living room couch. He smiled, kissed the top of your head, nowhere else he'd rather be in in that moment than right there.

~~~~~~~

His fingertips stroked slowly over your back, under your shirt, when you break the post-coital silence. "Can we talk about something?"

Swallowing down the fear rapidly rising in his throat Jack nods and kisses the top of your head, "What's up?"

"My residency is almost over."

He nods, lays the hand flat and wide over the small of your back like his subconcious is trying to keep you where he felt you belonged. "Thought about what you're going to do?"

"That's sort of what I want to talk to you about." You sit up and the both of you make a face at the way your bodies shifted together. You watch as Jack settles a hand on your thigh and you reach for the other. You take his hand in both of yours and started to massage away the stiffness you knew would be there after a long shift. "There's no guarantee I get the open attending spot here, and if I don't… I just… I guess I just want to know what you think I should do."

Jack took a deep breath and studied your face intently, held your gaze. "I'm hesitant to tell you what I think because, I don't think I can be impartial, not really. I want you to make the best decision for yourself and not let me… being selfish… affect your decision."

That made you take a moment, consider as you watched him. Your thumbs still moved in soothing circles over the knuckles and palm of his hand. "I'm not asking you to be impartial. I'm asking you, someone whose opinion matters to me deeply, to discuss a very important decision I might have to make."

It hits him in the gut to hear you say that, because he knows what he wants. He knows he could tell you. He doesn't know with certainty what you want though. "Okay, well, as your attending. You are an incredibly talented and valuable emergency physician and there's plenty of hospitals that would fight to have you. I think we would be idiots to not fight to keep you here, because you are good, you're steady and fast and you're a leader, but also because we have poured a shit ton of time and resources into developing you. It would be irresponsible to let you go, but you could go anywhere you wanted and be extremely successful."

You had to fight back tears at his praise and he must have seen it because Jack stroked his hand over your thigh with a little extra pressure and a tight grin.

"As the man that loves you…because God I fucking love you and I love working with you, but either way that's going to change soon, I want you here with me. Even if that means something other than the Pitt. And… I acknowledge, as much as it sucks, that might not be what's best for you, or even be what you want."

You're chewing on your lip hard, trying to keep your own emotions in check. You love Jack, but he is also your mentor and you value his opinion and he is honestly the only one you could imagine having this conversation with. "I don't want to go anywhere else, I want to stay where I am… I'm just terrified I … What if I put in for the open spot at PTMC and don't get it?"

Jack gives you the most encouraging smile he can without giving himself away and moves to sit up. Taking you with him as he twists around to sit on the couch properly and wrap his arms around you. "Sweetheart that's fine, if you don't work for us you'll go somewhere else. There's six trauma centers in Pittsburgh, there's 52 in the state. Hell there's over 200 level ones in the country and baby you could run any of them. I know you could." He fidgets for a moment and seems to look everywhere but you before he can get locked in. He looks you in the eye, "If you want my opinion you could go anywhere, but I want you here. I just don't want to be the reason you settle for less."

Your breath caught in your throat, "Jack…"

He can't help the thought that he's going to have to talk to his therapist about the look on your face, the weight in his chest as he sits with you on his lap, dick still just a little hard inside you, the mess you made together sticky between you and every fiber of his being is fighting the urge to beg you to stay because he needs you.

"On what planet is being here with you considered less? Don't say that." You kiss him hard, then pull back, "If I apply for the slot… they're going to look sideways at both of us."

"Let 'em. Baby, that's goin' to come down on me not you."

You scoff, "We both know it doesn't work that way. If they want to raise hell about me being in a relationship with my attending that shit could follow me."

Jack hates that that's true, even if it happens in every fucking teaching hospital in the country. "To be fair, I'm tenured and I make enough for both of us. Worse comes to worse. Fuck 'em."

"Not helpful." You smack him on the chest, but chuckle despite the tension.

He shrugs, "There's ways to go about it, so maybe we haven't made it obvious, but not like we've been keeping it a state secret either, and it's not some abuse of power, hasn't affected either of our performance. I'm still going to be with you when you're an attending, or hell, when you're the chief for that matter. If i'm still around that long. Honestly… if you want to be shady about it between me and Shen, Robby is the chief, I'm willing to bet we can rig it in your favor."

"Also not helpful!" You kiss him though, "I do find it oddly attractive that you're so willing to bend the rules though."

"I know you do." He kissed you back. "Promise to play by the rules for a change."

You smile, "So, what If I told you I wanted to stay here after my residency? What if I want the attending spot at the Pitt and to stay with you?"

Jack shook his head, squeezed you tighter, "Don't ask me baby, tell me. Is that what you want?"

"I want you. If I can have you and the Pitt, perfect. If not, I'd work anywhere if it means we are together." You kiss him again, trying to get your point across, "That doesn't feel like settling to me Jack. Not even close."

How he felt in that moment was something he couldn't name, because no matter how ecstatic it makes him to hear you say you want him a piece of him is drowning in the guilt that you could be giving up something so much better.

You run your hands over his bare chest, his shoulders and then slide them up the side of his neck to hold him in place. "Is that… Is that okay?"

Like so many times before Jack shoves that doubt aside and figures, fuck it. He thinks about that first fleeting kiss on the roof, the one in his truck, all the rides home, the coffee and conversations, the morning you had asked him to come upstairs. All the times you were the one that took that leap of faith, because he couldn't. He'd been trying not to jump for years.

He kissed you, long and slow as he thinks and then whispers against your lips. "Sweetheart," He kisses you again, "Do me a favor and go grab my bag?"

You look confused, rightfully so, but smirk and duck your head to nip at the meat of one of his pecs. "You know, I'm not supposed to be able to walk after you fuck me like that."

Jack groans and feels fucking ancient, but can't help the need to swat you on the ass and give you a little push, "Love to watch you try though."

Because, yeah, you are still a little unsteady and you both trembled as you had raised up and his semi hard dick had slipped out of you. He watched you walk out of the living room and tucked himself back into his boxers before he did up the fly of his pants. The conversation you were about to have was one he couldn't have with his dick inside you, no matter how good it felt.

When you came back his eyes drank you in, shirt askew and hair a mess, a sheen between your legs that made the blood in his veins rush south again.

"Here you go." You hold out the camo backpack as you round the end of the couch.

"Need you to grab something for me, out of the liner pocket on the inside." He smirked at the way you arch your brow at him, but still come back to sit on his lap. He holds his breath as you set the bag on the couch next to you and pulled at the zipper. Jack had to try not to stare at the patch velcroed to the front. Abbot. He lets his hands settle on your thighs while he waits, thumb stroking over your femoral artery.

"What exactly am I…"

"You'll know." He cuts you off.

You stop.

He feels your heart rate skyrocket under his thumb, every muscle in your body goes rigid and he watches as your eyes blink rapidly like you're trying to clear your vision. "That's what I want sweetheart."

Your eyes are the only part of you that moves. They jump from what you found in the pocket, to his face and back. "How long have you had this?" Because what you're holding, it's not something bought on a whim.

Jack can't help but laugh at himself, "Awhile." Is all he'll tell you right now. He fights for your eye contact, but for one of the only times he can remember, it's like you can't quite hold it. Your eyes keep flicking to him and away again.

"Why?"

"Just in case."

You look at him then, really look at him, and don't look away. Give him that eye contact he craves and he sucks in air like he can breath again, head above water for just a moment. You smirk at hearing him repeat your own words back to you from so long ago. Your voice shakes, "Just in case what?"

He smirks right back at you as he moves the backpack out of the way with one hand and then holds it out, palm up. You carefully put what you had found in his hand, unopened, because the simple presence of the small, shiny, sleek, perfectly square, black box had told you everything you needed to know. Jack makes sure to brush your fingers with his as he takes the box from you and pops it open. "Just in case you ever decided to go back to dayshift, thought I might have to bribe you."

You choke out a laugh and Jack smiles, but his throat is dry and the way you look like you're about to cry really isn't helping.

He repeats himself as he pulls out the ring, rolls it carefully between his thumb and forefiner, "This is what I want sweetheart. Then he chokes out a laugh of his own, "I don't give a shit where you work baby, wherever you want. Only thing I give a fuck about is that they call you Dr. Abbot." He cracks a smile when you laugh with him and he can feel you relax, your weight sinking into him as you lean in to kiss him. Clumsy and sloppy and with a smile.

"You're fucking ego sometimes."

"You can hyphenate if you want."

"Oh, I can, can I? So generous."

Every word between you is murmured between kisses. He diesn't have to hear you say it, he knows the answer.

He doesn't have to tell you he's had the ring your entire fourth year of residency. Just waiting for you to say you wanted to stay.

You're really shaking when he slips the ring on your finger and of course it fits perfectly and of course it's exactly what you would have picked, because it's Jack. Becasuse this has never been casual for either of you, not for one single moment.

You pull back from kissing him with a laugh and an evil grin, "You suppose I'd be more or less likely to get the attending position with your last name?"

Jack laughs with you and drags your hips closer, because as soon as this conversation is finished he's taking you to bed and doing terrible, filthy things to you the rest of the weekend. "Look me in the eye and tell me this is really what you want baby."

He can feel the metal of the ring on your finger as your hand presses against his jaw, "This is what I want Jack. This is exactly what I want."

Your noses bump together as he kisses you and nods, "Have something else I need to tell you then." He kissed you again, before you can panic. "You don't need to apply for the attending position."

You put some distance between you and for the first time in a long time Jack has to gently stop you, guide you away from putting too much pressure on his right knee at this angle. You murmur a little, "Sorry." as you scoot closer. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Arms locked tight around you Jack keeps a straight face, tells you something he's wanted to tell you since you started this conversation. "It's not going to come down to whether you get the job or not. Robby already tagged you for it."

You blink, "What?"

Jack rubbed his hands over your thighs, putting in the pressure and the warmth to keep you grounded, "It's going to come down to whether you want the job or not, because they're going to offer it to you once you complete your residency."

"You're fucking with me right now."

He chuckles, "I am not fucking with you right now. It's like I told you; we'd be stupid to let you go anywhere else."

"What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything!" He's almost laughing outright now, "They asked us for our recommendations, every single one of us said you. Obviously I'm not supposed to tell you, but…"

"So you were just letting me stress out about all of this!? About the fact that I might lose you, because I wasn't going to get the job, that I was going to have to leave and, and move to the opposite side of the country or something!"

"I was trying to stay out if it. In case being here isn't what you wanted." He left the 'if I wasn't what you wanted' out of it.

"Jack!, I mean Jesus, c'mon! We've been together for almost two fucking years. How would you even begin to think this isn't what I wanted!?" You're yelling at him, but you're laughing and crying and have a death grip on the back of his neck.

Jack takes a deep breath and deescalates. "My therapist says I plan for the worst case scenario as a coping mechanism, as a way to try and protect myself from the pain of unforseen loss."

Taking his lead you take a deep breath, lower your tone. "Yeah, he also says it's one thing to be prepared for emergencies and another to try and plan for the worst possible outcome to a conversation, that you haven't even initated, therefore running the risk of 'planning' that worst case outcome into existence." You scowl at him.

Sometimes he hates that you're so in tune, so invested and involved in his mental health, because it's annoying to hear his therapist come out of your mouth. He smirks though, because he also loves it a little and can't imagine anyone else holding him accountable the way you do.

"Since you brought your therapist into it, have you told him you've been carrying around my engagement ring in your backpack next to a three day supply of MREs?"

He doesn't answer you because you know he hasn't, you're just making a point. Jack smirks and smooths his hands up your back, "Sure you wanna marry me?" His chest hurts at the way you light up as he watches your eyes flick back to the ring he slipped on your finger.

"Very sure." You looked him in the eye like you were daring him to doubt you and gave him that little smirk. The one that had started this all, where it tipped up to one side like you were trying not to show him something.

Jack waited for you to lean in and kiss him, waited for your fingers to comb into his curls and your tongue to chase after his, and then he grabbed you tight and pushed to his feet. Chuckling at the way you still squeaked and giggled, no matter how many times he's carried you to bed that way. Or to the couch, the shower, the nearest wall or flat surface.

Later, when you're both exhausted and the blackout curtains are keeping the afternoon sun at bay, you're laying beside him with your head on his shoulder, one leg draped over his and your left hand on his chest. Neither of you can stop staring at the faint glint that is the ring in the dim light of the room.

"Are you sure?"

Jack chuckles, presses a kiss to the top of your head and murmers, "How many times you going to ask me that?"

You bite your lip and turn your face into his neck, "Just making sure."

He closes his eyes when he feels you trace his collar bone with your lips and he moves to cradle the back of her head, holding you close. Jack thinks again about those first two kisses, about the way you had explained yourself. 'Just in case.' He tips your head back so he can kiss you, deep and with emotion he still can't quite process out loud. "I'm sure sweetheart." He kissed you again.

There was something extremely appropriate about the phrase, 'just in case.' he thought and for the rest of his life, every time he kissed you, touched you, told you he loved you, in the back of his mind he'd think. 'Just in case.' Because he knew better than anyone, there was no way to know what time would be the last.

"Hey," Your voice was soft, half asleep when your hand rested against his jaw to pull him out of his thoughts, "I love you." You said it like you knew where his thoughts had gone.

Jack kissed you, holding you close like he'd never let you go. "Love you too."

~~~ The End~~~

[gffa]

I'm going to climb up on a new hill to die on: I THINK PALPATINE'S PLAGUEIS STORY IS 100% MADE UP BULLSHIT. If you discount supplementary material created by other authors, the only thing we know about Plagueis is that speech Palpatine gives at the bubble opera, one we already know is designed to manipulate Anakin, but watching Revenge of the Sith in the theater again, thinking about how Anakin will later parrot Palpatine's words exactly--I realized, oh, it's not just a story being used to manipulate Anakin, I think it's a story created to manipulate Anakin, right where Palpatine wants him. It's a story about a Sith lord who learns how to make people stop dying. A Sith Lord who wants to stop his loved ones from dying. We know Palpatine doesn't actually know how to do this--the movie seems to imply that Palpatine was Plagueis' apprentice, but I'm not so sure. Palpatine says that Plagueis taught his apprentice everything--which would include the saving people bit--but Palpatine doesn't know how to save people, he says that he and Vader will discover it together and Anakin doesn't go, "Hey, wait, I thought you were supposed to know this!", which throws unreliability onto Palpatine's story already. There's a lot Palpatine is doing in this movie to manipulate Anakin very specifically--he puts Anakin on the Council, knowing they will ask him to spy on the Chancellor and even "guesses" it before Anakin can say anything at the opera, that he suggests Anakin should be the one to go to Utapau knowing that the Council will vote for a more experienced Master, he reveals himself to Anakin knowing that Anakin will tell them and be forced to choose, he tells Anakin the Plagueis story knowing that Anakin fears Padme's death (he is likely aware of Anakin's emotions about this, being an evil psychic space wizard himself) and sets it up so that it's the perfect bait. The conversation in ROTS goes:

Palpatine: "Remember back to your early teachings. All who gain power are afraid to lose it. Even the Jedi." Anakin: "The Jedi use their power for good." Palpatine: "Good is a point of view, Anakin. The Sith and the Jedi are similar in almost every way... including their quest for greater power." Anakin: "The Sith rely on their passion for their strength. They think inwards- only about themselves." Palpatine: "And the Jedi don't?" Anakin: "The Jedi are selfless. They only care about others." Palpatine: "Did you ever hear the tragedy of Darth Plagueis the Wise? I thought not. It's not a story the Jedi would tell you. It's a Sith legend. Darth Plagueis was a dark lord of the Sith... so powerful and so wise... he could use the Force to influence the midi-chlorians... to create... life. He had such a knowledge of the dark side... he could even keep the ones he cared about... from dying." Anakin: "He could actually... save people from death?" Palpatine: The dark side of the Force is a pathway to many abilities... some consider to be unnatural." Anakin: "What happened to him?" Palpatine: "He became so powerful... the only thing he was afraid of was... Iosing his power. Which eventually, of course, he did. Unfortunately, he taught his apprentice everything he knew. Then his apprentice killed him in his sleep. It's ironic. He could save others from death... but not himself." Anakin: "Is it possible to learn this power?" Palpatine: "Not from a Jedi."

This entire conversation is a set-up to make Anakin think that it's not selfish to change his views, because it's just exactly as Anakin says the Jedi are selfless and only care about others that he starts the Plagueis story about this legendary Sith who just cared so much about his loved ones that he learned how to stop them from dying. But, oh, he couldn't stop himself from dying, he was only thinking of others! Not himself! Throughout the movie Palpatine is manipulating Anakin's thoughts so that Anakin will think in exactly the lines of thought that Sidious wants him to. ("Good is a point of view, Anakin." --> "From my point of view, the Jedi are evil!", "You know I'm not able to rely on the Jedi Council. If they haven't included you in their plot, they soon will." --> "I should have known the Jedi were plotting to take over!" Etc.) So when he wants Anakin to really consider using the dark side, he tells him a story about this mysterious Sith Lord who just wanted to save his loved ones, not himself, just those he cared about. It's the perfect way to give Anakin an excuse to take that first step that doesn't seem so bad, so against everything he knows is right, and think that it's okay if it's for someone else. It's not because he's so scared to lose someone he loves that he'll make a deal with the devil, no, he's just thinking of others, the ones he loves. The story is so perfectly designed to appeal to Anakin at this moment in time and so incongruent with everything else we know about Sith Lords and how the dark side works (the dark side is not a path to anything good), that I think it's 100% made up bullshit, just like everything Palpatine says to Anakin in this movie is a set-up to direct Anakin's thoughts where he wants them.

[copperbadge]

I think maybe I got married to a museum this morning. Boy is this a long weird story.

I was standing in line to get into the Museum of Natural History this morning when an older woman near me in line gestured for me to take out my headphones. She was clearly a little agitated, and she asked me if I was American, if I spoke English, in a pretty pronounced English accent. I said I'm from Chicago, and she looked relieved and said, "Can you help me find out if I can pay for my ticket with my credit card inside? It wouldn't register when I tried to buy a ticket on the internet this morning."

I said I didn't know how we'd find out, but I opened up the website on my phone to check. While I poked around the site she didn't stop talking once, telling me that she's in New York to look after her daughter who just had major surgery and she's very stressed and her daughter asked her to go out and distract herself for a while which....having spent some time in this woman's company, she's very sweet but I can see why her kid needed a break.

Anyway, I think this might actually be a lie on the website, but it says there that you HAVE to buy tickets online and you have to have an email address to get them delivered. She couldn't do the former and didn't have a smartphone she could use to access the latter.

So I said, why don't I buy your ticket on my phone while we're here in line? I can send it to my email, and you can come in with me. She fretted about fraud but I said nah, I'll just tell them your ticket's on my phone because I helped you buy it, they won't care.

Now, this sounds like she was running some kind of wild scam, but who the hell scams their way into the Museum of Natural History? Like lady if you love natural history that much and haven't got $24 to your name, let me buy you a ticket, you've earned it.

Anyway, I bought the ticket in about 30 seconds, and we had about ten minutes to wait, which she filled with a nonstop monologue about her daughter's medical problems, her husband's job, her attempts to get into a gym to swim, the crowdedness of New York, it was just...so much talking. And I had dire visions of possibly having to take her around the museum with me simply because I was so friendly and helped her get in. I wished to silently contemplate the taxidermy, thanks.

Inside, I took her to the customer service desk because she wanted a printed copy of her ticket, and while they were printing it she counted out the cash to pay me back. Then I ruthlessly unloaded her on one of the customer services agents, saying, "He'll explain what you can do with your ticket and give you a map -- you have a good time now and I'll be thinking of your daughter," and did my best to disappear. I rounded a corner, dashed into an elevator, and fled to the fourth floor where I was headed anyway.

That's enough of a misadventure just trying to get into the museum, but I put it from my mind and enjoyed the dinosaurs and dioramas...until I slipped on something black, on the black floor of the dimly lit Hall Of Mammals, and almost fell.

There, under my boot, in front of the stuffed rhinos, was a black-and-gold silicone ring.

If it had been any other kind of ring I'd have turned it in to lost and found, but I wear silicone rings myself -- they're very cheap and meant to be worn in place of a real ring while you're doing tool work (they tear away under pressure unlike metal rings that'll take your finger with) or if you're afraid you'll lose the real thing. I have several thin ones I wear on top of my normal rings to keep them from falling off when my fingers change size in the cold. It's not the kind of thing one would even go to Lost and Found for; you can replace it for $5.

I think the museum gave me a wedding band.

It's a little big but the spirit is there.

So yeah, much like how the Rijksmuseum and I are sworn enemies, the American Museum of Natural History is now my bride. Well, she saw that I know how to look after my elders. As spouses that are actually large cultural institutions in the middle of New York City go, could be worse.

[ID: The middle and index finger of my left hand, showing several rings -- the middle finger has a silver ring with a kokopelli motif (a gift from my maternal grandmother), a gold ring with a knotwork motif (the wedding ring I inherited from my stepfather's parents), and a thin silicone band to hold them in place. My index finger has the new ring, gold with a border of black, looking slightly loose.]

[ninikrumbs]

Proper name, place name, backstory stuff.

est. relationship. Caleb x Reader. early relationship. love and deepspace

Where you realize that despite being the big bad Colonel of the Farspace Fleet. Caleb can still be a bit childish sometimes.

You were angry. Berating him for being so reckless and stupid during a deepsapce mission. It was comical, watching a small thing like you scold the Colonel of the farspace fleet.

There you were with you're hands on your hips towering overing his muscled form by merely and inch or two even as his sat. He could see your mouth moving, your furrowed brows and exasperated eyes. Yet he heard nothing and he hopes you won't notice. Maybe a few words came through like "Idiot!, not thinking! and dummy Caleb!"

All he knows that his brain only wants to focus on more important things like how your soft lips looks so plump and glossy-a new lip gloss, maybe? how your eyes seem to glow and sparkle under the sunlight. He has wholeheartedly accepted that that shade was his favorite color ever since you were kids. And your hair? and that scent? It makes him unconsciously move closer to you. His hands twitching, just aching to touch you.

"Caleb! Are you even liste-"

"How mad would you be if I kissed you right now?" He grins up at you, brushing up his hair. Not a single serious thought behind those eyes.

You stutter with your words. "Wha- are you- stop distracting me." Shaking your head, you take a deep breath trying to stablelize yourself despite the obvious blush creeping up your face. "Really mad."

"I'll apologize later." Before you could protest he closes the distance between your lips, pulling you closer by the waist as he angles his head to kiss you deeper, longer. Trapping you between his legs so you wont pull away too fast. Your hands snake through his hair, moaning softly into his mouth. His lips were so desperate, so eager to taste what you'd allow him.

The sound of your lips echoed a bit throughout your empty apartment. You tried to pull away but kissing him came as naturally to you as breathing air. It was an automatic response.

After a hot minute, You manage to pull away a bit, "Caleb, we nee-" He cuts you off with another kiss, voice husky and deep, "just a bit more."

Some part of you wants to give in, but one of you had to be a responsible adult. Suprisingly, it wasn't Caleb. With your hunter training you somehow managed to pry yourself away from his grubby hands.

"Pipsqueak! A few more seconds." And slight pout decorated his face as his eyes droop comically. He looked like a kicked puppy.

Coughing, you tried and failed to appear stern especially with your face still red. "Caleb, you can't just kiss while Im scolding you! And I was being serious, you can't even listen to me for one minute?!"

"I swear I was listening!"

You glare at him. "No, you weren't. You were too busy ogling me."

So you did notice. Heh. He looks away innocently. "I can't help it if my girlfriend's so pretty I can't focus."

"Caleb."

As a punishment, you decided to lecture him a good 5 meters away.

AN: first time writing for Caleb. I dont know if I wrote him right.

[dannyriccsystem]

I love your writing!! Could you please do the drivers being soooo angry at the world and everyone’s scared to approach them but they’re soft for you(idk if that makes sense)

YOU MAKE ME FEEL LIKE SPRING HAS SPRUNG!

FORMULA ONE DRIVERS X READER

SUMMARY: When you’re the only one they can tolerate when they’re angry!

OVERALL W.C: 2.6k

WARNINGS: Mean drivers (soft with you), Y/N usage, not proofread

FEATURING: MV1, DR3, LN4, KA12, CL16, CS55, GR63, OP81

MAX VERSTAPPEN - MV1

When Max was mad, everyone in the paddock knew. After the outcome of the Saudi Arabian Grand Prix, the air was undeniably tense. Your boyfriend was reasonably upset with his penalty— He didn’t want to deny and say it was unfair, because it wasn’t, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t allowed to be upset about it.

It didn’t help that the FIA had cornered him immediately afterwards and lectured him on his censorship. He could write four thousand paragraphs on that topic alone, but he didn’t need to get into it right now. The 2025 season had been undeniably shit for Max overall. With all the booing and the RedBull seat switching. It was a pain for everyone.

Everyone seemed to be walking on glass, unsure of how to approach the angry man, currently holding the title of 2024 champion. It was a lot to handle. The RB garage was scurrying around, trying to get things straight. Then you walked in.

One of the mechanics tried to warn you, but you brushed off the incessant complaining and walked right over to the Mad Max. Everyone held their breath, waiting for the surprise blow up, but it never came. He seemed to melt in his seat right then and there, staring up at you with such gentle eyes.

