#i will probably keep thinking about this until the sunrises

[kpopstaytiny]

Say please

Pairing: Bang Chan x F!reader

Word Count: 7251

Genre: smut, fluff, friends to lovers

Warnings: smut (minors DNI), softdom!Chan, sub!reader, oral (female receiving), fingering, edging, dirty talk, pet names (baby, love, sweetheart), unprotected sex, choking, hair pulling, praise!kink, she's a little bratty, cursing, feeling a little homesick, aftercare.

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He's always working until the stars blur outside the studio windows—my night owl, my relentless creator. The hallway smells like soundproofing foam and the air carries the faintest tang of citrus—probably from the half-empty pineapple juice carton I know is perched on his desk—as I raise my knuckles to the door, pausing to listen to the faint click-clack of keyboard strokes before knocking—the familiar weight of a paper bag swinging from my arm, a taste of Australia tucked inside.

His head jerks up, fingers freezing mid-keystroke. For one suspended moment, he just stares—eyes wide, lips parted—like I'm some sleep-deprivation mirage. Then his shoulders drop, tension bleeding out as his mouth curves into that private smile reserved for 1 AM confessions.

“Hey,” his voice is rough with disuse, warm with recognition. “What’re you doing up so late?”

"Says the man who thinks sunrise is a suggestion," I counter, stepping into the familiar cocoon of his workspace. The door clicks shut behind me, sealing us in this blue-lit universe of his making.

“You know I work late.”

“I do,” I close the distance between us, the paper bag in my arm rustling with its precious cargo. "Couldn't sleep." A shrug that doesn't fool either of us.

“And you came all the way here?” His brows rise, voice tipping toward disbelief.

"I went for a walk. Ended up at that 24-hour mart down the street." I gesture vaguely toward the window where neon signs glow in the distance. "Next thing I knew..." The unspoken truth hangs between us—my feet always know the way to him.

His gaze flicks toward the bag on my arm, curiosity softening his features. “That what’s in there?”

“Sort of,” I let the bag swing temptingly. “Not exactly.”

When he takes it, his fingers brush mine—just enough to send a spark up my arm. The moment stretches as he peers inside, then—

"Tim Tams?" His whole face transforms, boyish delight breaking through the exhaustion. "Where the hell did you find these?"

I bite my lip, feigning nonchalance. "They might've fallen into my basket at the international grocery."

"Liar." His laugh is all warmth, no bite. He knows—knows I called three stores, knows I asked Felix where to find them, knows this was never about cookies but about stitching a piece of his homeland into this endless night.

“What’re you working on?” I nod toward his screen, the glow painting his profile in liquid blue. My voice comes out steadier than I feel, trying to shift gears before the moment swallows me whole.

“New song,” he says, gaze flickering back to the monitor. But his voice has changed—slower now, syrup-warm. Not distracted. Inviting.

“Duh.” I roll my eyes, aiming for casual. But it’s too soft. Too fond. “Figured.”

“Wanna hear it?”

I blink. “Seriously?” My pulse stutters like a skipped track. He never shares unfinished work—not when there are still seams showing, not when the lyrics haven’t settled into their final shape.

But tonight, he just nods, easy as anything. “Yeah.” Then he pats his thigh. “Come here.”

For a heartbeat, I forget how to move.

We’ve been closer than this. Done more than this. But this—him pulling me into his creative space, into the part of himself he usually keeps locked tight—feels like stepping over a threshold neither of us named.

I settle into his lap with deliberate slowness, but he doesn’t give me room to overthink it. His arm bands around my waist, tugging me back against his chest like we’ve done this a thousand times. The familiarity of it unravels me more than any grand gesture could.

His free hand moves across the keyboard—click, drag, a flurry of shortcuts—before passing me headphones still warm from his skin. I catch the faint scent of his shampoo as he leans in to adjust the volume, his breath fanning across my temple. Then—play.

The first notes bloom soft and hesitant, piano keys pressed like a question. Layers build: the sigh of strings, a heartbeat rhythm, something that sounds like rain against studio glass. Then his voice—not the polished perfection of recordings, but the raw, sleep-rough version that exists only in these midnight hours. He hums where words fail, fills gaps with melodies that ache with unfinished honesty.

It wraps around me like a shared secret. Like being let inside a dream.

When I pull the headphones down, they catch on the rapid flutter in my throat. “Channie,” I whisper, the nickname slipping out unbidden. “This is… fuck, this is good.”

He’s already watching me, eyes dark with something perilously close to hope. “You liked it?”

“Liked it?” I twist in his lap. “I loved it.”

The grin that breaks across his face could power cities—all boyish delight and sudden sunshine. His hand splays across my stomach, anchoring me as if I might float away. “It’s nowhere near done,” he mutters automatically. “The bridge needs—"

“No.” My fingers find his jaw, turning him back to me. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

The headphones fall silent, but the song lingers in the air between us. My blood hums with it. So does his.

His thumb draws lazy circles over the fabric of my shirt, slow and absentminded. The room feels warmer now. Denser. Like we’re standing on the edge of something unnamed, hearts tipped forward, waiting.

The chair creaks as I shift, my knee bumping the desk. His grip tightens reflexively—not restraining, just keeping—as the monitor lights carve shadows across his face. That damn lower lip caught between his teeth, the flutter of his lashes when my fingers brush his wrist.

I should leave. Let him work.

But then his hand rises, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. His fingertips linger, tracing the shell before skating down to the sensitive hollow beneath my jaw. The shiver that follows is beyond my control.

His breath hitches in answer, fingers flexing at my waist—not pulling me closer, not pushing away. Just holding on. Just staying.

The screen flickers, casting jagged blue shadows across the curve of his throat as the track stays paused mid-chorus. Neither of us moves to restart it—the song forgotten, the world narrowed to this: the solid warmth of his chest against my back, the way his breath hitches when my head tilts instinctively toward his shoulder.

He looks at me. Really looks. Like I’m the only thing his eyes know how to focus on, like the studio—the city outside, his precious music—has dissolved into static.

I feel it then, that electric hum building between us, live-wire and inevitable.

"You're distracting me." His voice is rough, frayed at the edges like he's been holding the words back for hours.

"I mean," I tease, but it comes out breathless, "you could use a break."

His thumb presses into the dip of my waist, a silent counterargument. "Is that so?"

I nod, too quick. He notices—of course he notices—his lips curving as he tracks the flush spreading down my neck.

"What do you suggest we do, then?" Controlled. Careful. But his gaze keeps dropping to my mouth, betraying him.

My throat tightens. Words pile up behind my teeth, half-formed and trembling.

He reads them anyway. "You're thinking about it," he murmurs. "Right now." Not guessing. Knowing.

My pulse thrums under his touch. “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” he echoes, voice dark with amusement. He leans in, nose brushing mine. “Tell me.”

I stay frozen. Barely breathing.

His thumb grazes my bottom lip, feather-light. “Use your words.”

“You’re—” I swallow hard. “You’re enjoying this.”

His smile is slow, devastating. "Yeah. I really am." His hand tilts my chin up, forcing eye contact. "So tell me. What do you need?"

My hands find his hoodie before I can second-guess myself. Fisting the fabric. Pulling.

Or maybe he moves first.

All I know is his mouth—hot and insistent, the groan vibrating against my lips as his fingers dig into my hips like he's trying to fuse us together. His hand tangles in my hair, angling me deeper as the kiss turns filthy, deliberate. Every slide of his tongue sparks liquid heat down my spine. When I whimper, he smiles against my mouth—just a quirk of lips, but it's enough. He heard that.

"God," he pants when we break apart, foreheads touching, "I've wanted to do that all week."

I can't speak. Can't think.

He kisses me again, softer this time. A promise. "Still distracting," he murmurs.

"Then stop pretending you mind."

And this time—he doesn’t.

The second kiss is all pent-up hunger—weeks of stolen glances and almost-touches poured into the way his teeth catch my lip, how his hands roam my back like he's relearning my shape. I fist his hoodie again, dragging him closer until there's no space left between us.

And I feel it in him too—the moment hesitation shatters. His touch turns bolder, palms skating up my ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts through my shirt.

I shift in his lap, turning slowly to face him fully—knees sliding to either side of his hips, thighs bracketing his. The movement presses our bodies together in a way that steals my breath, and I feel his hands slip to my hips, steadying me without thinking. His fingers flex once. Then again. Like he's memorizing the weight of me there.

"Fuck," he hisses when I roll my hips.

I don't look away as I reach for his hoodie. His eyes flare—surprise giving way to raw hunger—before he lifts his arms in surrender. The fabric catches on my headphones, the cord snagging around my neck, but neither of us cares.

Not when he's revealed like this: black tank top stretched taut over his shoulders, the muscles of his arms flexing as he grips my thighs. My palms slide down his biceps, tracing the ridges I've missed more than I'd admit.

He watches me look, his gaze heavy. "Better?"

I nod, thumbs brushing the neckline of his shirt, feeling his pulse hammer under my touch. "Much."

His fingers toy with the headphone cord still looped around my neck. “You planning to keep these on?”

"I forgot," I admit, flustered.

"Let me." He removes them gently, tossing them aside without breaking eye contact. His other hand stays anchored at my hip, thumb drawing slow circles that burn through my jeans.

Then his mouth is on mine again, hotter this time, his tongue sweeping in like he's chasing the taste of my laughter. His tank top is soft under my palms, but the body beneath is all hard lines and tension. I push the fabric up, needing skin—

He breaks the kiss with a gasp when my nails scrape his abs. "I thought you were working," I murmur against his jaw.

"I was." His teeth graze my earlobe. "Then you showed up."

I tilt my head back to give him more access. “You make it sound like an inconvenience.”

His laugh ruffles my hair as he nuzzles into my neck. "You're the opposite of that."

My fingers rake through his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. "That night," I whisper, "it keeps replaying in my head."

His grip tightens. "Yeah?" His voice drops to that register that liquefies my bones. "You think about it too?"

"More than I should."

A beat. Then his hands slide under my shirt—not asking, not hesitating. “Then let’s stop pretending this is just some accidental drop-by.”

His lips crash into mine again—no patience left, no question remaining. Only the sharp creak of his studio chair protesting beneath us as he drags me closer, his hands desperate against my waist like he's been counting seconds since I first showed up in his doorway.

The kiss shifts—slower now, but devastatingly deliberate. Controlled in that way of his, all coiled restraint and simmering intent. As if now that we've crossed this line, he intends to map every inch of it with his mouth, savoring the way my breath hitches when his teeth graze my lower lip.

I feel it everywhere—in the rough pads of his fingers skating up my ribs, in the way his palms mold against my back like he's relearning my shape. Not just touching. Claiming. But always, always asking.

“What do you want, baby?” the words rumble against my mouth, warm with promise.

His voice thrums low—not a command, but an invitation woven in velvet and smoke.

My nails scrape lightly down his shoulders, delighting in the full-body shiver it wrings from him. "I think you already know."

He huffs a laugh, the sound vibrating through my chest where we're pressed together. "Say it anyway."

I trail my lips along his jaw, tasting salt and exhaustion. "I want you."

His grip on my waist goes vice-tight—like those three words just short-circuited his last shred of self-control.

“Then you’d better hang on.”

His hands slide up my back with agonizing precision, slipping under my shirt to brand my skin with his heat. I arch instinctively when his thumbs brush the underside of my breasts, the thin fabric of my bra doing nothing to mute the electric shock of contact.

“Can I?”

The question ghosts across my swollen lips as his fingers pause, trembling slightly against my flushed skin.

I lock eyes with him, my voice ragged. "If you don't, I might lose my mind.”

That pulls a rough chuckle from him—the kind that lives in the space between amusement and utter desperation. "Impatient?"

"No," I breathe, rolling my hips just to watch his pupils blow wider. "Just done pretending I came here for fucking Tim Tams."

The groan that tears from his throat is half-laughter, half-suffering as he lifts my shirt over my head, dragging it off with agonizing slowness. The air between us goes thick and charged, his gaze raking over me like I'm the last sip of water in a desert.

"Still the prettiest thing I've ever seen," he murmurs, calloused hands skimming down my sides like he's committing every curve to memory.

I let him look—let him feel the way my pulse jumps under his touch, the way my body leans in like a compass finding north. My own hands slip beneath his tank, rediscovering the familiar planes of his torso. "You're staring."

“I’ve earned the right,” he says simply, his voice gone gravel-rough.

A pleased hum vibrates in my throat. “You planning to keep me on edge like this all night?”

He tilts his head, eyes glinting with mischief and something darker. “Depends. You gonna ask nicely?”

My palm flattens against his chest, fingers splaying over his hammering heartbeat. “I’ve got better things to do with my mouth.”

His jaw flexes, and I know I’ve got him.

“Gonna be trouble tonight, aren’t you?”

“Only if you’re lucky.”

Something primal flashes in his eyes before he manhandles me closer, the sudden friction wringing a gasp from my lungs. “You tell me to stop, and I stop. You understand?”

“Yes,” I whisper—not submission, but surrender.

“Say it,” his voice drops to that register that liquefies my spine.

“I want this, Chan.”

And God, the way he reacts to that.

The kiss is rough, impatient—a clash of lips and teeth and pent-up longing. His fingers tangle in my hair, tilting my head back with a gentle urgency that sends sparks skittering down my spine. His breath is warm against my mouth, flavored with the faintest hint of mint and something darker, smokier.

“Jeans off.” The command is a grunt, barely more than a vibration against my lips, but it crackles through me like live wire.

I slip from his lap, my knees unsteady as I toe off my shoes and shimmy out of my jeans. The air is cool against my flushed skin, but his gaze is hotter—a slow, deliberate sweep from my bare thighs to the lace clinging to my hips, lingering where my nipples peak beneath the flimsy fabric.

“You really came here with an idea in mind.” His smirk is all wicked amusement, dimple flashing as he pats his thigh. “Come sit again.”

I roll my eyes but obey, settling back against him with a huff. His chest is solid against my back, his heartbeat a steady thrum beneath my shoulder blades. “Like you weren’t thinking the same thing the second I walked in,” I mutter, grinding down just to feel him shudder beneath me.

His breath hitches—a sharp, fractured sound—before his lips brush my ear. “Open.” The word is a whisper, a plea wrapped in velvet. His hand taps my thigh, but his own legs are already nudging mine apart, his cock a hard line against my ass.

“Always so fucking eager,” he murmurs, but his hands betray him, sliding up my sides with agonizing slowness. His fingers trace the lace of my bra like he’s memorizing every stitch, every flutter of my breath. “These need to go.”

The clasp gives way with a whisper, and then his palms are on me—warm, rough from rehearsals, perfect. He cups my breasts like they’re something holy, thumbs brushing my nipples in slow, maddening circles. A moan spills from my lips, unbidden, and his chuckle is dark, triumphant, as his mouth finds the curve of my neck.

“So fucking perfect.” His voice is a growl, low and reverent, as he kneads gently before pinching—just hard enough to make me gasp. “Love how responsive you are. How pretty you look when you fall apart for me.”

His teeth scrape my shoulder, a sharp contrast to the slow, deliberate drag of his hands across my skin—as if he’s committing every curve, every shudder, to memory. "Every sound you make is fucking perfect," he murmurs, his tongue flicking over the spot he just nipped. "Gonna ruin you just to hear how pretty you beg when you're desperate for me."

One hand slips lower, tracing the lace edge of my underwear with torturous patience, while the other stays busy—rolling a nipple between his fingers, tugging just enough to make my hips jerk. A whimper escapes me as I squirm in his lap, but he holds me still, his breath hot against my ear.

“Tell me.” His fingertips trace slow, taunting circles over the damp lace, teasing but never giving me what I need. “Tell me how bad you want it.”

I bite my lip, thighs trembling as his palm presses flat against me, the heat of him searing through the thin fabric—so close, but not enough. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re stalling.” His teeth graze my earlobe, his free hand pinning my hip down when I try to rock against him. “Use your words, sweetheart. Or do I need to tease it out of you?”

A frustrated groan tears from my throat as his thumb finally—finally—strokes along my clothed seam, once, twice, the touch achingly light. My nails dig into his thigh, but he tuts, catching my wrist and pressing it to my stomach.

“Hands here. Let me take care of you.”

He doesn’t rush, just traces idle, maddening patterns over my clit through the soaked lace, letting the friction build in slow, torturous waves.

“Chan—”

“Tell me,” he coaxes, his other hand wrapping around my throat—not squeezing, just holding. A reminder. “What do you need?”

I arch, my head falling back against his shoulder. “Your fingers. Now.”

He laughs, low and rough. “Uhm… say please?”

“Or,” I pant, “you could stop pretending you don’t want this just as badly and put them to use.”

His grip tightens—just a fraction—and his breath hitches against my neck. “Fuck, I love your mouth.”

“Then quit admiring it,” I gasp as his thumb presses harder, “and give me a reason to put it to work.”

A growl rumbles through his chest, but his fingers finally slip beneath the lace, stroking through slick heat. “You’re impossible,” he murmurs, though the crack in his voice betrays him.

“And yet,” I twist in his grasp, just enough to meet his eyes, “you’re the one who can’t keep his hands off me.”

His grip tightens on my throat—not cutting off air, just enough to make my pulse hammer against his palm. “Cheeky.” His lips brush my jaw, the words a dark hum. “You really think you’re calling the shots here, sweetheart?”

I open my mouth, but he silences me with two fingers pressing against my entrance—not pushing in, just teasing. “Try again.”

My breath hitches. “Make me.”

“Mm. Wrong answer.” His thumb grazes my clit, so light it’s agony, and I jerk against him. “You want my fingers? Ask. Nicely.”

I arch into his touch, gasping. “I don’t recall you needing an invitation.”

A pause. Then his laugh is rough, warmth bleeding into my skin as his forehead drops to my shoulder. “Fuck, you’re gonna ruin me.” His hips roll up, betraying his own desperation, but his fingers stay maddeningly still—until his teeth sink into my neck, sharp and claiming. “But I’m still the one who decides how this goes.”

His voice drops, velvet and threat. “Imagine how good it’ll feel when I finally let you come. My fingers fucking into you, my thumb right—” A fleeting stroke over my clit. “—here. Getting you ready for me. You’d take me so pretty, wouldn’t you? Let me feel every sweet pulse of you around me? I'd ruin you with how good I'd make it."

I rock against him, pleading without words. "Then do it."

This time, when he slides two fingers in, it’s with aching slowness, curling just there, his thumb circling my clit—too gentle, too much. I clench around him, overwhelmed, and his groan vibrates against my ear. “Always so tight. So perfect.” His teeth scrape my earlobe. “Gonna beg for me yet?”