“Hi Max,” You whispered in that sweet voice he loved as you situated yourself to stand between his legs. He wrapped his arms around your waist, staring up at you.

“Lieverd,” He greeted, pressing a kiss to your clothed stomach. “Did you enjoy the race?” He asked it so casually, as if nothing was upsetting him and nothing went wrong. You were so capable of washing his concerns away, it astounded even Max.

“It was good, although a little frustrating.” Prying eyes figured now would be the time. You brought up his mistakes, so the only reasonable plan of action was to scold you like the mad man he was. But no, Max just chuckled and nodded.

“I know it better than anyone else.” You took a step back to let him stand up, his hand finding yours. “I’m just glad we get a week off now.” You both exited the garage, hand in hand. Meanwhile, the remaining staff members all locked eyes, unsure if anyone would believe them when they inevitably told the entire paddock about the astounding spectacle.

—

DANIEL RICCIARDO - DR3

It had been a really tough race for Daniel. He was typically a very positive and charismatic guy— Most people found that it was easy to love Danny, because no matter what happened, he tried to keep a positive attitude about it. This time was different.

He was approached by his engineer after his crash. Normally they’d discuss what went wrong, but instead, Danny brushed him off. He screamed in anger, clearly feeling immensely unsatisfied with his performance, as well as how the team was treating him.

You saw this. You saw him be angry and dismissive, but you approached anyway, because Danny needed you. You just knew it. Before he could even take his helmet off, you were standing before him. If you were anyone else, he might have shoved you aside or barked a comment at you, but instead he just pulled you into his arms, clinging to you tightly.

“Worst fucking race ever,” He’d mutter. He sounded harsh, but his voice was rid of malice. He slipped his helmet off and set it aside, allowing him to bury your face in your neck, inhaling your scent.

You ran your fingers through his curls, humming a low tune. “I’m still proud.” You could feel him smile against you. It was a seemingly slow process, but eventually his lips curved up into that grin you knew and loved. “It’s one bad performance out of many.”

“Yeah, I know.” He muttered, only audible to you. He was always like this, seeking comfort in your relaxing presence. When he pulled away, his hands were still upon your hip. “I think I’d be lost without you.”

“Glad you recognize that,” The two of you shared a laugh.

—

LANDO NORRIS - LN4

Lando had been pissed off all day. He showed up to the MTC in a bad mood, and it was very obvious to everyone. Nobody tried to ask why, because it seemed like every syllable directed towards him just put Lando in a worse mood.

He carried out the rest of the day feeling crappy. He didn’t seem to retain any of the information from the meetings, got nothing productive done, and ended up making them re-film a video for the Mclaren youtube channel like eight times. It was beginning to get uncomfortable for everyone else.

He was excused early, and told to go home and get some rest. When he arrived to the hotel you were both staying at, he still seemed fairly mad. He was just angry with the world, harboring a negative feeling from his performance at the last race.

Lando wanted nothing more than to scream and shout when he came back, but when he saw you lying on the bed looking so soft and sweet, it all melted away. You grinned at him, and for the first time all day he smiled back.

“It’s a little early, isn’t it?” You questioned with the tilt of your head. He didn’t answer, he just dived into the bed beside you, immediately encasing you in all his limbs. You laughed, your own arms finding his body immediately, and hugging him close.

“I missed you.” He finally spoke, his voice a whisper against your neck. He laid a few sloppy kisses there, just upon instinct.

“I missed you too.” You had never seen him behave in such a way. Lando was always somewhat clingy, but this was different. He seemed entirely dependent for a moment. Not that you were complaining.

You were just what he needed in that moment.

—

KIMI ANTONELLI - KA12

It was hard to imagine Kimi Antonelli truly angry. He seemed so happy most of the time, which is why it took everyone by surprise. Nothing should have angered him, either. He qualified quite high, especially for a rookie. But for some unknown reason, he was pissed.

The problem is, he had a hard time looking angry. He sort of just looked monotone from afar, but when anyone tried to talk to him, he’d get snappy and dismissive and the other person would eventually just leave him alone. It was weird. Even Ollie had trouble communicating with the guy.

“Kimi-” He heard your voice, and he immediately perked up. His head swiveled around the Mercedes garage, and his eyes immediately locked into you. You were talking with George, that sort of awed look on your face. He couldn’t hear the conversation, but he could assume it was about him.

When George finished talking you gave a confused look and shook your head, pushing past him. “Kimi you did great today!” Everyone watched, waiting to see what he would say. What sort of backhanded comment would he make this time? Hopefully someone had a tissue, he might even make you cry.

“Thank you, Y/N.” He had a boyish grin on his face, and he appeared somewhat dreamy as he stood up to greet you. He kissed your hand politely, and then both of your cheeks. “Did you see? I qualified P5!”

It was incredible. No anger, no disrespect, no snappy attitude.

“I did see! You’re doing so good this year.” Everyone claimed it was solely because of the team. He raced for Mercedes, of course he’d do good. Maybe that’s why he was upset, because whenever he received a compliment, it always seemed like it was directed towards the car rather than him.

But you… You were supporting him. He gave you a cheeky kiss on the lips, whispering in a soft giggle, “Grazie, cara mia…”

—

CHARLES LECLERC - CL16

The day had been especially rough for Charles. It was almost as if the whole world was pitted against him. The team strategies had been extra disappointed, he was continuously receiving hate for his performance, and the pit wall was being extra frustrating today. After the race, he seemed rigid and cold towards the rest of the team.

He stormed off to his drivers room, trying to seem as polite as physically possible when he was experiencing this sort of rage. He sat down on the sofa, burying his head in his hands. He felt like the next person he saw was going to end up getting decked in the face— Which was ironic, because soon after the thought crossed his mind, the door creaked open.

“What-” He spat out bitterly, but froze when he saw you. You looked surprised, mouth slightly agape. His demeanor melted away into something softer, his brows knitted together in an expression that was damn near pathetic. “Sorry, I didn’t know it was you.”

You carefully shut the door behind you, and then leaned back against it. It was silent for a moment, filled with comfortable eye contact as you let him adjust to your presence. He appreciated how understanding you always were. At times, Charles felt like he was taking you for granted.

“I know you’re upset,” You murmured quietly. You finally pushed away from the door and sat beside him, your shoulders brushing. He flinched at first, and then leaned his head over to rest on your shoulder. You hummed, following his lead and pressing your own head against his. “We don’t have to talk about it if you—”

“I don’t,” He spoke shortly and softly. You pursed your lips into a sad smile, nodding with understanding. “Thank you.” He shut his eyes, letting himself relax as he softened beside you.

—

CARLOS SAINZ - CS55

When you stepped foot into the Williams garage, you were faced with the unpleasantry of stares and quiet whispers. You glanced around yourself at the mechanics and other staff, who were acting rather shifty. It had never been like before; you were typically greeted with kindness, but right now you felt somewhat alienated.

You continued walking, brushing past the odd behavior, hoping that you weren’t the root of the problem. You figured Carlos was in his driver’s room, because he wasn’t present amongst the others. You put your hand on the door knob, but one of the mechanics rushed over to stop you.

“Wait-” They blurted out in a whisper-yell, waving their hands around. You froze, pulling your hand back as you pivoted, facing their direction. “Y/N, you probably don’t wanna go in there.”

This was starting to worry you. Your brain automatically jumped to the worst possible assumptions. “What? Why?” You questioned, looking uncertain as you began to reach for the handle once more. Was Carlos being unfaithful? These thoughts plagued your mind.

“He’s been super upset all day. Everyone’s made him angry.” They explained, shifting nervously. Your eyebrows furrowed as you hummed in thought. If Carlos was upset, you should be there for him.

“Thank you for the warning, but I can handle this.” You gave a polite smile, although you were somewhat frustrated with such unprofessional behavior. With a deep breath, you entered into his moody fortress. He was laying back on the small couch provided, his kneees scrunched up and one arm over his eyes.

Carlos slowly tilted his head, one eye peeking out from his makeshift blindfold. When he saw you, he didn’t say anything, he just sat up, manspreading and leaning with his elbows on his knees. “Hey,” He tried to force a smile.

“Hi,” You grinned sincerely, standing right in front of him. He looked up at you, and then tugged you down to sit perched on his lap. He leaned back against the wall, pulling you close to his chest.

You understood. He needed you— Your warmth and your comfort. You wrapped your arms around him, letting him safely bury his face in your neck. You both sat there silently, healing.

—

GEORGE RUSSELL - GR63

George was always regarded as the paddock’s mean girl. Regina George, of course. It was funny in theory, assuming it was just a silly joke shared between friends. It was funny until George realized people truly perceived him in such a way, disliking him for his “hateful ways.”

Most of the time he was just speaking the truth. There was lots of animosity between drivers on the track, and he was going to be truthful when interviewers asked him for his opinion. If he thought of someone as a bully, he’d happily call it out because sugarcoating it certainly wouldn’t help.

He was especially frustrated today. He was told to keep his peace and stay silent about any future conflicts, because his forward thinking caused a bad outlook on the team. That alone was enough to piss him off, but considering some unfair play that took place during the race itself, it was like adding fuel to the fire.

He knew you would be the solution to this issue. He always felt serene when you were around, which is why George immediately sought you out after the race. It didn’t matter to him that he came P4 and was supposed to celebrate— He wanted your comfort, and he wanted your praise and approval.

He found you on the sidelines, and he practically jumped the barrier to pull you into a hug, kissing you directly on the lips. He felt his anger beginning to fade as you smiled against him, whispering an “I love you” that was shared between only the two of you.

That’s all he needed to hear to know everything would be just fine.

—

OSCAR PIASTRI - OP81

Oscar rarely showed an emotion that wasn’t joy, or just his typical monotone expressions. Sure, he experienced rage and sadness just like everyone else, but he portrayed it differently. Like right now, instead of screaming at everyone to ensure his wrath was made known, Oscar was silent. Abnormally silent. Not a single thank you to the team, or a congratulations to his teammate, Lando.

He was quiet.

The absence of sound wasn’t abnormal, but it was usually when someone else was talking that Oscar remained so silent. This paired with his blank dissociating stare was enough to intimidate everyone amongst Mclaren. He was pissed, to put it lightly.

You walked in, and everyone stared at you as if you were a ray of sunlight, or as if you were their guardian angel. You greeted the team with a kind smile, calling a few of the people you were closer with out by their name. You were undeniably charming, and certainly a perfect match for Oscar.

He stood up to greet you, and he couldn’t control his smile anymore. There was a collective sigh of relief amongst everyone, who could safely continue their work without worrying about Oscar silently breathing down their neck. He kissed both of your cheeks and then finally your lips. “Thank you for coming to the race,” He spoke politely.

“Of course! You did great.” He only placed third, but that was clearly enough for Oscar as long as you were congratulating him. If not, he’d usually appear a little more grumpy, like he did moments ago. “Give me the rundown.” Of course you were watching, but you didn’t get to experience everything he did firsthand. It was always more entertaining to hear it directly from the source.

“Well,” He began his rant, and all was well with the Mclaren team.

[muntitled]

Rabid

Pairings: Geum Seongje x Fem!Reader

Summary: You've figured if you paid him, then your debts would be settled and maybe... just maybe he'd let you go

Warnings: Language, Dom!Seongje, Gangsterism, Bullied!Reader, Angst, Neglect, Coercion, Bullying, Extortion, Absent Parents, Violence, Smut +18 (mdni), Sadomasochism, Sadist!Seongje, Fingering, Dark fic, Dubious consent, Exhibitionism, Desperate Sex, Humiliation, Degradation

A/N: Comissioned by @tojii11 ... as always I'm not responsible for the media you consume.

Since you've known him as of late, lying has become almost as voluntary as breathing. It should scare you, how fluidly a lie slips past the confines of your lips. Making you more and unrecognizable to even your own self.

"I'm tutoring late tonight."

"I’m studying at the library,"

“I'm having dinner with a friend.”

You didn't have many of those. Had your parents been the caring type they might have known that friends were a luxury you could not afford.

Still, it bothered you that you were making excuses for him. You were helping yourself get extorted everytime you stole for him and everytime you didn't let a living soul know.

The first few times were as difficult as it ever got. But the more you were forced to work for him, the more he corrupted you-the more that infection spread until it became all you were.

"What do you need that much money for anyway?" You squeeze your phone tighter with one hand while the other sits in your blazer pocket. You maintain a calm, controlled gait as you walk out of the school gates, surrounded by your peers dressed in the same uniform walking in clumps of groups- little ecosystems that they formed to help manage their anxieties. You wish you had their problems: Boys. Makeup. Parties.

You wish you had your own little ecosystem. A group who'd be more concerned with strengthening your mental health, not deteriorating it.

"You think school trips to Bali are gonna be cheap?" It was always easier to lie to her over the phone or through text. There was something biting in your mother's eyes that you couldn't always face. Something that would eat you alive if she found out you've been working for the kind of people you're working for.

"Backtrack on the attitude," her words snipe you through the receiver like barbed wire, "It's just strange that they're organizing a field trip in the height of your assignments like this..."

"It's an incentive I guess. They're telling us about it now for extra motivation to see this exam season through.." lies lies and more lies. Your mouth is full of them.

"I don't know if I want you to be thinking about a trip to Bali during all this work... have you been improving?"

There was no improvement with her. Only perfection. She tried your whole life to wipe you squeaky clean until you were spotless. If only she knew that over the past year you've acquired a spot almost impossible to scrub away. He's irremovable. Or at least you thought he was...

"When did you say your field trip was? Perhaps your father and I will tag along, make a family vacation out of it. We never see you anymore because you're always studying and Bali is lovely all-year round-" while your mother talks, your heart sinks and panic festers. You try to focus your steps on making it across the road, down a path you've walked all year.

"Mom, please don't be embarrassing."

"How am I being embarrassing?"

"You'll be the only parent there." Above you, the afternoon sun sits snugly against the horizon, guiding you down a decrepit lane. Stray cats and empty soju bottles litter the street the farther you walk from the safety of the school grounds. You're getting closer and you needed her to send the money.

"It's my money. I can do with it as I please."

You scramble your brain, searching furiously for a lifeline.

"It's just..." More and more lies, "This trip is actually just Geo-camp. Our teachers planned a few cave explorations. We're gonna check out the different stalactites and stalagmites-your presence might hinder my concentration-"

In the distance, the warehouse looms and your fist in your blazer pocket begins to coil.

"Why didn't you say so in the first place instead of wasting my time?” Your mother tsks, “I've sent the money to your account."

"Thank you ma'am..."

The call ends abruptly, void of any warmth. Void of any love. You pull your phone away from your ear and your nerves settle as you see the money reflecting. You suddenly feel bigger than this warehouse- bigger than life itself- like you're armed and ready to take on anything this rabid dog might throw at you.

You tilt your head back to watch the clouds disappear behind the iron roof and you steal your nerves. Word on the street is that this place once belonged to Baek Jin before his untimely disappearance. Until, naturally, a wolf came in and marked it as his own...

The nearer you get to the slightly opened door, the clearer the sound becomes: You hear the sound of a broken man groaning and your body has a visceral reaction. By now you recognize the sound of a fist slamming against human flesh and bone. You know what that sounds like and it haunts you through those quiet moments at night when it was just you and your memories. You fight the urge to stop walking, something in you tugging and begging to just walk away. It's either this or remain a slave for the rest of your foreseeable future.

That thought is enough to have you sucking in one final breath of air before waltzing into the warehouse. It's dark, the air damp and stuffy with little to no circulation. Despite the location, the interior is somewhat tidy and were it not for the man kneeling and bleeding on the floor, you might have thought the place fitting for any dignified bachelor.

“I didn't expect to see you today,” Seongje addresses you the moment you step in. His fist is paused in mid air and it's pulled back as if you'd just saved the man on the floor from experiencing one final blow.

He smiles at you, as if he didn't have blood on his knuckles. As if he didn't have a man on his knees, pleading for his life. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” Seongje asks, before digging his fingers into the boys scalp. You hide your trembling hands in the pockets of your blazer and you appear as unaffected as you possibly can when Seongje tilts the man's face to look up at you. “This is Eungmin. He's very cute, very small.” Seongje smiles. “Eungmin is getting beat unconscious because he's been stealing some of my money for himself, isn't that right, Eungmin-a?”

The man’s left ise completely disappeared under a swollen mass of flesh. His skin is broken in several places- all is red and yet he still tries… “P-please-” his words are slurred. You can tell he's getting closer and closer to blacking out. His brain can't comprehend the words leaving his mouth and it's far too painful to watch. “My grandfather's sick and- I needed the money-”

“Sob, sob, sob, stories, Eungmin-a,” Seongje lets go of the man's head before tucking his hands into his pockets. Eungmin sways from side to side as Seongje rounds his bruised and battered body, tsking lightly like a scolding parent.

Before you're made witness to any more bloodshed, possibly even a murder, you grab your phone out of blazer pocket and with trembling hands you press a few buttons on your screen.

Seongje's phone buzzes and he pulls it out of his pockets. He taps away at the device with bloodied fingers, his orange windbreaker stained with the same blood and for a moment, all is quiet.

Seongje stares blankly at his screen.

“What's this?” He asks without looking up.

Something in you tells you that you have the upper hand. Power has shifted, even minutely and it gives you the courage to reply back, “It's an incentive.”

Seongje's dark eyes finally flit up to you and you're arrested by that wolfish grin. “Big words.” He smirks. “You want a promotion or something?”

You ready your voice. “Actually, Seongje, I’m looking for a way out.”

More silence but this time, it's fucking suffocating. Even the man on the floor, the man who's experienced the very worst of Seongje's wrath has his mouth slightly open from shock.

“I never want to steal for you again. I never want to do anything for you again.” You find your voice in the rubble of your pain and all your anxieties that have gone unnoticed by the adults around you. “I never wanna see you again.”

He nods slowly. “I hear you.” Seongje's voice is calm. So calm it births a sliver of hope inside you: Maybe he'll just accept the money and you might actually be free. You could go back to being a girl forgotten by the rest of the world but this time, it'd be on your own terms. You'd love to be invisible again. Invisible girls don't get extorted like this.

“It's just… I'm really sensitive-”

The very moment those words leave his mouth, the moment a glimmer of a smile flits onto your lips, Seongje delivers a bone-cracking punch to the man's jaw.

You gasp and cup your mouth with both hands. Shocked.

The man slumps over, face hitting the floor. Knocked out cold.

“This is interesting.” Seongje says but you can't look away at the man laying on the ground. His body twitches periodically until there's barely any movement at all. Were you looking at someone passed out or were you staring at a corpse?

Soengje doesn't care about either outcome because he's already lighting a cigarette, standing as if pondering something else entirely.

“Where'd you get this money from?”

“D-Does-” you swallow thickly, “-it matter?”

He nods his head slightly before sticking the cigarette on the tip of his lips, “I could buy a million cig packs with this. The good kind too,” he chuckles, “Fuck, I could buy a fucking factory-”

“It's not that much-”

“Are you rich?” He asks suddenly, ramping up your nerves as he tucks his hands in his pockets to stalk closer towards you. “Have I been extorting a princess this whole time and I didn't know it?” You make your body an iron rod- your face cold. Something like him can't sense discomfort or he'll play with it.

“Not rich,” you say, “Just desperate…”

His feet stop directly in front of you and you keep your gaze there. Not daring to look up at him until he brings his own index finger under your chin, tilting it up.

“I like that word… Desperate.” He blows out a plume of smoke but not in your face. The small, gentlemanly act is almost laughable.

“Seongje, at this rate I'll be working for you for the rest of my life-”

“The rest of your life…” he nods slowly, looking away in a pensive manner before looking back at you, “That sounds fun, doesn't it?”

“Seongje- please just accept the money…”

“Are you calling me poor?”

“That's not what I'm saying at all and honestly, I feel like you know that's not what I'm saying-” your brows are furrowed, voice rising.

“So I'm delusional then?” He asks with a smile.

“Why do you get off on making yourself a victi-” his hand contracts around your throat and it tightens.

“Lemme stop you from saying what you wanna say because you really won't like the outcome.”

He squeezes one more time in warning before letting you go

“Why would I let you go? You're so perfect for me. We work well together.”

“Seongje, Please-”

“Shh… shh… shh…” he lets the cigarette hang off the side of his mouth before cupping both of your cheeks with both hands. He pushes back a stray braid and you tremble under the weight of not only his hands, but his gaze. His eyes are two endlessly cold voids. You don't wonder what's behind those eyes because you bet there's nothing there.

So focused, you've become, with Seongje's eyes, you barely notice his hand slithering down your neck. He feels you, touches you like he's just discovered something new…

“You've just made me more money than any of these useless scumbags ever have…” He stands closer and you watch as he opens his mouth to let the cigarette fall to the floor. You hear his foot stomp on it but your eyes are hazy with tears.

“I pride myself on being a good businessman… Letting you go?” He tsks, “That's not very good business.”

“Please, Seongje-”

“I do believe in rewards though so…” he lets his hand roam lower and lower. On its way down, he squeezes you tit through your shirt, causing a small gasp to slip through.

“Is it okay?” He asks in a low voice, “That im touching you like this?”

He waits patiently for a response that never comes. Truth is, you're completely and utterly overwhelmed. Caught in a web of feeling good and fucking terrible.

A tear falls.

“Shh,” he pats down your hair while all too slyly inching his hand up your skirt. “Seongje will make you feel better-”

You could tell him to stop, but your mind is clouded with all sorts of contradictions. You can't lie some more and say you don't find him even a little bit attractive. Isn't it fucking terrible how that works? This man has tormented you and yet-

“You're so wet, Princess,” you open your legs wider, only flinching when his fingers rub against your clothed cunt. You don't have the energy to look up at him, but you notice the visceral reaction his body is having from all this.

Over his shoulder, you notice the bloodied man unconscious on the floor.

“You just became wetter-” he whispers into your ear before cursing ever so lightly as his finger pushes aside your panties. You notice his movements becoming less controlled, far more hungry and you begin to pull away.

“Say it.” He urges, before fisting your neck in one tight grip. “I need you to say it.”

In a moment that feels unreal, Seongje pushes you backwards, forcing your feet into motion until he has you firmly pressed against a wall. “Say we work well together- tell me-”

You can't very well say much of anything because he's already sinking his index and middle finger into your cunt. Your mouth flies open and you're caught in a silent cry.

“Fuck- Look at how well we work together…” he says, bringing his fingers up to the light. He watches your slick coat, his fingers and something in you coils with disgust and immense pleasure.

His eyes immediately snap to you the second a small moan croaks out.

“F-Fuck-” you gulp in all the air you possibly can when his grip around your throat loosens. There's absolutely no space between you as he crowds you against the wall, staring down at you with the bad fluorescents reflecting against his glasses.

“You don't get to do that… You don't quit on me. I quit on you.” He's forcing his hand between your legs, this time he fucks you properly. Your cunt clenches around his fingers and a tear falls.

“Say sorry.” He taunts with another manic smile flitting across his face, “I want you to take my fingers and tell me how sorry you are-”

“F-Fuck Seongje-” your hips snap awards and you stare up at him with watery eyes- watery eyes that havr his cocktail straining against his pants. He brings you in close by the nape of your neck while he forces you down until your clit meets the palm of his hand.

“You keep looking at me like that and I'm gonna cum. And I hate cumming first.”

“Shit…” your eyes roll to the back of your head as you force yourself to grind down on his fingers. His hand around your throat is the only thing keeping you somewhat upright. You've slipped into that mental soace where you'll embarrass yourself to achieve orgasm. You needed this.

And him.

“What a greedy slut, huh? Tell me you're done with me. I want you to say it again-”

You can't say much of anything because you grab ahold of his wrist, keeping his fingers inside you as your orgasm crests and breaks.

You're screaming wildly, devoid of all rational thought, unprepared by the fact that a bleeding man still lays forgotten on the cold floor. All you feel is him. Jts all him and its suffocating.

You've quite literally found yourself in the clutches of a sadist and he's guiding You gently through your orgasm… patting your head down lightly like you were a delicate baby bird.

"Why would I ever let you go?"

[ms-demeanor]

thoughts on using library computers to disguise your digital footprint? because if the machine gets wiped when you log out, and the library doesn't keep detailed records of what machine you were using when, then all someone else would have is IP data unconnected to a person and also mixed in with whatever else folks were doing on the library computers

The machine absolutely does not get wiped when you log out and there's very little chance that a library computer will let you fire up Tor. You're better off using a traffic anonymizer than you are trying to use public computers to cover your tracks. The IP address IS the big risk here.

Libraries are generally really good about protecting their patrons' privacy and I respect the hell out of them for that but computers log everything that you do and can be subpoenaed as evidence even if the library wants to protect user privacy.

Also, I love libraries but you should treat every public computer you come across like it has a keylogger installed on it because it might. Your city could have an overzealous city council that has more control than it should over the library board and has taken it upon themselves to add covenanteyes to the library computers. Your library crew could be fantastic but less tech-savvy than is ideal and may not realize it if malware is installed on one of the machines. The library may clear browser history twice a day but the ISP still has a record of where you went and what time you went there. Somebody could have literally plugged a keylogger into a USB port on the back of the machine.

The point of a traffic anonymizer is it hides where the traffic originated; each node knows where the previous hop came from and where the next hop went, but not what came BEFORE the previous hop or what happened after, or how long the chain was, so there is no way to tell if a message originated in the US or Brazil or Vietnam or Sweden. Sending traffic from a library does the opposite of this, and very clearly says "the person who sent this message did so from this geographic area; they sent messages from these five libraries so we know they're probably within X distance of these libraries" which is a hell of a lot easier to look for than "I can't even say what continent these messages originated from."