“No.” The word trembles.

“No?” Amusement laces his voice. His thumb slows to a torturous glide, every pass sending shocks up my thighs. Just as the coil inside me tightens—he stops.

The sound I make is raw.

His grip flexes at my throat, controlling, as his fingers twist deep—one sharp drag—wringing out another moan. “Look at you, baby,” he murmurs, “all worked up over two fingers."

His thumb skims my clit once, twice, and my hips buck. “One word, love.”

I grit my teeth—but my body arches, traitorous, needing.

Chan’s chuckle is dark, knowing, vibrating through me like a struck chord. "Stubborn." His fingers withdraw with deliberate slowness, dragging through my slickness before pressing against my lips. His voice is rough, but there’s something beneath it—warmth, a thread of admiration tangled in the command. "Taste yourself. Then show me how you’d touch yourself if I weren’t here."

I don’t hesitate. His fingers slip into my mouth, and I keep my eyes locked on his, defiant, relishing the way his pupils swallow the dark brown of his irises. The taste of myself is salt-sweet, intoxicating, and I swirl my tongue around his fingers just to watch his jaw clench, his breath hitch. Good. Let him ache too.

A grunt escapes him as his free hand grips my hip, guiding me back onto my feet before steering me toward the couch. He drops into his chair, thighs spreading—a gesture that would earn an eye roll any other time, but now feels like pure provocation. "Go on," he murmurs, voice gravel-rough. "Let me watch."

A challenge. A dare.

His gaze burns as my fingers hook into the lace at my hips, thumbs tracing the delicate edge. I drag the fabric down inch by inch, letting the cool air kiss my skin, letting him see the way my thighs tremble—just slightly. The underwear catches at my knees, and I pause, biting my lip like I might reconsider.

A muscle jumps in his jaw. "Don’t fucking stop."

I exhale a laugh, shaky with anticipation, and step free of the lace, kicking it aside. His stare follows the movement like a brand, searing every exposed curve. The power of it coils low in my belly—the way his chest rises faster, the way his grip whitens on the arms of the chair. This is what control feels like: the weight of his want, the silent plea in the way he spreads his thighs wider.

“Happy?” I murmur, palming myself again, this time with nothing between us.

His voice is wrecked. “Getting there.”

My pulse thrums in my throat, part defiance, part thrill. If he wants a show, I’ll give him one. My hands trail down my body, fingertips skimming my ribs, the dip of my waist—teasing, just like he would. His nostrils flare when I finally brush my clit, my own gasp sharp in the quiet between us. The contact is electric, but it’s not enough, not after the way he wound me tight and left me trembling.

Chan’s fingers flex against his knees, knuckles whitening with restraint. "That’s it," he murmurs, gaze dark and unblinking. “Let me see how pretty you are when you fall apart.”

I bite my lip, arching into my own touch—but it’s hollow compared to the way he commands my body. My hips stutter, frustration coiling hotter.

He notices. Of course he does.

“Problem, love?” That voice, all honey and smoke, curls around me before I even see his smirk.

My breath hitches, sharp in my throat. “You’re distracting me.”

A laugh, low and knowing. “I’m not even touching you.”

“You’re watching.” And God, it’s worse. His gaze lingers like a touch, slow and deliberate, leaving me exposed.

Then he moves—fluid, effortless—caging me against the couch without laying a finger on me. The heat of him radiates through the sliver of air between us. “Admit it.” His breath fans over my lips. “You’d trade every stroke of your own fingers for one of mine.”

I bite my tongue. But my body betrays me, thighs pressing tight together, and his grin turns lethal.

“Beg.” His thumb grazes my lower lip, a whisper of pressure. “Just once. Let me hear it.”

My hands freeze, but his covers mine, guiding me back into rhythm with firm insistence. “Don’t stop yet.” His scent—cool mint and warm vanilla—floods my senses, his mouth hovering just shy of mine.

A heartbeat of hesitation. Pride wars with the ache between my thighs, crumbling under the weight of his stare.

“Please.” The word cracks, raw.

“That’s my girl.” Triumph flares in his eyes a second before his lips claim mine, swallowing my whimper as his fingers sink deep, curling just so. I moan into his mouth, back arching off the couch, but he doesn’t relent—his kiss is fevered, his touch unyielding, and when his thumb drags over my clit, the pressure is perfect.

“You’re close.” His voice is rough against my lips. “I can feel it. That desperate little clench—” A twist of his wrist. “You feel incredible like this—so tight, so eager.”

Then his fingers slip free, glistening, and before I can protest, he’s sliding down my body, breath scorching between my thighs. “But I want to taste you when you come.”

The first lick is slow—agonizing—drawing a broken sound from my throat. His hands anchor my hips as his tongue flicks over my clit, once, twice, teasing. “Fuck, even sweeter than I remembered,” he murmurs, teeth grazing my inner thigh.

“Chan—”

His name shatters into a gasp as his tongue swirls in slow, torturous circles. The couch dips under his weight, his grip firm but not restraining—steadying. Every flick is a promise, every suck a silent mine, until my legs tremble around his shoulders.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against me, the warmth of his breath sending another ripple of pleasure through my core. “Just like that. Let me feel you.”

And God, I do. His mouth is relentless, not in punishment but worship, broad strokes wringing whimpers from my lips. A hum of approval vibrates through me as he glances up, eyes dark.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers, lips glistening. “Gonna come just like this? Just from my mouth?”

Before I can answer, his fingers press inside, one deep, unhurried thrust. The stretch pulls a moan from my throat, but he doesn’t stop—just crooks them there, curling ruthlessly as his tongue circles my clit again.

The orgasm crashes without warning. A sob tears free as I arch off the couch, clenching around his fingers in helpless waves. He doesn’t pull away—gentles his touch instead, working me through it with slow, reverent strokes, lapping up every shudder until I’m limp beneath him.

“Perfect.” His lips brush my inner thigh, my hip, the flutter of my stomach. “So fucking perfect for me.”

When he finally sinks onto the couch and pulls me against his chest, his breathing is ragged, his skin scorching where we touch—proof, even now, that I unravel him too.

His arms lock around me, his clothed body a furnace against my bare skin. The hard line of his cock presses into my hip through his sweats, insistent, impatient. A shudder ripples through him when I shift, my fingers twisting into the fabric of his tank top.

“Still with me?” His voice is rough velvet, lips brushing my temple. The contradiction of him—hands tender as they smooth down my spine, like gentling something wild—makes my throat tighten.

I tilt my head back, meeting his gaze: dark, hungry. “You’re still dressed.” My voice is wrecked, but the challenge in it is clear.

His smirk is slow, deliberate. “Observant.” His palm spreads over the small of my back, pressing me flush against him until I can’t ignore the heat, the way his hips roll once—just once—against me. “You gonna do something about it?”

I don’t hesitate. My hands slip under his shirt, nails skimming the rigid planes of his stomach. He hisses, muscles jumping, but I don’t stop—pushing the fabric up until he growls and tears it off himself in one impatient motion.

The sight of him—bare, sweat-slicked, control fraying at the edges—sends a fresh throb of want between my thighs. My fingers dart toward the waistband of his sweats, but he catches my wrist, grip firm.

“Ah-ah.” His other hand fists in my hair, tilting my head back. “You don’t get to rush me.”

I arch into him, breath catching. “Then what do I get?”

His laugh is dark, delicious. “Everything. Just not yet.”

Then his mouth crashes into mine, hot and claiming, and I taste myself on his tongue—sinful, sweet. His hands roam, gripping my waist, palming my breasts, thumbs teasing my nipples until I whimper into his kiss.

When he pulls back, his eyes are black with need. “Up.” The word is ragged.

I don’t need explanation. Heart hammering, I rise onto my knees on the couch, bracing one hand against the backrest. His fingers dig into my hips as he drags me back against him, his cock a heavy, aching pressure against my ass.

“Tell me you want it,” he demands, teeth grazing my shoulder.

I exhale a shaky laugh. “You already know.”

“Say it.”

I twist to look at him over my shoulder, letting him see the raw want in my gaze. “Fuck me.”

His groan is filthy, broken. “Good girl.”

Then his sweats are shoved down just enough, his hands spread me open, and he’s pushing in—slow, so slow—until the stretch burns and I’m gasping, nails clawing into the couch.

“Fuck—you’re tight.” His voice is rough, strained, as he sheathes himself fully inside me with one sharp snap of his hips. “Gonna take every inch, yeah? Just like this?”

Words fail me. I can only nod, overwhelmed by the stretch of him, the way he fills me so completely it steals my breath.

Then he moves.

The first thrust is punishing—deep enough to blur my vision, to leave me gasping—but he stills abruptly, his body trembling against mine. “Fuck. Need a second.” His fingers dig into my hips, holding me in place, his breath hot and uneven against my neck. Like he’s fighting for control.

I whimper, clenching around him instinctively, and he curses under his breath. “You’re killing me.”

“Then stop being gentle,” I pant, pushing back against him.

A dark laugh rumbles through his chest. “Who said anything about gentle?”

But instead of giving me the rough pace I expect, he rolls his hips in a slow, deliberate circle, letting me feel every inch of him. His hand slides up my spine, fingers tangling in my hair to tilt my head back. “You just came,” he murmurs, lips brushing my ear. “Gonna make sure you feel everything this time.”

And then he starts moving—not fast, not frantic, but with deep, measured thrusts that burn through me like liquid fire. Each one drags just shy of brutal, his hips working with a precision that leaves me writhing. He adjusts my body slightly, tilting my hips up, and suddenly he’s deeper, the stretch bordering on unbearable.

“There.” His voice is raw, lips skimming my ear. “That’s how I remember you. Taking me so perfectly, like you were made for me.”

I arch back against him, nails biting into the couch, and let out a breathy laugh. “Someone’s greedy.”

His rhythm falters—just for a heartbeat—before his grip tightens on my hip, his next thrust slower, deeper. “Oh?” A challenge laces his tone. “Explain.”

“Mmm.” I clench around him, relishing the way his breath hitches. “The way you take what you want. Like you can’t get enough.”

A groan vibrates against my skin as he nips lightly at my shoulder. “And if I can’t?” His hand gentles in my hair, angling my face toward his. “Tell me to stop.”

A lie. A game. We both know I won’t.

“Never,” I whisper.

“That’s what I thought.” His free hand slides down, fingers circling my clit with just enough pressure to make my thighs shake. “But since you’re so observant…” His hips snap forward, punching the air from my lungs. “…let me show you just how greedy I can be.”

And then he does.

No more measured thrusts, no teasing restraint—just pure, relentless possession.

He drives into me with a rhythm that borders on brutal, each snap of his hips forcing me deeper into the couch, the slick, rhythmic sound of skin on skin filling the space between us. My gasp catches in my throat, fingers clawing at the backrest, but he doesn’t slow—doesn’t stop. One hand fists in my hair, arching my spine to his will, while the other grips my hip hard enough to leave marks, anchoring me exactly where he wants me.

"Fuck," I choke out, voice frayed at the edges. "Just like that—God—you feel so good."

A dark chuckle vibrates against my back. "Yeah? Tell me how much you like it."

"So deep," I pant, rocking back to meet him. "Love it when you take me like this—when you use me—"

His rhythm stutters for half a second, a rough groan tearing from his chest. "Christ, listen to you." His fingers dig harder, dragging me onto him with bruising force. "Dripping all over my cock like you’re made for it."

The sound of it—the filthy, wet slide of him inside me—sends heat licking through my veins. My breath hitches, and he notices, lips curling against my shoulder.

"Hearing it turns you on, doesn’t it?" He punctuates the question with a sharp thrust, wrenching a moan from my throat. "The way you sound? The way we sound?"

I can’t answer—not when he’s hitting there—but my body does, clenching around him in helpless, fluttering pulses.

"Knew it," he growls, teeth grazing my ear. "Every time our skin slaps together, every fucking noise you make—you get even wetter. Can feel it." His hand slides between my thighs, gathering slickness onto his fingers before dragging them up to my mouth. "Taste yourself. Taste what you do to me."

I suck his fingers in, moaning around them, and his hips jerk. "Fuck. Keep doing that, and I won’t last."

"Promises, promises," I taunt, breathless.

He laughs—low, dangerous—before hauling me upright against his chest, his arm a steel band around my waist. "Think you’re clever?" His mouth finds my pulse, teeth scraping. "Let’s see how smart you are when I’ve got you on your back."

The world tilts in a dizzying rush as he flips me onto my back, his grip unrelenting. The sweats and underwear still tangled around his thighs are shoved aside in one impatient motion, finally freeing him completely—and then he’s looming over me, all sweat-slicked muscle and dark, devouring eyes.

“Beg me to ruin you properly,” he rasps, voice rough as gravel.

I open my mouth—to taunt, to challenge—but the words dissolve into a gasp as his hands hook under my knees, yanking me toward him with a single, brutal tug. My calves hit his shoulders, hips lifting off the couch, and then he’s there, the thick head of his cock pressing against me with deliberate, taunting pressure.

“Oh—!” The sound punches out of me before I can stop it, my back arching.

He doesn’t give me time to adjust. One sharp thrust, and he’s buried to the hilt, deeper than before, the angle ruthless. The air rushes from my lungs in a broken moan, my nails scrabbling at the cushions as my vision whites out for a heartbeat.

“Fuck,” he grits out, his own breath ragged. “Look at you—spread open, taking me just like this.” He pulls out almost completely, then slams back in, the force driving a cry from my lips. “Gonna ruin you so good, you’ll feel it for days.”

Every drag of him is a live wire, every snap of his hips stealing my breath. I���m pinned, helpless, my thighs trembling where they bracket his shoulders, my moans loud and unchecked.

“That’s it,” he growls, leaning forward to cage me in, his mouth hovering over mine. “Let me hear how much you love it.”

And God help me—I do.

He lowers himself, balancing his weight on his forearms, and the shift makes my legs rise higher, the new angle bordering on too much—too deep, too intense. A whimper escapes me, and he stills, his voice a ragged whisper.

“Touch yourself for me.”

I don’t hesitate. My fingers slide between us, circling my clit in frantic, desperate strokes. His gaze drops to watch, his pupils swallowing every bit of light, and for a heartbeat, he’s utterly still—just the ragged rise and fall of his chest betraying him.

Then he loses it.

His thrusts turn punishing, deep and fast and hard, the slap of skin echoing in the room. I arch beneath him, my voice breaking around his name.

“Chris—”

His rhythm falters. A groan tears from his throat, his hips jerking like I’ve struck him. “Fuck. Say it again.”

“Chris,” I gasp, and he curses, his mouth crashing down to my breast—nipping, sucking, teeth scraping my nipple until I cry out. The dual sensation of him fucking into me and the sharp, sweet pain pushes me higher, my thighs trembling where they’re hooked over his shoulders.

“Come with me,” he demands.

And I do, shattering around him as he follows me over the edge.

The air hangs thick between us, charged with the aftermath. Chan stays buried inside me, forehead pressed to my shoulder, his breaths ragged and warm against my sweat-slick skin. His hands slide down my thighs—gentle now, almost reverent—as he lowers my legs from his shoulders, fingers tracing the curve of my calves like he’s memorizing the shape of me.

I wince when my knees protest, and he stills. "Hurts?" His voice is rough, but his touch is featherlight.

"Worth it," I murmur, brushing damp hair from his brow. He turns into my palm, lips grazing the center, and something in my chest tightens.

When he pulls out, it’s with a low groan, collapsing beside me and dragging me half onto his chest. The studio is a wreck—his hoodie tangled with my top near the mic stand, the armchair shoved out of place from when he’d yanked me toward him earlier. My fingers drift over his sternum, catching on the chain around his neck as his heartbeat slows beneath my touch.

"You’re quiet," he says after a while, thumb brushing my hip.

I tilt my head to meet his gaze. "So are you."

A smirk tugs at his mouth. "Recovering." His hand slides up my spine, possessive even now. "You wrecked me, love."

The endearment slips out like it belongs there, and neither of us acknowledge it. Instead, I nod toward the forgotten Tim Tams on the counter. "Still hungry?"

He laughs, warm and surprised, like he’d forgotten. "Fuck yeah." But he doesn’t move, arms tightening around me instead. "Later."

His fingers trace idle patterns along my arm, mapping constellations only he knows. For the first time tonight, there’s no urgency—just the distant hum of the city and the weight of his silence, heavy with words neither of us will say.

Eventually, he reaches for his sweats, pulling them on with a grunt before crossing the room in two strides. He grabs the paper bag I’d brought earlier, returning with Tim Tams and a water bottle pressed into my hands.

"You’re spoiling me," I tease, cracking open the package.

His lips brush my shoulder. "Taste."

I break a cookie in half, offering him the other piece. He takes it, but his eyes stay locked on mine as he chews—slow, deliberate. "Missed this," he admits, voice so soft I almost miss it.

The chocolate melts on my tongue, too sweet. He watches me swallow like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s seen all night, thumb swiping a crumb from my lower lip. When he kisses me, I taste it—sugar and us and something dangerously close to longing.

He tugs me closer, my back against his chest, my head on his shoulder. His fingers trace slower now, heavier with fatigue. The chocolate lingers on his lips when they press to my temple, but it’s the warmth of him that lulls me—the steady rise and fall of his breath syncing with mine.

I don’t remember closing my eyes.

When I blink awake, the studio is bathed in the blue glow of his laptop screen. Chan’s back at his desk, headphones on, one hand scrolling through waveforms while the other taps rhythmlessly against his thigh. The sight is so ordinary, so him, that my chest aches with something tender.

I smile into the blanket—the same thin, scratchy one he keeps under the desk for nights when the city noise keeps him working till dawn. It smells like laundry soap and him, and for a wild second, I consider tugging him back to the couch.

His chair creaks as he shifts, and for a heartbeat, I think he’s noticed I’m awake. His fingers pause mid-adjustment, hovering over the dial. But the track needs fixing, and after a second, he dives back in—though his foot taps restlessly against the chair leg.

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part thirty-five —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 5.8k tags: death. blood and gore. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. enemies to lovers. menstruation. harm to a child. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

Jagged rock burns into your palms. Slapping a hand up, you feel for the grassy ledge, barely visible in the darkness. You heft the backpack over it before managing to pull yourself up, landing on your stomach with a grunt through your teeth. The sneakers you scavenged from the closet are tight around your toes—better than Salome's thin shoes, but still far from pleasing as you stand and press on towards the road.

Moonlight guides you north. 

Not long until sunrise, judging by the sky.

Small white clouds puff around your mouth as the chilled air brushes the damp spot on your too-big jeans, the cuffs rolled and the waist cinched to keep them from slipping. You couldn't leave in the middle of the night, so you held a mug of water as a makeshift alarm. The moment sleep tried to steal you, the splash on your thigh ended it abruptly. 