Let us say that you go to a library to log in to your protonmail account and email a journalist a link to a file that you've saved in cryptpad. You have the link written down so you don't have to go to a secondary site and you just go sit down directly at the computer and log in to protonmail and fire off your email to the journalist. The email is encrypted, so you know the contents of the email are safe. Let's say the browser history gets automatically wiped every time you close it, and you close it as soon as you stand up and walk away. Here's the incriminating information that generated:

IP address where you accessed your protonmail account

Your protonmail email address, the journalist's address, the time you sent the email, the subject line of the email

And here are the people who can be subpoenaed to share some or all of that information with the government:

The Library's ISP

The Library, who may not carefully track users but who do have event logs on the computers and traffic logs on the firewall

Protonmail

IF you only ever logged in to your protonmail account from that ISP one time, and if you've never logged in to your protonmail account anywhere that is close to your house or your job, you may be fine. But if you logged in to your protonmail on your personal cellphone at work so that you could send photos of documents to yourself, there's some data tying that account to a local IP address. If you set up the protonmail account on a whim at a coffee shop, there's some data tying that account to a local IP address. If you get an email back from the journalist and go to another local library to open it, there's some data tying that account to another local IP address.

And that gets narrowed down very quickly. "Who has access to these sensitive and leak-worthy documents through working at this entity who also lives within a 100 mile radius of these three login locations? Is it 50 people? Is it 5 people? Of the 15 people who have access to these sensitive and leak-worthy documents who work at this entity and live within 100 miles of the three login locations, who is likely to be doing the leaking? Do we fire them all? Do we interview them? Do we compare IP addresses that they've used to log in to work remotely and find that two of them have logged in at the coffee shop? Of those two, one has facebook selfies in a maga hat and the other has a less visible online presence. Let's check their traffic history. Did they check tumblr on a lunch break? Maybe once or twice? Maybe a few times? Sure seems like they are pretty dead-set against the administration. Let's double-check the access logs for this information. Let's review security footage. Let's install the monitoring on their workstation."

The thing is, they're not going to catch you leaking and then track down all the data you left behind to confirm it; they're going to see a leak and get a bunch of digital footprints and use that to narrow down suspect pools. They already know that access to the data is limited and will be reviewing prior access and carefully monitoring future access. You are already in their suspect pool by already being one of the people with known access to the data. Adding an IP address that is geographically close to you, even if it isn't your home IP address, to that is not going to make it *harder* to find you, it can only make it easier.

So just use Tor. You're safer using an anonymizer, which you likely can't do on a library computer. Create the leak email address when you're in a Tor browser, and only EVER access that email account from Tor.

Also I don't mean to jump on you about this, but between the post I've got about why you shouldn't use your work computer to torrent and the safer leaking practices post it's clear that people really don't understand what information they're leaving behind when they use computers and the internet, or how it can be a risk to them.

Accessing burner accounts from a clear IP address means that they're not burner accounts anymore, they're burned.

[l0vergirlwrites]

Absolutely OBSESSED with ur fics girl 🫶🫶, could you by any chance do one where Spencer has surgery (maybe he got injured in the field or smth) and afterwards he’s on anaesthesia, and reader is taking him home and Spence doesn’t recognize her cause he’s high AF and is like “back off I have a gf (referring to reader)” and is all like complimenting her and stuff??? I definitely did not get this from a tiktok HAHA (it would probably have to be season 1 Spencer tho cause we all know how Spencer feels about narcotics in the later season 😭😭)

TYYY ANYWAYS I LOVE UR WORK AHHH AND EVEN IF YOU DONT DO THIS THATS ALGDS CAUSE UR A QUEEN ❤️❤️

anaesthetic makes the heart grow fond ; spencer reid

synopsis: after getting his wisdom teeth removed, it only makes sense that you’re the only thing on spencer’s mind. but when he doesn’t initially recognize you under his anaesthetic haze, you can’t help but play along & feel yourself fall harder for him.

warnings: established relationship with spencer & fem!reader, mentions of blood & wisdom teeth related themes, spencer just being a total goof & lover boy (season 1 spencer particularly)

note: thank you so much for the request! & thank you for the compliment, you’re so kind anon! i hope you enjoy 💌

“… here is a list of his prescribed medications. they should be ready to be picked up at his selected pharmacy later today…”.

with his eyes shut, spencer tried to listen closely to the muffled voices from the hallway as he breathed in & out through his nose, his mouth feeling heavy from his swelling cheeks & gauze pressed firm into his gums.

he couldn’t shake the cold feeling that still spread from hushed head to his toes, knowing that it was from the local anaesthetic his dentist administered.

but it still made his stomach a little queasy.

“are you feeling a bit warmer now, baby?” a soft voice spoke with accompanying footsteps, causing spencer to open his hazel eyes.

he looked at you a little hazy, eyes blinking slow as he tried to speak, but the action hurt more than he thought it would.

leaning closer to the long chair he occupied, you grabbed one of his hands & rubbed a star like pattern onto his knuckles, shushing him gently. your touch sent shivers down spencer’s spine, spreading all over his skin like molasses.

it felt nice.

“gotta speak slow, spence. don’t want to hurt your mouth too much okay?”.

your eyes scanned his face, lips turning into a sympathetic smile because you could see the exhaustion & pain riddled in his face, causing you to rise your free hand to smooth the cress between his eyebrows.

he spoke your name slow & choppy, mumbling the word ‘girlfriend’ three times in a row for good measure. his voice was muffled by the gauze that pressed into his bleeding gums, but you got the message loud & clear.

you squeezed his hand, palm warm against his cooler one. “i’m right here, baby. we’re gonna go home soon when you’re a little less loopy”. but spencer wasn’t satisfied with your response.

he groaned, more so whined, as mumbled your name with desperation. “i miss her… have you seen her? she’s my girlfriend”.

a nurse typing at the computer inches away couldn’t help but snort.

but you decided to play along & see how long it would take for him to realize it was really you.

“hmmm, i think i saw her. what does she look like?” you asked as you adjusted the blanket over his body, watching spencer’s gaze fall onto your face like you were just another person.

it was like he was looking at you through frosted glass.

closing his eyes, a sleepy smile graced his lips despite the movement making him wince uncomfortably, drool slipping out his mouth as he spoke. “pretty hair, pretty eyes, pretty face, smells like flowers… you sort of look like her” he said dreamily, & now you couldn’t help but snort too.

“oh really? that’s so sweet” you could feel your face growing warm. “how long have you two been together?”.

“long time… many moons…” you laughed his emphasis of saying the o’s.

“you must love her a lot, hmm?”

“so so so much,” spencer emphasized. “she’s my favourite person on earth, besides my mom”.

you wished you were recording his for your own personal stash of ‘spencer reid being the most adorable person ever’ moments, but you didn’t have the heart to pull your touch away from him.

brushing a stray strand of hair off his forehead, you lightly frowned when he leaned away from your touch.

“my girlfriend won’t like you doing that” spencer blinked at you again, watching his eyes scan over your form as he tried to process who you were in his mind, but it came up blank. probably for the first time ever.

you looked so familiar. it was on the tip of his tongue for sure.

“i’m sorry” no you weren’t. “does she do that often?,” he hummed. “what else does she do?”

this got spencer to kick into full tangent mode despite the ache in his jaw, animatedly lifting his hands from the blanket as he listed various things you do in fact do for him. you nodded your head & listened intently to each one, feeling your heart ache with each sentiment he said as you wiped blood-tinted salvia from his chin with a kleenex.

“… she knows what shampoo i like, buys me lots of sweater vests, does this thing when she holds my hand—her hands are always so soft… reminds me of… ” spencer began to drift off there, eyes drifting from the button of your cardigan to your hand on his, thumb rubbing stars onto his skin.

a surprised gasp left his lips then, eyes snapping back to yours like he just solved a case. your name rolled off his tongue languidly, a tear rolling down his cheek, eyes shining with admiration when he processed everything he was seeing; your smile lines, that twinkle in your pupil, the freckles he loves to kiss repeatedly… it’s you.

“i can’t believe you’re here!” gleaming with happiness, spencer intertwined his fingers with yours hurriedly, wanting needing you closer because he missed you so dearly, because he yearned for your touch.

wiping the tear that slipped down the apple of his cheek, the sound of your sweet laughter caused spencer to visibly swoon.

“of course i’m here, spence. told you i’d take care of you” you pressed a cautious cheek to his swelling cheek, his skin flushing pink as if the gesture just brought him back to life.

his eyes soon fell closed again as he scooted ever so slightly closer to you, nuzzling his cheek into your palm for relief as the dentist walked back into the room. she was clearly amused with the scene, but didn’t comment on it.

within minutes, the two of you were given the go ahead to leave, but not without a starter care kit & instructions on how to replace the gauze & clean spencer’s wisdom teeth sockets.

“i think i dreamed of your eyes when i went under” he mumbled as he practically stuck to your side like glue while you two walked through the parking lot, his body weight supported by your arm wrapped around his torso. “your irises are my favourite, they look like marbled ice cream…”

you just shook your head & played into his antics, doing your best to get him securely sir in the passenger seat without hitting his head on the car door frame. it took longer than you expected, leaving you huffing for a breath of air once his seatbelt clicked in place.

“don’t move too much, baby. just relax while i close the door. we gotta pick up your medication before we go home”.

“but i don’t want to let go of your hand” spencer pouted, the once white gauze in his mouth now turning into a darker shade of pink.

kissing his temple, you gave his hand one final squeeze. “you can hold it again when i get into the car. deal?”

“okay. i love when you call me that”.

“baby?”.

spencer broke out into the best toothy grin he could muster at the moment when you said the pet name once more.

he earned another kiss for that.

for the entirety of the drive to the pharmacy, your hand stayed in the safety of spencer’s lap with his fingers continuously dancing across your skin. he would ramble facts about your palm lines & how he thinks your his soulmate due to your fingerprints, while you occasionally had to remind him not to try touching your eyes as you drove.

you’re not so sure if there was a scientific method to prove that your fingerprints do in fact mean that both of your souls are tied to one another, but you were definitely sure of one thing; you wished you could hold onto spencer’s hand forever & never let go.

[nochepsicodelica]

Part I

"Hey, uh-uh. What did we say about stealth-ing in the house?"

Crap. You stand in the kitchen for a few seconds longer, thinking about how you're going to play this off.

"I didn't even make a sound, your hearing is amazing, baby!" You say, attempting to boost your lover's ego to distract him from this for now.

"Didn't hear you, I saw your shadow scurrying after you into the kitchen. Now quit stalling and come here."

"I reek of sweat and blood. Maybe I should shower first," you divert once again.

"Get over here or I'm coming to you, and I'm not gonna be a teddy bear about it."

You sigh and put your duffel bag down, dragging your tired feet to the living room. Before Toji can get a look at your mug, you put a hand over your mouth, not touching, just hovering over it. Finally, you step out into the bright, warm toned light, and look at Toji, like a bunny in the face of an enormous bear that could crush it with a single paw.

He crooks a finger, beckoning for you to come closer. From where he sits, he can see a scratch beneath your eye and one on your cheek.

"I know you're tired, but I need to see my girl," he says, making your heart shake like a rattle.

You drop your hand and take more purposeful steps towards him, ready to crawl into his embrace like you always do after the day begins to close out.

"Yeah, come here, baby," he says, making room for you on his lap, and sure enough, you weren't lying. As you settle onto his lap, the combination of your sweat and the irony smell of the dried blood on your clothes is potent. Does that stop him from holding you tight? Hell no, he handles you like you're fragile, because he knows you are. Your tiredness allows you to be that way after a long day of showing the contrary. He can't ever stress enough to you how much he understands that.

"What'd you eat for lunch?" Toji asks, rubbing your back while you rest your head on his shoulder.

"Lance and his wife invited me to go get ramen with them, but I wasn't that hungry then, so they gave me a couple granola bars," you mumble.

"Nice people. They really do treat you like you're one of their own kids."

"Mhm," you hum, turning your head to bury your face in his neck. He smells like safety and comfort. You come home to this every day.

"Let me see your face, doll," he murmurs. "I'm not gonna yell at you or get you in trouble or whatever bad thing you think is gonna happen. Just wanna see your pretty face," he says, in response to your hesitance.

You sigh, nervous for no reason. It's really not that bad, but it is noticeable. Slowly, you pull away from his neck and sit up for something you think will be incredibly anticlimactic, but... anything for Toji.

He stares at you, long and hard, inspecting every inch of your face for deep serious cuts. So far the only major damage is your busted lip.

"Are you mad?" You ask, as he runs the pad of his thumb over a thin, jagged cut on your cheek.

"No reason for me to be. Does your lip still hurt?" He asks, unable to look away for too long. Your lips are one of his favorite things to look at and he stares at them plenty, so it's not unusual for you.

"Not really," you respond, shaking your head. "It hurt like a bitch when it happened, but not so much anymore. Lance had some extra disinfecting wipes in his glove compartment so I cleaned it up a little on the way here. I'm fine."

"Hm. Any serious damage to your body?" Toji asks, massaging your shoulder blades, instinctively. "Arms, legs? How's your back?"

"I'm fine, baby," you insist, smiling at all the concern he's showing.

"Any scrapes on your hands or knees?"

"Probably, but i'm okay. Seriously, i'm fine."

"How 'bout a warm bath?" He suggests.

"I'm f--" you start, expecting another question of concern. "Wait, um..."

"A nice... toasty bath," he utters softly, carefully, to further entice you. "with those relaxing bubbles you love so much."

It sounds amazing, but only one thing could make it perfect.

"Can you stay with me? In the tub, I mean," you clarify. "I'll do a pre-wash. Get all the nasty off and... and i'll call you in once i'm done. You don't have to, of course," you add, a sheepish laugh following. "But, I would love you a million, billion, gajillion, if you did.

"Sounds perfect, doll," he agrees, leaning forward to kiss your cheek. Normally he would turn that last bit into a full fledged banter about you loving him when it's convenient to you, but your energy is limited, so he'll put it on hold for now. "You let me know when you're ready."

Despite him asking that of you, he does not let you out of his sight at all. He leans against the doorframe of the bathroom and watches you. Watches you remove your worn, filthy clothes. Watches you scrub your body down, head to toe. Your back has faded scars scattered over it, you have little cuts just below your ribs and scratches on your waist, and yet Toji thinks you've never looked more beautiful. He can't imagine you without a few scuff marks. He met you that way, he knows you that way, but all in all, he loves you in all ways, whether you've been grazed, you're healing, or scarred.

This may be one of his favorite rituals to do with you. Lying back against the tub with you sitting between his legs and resting against his chest, you jump between guessing how you both got your scars...

"Hm... severe rope burn?"

"Yeah! How'd you know?"

"You know the one I have on my ankle? Yeah, rope burn. Your turn."

"That's a blade's doing, isn't it?"

"Nope, this is my chains' doing. Yeah, I know, I know. Laugh it up, doll. Even the best mess up sometimes."

...and appreciating the fact that you're both so good at what you do, that you're still here.

"Gimme a kiss, baby," Toji requests, smirking fiendishly as his gaze darts between your eyes and your lips.

"Mm-mm," you say, shaking your head with a teasing grin. "Not with my lip all ugly like this."

"Not ugly. You look hot as fuck. Now give me a damn kiss."

You give him a quick peck, and he scoffs like you offended him with something so chaste.

"You wanna try that again, and give me a chance to, you know... be ready?"

"No, not really," you jest, gasping when he pinches your butt under the foamy water to show his disapproval of your response. "Alright, alright. Just be gentle," you plead, caving in to his needs, as usual.

"Yes, ma'am," he responds, grinning victoriously as he pulls you in closer to get a proper taste of your lips. They're soft as ever, despite their current, temporary appearance, and kissing you is as sweet and satisfying as it's always been. Nothing will ever change that for him.

"Fucking love you," he murmurs, the words a soft breath against your lips.

"Love you, too, baby," you respond, before going in for more.

A/N: Reader and Toji have different handlers. Lance is reader's handler, Toji still works with Shiu.

[luna-azzurra]

Write Rivals With Chemistry So Hot It Hurts

╰ Rivalry isn’t hate — it’s obsession True rivals aren't just like, “ugh, I dislike you.” They’re watching each other. Studying. Matching moves. Thinking about each other when they shouldn’t. Hating how much they notice the other person. Rivalry is two sides of the same coin: hatred’s messy little sibling is fascination.

╰ Let them know exactly where to hit—and hesitate The best rivals know exactly where to stick the knife. Childhood wounds. Secret fears. Insecurities no one else sees. But the most powerful moment isn't when they stab, it's when they hesitate. When they flinch. When the reader sees the care underneath the kill shot.

╰ Make every win personal Every victory between rivals should feel like flirting with a knife’s edge. They don't just beat each other; they get under each other's skin. "I outsmarted you" translates directly to "I'm the only one who really sees you." (And no, they're not ready to talk about why that makes them insane.)

╰ Layer the attraction under everything You don't have to write "he found her hot" every five seconds. (Please don't.) Just lace it into the friction. The way they notice each other’s hands. The way a sarcastic smile feels like a slap and a kiss at the same time. Let it be unspoken, which somehow makes it ten times louder.

╰ Give them one private, honest moment and then destroy them for it That one late-night conversation. That brush of honesty. That accidental partnership in a bar fight. That glimpse of trust that leaves them both raw and feral because now it’s personal. Now it hurts. And guess what? Neither of them is stable enough to handle it like adults.

╰ Let them wound each other in ways no one else can Rivals with chemistry are like: “I know your softest place. I know where you hurt. And maybe I’m the only one who could ever touch it.” Terrifying. Intimate. Sexy. Self-destructive. Delicious.

╰ Don’t make it easy to flip to love If they hook up too soon, it’s cheap. If they confess too soon, it’s fake. They have to fight it. They have to screw it up. They have to almost kiss and almost kill each other in the same breath. The reward is sweeter because it’s hard won.

╰ Make them jealous, but make it messy Not cutesy "oh no I'm jealous" moments. Ugly jealousy. Pride-shredding, shame-inducing jealousy. Watching their rival smile at someone else and feeling like they're drowning in acid and denial. Bonus points if they pretend they’re above it and then spiral anyway.

╰ Tension isn’t just in the fighting—it’s in the silences It’s the stare across the room that says “I hate you and I want you” with zero words. It’s the hand that lingers a second too long after pulling them out of danger. It's the unsent text. It's the "accidental" meeting. Sometimes not speaking burns hotter than the screaming matches.

╰ Remember, they don’t want to ruin each other, they want to matter At the core of a rival/chemistry dynamic is one brutal truth: “I want to matter to you more than anyone else does.” And they’ll deny it. And fight it. And wreck themselves over it. (And we, as the readers, will eat it with a goddamn spoon.)

[jakesimfromstatefarm]

──── YOU'RE HERE, THAT'S ENOUGH . ↳ one shot // also part of the no doubt series !

✎ᝰ .ᐟ aka jake's late, you order for your own drink for once, and now he owes you his life.

── sim jaeyun x f!reader ౨ৎ wc. 866 ⌗ pure fluff, jake is so self-panic-inducing, mentions of breaking up, mentions of jake abt to jump out a window . he's just a simp at the end of the day .

↳ IMPORTANT NOTE .ᐟ ── this is part of my no doubt series ─ a sequel series of short drabbles that take place after the events of my fic no doubt, and show jake & reader's relationship throughout their first year together (& how jake wins her trust & love back hehe) ── THIS CAN BE READ AS A ONE-SHOT, however, there will be some easter eggs if you've read no doubt before!

↳ addie's ✉ .ᐟ ── hehe another cutesy one. im excited for the next one everyone pls buckle up...i almost kinda feel bad for jake here this poor guy just lives life on the verge of panic every day. am i evil for this? sorry jakey <3

Jake is sprinting.

Not fast-walking. Not lightly jogging.

Jake is in full-on, Olympic-level, life-or-death sprint through the streets.

His bag is slapping his side. His hoodie is slipping off his shoulder. His lungs are screaming. And he’s probably sweating more now than he did during the entire extra hour of dance practice that made him late in the first place.

And still—he’s pretty sure he’s still not moving fast enough.

His phone is glued to his palm, screen still open to the frantic texts to you:

jake (6:32PM): baby im so so so sorry practice is running over i swear im leaving soon PLEASE dont hate me

jake (6:41PM): im literally dying to be there pls give me 10 minutes max i promise

jake (6:47PM): oh my god im running now im literally sprinting my lungs are collapsing hold on

jake (6:50PM): please still be there please please please

Jake nearly crashes into the café door.

He bursts in, chest heaving, heart racing, vision tunneling. His eyes dart around the café, already mentally preparing the most desperate apology of his life—

And then he sees you.

There you are. Sitting by the window like something out of a postcard. Sipping your iced peach latte. Typing away on your laptop like nothing’s wrong.

Jake’s lungs fully give out.

He practically trips over his own two feet, words spilling out before he’s even fully made it to you.

“I am—so sorry,” he gasps, hands bracing himself against the table, his bag fully falling to his side now, his entire image disheveled. “I—I—oh my god—I messed up, I know—”

You blink up, startled.

“Jake—”

“I swear I left as soon as I could, I was literally ready to bolt over, but then we had to go over the choreo one more time and—” he cuts himself off to breathe, huffing in frustration, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “I swear I was ready to jump out the window to get here faster and I know I should’ve managed my time better and I shou—”

“Sim Jaeyun.”

Jake’s mouth snaps shut.

You tilt your head, your eyes soft as you look up at your boyfriend.

“Sit.”

He does. Immediately. Like an obedient golden retriever.

“Breathe.”

“Trying.”

You gently push an untouched iced Americano towards him, “I ordered for you.”

Jake looks down at the drink. Then back at you.

“Wait, you ordered? Like you spoke to the cashi—wait. You’re not mad?”

“Nope.”

“Not even…like, a little mad?”

“You sound like you want me to be.”

Jake lets out a sound that’s equal parts relief and self-deprecating, “Well, definitely not, but I’m late. To our date.”

You casually take a sip of your latte, your gaze still soft on him, “Jake. You told me what was happening, you ran here like an insane person, and now you’re looking at me with those eyes you do that makes you look like a kicked puppy. Why would I be upset?”

Jake blinks.

You’re not mad. You’re here.

Still here.

Still you.

Looking at him with nothing but patience and understanding.

And Jake feels something deep and warm settle into his bones.

Jake just stares at you for a full solid second until finally—

“Oh my god,” he collapses onto the table, face-planting into his arms. “You’re actually an angel. I don’t deserve you.”

You break out into a fit of giggles, “Okay, that’s a little dramatic.”

“No, like—” he lifts his head just enough to look at you with big, defeated eyes. “I thought I ruined it.”

“You didn’t.”

“I thought you were gonna break up with me.”

“I wasn’t.”

“I thought I’d walk in here and you’d be gone and I’d have to get on my knees at your front door and beg for my life back.”

“…Did you eat lunch today?”

Jake ignores that.

“I just—” He grabs your hand across the table. His voice drops into something low, something sincere. “I don’t want you to think I’m not trying. Or that you’re not a priority.”

Your face softens, “I know I am. And you are trying, Jake. Like, so hard. I see it. You don’t have to prove yourself to me every second of the day.”

Jake swallows.

“I appreciate you, Jakey—” you squeeze his hand, “—a lot. And I’m just happy you’re here.”

Jake lets out a breathless laugh, feeling suddenly light again. He lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles—once, twice, like he needs to (he does).

“Okay,” he breathes, lips still brushing your skin. “Okay. But just so you know—I am still making it up to you.”

You raise a brow, smiling, “Oh?”

“Yup,” Jake grins, flipping your hand over to press another kiss to your palm. “Whatever you want. I feel bad you had to order our drinks by yourself, I know you hate that.”

You laugh, rolling your eyes, “That’s true. I hate talking to cashiers.”

“Don’t worry, baby.” Another kiss. “I’ll make sure you never have to talk to one ever again for the rest of your life.”

“You’re actually ridiculous, Sim Jaeyun,” you smile, cheeks warm.

“Mmhm,” he mumbles before countering immediately—

“And you’re perfect.”

<< past || no doubt m. list || next >>

tag list! (open ! // bolded couldn't be added!)

@bluxjun @ki2rins @why-did-i-just-do-this @favoritten @lovialymisc @xylatox @vivimura @leehsngs @puma-riki @lezzleeferguson-120 @enhaprettystars @laurradoesloveu @sievenderz @somuchdard @kristynaah @hinryh @ltfirecracker @lov4hoon @taeheexx @niyzu @fangirl125reader @0429jw @dreamy-carat @yuons @thestarinstarbucks @miszes @llearlert @ppeachyttae @hoomin10 @teddybeartaetae @tanisha2060 @therealmrsbahng @beomgyu-bears @ikeulove @jiyeons-closet @youngheejay @wxnderingthoughts @fuevrois @soobundle1009 @isoobie @enhypenova @zoemeltigloos @lizdevorak @deluluscenarios @bloomiize @hasuyv @ijustwannareadstuff20 @veilstqr @etteyun @dreamiestay

[liteasanecesity]

Please date sweet people. I know so many angry women and Afab bodies who lash out rather than talk it out. My trauma with this is I am told I can not respond in the same manner. But! I could easily handle a conversation wherein I am prepared for the anger and then given ample space to process it.

Ex:

Person 1: I am quite upset about something, do you have space to hold while I express this?

Person 2: Sure thing, thanks for asking! Uh how will you be expressing it? Yelling into a pillow? Punching pillow? Car drive while screaming(I'll wear noise cancelling headphones)? Do you want me to set a timer and just let you talk to me uninterrupted?

Person 1: How did I get so lucky? I am not as upset now after hearing this level of care. Can we do the drive? I'll sing loudly to angry songs, then when we get far enough could we do the timer and talk?

Person 2: Yeah. I'm glad you are feeling better. Let me go grab my headphones. -stops and turns around- Hey! Thanks for loving me enough and trusting me with your anger. I am honored and I feel really loved that you want to be angry WITH me as support rather than angry AT me. This is really brave and you can and should feel proud of these moments.

[missadangel]

⊱ AMOR MEUS AETERNUS ⊰

(Marcus Acacius x Ofc)

II. Tensio

prev chapter series masterlist

Chapter Summary:  You’re making Marcus regret bringing you, and he’s considering a decision you won’t like. Chapter Word Count: 11k; romantic comedy, ancient rome, using drugs (tranquilizer), anxiety attacks, violence, power imbalance, a little angst, mention about marriage. authors note: conubium: Roman law; the right to intermarry. pater familias: He is the oldest living male in a household. Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Ofc!Reader (Her name is Rose, and her hair is dyed) Rating: Explicit, 18+ MDNI, Smut Warnings: Harsh, cold, grumpy Marcus, and the reader is NOT innocent a little bitchy, Lucilla is mean, Lucius is a jerk, its Septimius Severus' era but Geta and Caracalla are the prince of Rome, time travel, modern-ancient era travels, falling in love, slow burn, rough sex, smut, sex, oral sex (both f&m receiving), all sex, dirty talk, gladiators, battle, war, violence, blood, ancient time language, fluffy, injury, forced marriage, arranged marriage, sexism, haters to lovers, first love, angst, vestal virgins, vestal priestesses, age gap; reader is 25 Marcus is 42, reincarnation my masterlist

gif by nicolethered

A searing headache throbbed in your temples, reminiscent of the intense pain that often accompanied your period. Oh, right—your cycle was just around the corner. Thankfully, you had taken your painkillers from the pharmacy and stashed them in your bag alongside your depression medication. You should taken it immediately because this was unbearable.

And that smell—

Wait, was that a horse neighing?

With a jolt, you realized something was pressing against your face. You blinked your eyes open, only to find your head resting on a shaggy bale of hay. A massive horse loomed inches away from you, its large, dark eyes fixed on yours.

This wasn't a dream.

“Aaaaah!” you screamed, your voice piercing the stillness of the small stable, the sound reverberating off the wooden beams. Startled, the horse reared back, its powerful hooves striking the ground with a resounding clatter that echoed like thunder in the confined space.

“Why are you screaming?” an irate voice demanded.

And there he was.

Him.

That psycho.

The source of all your frustrations.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked.

A tremor of rage coursed through you as your anger bubbled up. The surrounding scene intensified your fury, and you asked, “Where the hell am I?”

“I had to carry you here after you lost consciousness,” he replied.

Wait a minute—what were you wearing? Had he draped that black robe over you?

“Why am I dressed like this, and why are we in this… place?”

"Wearing your usual unconventional attire may attract attention. Besides, I need to make sure your legs are covered properly."

“That sounds rather bigoted,” you grumbled.

Marcus let out a troubled sigh, the annoyance stretching across his face. "Could you rise if you are feeling capable? I need to proceed to the villa now."

With hands pressed into the dirt-strewn floor for support, you attempted to rise but staggered, the earth beneath you gritty and unpleasant. “It stinks! Everything stinks!” you whined, finally managing to stand upright.

He had the audacity to not even offer a hand to help you up.

Rude bastard.

The flowing black robe cloaked you entirely, brushing the ground with each step. Marcus’s expression remained stoic as his gaze raked over you from head to toe. "At least you're less conspicuous now. Let’s pull this over your face,” he instructed, tugging the hood down to obscure your features.

“What’s wrong with my face?” you frowned.

“Your hair looks a bit odd compared to the other women around here,” he explained.

You let out a hysterical laugh, incredulous. “I just dyed it a salted caramel color. Do you have any idea how expensive that is?”

He paused, seemingly baffled. “I wonder why a woman would choose to change her hair color at all?”

“What do you know anyway? You’re practically a caveman,” you muttered beneath your breath.

He didn’t understand your sarcasm, as usual. “I need to lay down some rules, and I ask that you please follow them, alright?”

You shrugged your shoulders, noncommittal.

“First off, in your time, I may appear as a nobody, but here I possess some dignity. When with my family, you will refer to me by my title, not by my name. You will not speak disrespectfully to them, and foul language is strictly off-limits. If you’re asked a question, I’ll take care of it. It’s best if you just keep your mouth shut unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

Crossing your arms defiantly, you retorted, “Why should I abide by any of this? Why did you drag me here if your reputation means so much to you?”

Marcus rolled his eyes, his expression hardening. “It’s going to be more difficult for both of us if you don’t comply. I’m trying to help you.”

“Hah! Help! Of course!” you scoffed.

“Stop it,” he warned, his tone low and menacing. “Act like a woman.”

“What did you just say?”

He let out a deep sigh. "You’re acting like a child. Can't you show a little more maturity? I truly regret what’s happened to you, but I need you to trust me. I promised I’d do everything I could to find a way to send you back."

“You’d better find it,” you shot back, narrowing your eyes defiantly.

“I will,” he replied.

“Ugh, let’s hurry up and get out of here. The stench is making me want to hurl,” you said, your face contorting as a wave of nausea struck.

“Follow me closely and quietly,” he instructed, stepping cautiously out of the stables first.

You clutched your -his- robe tightly around you and trailed behind him. However, it was a bad idea, as you walked, your foot suddenly squished down onto something soft, warm, and utterly revolting.

“Aaaaaaaaa! Damn it! Ugh!” 

Marcus pivoted sharply, rushing back to you and clamping his large hand over your mouth. “Didn’t I tell you to keep quiet?” 

Muffled protests escaped you, anger bubbling within. He removed his hand to understand what you were saying, but he regretted it. “I just stepped in something disgusting! What do you expect? My Converses are ruined! It's all your fault!” You lifted your shoe, revealing the smeared evidence of horse manure that now coated it.

“What kind of woman...” he muttered through clenched teeth. “You’ve never encountered horse manure before?”

“Do you think I would react this way if I had?” you yelled at his face, frantically attempting to wipe the muck off your shoe against the ground.

Marcus shut his eyes tightly, exhaling a deep breath as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Gods, have mercy on me and grant me the patience I need. Just be more careful with your steps,” he scolded, exasperation lacing his tone. “You can clean them once we reach the villa, but for the love of all that’s holy, keep it down until then,” he said, turning away in annoyance.

With gritted teeth, you followed behind him, your eyes narrowed with frustration. 

As you walked through the gloomy, dark streets of the ancient city, your jaw dropped in disbelief. You still couldn’t fathom it—you were truly in ancient Rome. Shops lined the streets, their facades adorned with elaborate carvings, while majestic temples loomed in the distance. The rich fabrics draped across the citizens—very few of whom were out at this hour—were a stark contrast to the modern world you knew. It was as if you had stepped onto a film set, and part of you desperately wished it were just that. Tears began to form in your eyes as you fought the urge to scream. How did you end up in this bewildering situation?

The structures surrounding you took your breath away. Many of them existed only as crumbling ruins back home, yet here they stood tall and resplendent, as if freshly crafted by artisans. You felt as though you were walking through a living, breathing history lesson, and the sheer beauty left you trembling. 

You desperately wanted to retrieve your calming medication from your bag, anxious to ward off the looming threat of an anxiety attack just at the fringes of your mind. It was maddening that Mr. Psycho clutched your bag as if it were something undesirable. Of course, if you carry it yourself, your robe would come undone, leaving your legs exposed.

What a true gentleman, indeed!

After what felt like an eternity of walking, your feet began to protest, aching with each step. Finally, he stopped and surveyed the surroundings. “Here we are,” he announced, casting a glance about.

You followed his gaze, taking in the imposing wall that surrounded the area, shadows dancing along the surface of the torch-lit stone. He pushed open a heavy wooden door, gesturing for you to enter.

As you stepped inside, your breath hitched in your throat. It was a stunning ancient Roman villa, far more magnificent than anything portrayed in virtual re-enactments. The centerpiece was a grand fountain, water glimmering in the dim light. Towering columns of white inlaid marble reached for the sky, while lifelike statues adorned the space, all framed by a beautifully landscaped garden. A film crew would have gaped in awe at such splendor—if only you had thought to capture a picture with your phone.

“Domina!” 

You were pulled from your reverie by a woman's voice echoing through the spacious hall. She appeared to be in her middle years, her eyes wide with a blend of anxiety and hope as she called up the polished marble stairs. Clad in a modest dress that whispered of simpler times, she was a vivid reminder of the era—this was ancient Rome, a place where the specter of slavery loomed large. You had made a dress like that before, back when you were crafting costumes in the set.

Before long, a couple more men and women showed up, and then an older woman made her way down the stairs. Her silver hair gleamed like moonlight, and despite her age—perhaps seventy—she carried herself with an air of vitality. “Acacius! My son!” she called out, her voice filled with both worry and relief.

Wait, what? *My son?*

You couldn't help but stifle a chuckle as you leaned closer to Marcus, whispering behind him, “So the great Mr. General lives with his mother.” 

He shot you a stern look from the corner of his eye, a silent warning that made you quickly redirect your gaze.

As the old woman carefully descended the stairs, Marcus stepped forward to greet her. Just then, a tall, good-looking guy walked into the courtyard, his eyes wide. “Brother,” he said, wrapping Marcus in a warm hug. “It’s really you! Where have you been?”

The old lady placed her hands on Marcus’ shoulders, concern etched on her face. “We feared the worst, dear son. We couldn’t find you anywhere.”

Marcus let out a weary sigh. "I was attacked, but I'm alright, truly. I was meant to be away from Rome.... for a while," he said, casting a sidelong glance in your direction.

Suddenly, every eye shifted toward you with curiosity. You raised a hand slightly. “Hi.”

“Who is this young man?” the woman inquired, her brow furrowed in confusion as she took a closer look.

You raised your eyebrows, letting out a laugh that turned hysterical. The woman's eyes widened as she realized you were a woman after removing your hood and revealing your face.

“This woman will stay here for a while. She will be our guest,” Marcus interjected, his voice firm and assertive.

“*This woman?*” you echoed incredulously. “I have a name, you know.”

Marcus shot you a warning glare, his patience thinning.

The old woman, along with the handsome man, exchanged perplexed glances. 

“Is she outlander? Barbarian? Or a savage?” the woman questioned, her gaze roving over you with a scrutinizing intensity. “Did she brought here as a prisoner of war? Or Gods forbid... a whore?”

“Hey!” you snapped, your indignation flaring.

Marcus raised a hand, silencing your protest. “She’s neither. Rather, she’s an outlander who helped me. She will be residing here for a few days, after which I will ensure her safe return to her homeland."

The old woman and the other man shared a look that hinted they weren’t completely convinced. “Very well, if that’s what you believe. Let the girls take care of her,” the woman said, nodding toward the two young girls. “You need rest too my son; you must be tired.”

Marcus nodded and turned back to the other man.

The two girls gently took hold of your arms, urging you to follow. “Come with us. This way,” one of them said.

You turned to look at Marcus again, but he wouldn’t even glance your way.

Bastard.

“Hey! Psycho! Where are they taking me?” you called out, frustration spilling over.

Your shout caught his attention, and he finally turned around, annoyance flashing across his face. The girls exchanged glances, trying not to laugh.

“Calm yourself; a room will be provided for you shortly,” he replied, a hint of indifference in his tone. With a dismissive wave, he signaled to the girls and turned back to the other man, leaving you fuming with annoyance.

What an asshole.

The girls pulled you into a cramped little room, and one of them quickly untied your robe, letting it slide off your shoulders. Their gazes widened in astonishment as they took in your short shorts and halter top—garments that were completely foreign to them. 

“This is quite peculiar, the attire you wear,” one of them remarked, her brows furrowing in confusion. 

“It resembles what the tribes don,” another mused, tilting her head as if trying to figure it all out. 

You kicked off your Converse sneakers and tossed them aside, feeling a bit annoyed when one of the girls reached out to help you. “I got this, okay?” you snapped. 

“Just trying to help—” she began, but you cut her off.

“No thanks, I can handle it,” you said, pushing her hand away. 

Her expression shifted to one of surprise, and she shared a glance with the other girl, whose head bobbed in agreement. 

After a brief moment of consideration, the girl returned, a cloth draped over her arm. “Here, dress yourself then,” she said, her tone soft but firm.

“How am I supposed to change with you all just staring at me?” 

They looked at each other, clearly not getting it. “Alright, fine, but where can I take a shower?” you asked, a little desperate for some privacy.

“Shower?” one of the girls echoed, disbelief etched on her face.

Right, that slipped your mind. “I mean a bath,” you corrected, feeling a wave of embarrassment wash over you.

“You can go there during the daytime. Didn’t you know?” she replied, bewilderment lingering in her voice.

“Where are you truly from? You’ve obviously never set foot in Rome or heard of it. You’re a total outlander,” she continued, her eyes searching yours for answers.

Well you had been living in Rome for many years, but it was the Rome of the future.

How ironic.

“How did you come to meet the general? What was your purpose in coming here?” they probed, their curiosity unyielding.

“Isn’t it funny how, regardless of how many centuries I travel back, women’s curiosity remains unchanged?” you giggled.

But their expressions remained serious, their eyes reflecting concern as if you had just shared a bewildering riddle. 

“That guy forced me here,” you explained, taking off your shorts and blouse as they gasped at the sight of your underwear. They had no clue what it was. 

“It’s, uh, an accessory,” you tried to make sense of it, but you knew they wouldn’t get it. After slipping on the weird dress they gave you, you realized it was just way too revealing. Your black bra was sticking out, and you were feeling a little odd. 

“I think you should remove that... thing,” one of them suggested, a slight frown marring her features. “It looks strange.”

“Yeah I agree,” you muttered, you couldn’t judge them for their confusion, so you took off your bra. But the panties? No way you were parting with those. How did they get around without them, anyway? It was a question you couldn't shake.

In the morning, you jolted up at the sound of a rooster crowing and birds chirping. It felt just like your alarm clock going off. You jumped out of bed like you were shot out of a cannon. “Grab the fabrics, get the drawings approved by the head designer, make sure the stuntman’s suit is done by five, and don’t forget to take your meds.” Those words had turned into a daily mantra you whispered to yourself each morning, coming out without a second thought. But the place around you was nothing like the chaos those words suggested. It felt like you were stuck on a movie set with no way out. A sudden pain shot through your back, prompting you to pat the aching spot. “Ugh, what kind of bed is this?” you complained as you hopped out. This tiny room looked like some slave quarters you’d seen in a museum in Rome. Tears threatened to spill and you buried your face in your hands. “Is this real? Wasn’t it all just a nightmare? Wake up! Please wake up! Why, God, why? What have I done to deserve this?”

A chill swept through you, and panic set in. You had to find your meds. Oh no, your bag was still with that psycho.

You bolted out of the room, your bare feet hitting the cool marble—it was at least clean, not gross dirt. How many rooms were in this place? The courtyard was so bright now, the complete opposite of last night’s darkness. You squinted against the sun and ran to the expansive courtyard. If you weren’t already anxious, you might have taken a moment to appreciate the view, but all you could think about was your meds. Where were all the people?

“Psycho!” you shouted.

As soon as you stepped into the courtyard, a few girls and guys in matching clothes and necklaces turned to stare at you. Of course, that look again—the stunned expression. But maybe it was because you were yelling; well you didn’t shout just for fun.

But where was he?

You spotted one of the girls from the previous day and sprinted toward her, desperation in your voice. “Hey! Have you seen that psych-? I mean, Marcus?”

Her eyes widened in alarm before she glanced apologetically over your shoulder. Confused, you turned to find the old woman from yesterday, seated upon a throne-like chair that seemed to hold both authority and menace, giving you a piercing glare that could shatter glass.

“Hello,” you offered, lifting your hand in a tentative greeting as you approached her cautiously. “Um, you’re Marcus’s mother, right? I’m looking for him. Have you seen him?”

She raised a gaunt finger, stopping you in your tracks. “What kind of disrespectful girl are you to address the general by his name? Your mother or father clearly never instilled any manners in you.”

“Look, I—”

“How dare you interrupt Domina!” a man beside her growled, his voice like thunder.

“You truly lack decorum. Weren’t you taught how to show respect patricians where you come from? Acacius may be kind, but I will not tolerate this insolence.”

Kind? That psycho? Seriously?

You suppressed a laugh.

“Cicero, take this girl away from my sight,” she ordered. 

What the fuck?  Were you an object? 

“But you don’t understand, I need my meds. I have anxiety, and my bag is with that- General.” 

She sighed, gestured Cicero who grabbed your arm and started to drag you away. “Look, this is a tough spot for me too, but I really need my meds.”

He clearly didn’t care; his grip tightened as he pulled you toward inner courtyard, barking the two girls from yesterday. Keep a close watch on her,” he warned, his tone brooking no argument. “She is strictly forbidden from stepping foot in the main courtyard. If anything goes awry, I’ll ensure Domina hears that it’s your fault.” 

The girls nodded frantically, clearly afraid.

What on earth was this madness?

“Seriously, how could you stand up to Domina? Are you insane?” one of the girls whispered harshly.

“I wasn’t-- I just want to find Marcus. He has my bag!” You felt frustration bubbling within, the absurdity of the situation overshadowing your growing fear.

“Refrain from using his name. It’s simply not appropriate here; such disrespect is utterly unacceptable,” another girl scoffed.

With an exasperated huff, you retorted, “Fine! But where is he? Where can I find him?”

“He must have left early for his duties. He won’t return until nightfall,” one of the girls informed you.

“What?” you squealed, the panic rising in your throat. “I can’t wait that long! Just tell me where his room is—my bag must be there.”

Their eyes widened incredulously as if you were proposing the most outrageous act. “Are you mad? They warned you not to go into the courtyard, and now you want to invade the general’s chambers?”

“This girl is truly a savage! Are you a member of a barbarian tribe?” another girl chimed in, shaking her head in disbelief.

“Just please, stay in your room and wait quietly for evening. Do not provoke Domina; she has no tolerance for disrespect.” 

They warned you as they led you towards the room. They closed the door and left.

This room was just like a prison cell. Small, bare, and totally lacking a window, it felt stifling. As someone who struggled with anxiety—unable to even ride in an elevator without freaking out—you knew this wasn't going to last long. How on earth would you manage to spend the whole day like this? It was a miracle you got any sleep last night. Now, with the sun creeping in—was it maybe 8 or 9 a.m.?—the idea of being stuck here until evening twisted your stomach.

And Lizzie... what was she going to think when she found out you were missing? Just 17, still a kid really, and you were all she had. What about your dad, the hospital, your job, the rent and all those bills?

Life is moving on out there but you trapped here, this world and you can't do anything to go back, unable to return your time.

Was time different here?

You recalled the fantasy worlds depicted in movies, such as Narnia. In Narnia, time doesn't align with Earth; it generally moves much faster. Another example is the movie "Interstellar," which is Lizzie's favorite. In it, there is significant time dilation—one scene features a difference of around 23 years!

Suddenly, a wave of panic surged within you, your burried your face in your hands—“Oh my God!!!”

You had to escape before you lost it completely, just like Jack Nicholson in "The Shining." Bursting out of the room, you gasped for air. Your stomach growled angrily—how could they not provide food or water? 

You loathed it.

Fortunately, the area seemed eerily deserted. From the distant clatter and murmur of voices, it was evident the kitchens were bustling, filled with the sounds of life beyond this cold corridor. You needed to find the stairs leading to the upper floors where the owners probably stayed.

“Looking for the general's chambers?” A voice interrupted your thoughts. You turned to see a woman about your age, dressed like she belonged to the upper crust.

“Well, I am, yes,” you managed to reply, your voice steadier than you felt.

“Head upstairs, turn right down the hallway, and you'll find it,” she said, her smile curving with an unsettling warmth that sent a chill racing down your spine.

Why was she aiding you?

You had no time to ponder motives though; you needed to get to your bag. 

“Thanks,” you answered, forcing a smile as you extended your hand, “but who are you? My name is Rose.”

She scrutinized your offered hand as if it were tainted. “Lydia. How did you and the General meet, and what's going on between you? No one has ever seen him with a woman before.” 

“Oh, it’s nothing like that, really. It’s complicated and very strange.” 

Lydia squinted, taking a moment to consider your words. “Hmm, I see. Walk quickly before someone notices you.” 

Nodding, you rushed upstairs, completely unaware of the cruel smile that crept onto her lips as you turned away.

Upon entering the room, you were struck by its grandeur—everything looked rich and authentic, but it felt more like a woman’s chamber than a general's.

“Domina! Mother! This is unacceptable!” Lydia's voice rang out, startling you. Before you could react, she grabbed your arm and dragged you back down the stairs. 

“What are you doing?” you protested, bewildered.

“Shut your mouth! How dare you enter Domina's room? You there! Come back here this instant!” 

Your expression morphed into one of shock and disbelief.

She had trickd you, but why? 

The tension swelled around you as they had gathered in the stairs below. 

“Lydia, my daughter, what in the world was all that commotion about?” 

“I caught this brazen girl trespassing in your room!” Lydia exclaimed, her voice sharp. “Who knows what her intentions were?” 

“Hey, no! She's lying! You told me it was the general's room!” You interjected, desperation rising in your throat. “She's deceiving you—believe me! She’s a liar!”

Out of nowhere, the old woman’s hand flew across your face, delivering a stinging slap that left you momentarily speechless. A sharp pain erupted on your cheek, and reflexively, you pressed your palm against it, feeling the heat radiate from the spot as tears blurred your vision. “How dare you call my daughter a liar?” she thundered, her voice cracking like a whip. “What right do you have to step foot in my room after I told you to stay out of my sight?”

“I didn’t know it was your room—” Before you could even finish your sentence, she gripped your hair with surprising strength, yanking it as if trying to pull you closer. “Shut your mouth,” she commanded, her voice low and threatening, leaving you feeling both powerless and shocked. “Bring the whip at once. Apparently, this is how I must teach you rules and manners. Bring the girls responsible for this girl here too.”

Did she just say 'the whip'?

No, that couldn't be right; they couldn't be so primitive, so cruel.

Could they?

They brought the whip along with the other two girls. They fell at her feet, begging for forgiveness. It broke your heart to see them in such a state. This was a consequence of your own foolishness and Lydia's deceit. 

She looked at you and the girls, smiling cruelly. 

What a bitch.

So, even in ancient Rome, there were undoubtedly cruel individuals. Why were you surprised anyway?

Such people have always existed and will continue to exist in the world. 

“It’s my fault,” you suddenly said. “These girls didn’t know, they're innocent. I will take the punishment; please spare them.” 

Lydia almost laughed and felt cheerful as she looked at her mother.

"Very well." Domina signaled to the slaves and two of them came to you and turned you around. One of them stripped off your dress exposing your back. You were trembling with fear; you had never felt so scared in your life.

“Grab her arms,” she said, adding more fear to your fear. Your body shook uncontrollably, and your tears flowed like waterfalls.

All those movies came to your mind, depicting scenes of whipping and wounds.

“Oh, God, please,” you murmured, pleading, hoping for something to happen.

In that moment, a masculine voice shouted, “Mother!” It was filled with anger and warning, but it was too late. You felt the blow of the whip on your bare back with a great reverberation. You gasped, as if your ribs had been crushed from back to front and your heart was about to jump out of your throat. And the pain came later than the sound, searing, crushing, so strong and sharp that your brain stopped functioning. If they hadn't been holding you tightly, you would have collapsed violently to the ground already. You couldn't feel your feet; all you could feel was the wound in your back as if they had cut you with a knife.

Your cries reverberating in the courtyard. That voice you just heard, the commanding voice of a man, echoed around you, likely directed at his mother, but the words were drowned out by the buzzing in your ears. Every thought focused on the searing pain from your wound, and your vision blurred, turned murky as if shrouded in fog. Just as you felt yourself slipping away, strong arms enveloped you, preventing your fall before you could collapse to the ground. 

Looking up, you were met not by the face you had expected, it wasn't him, it was his brother. Suddenly, it was as if the world sharpened around you, and you could hear his voice cutting through the haze. “How dare you treat my brother's guest like some common slave? What are we going to say to him now?” he snapped at his mother, his tone laced with indignation. 

He lifted you with unexpected gentleness, surprising both you and the onlookers around you. The weightlessness was brief as he carried you to a different room, where he gently set you down on a luxurious lectus. His demeanor shifted; he hesitated to touch you, yet he grasped your chin with careful fingers, lifting your gaze to meet his. “Are you alright?” he asked, a storm of concern evident in his eyes.

How could you even answer that?

You were far from alright; you were in terrible pain, feeling paralyzed by it. 