You'd woken Blue up to tell her. At first, grey eyes scolded you in the dark. She looked away, ready to argue, before quietly reciting instead: the house they kept her in, the layout, any hiding places she may have seen.

"What about her?" you had asked. "Anything important to her. She probably saw antibiotics as a gift from God or something."

"Yeah. She would've," Blue muttered. "She liked to knit. And, um, talked about birds. Her husband owned the whole place, but he died. I don't know if any of that helps."

"It does. It's better than nothing." You gave her hand a squeeze. "Make sure he eats again. And check his back. You might need to drain it. You know how now, right? Nereida could—"

"I've got it." She slipped her hand away. "Just—don't do anything stupid, okay?"

"Of course not."

Sneaking out had been easy—only because Nereida was on watch. You slipped out the back and wove through the tall grass, barely stirring the stalks. Price would've caught you for sure. But you made it across the creek with nothing more than the slow unrolling of your jeans to slow you down, the cuffs dragging in the water and soaking through. You rolled them back up, but a kilometer up the road, they've slouched back down, heavy and clinging to your legs.

Time is an enemy you've already lost a day to. With a sigh, you drop onto the hood of a rusted car, pull the knife from your waist, and hack at the fabric’s ends. A serrated blade would make this easier. The hems are jagged, but at least they won’t get in the way.

Ghost’s fever is bad, but the real threat is sepsis—the blood poisoning, organ failure, the things you haven’t told Blue. At best, he has a week. At worst, another day. The thought has you scrubbing a hand over your tired eyes before pushing off the car. You toss the cut scraps into the grass just as a disturbance prickles the back of your neck.

You whirl around, dropping the knife in favor of the pistol. 

"Just me."

"Jesus. Kyle. I was ready to shoot."

"Honorable of you to give me a quick one."

You huff, bend for the knife, and slip it back at your waist.

He closes the gap, rifle and backpack slung over his shoulders. 

"Why wouldn't you tell anyone?" His brows lower. "I went to feed him, and Blue said you’d gone back. Hell of a surprise."

You give him your back. "I've already wasted time. I knew what you'd say."

"And what exactly did you think I'd say?" A hand on your shoulders pries you back around.

Your eyes drift up to his, narrow, then veer to the side. "That it's a long shot."

"Yeah, it is." His hand drops. He brushes past you with a sigh, long and ragged, adjusting the rifle on his back. "Come on, then. You're not the only one who gives a shit about him."

There isn't anything to be said as you trudge beside him, no argument able to form. You know his company is invaluable. Gratitude is still hard to find, even when he prevents you from going the wrong way. "We turned here last time." Apparently you hadn't paid much mind. The road fills the gaps of silence, dawn breathing life into the buzz of cicadas. Long drags of air fill your lungs: sweet flowers only, until, something else. A waft of charred meat.

"You should eat."

Kyle extends a piece of squirrel. Despite the twinge in your stomach, you brush him off. "While they were starving you, we were getting stuffed. Fatten the mares, get a strong foal—all that."

His jaw ticks. "Ah."

"Damn good food, too."

"Lucky you."

"Lucky us."

Conversation shrinks to a brief exchange of what Blue said. He doesn't look convinced it'll help much. The stench doesn’t sour the air until the first sign for Fleurbaix rises at your right—like a breath in your face. Humidity clings to it, thick and unmoving, until there’s nothing else to breathe. In the sunlight, familiar stone walls and red-shingled rooftops repulse you, almost more than the sight of aimless Greys—some weaving between clotheslines, most trapped within the fenced pasture. The cows, however, have already fled through a broken gap, eager to escape uphill.

"They should've lost interest by now. The blood isn't fresh," you mutter.

"Humidity. Less evaporation, more smell." He nods the tip of his rifle. "Over there. That one has a wraparound porch like Blue said."

The view vanishes behind overgrown trees as you crest a hill, descending toward the commune. Kyle motions you forward, weaving through structures, keeping clear of the Greys. As long as they can’t scent you, they will stay distracted. You step over a few stray bodies, faces picked apart by crows that scatter at your approach. Clinging to a stone wall as you follow, a bony hand bursts forth from a window—Kyle knifes its skull before it can grab you.

Other than that, there aren't any close calls.

You reach the house that fits Blue's description.

The door is wide open.

Kyle sweeps in with the poised rifle.

You are greeted by an already ransacked interior. Tipped chairs, half-yanked cabinets, tossed couch cushions. A sick understanding settles at your fingertips, curling them around the gun. 

"They were here. The women. They knew she would've hidden them."

More signs that this is just a dead end; a waste of precious time.  

Kyle lowers the guns and presses forward into the hall. "That doesn't mean they found what they were looking for. Check the rooms."

Maman's house is as expected, even in disarray. Quiet and balmy. You kick open the first door. Polished wood, gold-embellished hinges, a closet stuffed with white gowns. A knitting bag catches your eye. You sift through it, tossing out balls of red yarn. Nothing.

More nothing under the bed. 

You tear the painting from the wall, only solid stone behind it.

A family photo thrashes to the floor beneath a swipe of your fist. You find Kyle in the other room, where a smaller bed is tucked beneath a window—the sight makes it hard to breathe for a moment. The blood stain on the sheets. Somehow you know whose it is. Your stomach rips at itself. You force yourself to look away before you lose it. 

"The floorboards. They didn't look under them. Help me."

He raps the butt of the rifle against the wood. A hollow echo near the doorway offers promise. A knife jammed between the planks pries them apart. When you sink to your knees, all that fills your hands are stashes of faded euros. No pills, no vials. 

You rip up the notes and let the shreds feather through the air, leaning back on your palms as a quiet hiss leaves your teeth. "Where did you put them you vile, ugly, goddamn hag."

"Maybe her son kept them," Kyle murmurs, threading a hand through his hair. "He had the guns."

"No." Your voice is firm. You stand and pace. "She would've wanted them close to her. Antibiotics—she was saving that for the women. The births."

You reach for your knife and stab the mattress, slicing it open. Springs and foam. Books maybe. You run back to the shelf in the hall and rip them one at a time, flipping them open to see if any were hollowed out. Even the Bible is just a book. 

What else?

What else?

"How much time are we willing to spend looking for them, Twix?" he asks lowly behind you. "Maybe we check somewhere else. A town."

"They'd have picked them clean years ago." You toss the Bible to the floor with a thud. "This was our best bet. We had them. We fucking had them."

"And now we don’t. We can’t keep tearing this place apart. We focus on keeping him stable—keep the wounds clean, use what we’ve got. He’s made it this far without them. We just need to buy him more time. There might be another stash in one of the other houses."

You lean against the wall, eyes fluttering shut briefly. A deep inhale. "There's just—something I'm missing."

"Twix—" He sighs, running a hand down his face. "Alright. Let's do another sweep. I'll check the floors in the living room."

Thoughts race. A frothy tide refusing to settle. You press your thumb to the scabbed cut on your wrist, the sting sharpening your mind. Back in the cell. Morning sun slanting through the window. Obsessively studying what’s around you. Replaying everything you learned about that woman. A dead woman. If you could’ve told the Greys to hold off, let her speak before they tore through her neck, you would have.

In the midst, a dove’s call breaks through—three notes, too close in your ear. You must be imagining it, but Alexandre’s voice stirs in your head: La tourterelle chante pour toi.

He said that when he heard the dove.

Why?

Birds.

She talked about birds.

You push off the wall and follow the sound to the room where they kept Blue. The coo draws you to the windowsill by the bed, where the glass is cracked just enough for the curtains to stir, the stench outside seeping in. Twin beady eyes snap to yours, a mechanical tilt of its neck. A collared dove, you think. Paul used to rise early to listen to them.

"Where are they?" you press lowly, accusing. "You know, don't you?"

The bird doesn’t answer, only flutters down from the sill.

Your fingers grip the edge of the window as you kneel on the ruined mattress. Below, the bird perches in the flower box—no flowers, just dried weeds and a nest of twigs.

"Tell me." It watches the whisper curl from your lips. "Tell me, or I’ll rip apart your home."

It flutters off. Your arm lunges after it, clawing at the nest in blind retaliation. Twigs snap. Dirt kicks up into your eyes. You blink hard to clear it. A strangled sound catches in your throat—half a curse, half a cry. Then, something strange beneath. Sharp rust that makes you freeze.

You sweep debris off the top of a—a lock box—loosely buried within the soil. A breath lodges in your throat as you claw at the dirt, dragging the rusted metal loose, launching backward on the bed with it clutched in both hands. It can't be real. You give the box a sharp shake. Something rattles inside, and your chest tightens.

"Kyle!"

Thunderous slaps of his boots echo down the hall. He rushes in, scanning you with a sweep of his gaze.

"No, I'm—this is locked." You tug at the bolted metal. "Can you open it?" 

He doesn't question it. Relief flickers across his face, quickly replaced by grim determination. He raises the rifle and slams the butt against the lock. A sharp clang echoes, metal chipping but holding. Exhaling through his nose, he adjusts his grip. You meet his eyes and nod—keep going.

He hammers at the lock, pausing only to yank at it, testing for weakness. You wipe dirt from your jeans, watching. Whatever she buried here—it mattered. It had to. A dove lands on the windowsill, but movement beyond it sends your pulse spiking above the sharp cut of metal.