He glanced away, frustration flickering across his features. “Damn it. My brother Acacius sent me to check on you, and look what I found. Oh mother, why did you do this?” His voice softened as he urged, “Lie down here. I'll find the medicus and come back shortly.” 

You could barely catch his words; your eyelids were heavy, and all you could focus on was that soothing hum in the background.

When you finally opened your eyes, the rough texture of the wall met your gaze as a low murmur pierced the haze of your mind. A voice drifted to you from behind. “Fortunately, the whip’s blow wasn’t deep; the bleeding has ceased. If she applies the ointment I prepared, it will mend in a few weeks.”

You closed your eyes again, the ache in your back still pulsing. When you opened them again, a familiar voice drifted in, but it felt far away. “You may hold the title of Domina in this house, but remember, I am not your trueborn son. As the paterfamilias, it is I who commands, and everyone under this roof must heed my authority.”

Closing your eyes again, you felt the weight of your own anger seep into every fiber of your being. A hand brushed against your back, the coolness of an ointment container sending a shiver through you. When you turned, his face was stark against the dim light, concern etched on his features.

“Are you awake? Stay still while I apply the ointment,” he said, his tone laced with an authority you found infuriating.

So frustrated, you propped yourself up and slapped him across the face, tears of anger stinging your eyes. “This is all your fault! Why did you just disappear and leave me with these people? Where the hell have you been?”

He didn't even flinch. “Are you still in pain? I heard Julius arrived just in time.” His tone was even, but the lack of sympathy ignited the fire within you.

“I’m in pain, yes, but not because of my wound. It’s the humiliation—the way they treated me,” you spat, turning your back on him in frustration. He continued to apply the ointment quietly, a reminder of your wounded pride.

“Is it always like this? How one person tie up another like an animal? Do you have to be the daughter of someone important for anyone to care about what you say? Nobody takes a slave an outlander seriously, but if a noble girl lies, everyone believes her, right? Is this what Rome is like?”

Ignoring your questions but contemplating about them at the same time, he stood and placed the pot of ointment onto the nearby table. “Can you stand?” 

“Why do you ask?” 

“I thought that if I could take you there and you read the words inscribed in the parchment. Maybe this time it might open a path for you to return to your own time at last”

“First, give me my bag.” 

He nodded, calling out, “Julius!” 

Moments later, Julius entered with your bag in hand, his expression solemn. “Do you feel well, now?” he asked as he handed it over.

“Yes,” you replied, accepting it with gratitude. “Thank you for saving me,” you muttered, your anger dissipating slightly.

“No. I’m sorry I wasn’t there in time to prevent her,” he said, extending his hand toward you. “How is your wound?”

“Better, and it will be well,” Marcus answered for you, his voice firm. “We should leave now.” 

You eagerly rummaged through your bag, relief flooding over you as you confirmed everything was intact—reminders of your life, your comrades. A smile tugged at your lips when you found the painkiller. “I need some water, psycho. I have to take this pill,” you murmured.

Julius chuckled lightly, while Marcus shot him a disapproving look, his brow furrowed with annoyance.

What was that?

One of the slaves trembled as he offered you water. 

“Oh right, I asked the great general for water. My bad,” you said, popping the pill into your mouth.

“It’s not that you asked for water; it’s that you called me that peculiar, disrespectful term,” Marcus hissed.

You rolled your eyes, sipping the water. “I’m not from here, I am an outlander, so I can say what I want.” 

“No, you cannot,” he retorted sternly. “I hope this time it works—so you can leave soon,” he added before turning to exit the room.

“I want to return more than you want me to!” you called after him.

Julius burst into laughter. “I’ve never encountered a woman like you before. You’re truly something else.” 

“Believe me, you haven’t,” you laughed back as he extended his hand to help you up.

“Besides, I’ve never seen my brother so anxious in the presence of a woman before. In fact, no one has. Perhaps it’s because you traveled from another time.”

That caught you by surprise.

“True, he shared everything with me. Don’t worry, nobody else knows.” 

“So you just believed him right away?”

“My brother never tells lies; I trust his every word. He’s a man of honor.” 

You examined his face, noting the softer features that set him apart from Marcus. He looked a decade younger, his skin caramel and hair tousled, a perpetual smile illuminating his countenance. He exuded warmth and friendliness that drew you in, and despite the chaos around you, you found yourself liking him.

"Why, why, why, why?"

You were stuck on those words in the parchment, reading them over and over, but nothing happened. It felt like you were running in place, just trying to grasp something that slipped right through your fingers.

"You spell it like this last time, and... the... path... opened...?" Julius inquired, his voice laced with uncertainty as he leaned closer, his brow furrowed in thought.

“Yeah,” you murmured, your gaze drifting toward Marcus. "Was anything different when you traveled to my time that night? Has anything changed compared to tonight? Was the place altered somehow? Please, just one detail could make a difference! Try to remember."

Marcus crossed his arms, a stark figure of calmness that only fanned the flames of your frustration. "I wasn't here that night."

Shock rippled through you. "What? You weren't here?"

‘He was in the barracks,’ Julius interjected.

Marcus nodded. "They attacked me there, and I… died. When I opened my eyes, I found myself in your time."

Your heart raced, eyes widening as the weight of his words sank in. "What did you say? Died? Why didn’t you mention that before?"

"You wouldn’t have believed me," Marcus replied, adjusting the lethal strips of his armor with casualness. "You kept addressing me with words I didn’t know the meaning of and never believed what I was saying. Would it have made any difference if I said it?"

You sighed, lips tight. "But seriously? You’re dead? Dying and coming back… how does that even work? This is just... bullshit." You ran your fingers through your hair, feeling totally lost. "I can’t wrap my head around this. I don’t even know where to begin." Then a wild thought popped into your head. "Wait, do I have to die too? Maybe that’s how I’ll wake up there. What do you think?"

Both men stared at you like you’d gone off the deep end. 

Marcus then responded, a hint of sarcasm in his tone as he kept his serious look. "Are you really considering ending your life? If it doesn’t work, you die for nothing? That idea is completely unreasonable."

"Well then, Mr. General, what do you suggest?" 

"This parchment is a prayer. If we can find who wrote it, maybe we’ll have a clue," Marcus murmured.

"Priests and priestesses, they who inscribe the sacred symbols of the divine, much like on your own bulla... brother." Julius hesitated at the end of his sentence, a flicker of apprehension crossing his features as if he regretted speaking at all.

Suddenly, a shadow crossed Marcus’s face—pain or anger, or both, you couldn’t tell for sure. 

Wait a minute, can they see those symbols? Katie didn't notice them last time.

What the fuck?

"So? What does that mean?"

"Tomorrow, I’ll go to the temple and speak to the pontifex maximus (the high priest)," he said, his voice cracking. Marcus wrestled with unseen emotions before regaining his composure; you wondered what caused this change in him. "We need to move forward promptly, night is approaching. I can’t take you back to the villa in case something happens while I’m away. So, I’ll take you somewhere safer."

‘Wait a minute,’ you stopped him, an idea sparking in your mind. ‘To the barracks? If I can read the words there, I can—’

"No, you can’t set foot in there," he growled, turning sharply away.

You furrowed your brow in frustration. "Why is he so angry?"

"It’s no place for women," Julius explained, falling into step beside you as you both trailed after Marcus.

"So, where are we going?"

"To the house of the second person my brother trusts most in this life," he replied, his voice softening slightly as a hint of familiarity entered it.

“Who is it?”

“Lady Lucilla.”

"There's no way I'm riding that!" you exclaimed, your voice tinged with disbelief as you stared at the majestic horse before you. 

“Have you never ridden a horse before?” Julius asked, his eyes widening with surprise.

“We drive in cars, not horses. Sure, I know some folks ride in the countryside or for sport, but honestly, I've never even sat on one before,” you admitted, your heart thumping in rhythm with your anxiety as you eyed the large beast with trepidation.

“It is quite a distance to our destination, and walking may be time-consuming and exhausting," Marcus said, mounting the horse expertly. “Julius, help her get on my back.”

Julius nodded, extending his hands toward you. “Just give me a moment!” you protested, halting him with outstretched palms, eyes locked on the horse. “I need to prepare myself mentally first.”

He chuckled. “Don’t be scared, I’m here. Just place your foot here.” He motioned to the stirrup while enveloping your waist with one steady arm.

Marcus rolled his eyes, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features at the sight of Julius’s unguarded touch lingering on you. “Take my hand,” he urged, his voice resolute and sounding like a warning, extending his hand toward you.

You complied, gripping it tightly as you placed your foot in the stirrup. Julius supported you as you clambered onto Marcus's back, mindful of the wound on your back. Once seated, you instinctively wrapped your arms around his torso, clutching him tightly. In your fear, you closed your eyes, unaware of how uncomfortable you were making him. His breath hitched in his chest, and he felt your warmth pressed against him, the thin fabric of your black robe a mere barrier between you.

“How can I breathe when you cling to me like that?” he grumbled, wrestling your hands free to ease the pressure.

Opening your eyes, you replied, “It’s my first time on a horse! Can’t you be a little understanding? Aaaah!”

With a sudden jolt, he urged the horse forward, and your grip tightened once more, this time eliciting an unexpected smirk from him. As your initial panic began to fade, he turned the horse around to gather his thoughts. Casting a glance back at Julius, he said, “You go on ahead. I will ensure her safe arrival there and return to the villa."

“What? You’re going to leave me and return?” you squeaked, incredulous.

Julius smiled at you. “I hope to see you again.”

Before you could grasp the gravity of his words, Marcus kicked the horse into motion again, this time heading down the road. You squeezed your eyes shut and buried your head against his back. 

“Does your back hurt?” he asked over the rhythmic pounding of hooves.

“A little, but it’s nothing serious. Why do you ask?”

In response, he kicked the horse's flanks, propelling it forward at a faster pace. A small scream escaped your lips. “Goodness! Don’t ride so fast, you psycho! Are you trying to scare me to death?"

He chuckled softly, clearly enjoying your dismay. “Cover your head,” he instructed as you approached a grand garden and a tall gate. He pulled the horse to a halt, and the sight of a man in polished armor standing by the gate captured your attention. 

“General,” the armored man saluted.

As the gate swung open, you couldn’t tear your gaze from the intricately designed metal armor. Its craftsmanship was astonishing, far beyond anything you had ever seen or created in your costume design endeavors. It all felt surreal.

Marcus stopped the horse by a beautiful fountain, where bystanders began to approach, their curious gazes lingering on you. Dismounting, he turned to face you, his expression now serious. “Now, I want you to lower your foot off the horse.”

You nodded hesitantly. “What if I fall?”

“I won’t let you fall,” he assured you, holding out his hand. “Trust me.”

“Better catch me, or—” you began to protest as you attempted to swing your leg around. “Why is this dress so long?” you exclaimed, lifting the fabric only to realize it was inching dangerously close to revealing more than intended. 

Fortunately, Marcus caught you as you slipped, his grip firm yet gentle, but his hands inadvertently brushed against the back of your thighs.  He quickly set you down, maybe a bit more forcefully than he intended, his hands clenching into fists like he was trying to shake off the awkwardness of that brief touch. “Stop fiddling with that dress. Do you take pleasure in revealing your legs?  Be more careful!” he scolded.

“Revealing... What? What can I do about it? It’s too long!” you shot back, still trying to manage the fabric.

“General Acacius,” a woman said with a tone of respect and authority.

You both turned and looked at the owner of the voice. It was a tall blonde woman who looked exactly like a Roman noble lady. Just like the statues in those museums. She was beautiful and charming despite her age.

Marcus bowed his head. "My lady."

Her jewelry clinked as she approached. "Who is this girl? To what do I owe the honor of your coming to my villa at this hour?" She looked you up and down and you smiled nervously.

“Forgive me, my lady, I wouldn't bother you at this hour if I didn't need help.”

You looked at him with your eyes wide open. That rude, grumpy, cold man had suddenly become a kind man.

"Why don't we talk inside?" she said, inviting you in. "Leta! Serve wine to our guests," she said to someone at the couryard and turned away so you can follow her inside.

You leaned toward Marcus as you walked together behind her. "Is she your girlfriend or something? Beautiful woman, congrats dude."

He looked at you sharply. "Cease your nonsene, never talk like that in front of her. Remember what I told you before and don't disrespect her. You'd better keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking."

"Do you want me to leave you two alone?" you taunted playfully stretching out the word 'alone.'

His expression hardened even more. "You really are a shameless woman with no respect."

“And you're a caveman with no sense of humor,” you muttered.

The woman invited you to sit at a table. There were fruits and something bread-like on it. Finally something to eat. As soon as you sat down, you grabbed the apple from the fruit plate, ignoring Marcus' judgmental gaze on you as you ate it, looking at her and smiling. “I'm sorry, but I haven't eaten since this morning, thanks to some people.” you said, squinting at Marcus.

Lucilla laughed and looked at the woman serving wine. “Leta, bring her some proper food.”

"Thank you very much, ma'am, um my lady."

The food they brought was very good, but you were eating a little too fast because you were starving. "You could eat a little more politely," Marcus hissed.

"I'm famished," you grumbled. "And I can't get better if I don't eat properly," you said with your mouth full.

Marcus turned his head away, obviously embarrassed by you.

“I’m truly sorry I couldn’t attend the banquet,” she said to Marcus, stifling a laugh at your unapologetic behavior.

"My lady, please rest assured, there was nothing of interest anyway."

"I heard about that you were attacked. Did you find out who did it?"

"Yes, and I punished them, but I couldn' let them talk."

“Could it be Severus?"

"Emperor Severus? I doubt it. Why do you think he would?"

Lucilla smoothed her dress and adjusted herself more comfortably in her ornate chair. “He might harbor resentment towards you for helping Lucius. Never place your trust in him, Acacius.”

They both turned to the sound of your coughing. Marcus handed you some wine. "I told you to eat slowly," he scolded.

Lucilla looked at you both and stood up. "Acacius," she said, calling him to her side.

They walked slowly towards the fountain, a distance you couldn't hear.

“She is a little odd, an outlander maybe? I have never seen her before.”

"My lady, this is a difficult thing to say. I can only say that I promised to send her back and she needs to stay somewhere until I find a way."

"Lady Balbina and your sister Lydia have obviously been difficult on her. Since you brought her here."

“You are correct, my lady. If her presence is an inconvenience, I will take her elsewhere; I certainly do not wish for her to cause any disturbance.”

“Of course, she is welcome to stay. I must express my astonishment though, I've never seen you with a woman since...”

Marcus paused and looked directly at her. “It's not like that, I assure you, my lady. I only made a promise and I must fulfill it, there is no other meaning.”

"Well, it would be good to see you with a woman rather than always grieving. I thought for a moment you had opened your closed heart to this woman that you couldn't even open to me."

Marcus looked away, his expression dark, gaze cold as ice. "As I’ve already stated, there’s no hidden meaning behind it. I ask you to endure this for just a few days; you may confine her if it eases your mind. I will now take my leave," he nodded to her and turned to leave.

"I'll return tomorrow evening, so there's no need for concern. Please don't create difficulties for Lady Lucilla during my absence; behave yourself and wait for my return."

Marcus’s words echoed in your mind as he rode off into the distance, disappearing, leaving you alone in this unfamiliar and somewhat unsettling place. Lady Lucilla appeared to be kind, but there was an air of strangeness that had settled since your arrival. Still, she was certainly a relief compared to Marcus’s cruel stepmother and evil sister, and you were allowed to wander through the sprawling courtyard.

Now, nestled in the soothing warmth of your tranquilizer pill, a wave of comfort enveloped you. Morning light filtered through the grand windows as you pulled your phone from your bag, only to be met with a frustrating ‘no network’ error. What had you expected? This was ancient Rome, devoid of GSM or Wi-Fi. With your battery at 67%, you decided to turn it off, conserving it for later.

But your chill vibe was quickly ruined by the awful smell of horse manure in the air. You really needed a shower; it was like a craving. Based on what you knew about Roman villas and their grandeur—this one was way bigger than Marcus's place—there had to be a bath somewhere. And sure enough, Lady Lucilla had mentioned you could use it, which brought a wave of relief. Once you were inside, you almost jumped for joy. The space was huge, with stone walls and steam rising everywhere, like a fancy bathhouse rather than just a simple pool. But then it hit you: no soap or shampoo—those were luxuries that hadn’t been invented yet. A little panic set in at the thought of dirty hair, but then some slaves brought you flower essences and oils that surprisingly smelled good.

As you soaked in the hot water, the pleasant smells revitalized you. Just when you were starting to unwind, a sharp pain shot from the wound on your back—a reminder that you’d forgotten to use the ointment Marcus gave you. You cursed yourself for not including a proper first aid kit in your bag; instead, you made do with only hand and face cream.

Then, amidst the tranquility, you heard a whistle—sharp and unexpected. A deep, unfamiliar, masculine voice followed, cutting through your moment of solace. "Gods above. What have we got here? Am I dreaming or what?" You instinctively crossed your arms over your chest, a sudden wave of vulnerability crashing over you.

What was a man doing here?

You froze in panic. When you turned to see who was talking, there was a man close to your age, with a playful grin o his face, his head tilted to the side as he clearly enjoyed the sight.

Frustration bubbled up inside you. “What are you staring at? Turn around and get lost!”

Instead of leaving, he laughed hard, stepped closer, a predatory gleam in his eyes. In a panic, you sank deeper into the water, the heat now a fierce contrast to the throbbing pain in your back. “Don’t come any closer or—”

“Or?” he challenged, his grin widening.

“Or I’ll scream!” You could feel the rising tide of emotion pushing to break free.

He chuckled, undeterred, and crouched before you, curiosity dancing in his gaze. With no choice left, you screamed at the top of your lungs, "Lady Lucilla! Leta! Help!"

“Oh, stop squealing like a damn rat,” he growled.

Within moments, a bunch of slaves rushed in, looking both concerned and annoyed. Lady Lucilla soon followed, glancing between you and the guy. “Lucius! My son!”

Your heart raced—her son? You watched them hug, the warmth of their family bond hitting you hard while your anxiety spiked. Lucius turned your way, curiosity painted on his face. "Who’s this girl? She doesn’t even look like a slave."

Lucilla sighed, focus returning to you, as she commanded one of the slaves, “Leta, get her dressed and get her out of there. Enough with the bath.” Her demeanor softened as she turned back to Lucius. "When did you arrive? I didn’t expect you so soon. I couldn't even speak to Severus."

“I arrrived this morning. Acacius' men brought me,” he replied.

Lucilla paused for a moment, a hint of worry flashing across her face before she focused back on the situation. "Come, I'll feed you. You must be hungry."

“Oh my god! It’s Marcus Aurelius.” 

The moment your eyes landed on the bust of the emperor, which was Lizzie's favorite in the grand courtyard, your heart raced as if it might leap from your chest. Just last month, you had marveled at the original in a museum, but this one looked absolutely amazing, with a brighter contrast to the original.

“That girl is really disrespectful; she talks like she’s met my grandfather,” Lucius remarked, swirling his goblet of wine. 

Lucilla, lounging gracefully in her chair, rolled her eyes. 

Did he just say grandfather?

No way. 

A wave of anxiety washed over you again.

“Your name is Lucius Verus Aurelius, and your name is Annia Aurelia Galeria Lucilla. Is that true?” you ventured, not quite believing what you were saying. 

Lucius flashed a roguish grin. “Even a five-year-old knows that. Why are you so surprised?” 

“My sister admires him—well, your father, my lady,” you corrected quickly.

Lucilla reclined back, a soft smile dancing on her lips. “My father was a very wise man, a good emperor. Many still hold him in high regard.” 

“I wish we could say the same about the current emperor,” Lucius muttered, his voice dripping with disdain. 

Lucilla shot him a warning glance that could silence a storm. 

Right, the current emperor.

You couldn’t ask about that directly. You could already feel the awkwardness creeping in. You racked your brain, trying to recall your Roman history. It couldn’t be Commodus; it had to be after him. Oh, those years with all those emperors. Which one was it again? You figured it was best to talk to Marcus when he showed up. But he didn’t come. It was dark now, and he was still missing. 

Living in this ridiculous, twisted reality without him was nearly unbearable. Being around living versions of those historical figures you only knew from books and museums felt surreal. You needed something to take the edge off, another pill.

“I wouldn’t do that,” a voice drawled from the corridor, making you jump. 

Lucius approached, his presence both imposing and oddly captivating, as he leaned casually against the stone pillars. 

“You wouldn’t do what?” you asked, confused.

“I mean I wouldn’t venture out into the courtyard,” he explained, his gaze drifting over the stone wall. “They’re here.” 

“Who?” you followed his line of sight.

In the shadows of the courtyard, illuminated by flickering torches, two young blonde men sat facing Lucilla. One was tall and striking, exuding an air of authority; the other, shorter and clearly overwhelmed, seemed to shrink under the weight of expectation. When you caught sight of the golden crowns atop their heads, panic seized your gut. “Who are they?” you stammered.

“They are Geta, the cunning one, and Caracalla, the mad one."

Your eyes widened in disbelief. 

“The sons of Emperor Septimius Severus?” 

His silence confirmed your fears. 

“Oh, no. Fuck. Why? Why?” you moaned, pressing your hands against your temples, feeling the heat of dread seep into your bones. 

“What’s wrong with you? Your face has turned pale,” Lucius observed, his smirk painting an amused picture against your turmoil. 

You sank your head into your hands. “How much worse can this get? I just want this nightmare to end. That psycho is nowhere to be found. He promised he’d come,” you lamented.

“General?” he chuckled. “You actually believe he’ll return?” 

You eyed him suspiciously. “What do you mean by that?” 

“He must want to be rid of you if he brought you here,” he replied, a mischievous glimmer in his eyes. 

"Stay out of stuff you don’t get."

“This is a prison,” he said. “Once something enters these walls, it rarely escapes. Just think about it—my mother, Lucilla, hasn’t seen the outside world since that day—only allowed out for the Princes’ birthday celebrations. She was practically coerced into attending that damned banquet.”

"But she’s the princess, right? She’s kind of important, and there are soldiers—"

“Praetorians,” he corrected, his voice dripping with disdain. “And they’re the emperor’s dogs. They do whatever he says."

“So your mother is being held here against her will, like some form of house arrest?” you asked.

“Yes, because of her importance and me, and also because of the general.” 

“What do you mean?"

"The general serves the emperor, not my mother. Severus didn't deserve the throne. After my uncle's death, everything became chaotic. Severus manipulated the military to seize power over the Senate. It could have been different if Acacius had assisted me, but he didn't. Unlike Severus, he has no interest in politics, Acacius is a man of war, eager for battle—though I know the real reason behind that."

"What reason?" Your heart raced, curiosity fighting against your unease.

He grinned, brushing his finger against your cheek. His touch made you uneasy. “That one thing that bothers all men.” 

You recoiled, pushing his hand away, your pulse quickening. “Anyway, I believe he will come—he promised me.” 

“Keep waiting then, flower.” 

You stood there, eyes wide, watching him walk away, his words ringing in your head.

The only thing that bothers all men. 

What could that possibly mean?

Or was he alluding to love or something equally absurd? That cold, grump guy—love? What could he possibly know about any of that?

It felt like the most absurd joke ever.

“We must do this to eliminate Acacius.”

You turned your head, it was Geta. You were curious about what he was talking about. And why did Lucilla seem so unfazed? Then you remembered Marcus’s earlier words: “Someone betrayed me; I need to find out who.” 

Was it Lucilla?

What kind of outrageous nonsense is this?!

This was all beginning to feel like one of those dramatic soap operas—full of intrigue, even in the world of ancient Rome.

You reached into your bag, fingers grazing the familiar contours of a pillbox, but just as you grasped it, an unexpected yelp rent the air. A quick flicker of movement caught your eye—a creature, not quite human, darted past you with astonishing speed, snatching the pillbox from your grip. It leaped away with the agility of mischief incarnate.

A fucking monkey? 

For a moment, you froze, utterly astonished. Then instinct kicked in, propelling you into a chase. “Hey! Come back here, you little thief!” you shouted, your heart racing as you pursued the nimble primate. It was a ridiculous pursuit; the monkey, far too agile, danced and dodged your every effort, leaving you flustered.

“Dondus! Where—” 

Before you could figure out who shouted, you collided with someone and fell to the ground.

“What the hell?” the person exclaimed, clearly annoyed.

You rubbed your head where it bumped against his. “Watch where you’re going!” you shot back, realizing too late you just insulted a prince—probably Caracalla.

“How dare you!” he bellowed, scrambling to his feet, his garments slightly askew. Perched on his shoulder was the very monkey you were still trying to catch, nibbling curiously on your pill box.

You pointed accusingly at him. “That’s mine!”

“Brother, what’s happening here?” Geta called out, approaching with Lucilla by his side.

“This insolent wretch dared to throw herself at me, sending me sprawling!” Caracalla’s voice dripped with indignation.

Your blood boiled. “I didn’t mean to! The monkey stole my medicine!”

Geta wrinkled his nose, scrutinizing you with a mixture of disdain and curiosity. “How dare you treat my brother, your prince, with such disrespect?” His sudden grip on your hair made you gasp, panic surging as you felt his intimidating presence. “Do you wish for your life to be snuffed out?” The menace woven in his tone made you swallow hard.

“Who is this? A slave of yours?” he tossed at Lucilla.

Lucilla rolled her eyes at you, her lips parting to speak when the thunderous neigh of a horse interrupted. 

“My Lady!” 

All eyes turned toward the sound, and relief washed over you as you spotted Marcus. In a flash, you elbowed Geta, urgency driving you to escape from his grasp. He groaned as you dashed toward Marcus who leaped down from his horse. You huddled behind him, a barrier against the escalating tension. Marcus nodded toward the princes, a mix of confusion and caution shadowing his posture.

“Acacius?” Caracalla narrowed his gaze, suspicion oozing from his words.

“You whore!” Geta thundered, clutching his side where you had elbowed him earlier. “General Acacius, I insist you tell me—what is your connection to this insolent girl? Speak up immediately!"

"Do you know her?” Caracalla asked.

Marcus glanced at Lucilla, then swiftly nodded. “Yes, your highness, I do.”

“I swear I didn’t do anything,” you whispered to him, desperation crystallizing your words. “His monkey took my medicine. He started it!”

“Do not say another word, girl or I'll cut off your tongue,” Marcus snarled through clenched teeth, clearly tense, startling you.

You pressed your lips together in response, a wave of fear silencing the words that lingered on the tip of your tongue.

It became clear that you had both landed in a perilous situation. 

“There’s one more thing I’m curious about: Do you visit Lucilla often?” Geta's tone dripped with dry sarcasm, a predator circling its prey.

Marcus's eyes hardened. "I was surprised to find you here at this hour. I thought you might be with your father, who told me you weren't joining him for dinner and asked if I could help. It seems I was right to look for you here."

“Are you demanding an explanation from us, general? We can go wherever we please!” Caracalla retorted, anger flaring in his words.

“Of course, you may, it is not my place to tell you otherwise. However, as I mentioned, the emperor is concerned, and it is my duty to serve him,” Marcus replied, steady and resolute.

"Looks like you're dodging the real issue here, Acacius," Geta said, shooting you a pointed look. "I wonder why..."

With a gesture, he signaled one of the guards standing by the fountain. The guard bowed his head and approached you, reaching out to grab your arm. Marcus’s muscles tensed, an uncertain battle waging within him as he watched, powerless to intervene.

The piercing sound of metal as the guard unsheathed his sword reverberated in your ears, but when it was pressed against your throat you felt your heart beating right there.

You gasped and screamed.

“Please! I didn’t do anything!” Your heart raced with fear, body trembling.

"Do you hold any concern for this woman? No? If she’s merely a slave, I assume you find it acceptable for her to suffer the consequences of this defiance against your prince."

What the hell is this?

'Suffer the consequences…'

You looked at Marcus, your eyes wide, but he didn’t even flinch—just cold and blank. Then it hit you: everyone else was the same, totally chill like this kind of thing happened all the time. Was offing someone part of their daily routine? Panic shot through you because you had zero plans of being a victim. “Do something, you psycho! Tell him I saved your life!” you shouted, feeling the guard shake you hard in his rage. Caracalla’s laughter sliced through the air, wild and menacing, like a predator enjoying the hunt.

“Is that even true?” Geta said, clearly amused.

“Come on! Tell them you forced me here! Why aren’t you saying anything? Are you really just going to let them kill me? After everything I’ve done for you? What if I hadn’t come to get you from that police station—”

“Shut…” he growled, then went on in a quieter tone. “…that mouth.”

Geta and Caracalla traded glances and burst out laughing.

"Do you have feelings for this girl, general? Our father will be deeply affected when he finds out about this; was she the cause of your rejection of the unions he proposed for you?" Geta teased, still chuckling at Caracalla.

Lucilla crossed her arms, all of them looking at Marcus, waiting for an explanation. 

With a heavy exhale, Marcus gathered himself, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. “This woman...” He swallowed hard, searching for the right words, but found there was no escape from the truth. “It’s all true...” His gaze flicked to you for a heartbeat and then fell away, as if he couldn’t bear the intensity of the moment. “I brought her here because...” He closed his eyes, letting out a pained breath. “She is the woman I love.”

There was silence, you stood there with your eyes and mouth wide open, almost forgetting the sword pressed against your throat.

“I ask you to release her. I promise you that nothing like this will ever happen again. Forgive me for everything that has transpired. My lady, I beg you to forgive me as well. I have caused you trouble.”

Wait a minute — that “trouble” was you?

With a dismissive gesture, Geta motioned to the guards, who stepped back to release you. “So the rumors had a kernel of truth. My father will certainly be surprised to hear this, Acacius,” Geta chuckled, his grin widening as he ambled towards the waiting carriage in the garden. Caracalla snatched the medicine box and threw it in your direction. “Don't appear before me again."

You squinted at him, relief flooding through you as he returned your medicine box. Lucilla’s gaze lingered on you as their carriage rolled away. “Did you lie to me, Acacius? I never took you for a dishonest man. You’ve disappointed me.”

Marcus bowed his head. “My lady, I implore your forgiveness.”

“Regardless, it’s not suitable for this woman to remain here now that Lucius is present. Please, take her and leave.” With a casual wave of her hand, she turned and strode back inside.

I didn't like staying here anyway, you thought to yourself.

Marcus turned and walked to his horse, where a slave was holding the reins. The slave gave a quick salute, he then grabbed the reins, and hopped on without hesitation.

“Are you really going to leave me here?” you wailed, jogging to catch up with him.

He glanced over his shoulder, a flicker of annoyance in his eyes, then extended his hand. You reached for it, trying to pull yourself up onto the saddle, but stumbled and landed hard on your butt. “Aah, shit,” you groaned, wincing at your clumsiness. 

With a deep sigh, Marcus dismounted. “You really are a troublesome one,” he remarked, and before you could protest, he grasped you by the waist, effortlessly lifting you and placing you onto the horse like you were as light as a feather. He swiftly mounted, took the reins, and urged the horse into a gallop. The wind whipped through your hair as you wrapped your arms around him tightly, exhilarated to escape from this place, though a wave of nervousness washed over you about what awaited next.

Julius was waiting for you near the Pantheon in the distance. Marcus dismounted, gently lowering you to the ground before turning back to guide his horse toward his brother. You rushed after him, your bag slung over your shoulder, urgency in your steps as you looked up at his face. “Hey, are you mad at me or something? It was not my fault, I swear. As if it wasn’t enough dealing with that Lucius guy, then that monkey came along and stole my medicine. How was I supposed to know it was Caracalla’s monkey? I still can’t believe he’s the real Caracalla. Do you know how significant he was in my time?” Despite your frantic words, he remained silent, his focus ahead, lost in thought as he strode forward.

“Um... did you mean what you said back there? Were you serious? I mean, I was really surprised. You don’t exactly seem like the love type, and you’re always so grumpy with me. You won't even look me in the eye. Seriously, you’re still not making eye contact.” He turned his head, when you were stealing a glance at his face. “Look, you’re still avoiding my gaze.” 

He picked up the pace, and you hurried to keep up. “Honestly, I’m mad at you. It was dark, you didn’t show, and that Lucius guy said you weren’t coming, and I—” Suddenly, he grabbed your wrist, spun you around, and pulled you in close, your body bumping against his shoulder. “Never approach someone with a sword from behind. And never touch him without warning. If you do, your hands will be cut off immediately.’" Then he shoved you forward, and you stumbled, nearly losing your balance. Anger bubbled up inside you as you shot him a look—still rubbing that sore spot where his hand had grabbed you. “Wow, you’re seriously rude! You’ve got zero sense of humor."

“What I said earlier...” he started to explain.

“Yeah, I get it,” you cut him off.

He blinked, looking caught off guard. “Get... what?”

“You had to say it; I get it. I’m not stupid. And honestly, I don’t care. I’ve got no interest in arrogant guys like you. Let’s just say I didn’t hear a thing.”

“Good,” he muttered, his voice barely making it out.

Feeling a sudden jolt of courage, you stepped in closer, put your hand on the corner of your mouth, and whispered playfully, “But too late; I’ve already heard everything,” nudging him with your elbow before darting off toward Julius, who was standing on the steps of the grand temple. Marcus just stared after you, his fingers still lingering where you nudged him. 'Gods. Among all those people from her time, why did it have to be her, why?' he thought angrily.

Once again, the night had turned out to be a total bust. Even though you had put in the effort to spell out the ancient parchment's inscriptions, nothing had changed. A wave of despair washed over you as the thought crossed your mind: 'What if I never make it back home?' Your thoughts lingered on your sister and father; your work felt minuscule compared to family. You longed to escape this bizarre, anachronistic world that felt so alien.

While you journeyed through your thoughts, the horse abruptly halted, jolting you back to reality—you were at Marcus’s villa. The thought of entering sent a shiver down your spine. “That woman won’t want me here,” you mumbled, dread twisting in your gut.

Marcus looked at you with unwavering eyes. “No one will ever harm you again, you have my word,” he said with a conviction that defied doubt.

“Why are you so confident? That woman—and her daughter—they scare me,” you admitted, anxiety clawing at your insides.

“Trust me,” he asured you before stepping into the courtyard.

You looked at Julius, whose gentle smile offered slight reassurance. “Trust my brother,” he insisted.

What was he insinuating? 

You didn’t have many options left but to take a leap of faith; you were stuck here, after all.

As you stepped into the grand courtyard, the old woman and her daughter regarded you, their eyes widening in surprise. They rose from their seats, gliding toward Marcus, and your nerves instantly tightened with memories.

Marcus surveyed the gathering, as if to ensure that every ear was attentive, preparing them for something significant. His gaze darted to you momentarily, then he composed himself, taking a deep breath as he addressed everyone. “I’m going to say this just once, so listen carefully. As the eldest living male in our family, I’ve reached a decision that you all must honor.” He paused, his gaze lingering on you with a mix of contemplation and determination. Then, with a commanding gesture, he continued, “This woman will now be considered part of our household, treated as if she were our own kin. Any hint of disrespect towards her will be viewed as a direct affront to me.”

A grateful, warm smile emerged on your face, yet the anger brewing inside Balbina was evident, prompting you to suppress a mocking laugh.

“Acacius, my son,” she began, her voice laced with scorn. “What title will this woman have while she is here? Considering that Julius is a widower and you are an unmarried man, her staying here might raise questions about propriety and attract unnecessary gossip. You are aware of how individuals can be quick to judge, especially in your position as a general. Such circumstances could potentially jeopardize your reputation. Furthermore, I want to remind you that she is not a citizen.”

“Do you think I’m unaware of these implications? I will petition the Emperor for special permission to grant her conubium,” he declared.

Gasps erupted from the residents of the house. 

Lydia fumbled, dropping the glass in her hand, her jaw hanging open in disbelief. Balbina pressed a trembling hand against her chest, shock evident on her face. Julius's expression mirrored the astonishment shared by everyone present. Even the slaves froze, exchanging wide-eyed glances, as though witnessing something very rare.

You, however, were completely lost. The word “conubium” escaped your mind entirely, leaving you confused as you tried to remember its meaning.

“Preparations will commence tomorrow,” Marcus continued, his voice assertive. “Prepare one of the other rooms for her, she shall stay there until then.” With that, he strode purposefully up the stairs, leaving the courtyard in a hush of murmurs, disbelief, chaos.

Lydia steadying her flustered mother, they were still caught in shock, trading looks of disbelief.

“What’s going on? Why is everyone so surprised?” you asked Julius, your eyes still on Marcus, who was ascending the stairs without looking back at you or anyone else.

“Don’t you understand?” 

You shook your head. “I mean, I’m not certain what that word means.” 

He sighed, a hint of bewilderment slipping through. “Honestly, I’m surprised too; I never guessed my brother would do this.”

“What? Why? What did he just say?” 

“He conveyed his intention to marry you,” he revealed softly.

In that fleeting moment, the meaning of “conubium” surged back into your mind, and it was your turn to freeze, caught off guard by the situation.

hope you enjoyed the chapter babies, thanks for reading ❤️

taglist

@immyowndefender @pedroslut4eva @lailathepedritofan @javiismyhsbnd @heramj @longlivekingminnn @pedroloverbilmemkac @aurorathegreekprincess @daejangandimja @pedritomylovebemyhusband @fatimayilmazzz @javiismyhsbnd @jisungandpedrolover @shinsegismylove @peelieblue @darkheartgatita @orcasoul @sunwoosbaby @madnessofadaydreamer @ultraviolence44 @balhoneysweetstuff @catofash @queenofodds @blackborndue @daydream-believer19 @stalactitekilla @croissantdefleux @sonjajames2021 @indiegirlunited @picketniffler @sesdeuxyeux @wencontre @divaofmads @mysticmorning1 @iamfandomnerd @fancypeacepersona @shinsegismylove @javiismyhsbnd @aurorathegreekprincess @possiblyafangirl @libbybalas6192 @inept-the-magnificent @zella07 @darkheartgatita @sonjajames2021 @divaofmads @longlivekingminnn

[semperamans]

part three of loverboy!oscar is here! get ready for chaos! also!! i deeply apologize for how long it took to get this posted :'(

if you missed part two you can find it here! if you read and enjoy please let me know what you think! your comments keep my days oh so bright! hope you all are well!

xo, clo

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°

pias_lover_girl commented "what other things oscarpiastri my STOMACH HURTS."

mclaren commented "bring us home a souviner 🥹 we accept refridgerator magnets, snowglobes, and t-shirts."

↳ landonorris replied "i only accept signed CDs 🙂"

↳ pitstop_piastri replied "oh this was CRAZY LANDO SJFHSKDF"

ynsgirly commented "oscarpiastri what are your intentions with my daughter 🤨"

oscarsfearless89 commented "he is just a little boy in a big ole city i-"

tracksidebabe commented "the little smile after he said "other things planned" 🥺 hope he has the best time."

mclarendad72 commented "love this for him honestly, nothing like your first trip to new york city."

f1fanfiles commented "he looks like he’s actually excited for once lol bless"

futureyn_piastri commented "ik he won't be listening to that Shawn Mendes podcast..."

↳ ynforpresident replied "babygirl NO ONE is gonna listen to that."

liked by yourname_source, sc4rlett_44, bestofyn, oscarpiastri, morningwithyn, and others

yn_nation our girl was spotted out and about today! mayas_yn snapped these pics of our cutie gal outside of Bubby's Bakery on Hudson :') maya said yn was picking up some baked goods: a cake for an upcoming birthday and some cupcakes for her nieces who will be visiting her in the next few days :)

thank you for sharing, maya! 💌

view all 23,212 comments

bubbysbarista i served her this morning and she gave me and my coworkers $300 tips 😭😭

↳ sundaywithyn NOT HER OUT HERE CHANGING LIVES BEFORE NOON

↳ ynlover95 she's so sweet :( she's soft spoken :( her pockets deep as hell :( yn save me :(

↳ sc4rlett_44 ugh ☹️ it’s little moments like this that remind me why i’ve been a fan for so long.

piastrigirlies not to be That Person but… any chance she was with someone mayas_yn 👁️👁️

↳ mayas_yn she was alone :)

afterglowing81 honestly just happy to see her out and about, smiling and living her life — not hiding out or spiraling over shawn or any of that mess. growth looks really good on her 🤍

herefordrama i personally think she's just trying to save face and show up randomly doing good deed so we won't watch the Shawn podcast episode lol

↳ f1xynlore girl she bought baked goods for her nieces… not exactly a strategic media move 😭

↳ starryeyesandbutterflies did you activley seek out a yn fan account to leave a hate comment? YOU HAVE SO MUCH TIME ON YOUR HANDS I- FSHDFJKSDHF

↳ girlshush every time she breathes y’all get suspicious. therapy is calling. pick up.

↳ ynsdefense “doing good deeds” is wild behavior to accuse someone of. sorry she’s a decent human i guess?

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°

yourusername uploaded a story!

love4yn replied "your nieces are about to get the most emotionally regulated love known to man."

landoe04 replied “can’t wait to see uncle oscar in the next story 😇”

angelicyn replied "i volunteer to be one of your nieces thx"

shawnmendes replied "this made me smile."

papayapressure replied “we get it. you’re soft. you’re sweet. you’re just like us 🙄”

newintown replied "do the nieces know their aunt could sell out Madison Square Garden but is taking them hiking instead??"

shedoesntgohere replied “this gives ‘please think i’m a good person’ energy.”

yourbrother replied "still laughing at Cleo telling me that i don't get the vibe."

ynsgirl222 replied “just curious… are the kids the only ones you’re babysitting this week 👀”

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°°

later...

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°°

shawnmendes uploaded a story!

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°°

liked by hattie_piastri, oscarpiastri, sophie_matteson, mia.reinhart, yourbestfriend, and others

edie_pia kicked off my second decade with cake, watching noodle fall in love with my big brother, expensive dinners (thank u mclaren for writing his checks), and the best vibes. feeling loved, slightly over-caffeinated, and ready to take on my twenties 🧁

view all 2,421 comments

liv.rothman “thank u mclaren for writing his checks” IM CRYINGGGG

hattie_piastri love you so big, baby sister.

kayla.beech ugh i forgot to text you this morning but HAPPY BIRTHDAY you angel 😭🎉

f1butunwell happy birthday, Edie! We love your brother!

mclarenmeg wait this is oscar’s sister?? omg slay happy bday queen

↳ edie_pia no idk who that is sorry

↳ oscarpiastri same

mum.piastri My darling girl, I can hardly believe you're 20! It feels like just yesterday I was holding you in my arms, and yet my gray hairs might tell a different story... (They’re really piling up now!). Love you oodles and oodles. 💖

mclaren happy birthday, edie! 🎈

oscarpiastri happy birthday, ed. thanks for showing me how to jaywalk.

↳ edie_pia you still don't do it properly...? you apologize every single time 😒

↳ mum.pastri ... What? 🥲

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°

edie_pia uploaded a story!

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°

oscarandthegirlies replied "he is NOT back emotionally 💀 look at that GROUCHY FACE yn come get your man."

sector2slump replied "bro said good to be home like he’s trying to convince himself 😭"

ynpapayapress replied "i KNOW a man in emotional limbo when i see one"

markonmediums replied "my daughter said he’s giving abandoned golden retriever energy and i don't know what that means but i hope he chins up. good kid."

piastrisf1wife replied "he looks like someone just told him it’s media day for the third time in one week."

racedaybabe replied "jet lag hitting different huh"

lockuplads replied "he's so polite but you can tell he'd rather be anywhere else"

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°

liked by sydney_sweeney, rinasonline, chloebailey, phoebebridgers. oscarpiastri, yourbrother, and others

yourusername hello lovers! i was on double-duty this week - auntie yn x tour guide and i adored every minute of it. this was the first time my girls have visited me in the city and suffice to say, they loved it :') we chased down ice cream trucks, rode the carousel until our eyes were cross, bought way too many flowers (kidding, of course, you can never have too many), we made some new friends, ate pizza slices bigger than our heads, and had very serious discussions about what bubble wand color is superior (pink, of course).

these are the kinds of days i want to keep close. bare-faced and barefoot in central park. loud giggles and sticky fingers on sunlit sidewalks. big big smiles on two little faces :) the city feels like magic, again. thankful to these cuties for reminding me of that ♡

p.s. pls refer to the duck chart 🦆

view all 1,123,243 comments

mclaren we'd like to formally offer you a position on our media team, the vibes are immaculate.

↳ yourusername only if my nieces can come too. they’re very invested in tire strategy now.

↳ yourbrother they are five and three - what about ME?! HELLO? LIFELONG F1 FAN?

↳ yourusername 🤔 mclaren... did you guys hear anything?

↳ mclaren 🙉

↳ ynbaby IM SCREAMING mclaren GIVE HIM A JOB. HE IS THE REASON WE ARE HERE.

futureyn_piastri no oscar pics? i know Lando is going to be disappointed :(

↳ landonorris real

piastri_panic ... duck chart?

↳ imwithnorris no i was about to say what the FUCK IS SHE TALKING ABOUT 😭

dramaqueen01 girl wrap it UP with this soft girl narrative we are tired

↳ oscpresso says the one who came on yn's page to start shit? okay lol

dualipa the hold you have on me is not normal

↳ yourusername text meeeee

orangehearted not to be fucking insane but that is the HAND of a MAN in slide two...

↳ pitstoppiastri 👀

↳ f1butunwell you guys are so fucking weird i hate it here

maggierogers so glad joy found you again 💕

ynupdates this whole post is giving indie movie directed by greta gerwig

piastrisbaby ngl kinda wish oscar was in this dump too 😭

↳ not_lando lets be real, he probably took half these pics

ynsunrise how do i audition to be your niece. i’m 27 and emotionally unavailable but i can love to bake, know every single one of your songs, and like f1

↳ yourusername i'll have my people contact yours

oscarpiastri 🦆

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°

landonorris uploaded a story!

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°

[gemrambles]

Are You Convinced? - A.H

summary: hotch has been feeling insecure about his new body, and you notice and are determined to convince him how attracted to him you are.

pairing: aaron hotchner x fem!reader

warnings: NSFW, MDNI!, unprotected p in v sex,

wc: 1,670

The bedroom was quiet, the only sound being the soft rustle of your book pages being turned. You were curled up on your side of the bed.

Your heart practically skipped a beat when you heard the familiar sound of the front door unlocking. 

Footsteps padded in with practiced quiet - careful and deliberate. Not out of secrecy, but habit. He never wanted to disturb you, as though you weren’t eagerly waiting for him. You could hear the muffled thud of his bag hitting the floor.

“Hi, love” you called softly, eyes brightening upon seeing Aaron step into the doorway of your shared bedroom. 

His tie was already loosened, collar undone. His hair was tousled, likely from the tiring drive home after a drawn out case. He looked exhausted, yes - but he looked so handsome. Your heart warmed. His presence felt like home. 

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he said, his voice low and hoarse from the day. 

“You didn’t. I was just reading.” You explained, closing the book. 

Aaron gave you a faint smile - tip-lipped and tired - and walked toward the dresser. He paused in front of it, fingers hovering at the buttons of his shirt, before turning his back to you and starting to undo them. 

That was new. 

You watched him, your brow furrowed as you saw the subtle tension in his shoulders. He was slow - methodical. He was being careful. Guarded. As if he was waiting for you to look away. Hoping that your attention would return to your discarded book. 

It didn’t. 

Instead, you shifted on the bed, sitting up and crawling across the bed towards him. 

“Aaron,” you murmured. “Come here.” 

He stilled for half a second, glancing toward you over his shoulder. He hesitated, shirt halfway off. 

“I need to change, sweetheart.” 

A soft smile appeared on your face, “I know. Come here anyway.”

With a breath through his nose, he turned. His chest was partially exposed, the hem resting over the swell of his stomach. A subtle shift from the rigid frame he’d had years ago, back when he’d practically lived on caffeine and adrenaline. Now, he was broader. Thicker through the middle. Softer, somehow. His shirts fit a bit tighter these days. 

And you loved it. He was utterly beautiful. Irresistible. 

You slid yourself off of the bed, walking towards his body that leaned against the dresser, dropping to your knees in front of him, your hands coming up to rest gently on his thick thighs. “You’ve been avoiding changing in front of me,” you whispered. 

He looked away, jaw ticking. “That’s not true.”

“Aaron,” you sighed. Not of annoyance, but concern. 

You watched as he let out a breath, his eyes falling shut for a beat. Then, finally, he met your gaze again. “I just…” his voice dropped even lower. “I’ve noticed the way things fit lately. Shirts, pants. I didn’t want you to…” he swallowed, voice trailing off. “I’m not the same.” He finished.

Your heart ached. You let out a soft, sympathetic hum before your hands moved carefully upwards, gently undoing the last few buttons of his shirt. 

Pushing the fabric of the shirt away from the front of his body, your fingers began tracing the curve of his stomach. Your touches were so gentle - like handling something precious. 

You leaned in and pressed a kiss just beneath his sternum, gradually moving lower, to the soft skin over his stomach. You could feel him slightly tremble beneath your lips.

“I love this,” you whispered between kisses. “I love you. You’re strong, you’re steady, and you still make me blush like we just met.” 

He let out a soft, choked laugh, and you looked up at him with a warm smile.

“You are so handsome, Aaron,” you said. “Every time you walk into a room, I have to remind myself to breathe.”

Your hands reached for the buckle of his belt, teasingly undoing it as your kisses continued to litter his body. 

“You think I don’t notice the way you fill out your shirts now?” you murmured against his skin. “I love it.” 

He let out a groan - low and broken - his eyes fluttering shut. His arms instinctively braced themselves against the dresser behind him. 

You slowly pulled his pants down, watching as they pooled at his ankles. 

“I love all of you, Aaron,” you whispered. Your voice was thick with need. “I love this stomach you try to hide. I love the weight of you on top of me.”

Another groan left his lips, one hand threading itself into your hair. His chest rose and fell in a shaky rhythm, anticipating your next move. 

“You’re so fucking handsome,” you murmured, brushing your lips against the underside of his cock through his boxers. You felt him twitch. Heard the deep moan that slipped from his mouth. “So big. Fill me up so good.”

He sucked in a breath, watching you intently. 

Gently, you pulled his cock out from his boxers, slowly pumping his length in your hand. “I love this body. Every part of it.”

His hand tightened in your hair.

Slowly, you licked a stripe along his shaft - length to tip - watching as his eyes fluttered shut. His hips bucked forward, eliciting a small apology to slip from his lips. 

With a final kiss to his tip, you took him into your mouth, using your hand to pump whatever you couldn’t fit. 

You worked slowly, deliberately. Letting him feel every part - the flat of your tongue, the way your hand wrapped around the base and followed every movement. Your eyes never left his face. 