Greys.

When did they—

"Shit, shit, shit." You lurch from the bed. 

He stops, yanking up the rifle to jut it toward the window, shooting a snarling one that clambers up on the porch. It flails back, revealing more alike behind it—many more—shambling out from wherever they'd been lingering. "Fuck—how!" He tucks the lock box under his armpit and grabs your wrist. "Come on."

The living room windows reveal just how many have begun to close in around the house. Faster ones are already at the front door, clawing at the wood. Kyle swears, yanking you toward the bathroom—higher ground, a window above the porcelain tub. He slams it open with the rifle, then hands instantly find your waist to lift you. You shed the backpack, pulling it through behind your feet to squeeze through blindly.

"Anything to climb?" he barks.

You look up. "A gutter!"

You grab it and tighten your core, hoisting yourself up as your sneakers scrape against the siding, the moans below growing louder as they round the corner of the porch. Your palms press into exposed rafters, the gutter serving as a shaky foothold, but the last push onto the roof eludes you.

A firm shove at your thighs sends you over. You scramble up, steadying yourself before glancing back.

Kyle is halfway up, rappelling fast—until a bony hand clamps around his ankle, yanking him downward. Disoriented from the rush, you slap for the gun at your waist, firing wildly—two bullets wasted before one lands, shattering the Grey's skull with a squeal.

He throws the lockbox. You catch it just as he hauls himself onto the shingles.

Your head reels as you watch Kyle drop to one knee and start picking them off. Four, maybe five drop with ease, but the rest move erratically—jolting, frantic. He slows, trying to track their unpredictable movements, each shot requiring more precision. If you had your bow, you could help. But the pistol? You don't trust yourself.

He grunts in frustration, adjusts his stance, then reloads as he circles the perimeter of the roof. That’s when you feel it—not a hunger pang, but a deep, familiar ache, piercing low in your gut. Then something wet. Warm. A slow gush down your leg. Your breath stutters as you glance down at the stain blooming red across your thigh.

"It's me," you say.

"What?"

"Fuck, it's me they smell. My period."

His gaze drops to your body, widening when he sees the evidence. You should feel exposed, but you don’t. The thought slams into your brain at the same time your hands move—unbuttoning, yanking at the fly. The moans below swell.

"We can use it. Look away."

His eyes snap back to yours, then dart away with a sharp exhale. "Christ."

You’re already shoving them down, tugging at the loose, borrowed underwear clinging to your hips. Gathering the fabric, you swipe at the blood slick on your thigh, pressing it deeper into the fabric. "It can buy us time—but not much."

You yank the jeans back up. You roll the underwear into a ball. Kyle looks over.

"There—throw it toward that house. The door’s open. If enough go inside, it might trap some. Then we run back to the hill."

Just as quickly as the plan is formed, you hurl back your arm and launch the decoy as hard as you can. It lands in front of the next house, far enough to release the breath caged in your lungs as heads snap toward it, bodies lurching away. Kyle slings the rifle over his shoulder, grips your waist, and helps you down—but the moment he lets go to steady himself, your foot slips on the gutter.

You land roughly on your side and lose hold of the lockbox. All of the breath leaves your body as you scramble to grab it. A strong hand beneath your armpit tugs you back up, and then you're sprinting. A quick glance back shows most are drawn away, but a few still trail you. Kyle snatches the handgun from your waist mid-stride and fires, dropping two before they get too close.

You duck beneath clotheslines, weave through wash bins still brimming with water. Trample roses. The pulse pounding in your neck drowns out everything but the next shot Kyle fires—enough to throw off your step. You don’t see the one lunging until it slams into you from the side.

You feel the jolt of the fall before you fully register the thing wrestling on top of you. Hair whips into your mouth, rancid breath spilling hot across your cheek. The strength is wrong—too fresh, too human. The hands grabbing at you are still strangely soft. A distinct bulge presses you down. Then a glob of dark-tinged saliva splats onto your eye, blinding you before you can make sense of it.

It's only a second of fight before a shot to the skull sends pulpy blood and brain onto your face. 

The weight is torn away as you scrub at your eyes. Part of you already knows before you look at the limp corpse. Time congeals. Blonde hair fans over the grass, framing a pale face with white eyes. The slip dress—the same one you pulled over her head.

Her swollen belly.

You go rigid. Kyle has to yank hard to get you upright.

"Come on!"

"They left her."

The words spill numbly from your lips.

When he shoots another Grey, your wooden, puppet legs move. You leave the body of her behind, adrenaline numbing you. After what is realistically only minutes but feels like hours, the thick trees envelop you once again, and when you finally steal a glance, you can't see them anymore. They've lost your scent for now. Enough for you to pause against a tree, swallowing air to catch your breath. 

You walk deeper into the vegetation until Kyle feels satisfied enough to stop and retrieve a canister of water from his backpack. He offers it to you. It takes a moment to steady it at your lips, then your throat allows some down. But your stomach spasms almost instantly, and you are wrenching it back up at the base of a tree, crumpling to your knees.

"Shit."

Hands collect your hair.

A few more dry heaves consume you, until you're breathing harshly through a hanging mouth.

"No… They didn’t—" A hard swallow. "They let her out. She was in the cell."

"What?" His voice brushes your neck, touch halting at your shoulders. Realization softens his tone. "You knew her—the pregnant one."

You wipe your mouth and stand. His hands stay at your arms a beat too long, grip firm, like he’s waiting for something—an explanation you don’t give. You don’t meet his eyes. "We need to move."

Your stomach still aches, but you don't vomit again. You walk quickly out of the trees and to the road. 

The walk back is spent scanning more closely to see if you've drawn more with your smell. By the time you reach the cliff, midday swelters. Lightheadedness teeters your first attempt down. Kyle tosses the box and rifle to the bottom, then carries you on his back, your fingers interlocking to keep you secure like the backpack that hugs his chest. 

A stop at the creek allows a shaky handful of water to splash your face. Taking off your jeans to wash your blood-stained thighs feels too much of a task. Instead, you watch Kyle finally finish striking the lock, the metal giving way under his relentless grunts. 

"Do you want me to open it?" He glances at you.

A slow shake of your head. Your knees sink before it. Fingers hesitate at the latch. If this isn’t it—if it’s empty—you don’t know what comes next. What fills the space where the smallest sliver of hope has wedged itself in.

The scrape of rusted metal.

At first, all you see is cloth. A yellowed shade of white. A beat of nothing. Then, your hands move on their own accord, unwrapping the contents, brushing hard plastic. The faint rattle of capsules makes you inhale before you even read the first label: amoxicillin. You go still. Dig through for more. Four, five vials. Even more than what you had on you.

The run back to the house is a battle against your own legs.

The smell of blood hits first—thick, metallic. Not human. A quick glance confirms it, Price carving up a hefty cattle he must've found.

He's saying something, to Kyle maybe. You don’t pause.

The front door swings open.

Blue—

She slams into you, arms locking tight, breath knocked from your lungs.

"I saw you from the window."

"You shouldn’t be on your feet," you manage.

She looks down. At your hand. At the pills.

Her voice trembles. "You… you found it?"

You nod.

Up the stairs. Blue tugging at your sleeve. Kyle's steps audible behind you. The bedroom waits. Stale air. Ghost—he's lying on his stomach the way you left him, but a smother of something sticky glistens on his back. 

"Honey," Blue mumbles, wincing as she lowers on the bed. "Ari... he found a hive. I was just about to put clean bandages, too. It helps, right?"

"Not as much as this should help."

Kyle begins lifting him.

"He was up for a bit, but he was... talking weird," Blue whispers as you kneel at Ghost's side, fight the shake in your hand to unscrew the cap. "He asked if you were sleeping outside—like, out loud, to himself. Then he kept saying ‘sparks’ and ‘Washington.’ Do you know what that means?"

The words barely register anything but confusion and the fact that he is even worse. It's Kyle who answers under his breath. "No clue." His gets Ghost upright without disturbing his wounds, steadying a hand at the back of his skull. 

When your thumb presses at his bottom lip, the dry, cracked skin resists. As you try to pry it apart, his eyes flicker open—unfocused. Dilated pupils shift to yours.

"I need you to open," you whisper around the tightness in your throat. "It's amoxicillin. We've got it."

Overgrown hair clings to his forehead, thick and unruly. Sharp stubble scrapes your hand as you try again to open his mouth. Labored breaths hit your knuckles, unnervingly hot, along with a release of words he murmurs through his teeth. "There you are... again. 

Your teeth graze your cheek. "Here I am. Now open, please."

He does—barely. The chalky pill makes it to his tongue. The rest blurs.

Waking up on edge is nothing new.

At first, you keep your eyes shut—squeezing them until the backs turn red. Then, true consciousness jolts through your limbs, setting a heavy heartbeat between your ears. Light floods your vision. Soft cheeks. Pink lips, pursed. Brows knitted tight.

"You make the strangest faces in your sleep sometimes."

"I..."

"Water?"

"Please," you croak.

Pins and needles prickle your fingers as you lift your head. A mug presses to your blistered lips, gentle fingers stroking the greasy hair at your temple. The gulp of water almost makes you moan. You're ready to down the entire things until it's pulled away.

"You're gonna throw up again if you keep going."

You lick your lips. "What?"

"You've been passed out for two days," Blue explains. "Except for when we tried to get you to eat and drink, but that was a fucking struggle. Nereida says you overworked yourself. Not enough sleep and water can kill you, you know." Her brow arches. "I told you not to do anything stupid, but I guess you've been doing that."