And Aaron - your guarded, painfully controlled Aaron - was unraveling. 

He looked down at you in awe. A raw, barely-contained moan slipped from his lips as he watched your cheeks hollow around him. 

“That mouth,” he groaned. “Jesus Christ…”

You moaned around his cock in response.

“Stop,” he rasped suddenly, hand gently tugging you back. “If you don’t, this’ll be over before I get to feel you.”

With a soft pop, you released his cock. Your lips were slick, eyes wide and adoring. 

“Then take me to bed, Agent Hotchner,” you purred, voice warm and teasing. “Let me really show you how obsessed I am.”

His lips twitched into a small smirk, before he leaned down and lifted you into his arms, laying you down on the bed gently, his body quickly hovering above yours.

You cupped his face, bringing him down to you, kissing him like you needed him to feel just how much you meant it. His weight pressed into you - strong, warm, safe - and you could feel his cock hard and heavy, brushing against your inner thigh.

Your legs instinctively parted, wrapping around his waist.

“Please, Aaron. I need you,” you begged, your fingers running through his hair.

Aaron reached between you, guiding himself to your entrance, before gently sliding his cock inside.

A gasp fell from your mouth, your head falling back against the pillows, and your back arching into him. 

“Fuck,” he groaned. “You feel…like heaven.”

His thrusts were slow, measured. Like he was worshipping you. Every roll of his hips pressing you deeper into the mattress. 

“I love you,” you moaned out. Your hands touching every part of his body that you could reach. “Every single part of you.”

“You’re so tight,” he murmured, panting. “So wet, baby. You’re gonna kill me.”

You whimpered loudly beneath him, nails digging into his biceps.

“Harder,” you begged. “Please, Aaron.”

A low growl came from his throat, his pace shifting - faster and deeper. His hips snapping into your more urgently. 

He kissed you as he fucked you - on your mouth, your jaw, your neck. Whispered praises between every thrust.

Your legs tightened around his waist as your cries of pleasure filled the room. 

“I’m close,” you gasped. “Aaron, I’m gonna -”

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, reaching down between your bodies, his thick fingers circling your clit. “Let go for me, sweetheart.”

Your whole body clenched around him as you finished, shaking and gasping - his name fell from your lips in soft whimpers. 

He lost it. 

His rhythm stuttered. His face was buried in your neck as he groaned your name in pleasure repeatedly, his cum filling your cunt. 

His breathing slowed as the aftershocks faded, his body still pressed over yours - warm and heavy and real. You ran your fingers lazily through his hair, your chest still rising and falling beneath his.

He lifted his head just enough to look at you, his eyes hazy, but so full of emotion it made your throat tighten. There was awe in them. Gratitude. Maybe even disbelief.

You smiled, a little smug, a little breathless.

“So,” you murmured, brushing his damp hair off his forehead, “was that convincing enough?”

His brow furrowed slightly. “Convincing?”

You tilted your head playfully, lips curving up in a soft smirk, “You know. That I still find you ridiculously attractive. Or do I need to go again to make my point?”

That earned a soft chuckle from him - low and quiet, but warm. His hand slid up your side, grounding himself. 

“I’m starting to believe you,” he murmured, eyes flicking down to your mouth.

You leaned up slightly, whispering against his lips, “Good. Because I wasn’t exactly being subtle.” His lips brushed yours, and for a moment, the teasing quieted, replaced by something slower. Deeper.

Then he pulled back just enough to look at you fully - still hovering over you, one hand cradling your cheek, the other tracing lazy circles over your waist. 

“You’re too good to me,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t deserve you.” Gently, you rolled your eyes, nudging his nose with yours. “Aaron. You’re brilliant, thoughtful, unbelievably good in bed, and have a body I can’t keep my hands off of. I definitely got the better end of the deal.” He huffed out a breath - part disbelieving, part utterly undone by you. 

And with that, he kissed you again - slow, deep, and endlessly grateful.

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎, 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which a lifetime is lived in a year, but remembered forever

You first see her on a Tuesday. Early spring. The Dallas heat hasn’t kicked in yet, and the air carries that kind of quiet stillness that only comes when the morning rush has passed and the lunch crowd hasn't yet begun. The restaurant is quiet—just the way you like it.

Your place is small, intimate. You didn’t open it to impress critics or chase stars. You opened it because food felt like the one thing you could always count on to make people stop and feel something. It’s tucked into the edge of a quiet neighborhood just outside downtown—equal parts cozy and stubborn. The kind of spot you have to find on purpose.

The door opens with a chime. You glance up from your prep station behind the counter, expecting another regular or maybe someone picking up takeout.

Instead, you see her.

Tall. Athletic build. Blonde hair pulled back into a low bun, a baseball cap tugged low over her brows. She wears an oversized hoodie that swallows her frame, sleeves tucked over her hands. And she looks… lost. Not in a dramatic, “I don’t know where I am” kind of way. More like the kind of lost that comes with new cities, long days, and aching homesickness.

You wipe your hands on a towel and step forward.

“Seat yourself,” you say, voice even but not unfriendly.

She hesitates for a second before sliding into the seat at the end of the counter—the one closest to the kitchen, where she can watch the food being made. You clock it. That choice. Curious eyes. Maybe a little shy.

You nod toward her cap. “You hiding from someone or just avoiding eye contact?”

She huffs a breath. You can’t tell if it’s a laugh or a sigh. “Both.”

There’s something familiar about her face, but you can’t quite place it. She's beautiful, in that quietly commanding way. Soft around the eyes, but not someone to underestimate. Still, you’re not one to pry. Instead, you hand her a menu.

“It’s not long,” you tell her. “We don’t do pages of choices here.”

“That’s okay,” she says, voice low but steady. “Makes it easier.”

You wait while she scans it, her fingers tapping lightly on the wood countertop.

“What’s your favorite thing on here?” she finally asks.

You raise an eyebrow. “Depends what kind of day you’re having.”

She glances up at you, just for a moment. Her eyes are sharp blue, thoughtful. “Let’s say...a tired one. Homesick. A little lonely.”

You tilt your head. “Comfort food it is.”

You walk back behind the counter and begin moving without asking more questions. You don’t need to. This is the kind of meal you’ve made a hundred times before—one of your own staples, something warm and heavy with memory, your take on garlic-butter chicken and creamy parmesan rice, served with charred broccolini and lemon zest. A plate you’ve cooked when you were sad, when you were in love, when you needed something to feel like home.

You plate it carefully. Slide it in front of her without ceremony.

She blinks down at it. Then looks up at you, slow smile creeping in. “You’re good at this.”

“I know,” you say, smirking.

She eats in silence for the first few bites. Then, without looking up, “I just got drafted.”

“WNBA?”

She nods.

“Which team?”

“Wings.”

You lean your elbows against the counter. “So, you're new in town.”

“Very.”

You don’t say anything. Let her eat in peace. But after a few more bites, she glances up again.

“You’re not gonna ask who I am?”

You shrug. “I figure you’ll tell me if you want me to know.”

Her smile twitches again—this time real, full of something that feels like relief.

“I’m Paige.”

You offer your name in return, nodding slightly. “Welcome to Dallas, Paige.”

Something shifts between you then—not dramatic or loud, just…quieter. Easier. You slide her a glass of hibiscus lemonade without asking. She thanks you. You ask how she’s liking the city. She admits she hasn’t seen much of it yet.

“I’ve mostly been in practice and meetings. Everything feels like it’s happening fast.”

“Let me guess. You haven’t found your ‘spot’ yet.”

“My spot?”

“Everyone needs one. That one place that feels like yours. Somewhere you can breathe.”

She glances around the restaurant. Small wooden tables. Mismatched chairs. A vinyl player softly humming old jazz near the window. The smell of rosemary and lemon hanging in the air.

“Maybe this’ll be mine.”

You don’t reply. Just offer a small smile and return to your chopping board. But later, as she finishes and slides her plate back with a quiet, “That was amazing,” you meet her gaze and say, “If you come back tomorrow, I’ll make something different.”

She tilts her head. “That an invitation?”

“That’s a promise.”

She stands to leave, tugging her hoodie tighter around herself. At the door, she glances back.

“Thanks for not...making it a thing.”

“Making what a thing?”

“My name. Who I am.”

You just shrug. “You’re a girl who needed a good meal. That’s all that mattered today.”

She leaves with that soft smile still on her lips.

The next day, she’s back.

Same hoodie. Different hat. This time, no hesitation as she slips into the same stool by the kitchen counter, elbows on the wood like she’s always belonged there.

You glance up from prepping onions and say, “Guess the food wasn’t that bad.”

She grins. “I considered eating somewhere else. Then I remembered how boring other places are.”

“You remember that halfway through the drive or halfway through the menu?”

“Halfway through a protein bar in my car.”

You snort, shaking your head. “Alright, homesick rookie. I promised something different.”

She leans forward. “Surprise me.”

You do. This time, it’s a coconut milk curry with roasted chickpeas and chili oil, something you only make for people you think might actually appreciate it.

You slide the bowl across the counter. “Careful, it bites back.”

“I like heat,” she says, grabbing a spoon.

You raise your brows. “Careful with statements like that around chefs. We’ll test it.”

She takes one bite, pauses, and then exhales slowly, eyes widening.

You watch her face, amused. “Too much?”

“No,” she says, mouth still half full. “It’s incredible. I just wasn’t ready for the flavor. That’s...layers.”

You smirk. “Compliments from Paige Bueckers. Gonna frame that.”

She freezes. “So you do know who I am.”

“I didn’t yesterday. I looked it up.”

She laughs, a little sheepish. “Had to check if I was famous?”

“No,” you say. “Had to check if I was about to be responsible for poisoning a professional athlete.”

She lets her forehead fall to the counter with a muffled groan.

“You’re brutal.”

You grin. “You’re in my restaurant. Comes with the territory.”

Over the next week, she keeps coming.

Always alone. Always to the counter seat.

Sometimes she shows up with a hoodie pulled over her head and stays quiet, watching you slice herbs or prep sauces, saying barely a word beyond “Hey” and “Thanks.” Other times, she’s talkative—telling you about practice drills that nearly killed her, about team bonding events where no one wanted to sing karaoke first, about how weird it is to have fans recognize her at gas stations.

You listen, mostly. Occasionally ask questions that pull her out of herself a little more. She starts lingering after meals. Finishing her food slower. Helping you clean up a few dishes without being asked.

“Is this your dream?” she asks you one evening after closing, as you’re wiping down the counter and she’s nursing a ginger beer.

You glance over your shoulder. “The restaurant?”

She nods.

You think about it. “Not exactly. But it’s something I built. And that makes it mine.”

“That’s kind of beautiful,” she says, quietly. “I’ve always had people building things around me. For me. I never really built something on my own.”

You dry your hands on a towel and lean against the counter beside her.

“Well,” you say, “if you ever decide to build something...I know a good spot to start. Great lighting. Strong coffee. Kitchen staff’s kind of a hardass, though.”

She bumps her shoulder into yours and grins. “I’ll take my chances.”

A few days later, she brings a book. Doesn’t say anything about it—just places it on the counter next to her plate while you cook. You catch the title: A Man Called Ove.

“Didn’t peg you for a reader,” you say.

“You’re saying that like it’s a dig.”

“It’s not. I just imagined you watching game tape or playing 2K on your off days.”

She shrugs, flipping the book open. “I do both. But sometimes… this is easier. Reading someone else’s mess instead of sorting through your own.”

You pause mid-stir, something about her tone catching you. Not sad, exactly. But faraway.

“Want dessert?” you offer.

She perks up instantly. “What kind?”

“You’ll see.”

You bring out a slice of brown butter banana bread—still warm—and watch her face as she takes the first bite.

Her eyes roll back. “You have to stop doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“Making everything feel like a hug I wasn’t expecting.”

You laugh, quiet. “Is that a complaint?”

She shakes her head slowly, chewing. “Not even a little.”

One night, she stays past closing. You're both lingering—neither of you admitting it. You're seated on the floor behind the counter, back against the fridge, nursing a bottle of Topo Chico. She's on a stool above you, swinging her legs like a kid, talking about Connecticut winters and the way snow used to silence everything.

It’s comfortable. Strangely so.

“Do you ever get lonely here?” she asks, all of a sudden.

You pause. “Sometimes. But loneliness and being alone aren’t always the same thing.”

She hums. “That’s a good line.”

“You can use it if you pretend it was yours first.”

She laughs, gaze soft.

For the first time, you wonder what it would feel like to lean into her shoulder. To rest there.

But you don’t.

Not yet.

She becomes a part of the restaurant before either of you admit it.

It’s in the way her stool never gets taken, even when it’s busy. In the way you plate her food just a little differently—garnish with an extra sprig, a touch more drizzle. In the way her jacket ends up on the coat hook behind the counter without question. In the way she hums softly along to whatever record you’re playing that day, like the soundtrack was made just for her.

She always shows up right before the dinner crowd rolls in, when the light through the windows is golden and the kitchen is calm enough to talk.

“Long day?” you ask one Thursday, as she walks in with her shoulders heavy and hoodie unzipped.

She slumps into her seat like she’s collapsing into the only place she trusts to hold her. “I got elbowed in the face.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You start it?”

“Didn’t even touch her,” she says, defensively. “She just… had too much energy.”

You stifle a laugh. “You’re not exactly low-energy, Paige.”

“I’m controlled energy,” she counters, tapping her fingers on the countertop. “There’s a difference.”

You nod sagely, wiping your hands on your apron. “I'll make you a bowl of something comforting. And cooling.”

“Not the curry again,” she pleads.

“No promises,” you tease, and she groans.

You end up making her something light—cold soba noodles with sesame, cucumber, and a bit of lime. She slurps it down like she hasn’t eaten in days.

“This might be your best one yet,” she says, mouth full.

You lean on the counter, hand resting near her bowl. “You say that every time.”

“Because it keeps being true,” she says. Then, quieter, “I don’t think I’ve felt full since I moved here. Not like this.”

You try to smile, but it hits somewhere deeper than expected. The vulnerability. The truth. She says things sometimes that cut through you without trying to.

“You know,” she adds, picking up her chopsticks again, “people talk about how important it is to ‘find your people.’ I think that’s overrated.”

“Yeah?”

“I think it’s more important to find your place. A person can leave. A place stays.”

You consider that for a long moment, then glance toward the stove. “That explains why you’re always here.”

She doesn’t answer right away. Just chews thoughtfully, then murmurs, “I like how quiet it is here. Not quiet like...empty. Just…settled.”

“Like the restaurant isn’t trying to be anything?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Kind of like you.”

You feel your stomach tighten in a way that has nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with her attention. The way she notices. Pays attention to the pieces of you even you don’t name.

You change the subject before it can settle too long. “I made banana bread again.”

She perks up. “Do I get the edge piece this time?”

“Maybe.”

She grins. “You like me.”

You roll your eyes, but you're smiling. “I tolerate you.”

She leans forward on her elbows, eyes teasing. “You like me.”

You place the banana bread slice in front of her—the corner piece, golden and crisped to perfection. You say nothing. She knows.

That weekend, a family comes in with two screaming toddlers. One throws a spoon, and it hits the back of Paige’s chair. You rush over, but before you can say anything, she turns to the kid and gives him a high-five.

The mother looks horrified. You expect Paige to be annoyed. But she just laughs and says, “Good arm, little man.”

After they leave, you hand her a warm cookie on the house.

“What’s this for?” she asks, biting into it.

“Not every customer would’ve handled that so well.”

She shrugs. “I was a walking tantrum for most of fifth grade. I get it.”

You lean your chin in your hand, watching her. “You’re different than I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

You hesitate. “I don’t know. More... guarded, I guess. More closed-off.”

She lifts a brow. “You’re saying I’m easy?”

You smirk. “Emotionally.”

She grins. “Still feels like a compliment.”

One night, you're closing up later than usual. Paige is still there, legs tucked under her, sipping tea you made just for her—jasmine and honey.

Outside, rain taps gently on the windows.

Neither of you says much. The silence feels sacred.

“Can I ask you something?” she says after a while, voice barely above a whisper.

You look over. “Of course.”

“Why a restaurant?”

The question surprises you, even though it shouldn’t. You've talked about your past in passing, but not much about the why.

You rest your hand on the counter, fingers tracing a water ring.

“I think… because food is one of the only things that makes people stop. No matter what kind of day they’re having, what they’re going through—when they eat something good, they’re here. Right now. In it.”

Paige is quiet for a beat. “That’s how I feel when I play.”

You nod. “Same drug. Different medium.”

She smiles, soft and slow, like she’s storing that phrase away.

When she leaves, it’s almost midnight. You walk her to the door like you always do. She pauses with her hand on the knob.

“I like talking to you,” she says, without looking at you.

“I like feeding you.”

She glances over her shoulder then, and there’s something in her eyes you haven’t seen before.

The door opens. 

Then closes.

She’s gone again.

But for the first time, you catch yourself wondering when she’ll come back—not if.

The first time Paige sees you outside the restaurant, it’s by accident.

It’s a Sunday morning, early, and you’re at the farmer’s market near White Rock Lake, sleeves pushed up, tote bag over your shoulder, two kinds of basil in one hand and a half-drunk coffee in the other. You’re reading a produce sign when you hear—

“Well, well.”

You turn. Paige is standing there in joggers and a hoodie, sunglasses perched on her head, a grin tugging at her lips.

You blink. “You… go to farmer’s markets?”

She shrugs. “I jogged here. I wanted a juice. But now I feel like I’ve caught a celebrity in the wild.”

You snort. “I don’t jog. I chase tomatoes.”

She falls in step beside you without being asked.

You don’t stop her.

You walk through the stalls together.

She asks questions about vegetables she doesn’t recognize. You explain the difference between French radishes and watermelon radishes, between heirloom tomatoes and the sad ones in grocery stores. She listens with that soft focus you’ve come to recognize—the kind she wears in games, you imagine, when she’s about to make the smartest pass on the court.

“You’re different here,” she says at one point, as you sample plum slices from a vendor.

“Different how?”

She thinks. “Quieter. Less sharp. Like you’re… off-duty.”

You consider that. “The restaurant is where I perform. This is where I breathe.”

She nods. “I get that.”

You end up sitting on the edge of a fountain eating warm cheese pastries. You don’t say much. She taps her fingers against the stone. You brush crumbs from your shirt. It’s easy.

It’s so easy, it scares you a little.

Later that week, you close the restaurant early—rare, but necessary.

Your landlord left a voicemail about a pipe leaking in the apartment above yours. Something about potential damage, something about needing to assess it immediately. You go home annoyed, tired, and not in the mood to talk to anyone.

So of course, your phone buzzes the second you step inside.

Paige: No dinner tonight?

You sigh. A pause.

You: Had to close early. Apartment trouble.

Paige: Want company?

You stare at the message for a minute.

No one’s ever asked that. Not like that. Not someone who doesn’t expect something in return.

You hesitate.

You: Sure. Door’s open.

She shows up twenty minutes later, holding a paper bag.

“I panicked and grabbed Thai,” she says, stepping inside.

Your place is small—bare bones, minimalist. Cookbooks stacked on windowsills. Plants on every available surface. The scent of herbs lingers in the air like it’s soaked into the walls.

She kicks off her shoes. “This is exactly what I imagined.”

You raise a brow. “Barely decorated and perpetually under renovation?”

“No,” she says. “Warm. Lived in. Like your food.”

You blink at that.

She shrugs and sets the bag on the table. “Too much?”

You shake your head, voice quieter than you expect. “No. Just… haven’t had anyone describe it like that before.”

You eat together on the couch. Feet up. Movie on in the background—Chef, fittingly. You both laugh at the same scenes.

At one point, you glance over and catch her looking around your space again. Not snooping—just noticing.

“Can I ask you something?” she says, echoing what she’d asked you once before.

“Yeah.”

“Why don’t you talk about your family?”

You pause. Not defensive. Just… pulled back.

“They’re far,” you say eventually. “Emotionally and geographically.”

She nods. Doesn’t push.

You appreciate that more than she knows.

“You?” you ask.

Paige smiles faintly. “Tight-knit. My mom and I are really close. My brothers, too. It’s… loud when I go home.”

You try to imagine her in a house full of chaos and warmth. It fits. But then again, so does this version—the one who falls into your quiet like she’s meant to be there.

“Thank you,” you say, without knowing why.

She glances over. “For what?”

“For showing up. And for not… poking too hard.”

She bumps your knee with hers. “You do the same for me.”

After she leaves, the apartment feels different.

Not empty. Just… touched.

Like she left something behind that’s still hanging in the air.

You don’t mind it.

Not at all.

It’s raining again.

Late Friday night, and most of Dallas is tucked away indoors. But the restaurant is softly lit, warm against the thunder rumbling outside. Jazz hums low on the vinyl player, the scent of roasted garlic and rosemary still clinging to the air.

You’re cleaning up after a slow dinner service—only a few regulars tonight. It’s the kind of night you half-expect Paige to miss. She had a game earlier, an away one, and you assume she’s wiped.

But just as you’re wiping down the espresso machine, the door chimes.

You glance up.

There she is—hood soaked, hair a mess, shoes squeaking slightly on the tile.

You blink. “You’re drenched.”

She pushes back the hood, rain dripping from her lashes. “I left my car three blocks away. It was the only spot I could find.”

“You walked here? In this?”

“I missed dinner.”

You freeze.

Something about how she says it. Quiet. Like it was never really about the food.

You grab a towel from behind the counter and toss it toward her. She catches it, rubs at her hair half-heartedly.

“I can make something quick,” you offer, already moving toward the fridge.

She doesn’t answer.

You glance back. She’s standing there, towel in hand, staring at the counter. Her stool. Her place.

“Paige?”

She looks up.

And that’s when you notice it.

She’s not just tired. She’s unraveling.

The eyes that always meet yours with dry humor and spark now look...frayed.

You walk over slowly, meeting her where she stands.

“What happened?” you ask, softer now.

She opens her mouth. Closes it again. Then sits.

She doesn't look at you when she says it.

“I played like shit tonight.”

You wait.

“And it wasn’t just that. I could feel everyone watching me. Like I wasn’t allowed to mess up. Like the second I did, they’d start thinking maybe I wasn’t worth the hype.”

You sit across from her, elbows resting on the counter. “You’re allowed to have a bad night.”

She shakes her head. “Not when you’re me. Not when people expect greatness. Every minute. Every play.”

There’s something jagged in her voice. You’ve never heard it like this—never heard her let herself crack.

You don’t say anything for a moment.

“You want something warm or something cold?”

She blinks. “That’s your response?”

You nod. “Because I can’t fix the noise in your head, but I can fix your blood sugar and maybe calm your nervous system with the right bowl of food.”

A small laugh breaks out of her. She scrubs a hand over her face. “You’re so weird.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

She looks up at you.

And for a heartbeat too long, neither of you look away.

You end up making her lemon ginger soup with rice noodles and sautéed mushrooms. It’s light, calming. The kind of food that says you can breathe again.

She takes one bite and exhales like her body forgot it needed to.

You sit across from her in the dimmed light, both of you listening to the rain drum against the windows.

She eats slowly.

“I didn’t mean to come here looking like a drowned opossum,” she mutters eventually.

You smile. “Opossum’s a little harsh. Raccoon, maybe.”

That earns a snort.

“I just…” she trails off, then pushes her spoon around the bowl. “I needed to be somewhere that doesn’t expect anything from me.”

You nod. “This place doesn’t. I don’t.”

“I know,” she says. And then, voice low, “that’s why I came.”

You reach for a napkin and slide it across the counter without a word.

She takes it. Doesn’t use it. Just holds it like something grounding.

“I think I’m scared,” she admits.

You look up. “Of what?”

“Letting people in,” she says. “Because then they can leave. Or worse, they can stay and watch you fall apart.”

You lean your forearms on the counter, eyes steady on hers.

“I’m not here to watch you fall apart,” you say.

Her throat works as she swallows. “Then why are you here?”

And the air between you stills.

Because you don’t have a clever answer this time.

You don’t say it’s just the food. Or that you like the company. You don’t say anything for a second too long.

“Maybe I just like the way you are here. Not out there.”

She breathes out slowly, like that answer both hurts and heals.

“I don’t know what this is,” she whispers. “But I don’t want to mess it up.”

“You’re not,” you say. “Neither am I.”

Silence settles again. But this time, it’s not heavy.

It’s… hopeful.

Before she leaves, you hand her a paper bag.

“What’s this?”

“Banana bread,” you say. “You didn’t ask for it, but I knew you’d want it.”

She stares at you for a moment.

Then she says, voice uneven, “I think this place is my favorite thing about Dallas.”

You meet her eyes. “You’re welcome here. Always.”

And when she leaves, you realize the air still smells like her laughter and rain.

You’re standing in the cereal aisle of a nearly empty grocery store when your phone buzzes.

Paige: You off today?

You stare at the screen. The fluorescent lights overhead buzz a little too loud. Your hair’s up in a messy knot, sleeves rolled to your elbows, and your cart contains exactly one bottle of oat milk, a box of strawberries, and frozen dumplings you have every intention of eating straight from the pan.

You: Yeah. What’s up?

The dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.

Paige: I’m outside.

You freeze. Look down at your hoodie, your old sneakers, the stain of flour still faint on your jeans. You glance toward the automatic doors. She’s there, through the glass, standing beside her car, hands in her pockets like she’s nervous.