Two days.

You inhale through lungs that feel primitive. 

"He—"

"Before you ask, yes. We've been giving him the meds. Morning and evening. His fever finally went down last night. He's been out since."

Your eyes finally drift to the other side of the bed. A steady rise and fall presses warmth into the sheets. You scramble up, reaching over—his cheek meets your palm, warm, but not alarmingly so. Normal, almost. A faint flush dusts his skin, the color creeping back in. His back is freshly bandaged, but his eyelids still bear the violet tinge of exhaustion.

"It's helping." The words press into your teeth. 

The rest of the day passes in gentle fragments. 

A bowl of fire-braised beef pressed into your hands. You eat without tasting, slow chewing through lush fat, while Price and Kyle pore over a more detailed almanac they found in the house. The food settles heavy, to the point of discomfort, but stays down. 

Later, you wade into the creek with Nereida. She was the one who changed you while you were out—scrubbing the dirt from your legs, tucking fresh towels and a new pair of underwear beneath you. You only realize she added rosemary when a sprig falls out as you undress.

You listen to her talk. You don’t tell her about Salome. No. You keep it to yourself. The water is warm. At first, you don’t feel it. But as it swallows your shins and carries away ribbons of dried blood, the gentle current soothes, taking the edge off the sun, which turns the rocks along the bank scorching hot. Birds call from the trees—you don’t know what kind. Worm-like minnows tickle your sore toes.

Back at the house, you sit on the porch to wring out your hair. You catch Ari carrying Blue through the garden, her head tucked against his shoulder, bandaged feet dangling over the arm that hooks under her knees. They whisper about something. His steps are slow, pausing by a beautiful patch of flowers that, apparently, smell rancid by the way she leans in and recoils, making a face. When you look away, Kyle is staring at you across the grass as he hangs strips of beef over a tree branch to dry. 

You should thank him. For not letting you do the stupid thing alone. But instead, you shift your gaze to the sun and watch its slow descent on your own, studying the way it casts an orange glow across the wild growth. It's the sudden assault of dark clouds that send everyone inside. A summer rain that bursts down without warning, without mercy. 

It hasn't relented by the time you fix a bowl of meat for Ghost. He has yet to ingest anything but bone broth and some plum juice according to Blue and Nereida. You chew off little pieces of the least fattiest parts into a bowl and give it to Blue. You go with her to feed him but stop short, keeping your distance. You simply watch from across the room as he manages to sit up on his own despite swaying, brushing away Price's helping arm, and chewing slowly with great effort. His eyes, focused and clear, flit upward to yours. You hold them for a moment, until the pull in your chest turns intolerable, and you look down at his bandaged shoulder instead. 

"Tastes good?" Blue murmurs, brushing the hair from his forehead.

He hums. 

"How do you feel?"

He swallows, then lifts a hand to her hair, thumbing at it. "Young again."

She places her hand over his, biting a smile. "You're so annoying."

She wipes at her eyes. 

Instead of easing, the rain intensifies as the night deepens. Distant thunder rolls closer, flashing into overhead lightning that only sharpens your edge. Blue spends the night with Ari in the living room, where Kyle helped them set up a small fort of blankets and pillows—a small distraction, but one she could use. It takes a nudge from you to push past her hesitation, to convince her it’s okay to leave Ghost’s side, just for a little while.

"It's good to have some space, if you need it."

That leaves you alone in the bedroom with him. He knocked out again after eating. You redo his bandages, relieved to find the wounds free of pus. New scabs have begun to form, fragile but promising.

But you can't lay down. You try—perch at the edge of the bed, press your palms into the mattress—then you're back on your feet.

The walls feel too close. The air too thick. His steady breathing should ground you, should ease something inside you, but it doesn’t. The storm is unyielding, pressing against the house, rattling the windows. It drives your nails into your palms, into the raw skin around them. A string ties itself around your ankles, pulling one foot in front of the other until you're in the hallway, hand blindly skimming the wall to guide you to the spiral staircase.

Upward.

The library. You don’t even realize you’ve come here until you freeze at the top of the stairs, staring at the wreckage left behind by your hands. Books lie scattered across the floor, pages severed and crumpled. A curtain rod rests askew, displaced in the quiet ruin.

When you finally move, it’s a mindless ordeal. The motions of putting the room back together—guided only by the stray flash of lightning—steal any thoughts before they can form. You kneel, gently stacking books against your chest, slotting them one by one back onto the oak shelves. Embellished spines offer familiar titles, even in French. A lot of Jane Austen.

"No Hemingway, huh?" you whisper, swiping a finger through the blanket of dust before bending for more books. You reach the last shelf, lips twitching. "I'm fixing you. Happy now?"

Of course, no answer. Only the faint slide of leather against the wood. 

He’s in the room before you notice.

The presence registers as a skim along the back of your neck.

But you don’t turn, hand freezing after you release Le Comte de Monte-Cristo, then dropping limp at your side. You know it’s him. You feel it in the shift of the air, the weight of it settling differently around you. More so in the slow, deliberate footfalls, each one measured, as if testing the ground. And if none of that gives him away, the warmth of his breath—heavy, uneven—spilling over your scalp does. It sinks into your skin when he reaches you, winds through your veins, curls your toes against the floor until they hurt.

You try to inhale, but the breath snags, fracturing in your throat. "You shouldn’t be up."

"I shouldn't."

His hand lifts, knuckles skimming the flannel draped over your frame before grazing your neck with a slow, unhurried sweep of his thumb. It trails down your arm, pausing at the last book in your grasp. He takes it from you—or maybe it slips from your weak grip. You can't tell.

With a deep breath, he reaches the shelf above you. The book doesn't fit at first, his hand unsteady, struggling to align it. A final rough shove of his knuckles forces it into place. He’s close. You knew he was, but now his scent wraps around you—mossy, salty, earth that you fall face-first into. His chest skims your spine. An elbow grazes your ear as he finishes.

And then he turns you.

His fingers curl around your shoulder, guiding you until you're facing him. Your feet slide to follow, reluctant and all too willing. Storm-filtered light catches on the sharp cut of his jaw, casting it in shadow. You brace yourself. An unformed breath fills your chest. You're unable to meet his eyes—though you feel them, tracing every inch of your face.

Wordless, he takes hold of your wrist. You don’t understand why until he cradles it in his rough palm, between your chests. His chapped lips lower to the tail-end of the healing cut, light enough not to stir pain.

His lips move.

But you don't.

It's as if every function of your brain is funneled into the nerves beneath each kiss he trails up your forearm. Soft, unwavering, yet each one lingering for a beat longer than the last. The next one lands at the crease in your elbow. A breath finally rushes out of your nose when he reaches the top of your shoulder, close enough to the pounding artery in your neck to invite heat over your cheeks. A strange heat. The same temperature of the moisture that begins to cloud your vision. 

You tremble. "Ghost, I—" 

You make a last-ditch effort to clutch the hem of his jeans before your knees can waver, his mouth finding your throat. He kisses the part of it that bobs. Then pulls away just enough to cup your face between his hands, forcing your gaze to his. What you are met with is twin, black eyes. They unnerve you. Like the ground beneath your feet, it feels like they might swallow you whole and spit you out. 

You can't breathe. The shaking is uncontrollable. Rapid blinks dispel the moisture in your eyes before you're gasping, pressing into him. "Please... please. Ghost, I—" you choke, "Please, I just—"

You sound scared, even to your own ears. Like you might get hurt if you he doesn't give you what you're asking for. But you don't know what you're asking for—don't understand why the soft kisses he places on your forehead and cheeks feel like too much and not enough at the same time. You clasp his wrist to pull his hands off your face, nails piercing into the skin there. He allows it—you hurting him—even when almost his entire upper half is swathed in bandages. 

"You're shaking," he murmurs.

"I'm fine." You exhale, but it’s uneven, shaky in its own right. "I just need—"

His thumb presses under your chin in attempt to still you.

A swallow forces down the lump in your throat. The ghost of an inhale. Then you lunge, kissing him. Not gentle or hesitant. But with a desperate growl, bursting forth from your mouth into his, your hand threading into his hair and holding tight onto his skull.

[nerdy-novelist017]

i'm so in love with your little bunny series and i'm so glad you're writing for benny! i was wondering if you could write something about reader being a yapper, always talking a lot about things with so much excite and benny finds this the most cutest thing ever, but one day someone says that she's annoying for that, which makes her feel very self conscious and she starts to think that benny might feel the same since he's a very much quiter person, and benny assures her that is not the case? just fluffy and comfort to warm my heart <3 thank you already!

Anon, this is literally the cutest request ever omg!!! Thank you for the request, I had so much fun writing this! I paired this as another one shot for my Benny x Bunny series, hope you enjoy!

Word Count- 2k+

Summary- See request above.

Sweet Talking (Benny Cross x Shy!Reader)

You pressed a kiss to Benny’s cheek, whispering to him that you’d be right back as you stood and made your way around the bonfire. You pulled Benny’s jacket tighter around you to fend off the chilly evening air on your trek back to the house. The night was still young, the sun having just set an hour ago and these bikers would be up until the sunrise, all having caught their second wind from the race held earlier in the fields. The loudness of the bikes and the sheer excitement from the crowds was something you were still trying to get used to, but you found that you actually liked talking to these people. Once they included you in their conversations and picked topics that you could relate to as well, you found yourself talking a lot more than you ever have in your life. They laughed at your jokes, they called out to you when they saw you approaching, they really seemed to just adopt you into their club. You supposed, in the beginning, a majority of that was from Benny probably intimidating some members into being nice to you, but regardless of that, they still seemed to enjoy your company and your silly stories and random facts – especially the women of this club. 