You push the cart toward her.

The doors slide open with a whisper.

“Do I need to file a restraining order?” you ask dryly, stopping a few feet away.

She smiles—small, sheepish, almost unsure. “I just… I didn’t know where else I wanted to go today.”

You pause. “You knew I wasn’t at the restaurant.”

“I was hoping you’d still let me see you.”

Your chest tightens. Not painfully. Just enough to remind you that this—whatever this is—isn’t casual anymore. If it ever was.

You gesture toward her car. “Well, I’ve got frozen dumplings and no real plans. Wanna commit to bad decisions together?”

Her smile grows. “I thought you’d never ask.”

You end up back at your apartment, bags of groceries on the counter, the TV humming something in the background. You’re both barefoot now—Paige curled up on the couch with her legs under her, watching you move around the kitchen with quiet awe.

“Do you ever stop?” she asks.

You glance over. “Stop what?”

“Moving. Doing. Feeding. Fixing.”

You rest your hands on the counter. “I do when I’m with people who let me.”

She tilts her head. “Do I let you?”

You meet her eyes. “You’re trying to.”

She doesn’t look away. “I want to.”

There’s a pause that doesn’t feel awkward. Just… honest.

Then she looks down at her lap and murmurs, “I think I’ve been trying to figure out a way to ask you out for weeks.”

Your heart skips. Literally skips.

You keep your voice even. “And?”

“And this isn’t me asking.” She looks up. “Not yet. I don’t want to ask you until I’m sure I can be what you deserve.”

The air thins.

You could say a dozen things. You could deflect. You could joke.

But instead, you say, “I’m not looking for perfect, Paige. I’m just looking for real.”

She takes that in like it’s a promise.

And maybe it is.

You end up on your fire escape that night, sharing a blanket and a bowl of slightly overcooked dumplings. The city stretches out in front of you, golden and humming and alive.

She’s quiet beside you. But not in a distant way. In the way that feels full.

You ask, eventually, “Why today?”

She turns to you, blinking slowly. “What do you mean?”

“Why show up now?”

She hesitates. “Because last night, after I left, I couldn’t stop thinking about you wiping down that counter and telling me I wasn’t falling apart alone.”

You stare at the skyline. Your hands itch to hold hers, but they stay in your lap.

“I guess,” she says, voice softer, “I just wanted to be where you were. Not where people want me to be. Not where I’m expected.”

Your voice is barely a whisper. “You wanted to be with me.”

She doesn’t answer with words.

She just leans her head against your shoulder.

And stays there.

For a long, long time.

It’s midweek, late afternoon, and you’ve just pulled the last tray of brown butter cookies from the oven when the door chimes.

You’re closed.

You know you’re closed. There’s a sign on the door, chairs flipped, lights low. But somehow, you’re not surprised when you look up and see her—standing just inside, rain-damp again, her shoes squeaking faintly on the tile like a bad habit.

You blink. “You’re getting good at breaking in.”

Paige lifts her hoodie hood off, rain-speckled strands of hair falling around her face. “It wasn’t locked.”

“Still feels like trespassing.”

“I brought flowers,” she says, stepping forward and holding out a crumpled paper-wrapped bundle. It’s not roses or anything traditional. It’s herbs—fresh mint and lavender and thyme. The kind of thing a chef might keep in a vase instead of water.

You take them, fingers brushing hers. “These are oddly specific.”

“You’re oddly specific.”

You smile despite yourself.

“You hungry?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

She nods. “Always.”

You gesture to the stool, the one that’s unofficially hers. She sits without hesitation.

You plate two cookies and pour her a glass of oat milk because she made a face at regular milk last time and said it tasted “suspicious.”

She picks up a cookie. Takes one bite. And groans.

“If you ever wanted to trap someone forever, this would be the bait.”

“I’ll add it to my seduction plan.”

She snorts, nearly choking.

You both laugh.

And then, without warning, it fades.

Not awkwardly. Not abruptly.

Just… slows.

The laughter lingers, but her eyes hold something else. Something like a thought she hasn’t dared to say out loud.

“You okay?” you ask, tilting your head.

She looks down at the counter. Traces a ring of moisture left by her glass.

“I had a weird day,” she says.

“What kind of weird?”

“The kind where everything feels fine on the outside, but inside you’re just… off.”

You nod. “Those are the worst.”

“Practice went okay. Press wasn’t bad. But I kept looking around and wondering if this—” she gestures vaguely at the ceiling, the world, “—was going to be it. Just game after game, city after city, until one day it’s over and I don’t even remember who I was outside of it.”

You lean forward on your elbows. “You do know who you are.”

She meets your gaze. “I feel like I do… when I’m here.”

The air shifts again.

She doesn’t say it like a line. Doesn’t say it like she wants something.

She says it like a confession.

You wipe your hands on your apron and take a slow breath.

“Do you know why I like it when you show up?” you ask.

She shakes her head.

“Because you don’t ask for anything. Not really. You just are. You come in, sit down, exist in this space with me like it’s normal. Like you don’t need me to perform.”

She watches you. Eyes open. Honest. So, so blue.

“Maybe I don’t know what this is yet,” she says quietly, “but I think I’m starting to know what I want it to be.”

Your pulse stutters.

You should say something.

Instead, you look away. “That scares me.”

She leans closer, voice even softer. “It scares me too.”

And there it is.

That nearly.

The almost.

The invisible thread pulling tight between you.

Neither of you cross it.

Not yet.

But she doesn’t leave for a long time.

And when she finally does, her hand grazes your arm on the way out.

A touch that says, I’m here.

Paige: You awake?

It’s nearly midnight. You’re on the couch in sweatpants, flipping through a book you’re not reading and sipping wine you’re not tasting. The day was long. The restaurant was busy. You haven’t spoken to her since she left two nights ago, and the silence has been louder than you expected.

You: Yeah. You okay?

Paige: Can I see you?

You meet her twenty minutes later.

She’s waiting outside your building in a hoodie and joggers, hair down, hands stuffed into her pockets. No car. Just Paige, standing under a flickering streetlamp like she doesn’t know where else to be.

“You walked here?” you ask, stepping outside and closing the door behind you.

She shrugs. “Didn’t want to think. Just wanted to move.”

The street is quiet. A soft breeze curls around your ankles. You tug your own hoodie tighter and fall into step beside her.

You don’t ask where you’re going.

You just walk.

Block after block. Your arms never quite brush, but you’re aware of every inch of space between you.

Paige breaks the silence first.

“I used to go on walks all the time back in Connecticut. Especially in the winter. When the air hurt and your nose went numb.”

You smile. “That sounds… miserable.”

“It was,” she says, chuckling. “But it made everything else feel warmer after. Like you earned it.”

You walk a little further before she says, “You ever think about what you’d be doing if you hadn’t opened the restaurant?”

You consider it. “Maybe I’d have a food truck. Or I’d be working in someone else’s kitchen. But I think…” You trail off. “I think I still would’ve found a way to feed people. It’s just part of me.”

She hums. “That’s how I feel about basketball. I don’t know how not to be in it.”

You stop at a crosswalk and look over at her. “Is that a good thing?”

Her breath catches. “Sometimes.”

The light changes. You both cross.

“Paige?”

“Yeah?”

You hesitate. “Why did you come tonight?”

She stops walking.

You do too.

“I was sitting in my apartment,” she says, eyes flicking up to yours, “and I kept thinking about that night we sat on your fire escape. And I realized that I didn’t want to be anywhere else but with you. Not talking. Not even doing anything. Just… you.”

Your throat tightens. Not with surprise—but with the way it makes you feel seen. Like she reached right inside you and found something you hadn’t offered out loud.

“I don’t know what this is,” she says, voice softer now. “I know I keep saying that. But it’s not because I’m unsure of you. I just… I don’t want to mess this up by naming it too soon.”

You step a little closer. She doesn't move.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper.

Her voice is just as quiet. “Promise?”

You nod. “As long as you don’t run.”

“I’m not good at slow,” she admits.

“You’re doing fine.”

And maybe it’s because it’s late. Or quiet. Or because the streetlamp above casts just enough light to make the world feel smaller.

But her fingers find yours.

And she doesn’t let go.

You walk the rest of the way like that. Side by side. Hands clasped. A silence full of everything unspoken.

And in that moment, it doesn’t need a name.

It’s already real.

There’s a knock on your door.

No text. No warning.

It’s late—just past nine—and you’re barefoot, a dish towel over your shoulder, a pan warming on the stove. There’s music playing low, something acoustic and aching. You’re halfway through chopping shallots when the knock comes again.

You wipe your hands and open the door.

Paige stands there holding a paper bag, biting her lip like she’s not sure if this was a mistake.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she says quickly. “You didn’t answer my text earlier and I just— I brought pasta?”

You blink. “I didn’t get a text.”

She pauses. Pulls out her phone, glances down, then groans. “I never hit send.”

You smile. “Well, now you’re stuck with me.”

She exhales, relieved. “Good.”

The two of you end up in the kitchen.

It’s not a big space—barely room for two. But Paige moves through it like she’s memorized the layout from watching you so many times at the restaurant. She doesn’t ask where the pans are. She just grabs one. She doesn’t ask which knife to use. She takes the second-sharpest one without hesitation.

You boil the water. She preps garlic.

At some point, you switch places—her taking over the sauce while you slice bread, the two of you moving around each other like music, never once bumping elbows.

“I like this,” she says quietly, stirring butter into a pan.

“What part?”

“This. Us. Together. Not at the restaurant. Just… here.”

You glance over your shoulder. “You’ve been here before.”

“Yeah, but that was dumplings and sad jazz. This feels… closer.”

She doesn’t mean physically.

You feel it too.

You set the bread aside and walk to where she’s standing.

She doesn’t flinch when you reach for the spoon in her hand. Doesn’t move when your fingers brush hers.

“Let me taste,” you murmur.

She watches you try the sauce—like she’s waiting for approval, not just on the food.

You nod. “Perfect.”

She grins, but it’s a soft one. “High praise coming from you.”

You bump her shoulder. “Don’t let it go to your head, Bueckers.”

“I won’t,” she says, then adds—so quiet you almost miss it—“Unless you want me to.”

You look at her.

Really look.

There’s a moment where neither of you move. Where the steam from the stove curls up between you and the air is thick with could and want.

But you don’t kiss her.

And she doesn’t kiss you.

Instead, you turn off the heat and say, “We should eat before this goes cold.”

Her smile doesn’t falter. “Yeah. Good idea.”

You sit on the floor with plates balanced on your knees, her legs stretched out across your rug, her socked feet nudging yours every few minutes like a secret only she knows she’s telling.

After dinner, you clean up together. No questions asked.

You hand her a towel. She dries.

At the end of it, she leans against the counter, staring at your kitchen like it’s suddenly something sacred.

“This,” she starts. “This is what I want more of.”

You don’t answer.

Because you want it too.

And you’re scared of how much.

It’s the morning after the night you cooked together.

You wake to a text.

Paige: Are you working today?

You: Always.

Paige: Not tonight.

You pause.

You: What’s going on?

Paige: I want to take you somewhere.

She picks you up at seven sharp.

Not in her usual hoodie and joggers, but in black jeans and a pale denim jacket over a soft white tee. She’s wearing sneakers and nervous energy. You lock the restaurant door behind you and meet her at the curb.

“You okay?” you ask as you slide into the passenger seat.

“I think I might throw up,” she admits.

You glance over. “We’re going somewhere that bad?”

She laughs—shaky but real. “No. Just... something I’ve been thinking about for a while. Don’t want to mess it up.”

You reach across the console and tap her hand gently. “Then don’t.”

She drives you to a park on the edge of the city—one neither of you have been to before. The sun’s just setting, the sky streaked in watercolor pinks and soft indigo. There’s no one else around.

“I didn’t want an audience,” she says as she kills the engine.

“For what?”

She looks at you. “Come on.”

You follow her up a grassy path, then out to a little overlook where the city sparkles in the distance like a held breath. She turns to face you, backlit by fading gold.

“Okay,” she says, exhaling. “Here goes.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re not proposing, are you?”

She laughs. “Shut up.”

Then she’s quiet.

Her hands fidget in her jacket pockets. She rocks on her heels. “I know we’ve been… something. More than friends. Less than official. Floating somewhere in the middle.”

You say nothing. You want her to finish.

“I’ve tried not to rush it. Because I know you’ve built walls. Because I know I have too. But I don’t want to wonder anymore.”

She steps closer.

“I want this. I want us. I don’t care how long it takes or how slow we go, but I need to know I’m not the only one standing on the edge.”

Your throat tightens.

She swallows hard.

“So,” she finishes, voice soft, “will you go on a real date with me? Like... a non-kitchen, outside-the-apron, you-and-me-without-an-excuse kind of date?”

You take a step closer.

You don't answer with words.

You reach for her hand.

She lets you take it.

Fingers laced. Easy. Natural.

“Yes,” you whisper.

She beams.

And then—only then—she leans forward and presses her forehead to yours.

No kiss yet.

Not quite.

But almost.

Almost, again.

Only this time, you both know it’s not the last almost.

Because now you’re moving forward.

Together.

You don’t dress up.

Neither does she.

It’s one of those rare Dallas nights where the heat finally breaks, the air soft and cool like early fall. Paige picks you up just after sunset, hair pulled back, black hoodie layered under a jacket you’ve never seen her wear before. Her smile is calm this time—no nerves. Just something like...peace.

“You ready?” she asks.

“I’ve been ready.”

She takes you to a place near the lake—not a restaurant, not a venue, just a little dock she found by accident one day while trying to get lost. She brought a picnic. Real plates. Two mason jars filled with sparkling lemonade. A playlist she made on her phone, soft and jazzy, just for this.

“I didn’t want the first one to feel like a performance,” she says as you sit down on the blanket. “I wanted it to feel like us.”

You look around—trees silhouetted in the twilight, the lake shimmering like glass, the quiet hum of crickets in the distance.

“It does,” you say. “This feels like us.”

She beams.

She made most of the food herself.

Roasted veggie wraps. Sliced fruit. Store-bought dessert, which she apologizes for profusely.

“I panicked,” she says. “I knew I couldn’t cook for you.”

You laugh. “You could’ve brought me microwave mac and cheese and I’d still think it was sweet.”

“You say that, but—”

“I mean it.”

You lean back on your hands. She does too. The stars slowly blink into view overhead.

“I like the quiet with you,” she says.

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

You glance over. “You don’t get a lot of quiet, do you?”

She shakes her head. “Not the good kind. Not the kind that feels like stillness instead of… emptiness.”

You hum softly. “This isn’t empty.”

She turns her head. “No. This is full.”

After you eat, you sit side by side at the edge of the dock, feet dangling over the water.

She tells you about her first high school game—how she threw up twice before tipoff, then scored thirty. You tell her about the night your oven caught fire during dinner rush and you had to serve cold salads to a packed house.

She laughs until she leans into you, her shoulder bumping yours.

You don’t move.

She doesn’t either.

“Can I ask you something?” she says.

“You always can.”

She exhales. “What made you say yes?”

You don’t answer right away.

“The way you never asked for more than I was ready to give.”

She’s quiet.

So are you.

But you’re both here.

And then—so gently it barely feels real—her fingers find yours.

She doesn’t look at you when she says, “Can I kiss you?”

You look at her.

She’s already smiling.

You don’t say anything.

You just kiss her.

Soft. Slow. Certain.

The kind of kiss that says, We’re starting now.

And when you pull back, breath tangled with hers, she whispers, “One more kiss.”

And you give it to her.

Because after this?

There’s always one more.

You don’t talk about labels.

You don’t need to.

After that night on the dock, something shifts. Not suddenly. Not dramatically. Just enough that her hand finds yours more easily now. That she starts texting good morning without fail, and always follows up with what are we eating tonight?

The first week of dating doesn’t feel different. It feels deeper. Like something that was already true finally got to exhale.

Date two is spontaneous.

She shows up after practice with a bag of takeout and a sheepish grin. “Can we eat this at your place and pretend we went somewhere fancy?”

You light two candles. She makes a paper crown out of a napkin and insists you wear it.

“I don’t remember saying yes to royalty,” you tease.

“I crossed someone up today. I earned it.”

After dinner, you both sit on the floor listening to a soft vinyl while sharing a pint of ice cream straight from the container.

At some point, your head ends up on her shoulder.

At another, her lips find your forehead.

Date three is grocery shopping.

It’s not meant to be a date. But she walks every aisle with you, asking questions about sauces and cheeses, throwing cereal into the cart without permission. You catch her humming next to you at the register.

In the car, she says, “That was kind of hot.”

You blink. “The frozen foods section?”

“No. Watching you debate between three brands of olive oil like it was a matter of national security.”

You laugh. She grins.

You hold hands at a red light and don’t let go when it turns green.

Date four is a drive-in movie.

She picks you up with a blanket, a thermos of tea, and a giant bag of popcorn she admits she stole from the Wings training facility.

You lean against her chest in the backseat, her fingers tracing soft circles on your arm.

She doesn’t even look at the screen half the time.

Just you.

There are other moments.

Not dates, exactly. Just... shared life.

She starts showing up at the restaurant just to sit with you during your break.

You leave extra banana bread on her car windshield after hard games.

She starts calling you baby when she thinks you’re not listening.

You catch her humming a melody you made up while cooking.

One night, she falls asleep on your couch, head in your lap, and when you reach for the blanket, she murmurs, half-dreaming, “don’t leave.”

You don’t.

You never even think about it.

It’s not perfect.

She still disappears into her head sometimes.

You still shut down when things get too close too fast.

But neither of you run anymore.

And every day, it gets easier to stay.

It happens on a Saturday.

You’re wiping down tables after the lunch rush when your phone buzzes.

Paige: Wanna come to the game tonight?

You pause mid-swipe.

She’s never asked before. Not because she doesn’t want you there, but because you’ve both been quietly protective of the little world you’ve built—apart from cameras, headlines, speculation.

You: Are you sure?

Paige: I’m very sure.

You: Okay. Where should I sit?

The reply comes quick.

Paige: With me. Before. In the tunnel.

She meets you at the loading dock hours later, hair braided back, Wings warm-up on, smile already soft when she sees you.

“You look good,” you say.

“I’m trying not to sweat through this shirt before warm-ups.”

“You look nervous.”

She shrugs. “I am.”

“About the game?”

“No.” Her eyes hold yours. “About letting you in.”

You don’t say anything. You just step closer and rest your hand against her chest, right over her heart.

“It’s safe with me,” you whisper.

She brings you through the tunnel, fingers brushing yours every few steps. Staff nods. Players glance. A few know who you are already—Paige doesn’t hide you, not really. But this is different.

This is with her.

She brings you to the locker room door, pauses, then says, “Come here.”

You step in.

She tugs you just to the side, where a taped piece of paper with her name hangs above a locker. Inside, her jersey. Her shoes. A single polaroid photo taped to the back wall.

You.

Laughing in the kitchen, a flour smudge on your cheek. Taken on one of those quiet mornings you didn’t think she was watching.

You blink at it. Then at her.

She shrugs, suddenly shy. “It helps.”

You reach for her hand. Squeeze it.

She exhales.

“Wait here?”

You nod. “Go warm up, Bueckers.”

You sit court side that night.

Not in the VIP seats. Not up in a box.

Right at the edge, where she can see you.

She glances over just before tipoff. Winks.

You feel it in your knees.

She plays like she’s on fire. No hesitation. No fear.

When she hits a fadeaway three in the second quarter, she turns, finds you through the crowd, and mouths, That one’s yours.

You don’t stop smiling the rest of the game.

Afterward, she pulls you into the tunnel before the press can flood in.

She’s sweaty, glowing, breathing hard. You don’t care.

You pull her into your arms anyway.

“You were unreal,” you murmur into her neck.

“I had a reason to be,” she breathes.

You pull back slightly.

She’s watching you like she’s memorizing your face.

And then she says it.

Three words.

Eight Letters.

Soft. Certain. No build-up.

“I love you.”

You don’t freeze.

You don’t flinch.

You just smile.

“I know.” And finally, “I love you too.”

She kisses you before the press can catch up.

And this time, neither of you hide.

It’s her idea.

She shows up at the restaurant on your day off, two coffees in hand, a duffel bag over her shoulder, and a smile you don’t know how to say no to.

“We’re going away for the weekend,” she says, setting the cups down. “No phones. No games. No responsibilities.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Where are we going?”

She shrugs. “Somewhere with stars. Somewhere you don’t have to wear an apron and I don’t have to lace up sneakers.”

You stare at her.

She stares back.

“Pack a bag,” she says. “Something soft. Something warm.”

It’s a cabin two hours north.

Wooden, tucked into the trees, perched near a lake that shimmers like melted silver under the late afternoon sun. There’s no WiFi. No TV. Just the hum of cicadas and the low whisper of wind in pine needles.

You step out of the car and breathe.

“I didn’t realize how much I needed this,” you say.

“I did,” she answers.

The first night, you cook barefoot in the cabin kitchen while she sets the table like a kid playing house. Everything is smaller here—tighter, cozier. The air smells like wood smoke and rosemary. The wine you brought is too warm but you drink it anyway, legs tangled on the couch, her head in your lap as you read aloud from an old book you found on the shelf.

“I didn’t know you liked poetry,” she murmurs.

You shrug. “Only the kind that hurts a little.”

She smiles. “That tracks.”

Later, you fall asleep in the same bed for the first time. No sex. No rush. Just tangled limbs and whispered laughter. Her arm around your waist. Your face buried in her collarbone. A warmth that settles deeper than skin.

The next morning, she wakes you with pancakes.

Terrible pancakes.

Burnt on one side, half-raw in the center, but she grins like she’s handing you gold.

“I tried,” she says, sliding the plate across the table.

You take a bite. Chew slowly. Then grin.

“This is disgusting.”

She throws a napkin at you. “You’re the worst.”

“You love me.”

“I do. Even when you insult my cooking.”

You lean over the table and kiss her, tasting sugar and smoke.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

“For what?”

“For showing up. For knowing what I need before I do.”

Her expression softens. “You do the same for me.”

That night, you sit on the dock in silence, watching the sky unravel into stars. The lake reflects them like a mirror. Your feet dangle just above the water. Paige’s hand rests on your thigh, thumb drawing soft circles.

“I could stay like this forever,” she says.

You don’t answer right away.

Because you want to.

You want forever.

You want more.

But something inside you flickers—a strange fatigue, a dull ache in your ribs you’ve ignored all day.

You bury it.

Later.

You’ll deal with it later.

Right now, you have this.

Her. Here. With you.

You rest your head on her shoulder and close your eyes.

And for one perfect night, forever feels close enough to touch.

You don’t have plans.

No dinners, no reservations, no getaways.

Just a lazy Sunday in bed, sun pouring through the windows, the world moving somewhere far beyond the four walls of your apartment.

You wake before her.

She’s a mess of tangled limbs and soft breathing, her face buried in your pillow, one arm thrown across your waist like she’s been guarding you in her sleep. You watch her for a while. Not in the creepy way. In the I can’t believe she’s mine way.

You shift slightly, brushing hair out of her eyes.

She stirs, blinking into the morning.

“Staring is rude,” she mumbles, voice scratchy with sleep.

“You snore,” you counter.

She snorts. “Do not.”

“You do.”

“Lies.”

“You sound like a tiny, very angry baby bear.”

She opens one eye. “You’re just saying that because you drool.”

You gasp, scandalized. “I do not.”

“I have receipts.”

You swat her with the blanket. She grabs you. Tickles your side. You laugh until you're breathless, tangled under the sheets, limbs entwined.

It’s the kind of morning you used to think only existed in movies.

Now it’s yours.

You don’t get out of bed until noon.

And even then, only because Paige insists on making breakfast.

You sit on the counter, legs swinging, watching as she burns one egg and undercooks another.

“Why am I the athlete and still the least coordinated one in this kitchen?” she groans.

You steal a piece of toast. “Because talent can only carry you so far.”

She squints. “Someday I’ll cook something decent, and you’ll cry from how good it is.”

You grin. “I’ll cry because I survived it.”

She throws a dishtowel at your head.

Later, you walk to the bookstore downtown.

She holds your hand the whole way, swinging it slightly like a kid, occasionally tugging you to stop and look at a dog or a flower or a sticker on a light pole that makes her laugh.

Inside, you lose her for a while.

You find her curled up in the poetry section, cross-legged on the floor, flipping through a collection with her brows furrowed in focus.

She looks up and smiles when she sees you.

You sit beside her, shoulder to shoulder, and she reads aloud—soft, unsteady, stumbling over the rhythm but still beautiful.

The poem ends, and she whispers, “That felt like you.”

And something inside you breaks gently open.

That evening, you cook together again.

No distractions. No music.

Just the soft sound of a knife on a cutting board, water boiling, her humming under her breath.

You light candles. Not for mood. Just because it feels right.

You eat at the kitchen island, knees brushing, sharing bites and smiles and stories you haven’t told anyone else.

After, you slow dance barefoot in the living room, no music, no rhythm. Just swaying.

Just her chin resting on your shoulder. Her hand on your back.

You hold her like she’s already a memory.

But you don’t know why.

Not yet.

That night, in bed, she presses her forehead to yours.

“I want a thousand more days like this,” she whispers.

You nod.

So do you.

So badly it hurts.

But all you say is, “Me too.”

And you fall asleep wrapped in everything soft, not knowing it will be the last day before the ache begins.