Stepping through the back door, you were immediately greeted by the scent of cigarette smoke and booze, things you were also still trying to get used to. Several members were lounging on the couch, smoking and talking as you passed them on your way to the kitchen. You went to the fridge, opening it and lowering yourself to search for a cold pop for yourself. Voices filtered into your vicinity from the adjacent dining room. Just as you grab another beer for Benny, your ears perked up when you heard your name being said in passing and you froze behind the refrigerator door. 

“–She does have a sweet piece of ass on her though,” a male voice, sounding muffled most likely by a cigarette hanging from his lips. You smiled to yourself, biting your lip. You probably shouldn’t be listening to this, but curiosity rooted you to your spot as you tried peeking over the door to catch a look at who was speaking. 

“Jesus Christ, you can’t get her to shut up anymore.” another voice replied, much deeper and raspier than the first. “I miss when she would just stand there shaking like a leaf, all nervous and quiet.”

“Would it even be worth it to hit that? C’mon man, she’d gab your fucking ear off during it, totally kill the mood for me.”

Your smile slowly at their words, heart sinking. You should get up and leave, you told yourself. But you couldn’t force your legs to move.

“I’d put that mouth of hers to work on something else,” the first man said, chuckling darkly. You squeezed your eyes shut at the insinuation. 

“Don’t know how Benny–boy puts up with it. I’d have to gag her just to hear myself think–”

You stand abruptly, unable to listen to anymore of their hurtful words. Using a bit more force than you intended, you slammed the fridge door shut, the glass bottles rattling harshly inside from the force. Tears stung your eyes as you rushed back through the living room to the backdoor. You paused once you rounded the side of the house, sniffing in order to keep the tears at bay. They were just drunk assholes, you tried to tell yourself. Who cares what they think of you? 

But a few traitor tears escaped your lashes at the thought of Benny finding you annoying too. Benny– that quiet, easy-spoken man who you loved with everything in you. That quiet man who maybe didn’t like how you squealed with excitement when you saw someone you knew from across the room. That quiet man who maybe didn’t like when you giggled loudly at jokes told around the bonfire. That quiet man who was your exact opposite.

******

Benny could tell there was something wrong the second you came into view again, your figure illuminated by the orange flames of the bonfire as you moved to sit back down by him. Your hands were shoved in the pockets of his jacket, head tucked low. And beside him? It was rare that you didn’t sit on his lap anymore. 

You handed him a beer and he tried to catch your eyes because was that tears he saw coating your lashes? But you avoided his gaze, instead curling into his side and that’s how you stayed for the rest of the night, quiet as a mouse, until you eventually tugged on his sleeve and asked if you could go home. The ride home was also weird. You didn’t tap his shoulder and point to things that interested you like you normally did on the back of his bike. You stayed glued to his back, silent. 

Benny watched, brow furrowed, as you went about your nighttime routine in silence, the house you shared no longer filled with your usual chatter. He sat on the edge of the bed, wracking his brain with the possibilities of you being upset with him. (The silent treatment was often a go-to method of torture you used when Benny pissed you off) but he was at a loss. Something had to have happened when you left the bonfire. Anxiety spiked through him at the thought that maybe someone had done something to you, but no, you would have told him. He made you promise to always talk to him if someone at the club was bothering you. 

You changed into your nightgown and Benny’s heart squeezed at the sight of you avoiding his gaze once again as you turned and began brushing out your pin curls in the mirror. 

“Did you have a good time tonight?” he asked, unable to bare another second of your silence. 

“Mh-hm.” Came your short reply.

Benny swallowed. You were definitely upset. “You seem . . . quiet.”

That was definitely the wrong thing to say because you’re shoulders stiffened for a moment and he thought you might turn around and throw your brush at him. But instead, you responded in a small voice, “Just tired.”

He frowned. He’d seen you when you were tired, this was something else. He tried a different tactic. “Tell me about your day, Bunny.” 

You shrugged. “Not much happened.”

“Well, tell me about it. I wanna hear it.” He tried to catch your eyes as you put the brush down and stepped away from the vanity.

“Well, maybe I don’t wanna talk about it? I just want to go to bed, Benny.” you tried to move past him to go to your side of the bed but Benny reached out gently tugged on the hem of your nightgown, stopping you.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly, looking up at you. 

You nodded, but still refused to make eye-contact.

“What’s wrong?” he questioned. “Did someone do something to you tonight?”

You shook your head quickly and relief swept through him. “No, no. Nothing like that.”

His hands slid up to your hips and he pulled you closer to him. “Talk to me, Bunny. Please. I don’t understand what’s wrong.”

You swallowed, chin wobbling slightly. “Nothing happened . . . I just–I overheard some guys talkin’ is all.”

He remained silent and you continued hesitantly. “When I went to get a drink . . . they didn’t know I was there. And–and I should have left as soon as I heard them talking but . . .”

“What were they saying?”

You clenched your jaw and gave him a distressed look. 

He squeezed your hips encouragingly. “What were they saying?”

“It doesn’t matter–”

“It does to me,” he was quick to say. 

“They . . . they were talkin’ about how I talk . . . a lot. They said it was annoying. They were saying crude things about using my mouth for . . . other things.” you said slowly, voice wavering and you looked down in embarrassment.

Benny nodded and breathed out of his nose, counting to ten in his head to cool his suddenly white hot anger which bloomed in his chest. He had worked so hard to get you to feel comfortable around the club, to get you to come out of your shell and now someone had something to say about his girl—his sweet shy girl—talking? “Who was it?”

“Oh, Benny–” You pulled back from him. “Don’t go saying anything to them!”

“Why not?” He planned to do much more than talk to them.

“Because!” you cried, your voice going an octave higher. “That would make it worse! Besides, they’re–they’re right anyway.”

“Right about what?” he asked, bewildered at how they could possibly know you like he did.

“Well, I do talk a lot. A–and I know it can be annoying for someone who’s a lot more quiet.” 

“Annoying?” He laughed at the inaccuracy of that statement and you must have thought he was laughing at you because you took a big step back from him, out of his reach.

“I just don’t want to embarrass you,” you murmured, looking down at the carpet below you. 

Benny’s stomach fluttered apprehensively. There had been only a few times in his life where he wished he was better at talking, at communicating his feelings. He wanted to console you, to reassure you, that you could never be annoying or embarrassing to him. He wanted to tell you just how much you gave him purpose and helped him in his life. How you were his life. This was one of those times. 

He rose from the bed and approached you passively, trying to gather his thoughts. “I like when you talk. When we spend the day apart, I look forward to hearing about your day and what you did and what you saw while I was gone. And when we’re riding and you point to the little things like the flowers on the sidewalk or the sunsets, I like that. I really like that. And when you tell stories, you get so immersed and you start talking with your hands, I like that too. You’re so friendly to everyone, no matter what they look like or how well you know them and that’s one of my favorite things about you. You talkin’ could never embarrass me, Bunny, because it’s one of the reasons I love you.”

Tears welled up in your doe-eyes and he swallowed nervously. “Why are you crying?”

Suddenly, you were pressed so tightly to his chest, face burying into his shirt, hands holding onto him with such grip that Benny stumbled. He recovered quickly, wrapping his arms around your small frame.

“Oh, Benny,” you choked up. “You’re so sweet!” 

He wasn’t so sure about that, maybe only when it came to you. He sure as hell wasn’t going to be so sweet to those guys that spoke about you like that. He’d take a trip tomorrow to visit them personally, but for tonight, he belonged to you. He’d discovered that about himself from your relationship, from you. Even though he wanted to do things right when he wanted to, he couldn’t always. That’s what love was, putting others’ needs before your own. And tonight, you needed him, so he would be here.

His hands found your jaw and he tilted your head back to press a kiss to your forehead. “Will you come lay with me and tell me about your day?”

You nod, sniffing and Benny nearly melted at the smile you gave him. That was the smile he’d come to recognize as the one you had reserved for only him. Soft, sweet and totally perfect in every way. He pulled you gently back to bed and relished as you curled up against him. His heart was filled with warmth as he listened to you chatter on about your day and your friends and your thoughts, anything that came to mind. He’d ask questions every once in a while to keep you going, but he mostly stayed quiet, because to him, you were so captivating and cute. You both talked throughout the night, you slowly getting lower and lower into his side until finally falling asleep, your conversation temporarily paused until the morning.

-Tag List-

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[keehendrixx]

You’re Mines

Crazy Intruder!Terry x Black Reader

Warnings: Smut, Rough Sex, Bondage, Pure Filth, Stalking, Gagging, Dirty Talk, Kidnapping, Breeding Kink, Creampie, Stockholm Syndrome. P in V, Use of Pet Names, Degradation. Oral (Male & Female Receiving)

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Terry watched your every move, from sunrise to sundown. His basement was full of pictures of you; eating out, shopping, at your job, out with friends, even in your shower at your house or you just changing clothes in your bedroom. He was OBSESSED with you and didn’t stop at anything until he got where he wanted you, in his arms, or you underneath him.

As you walked outside your house to check the mailbox, Terry sat in his truck looking at you. Terry's heart raced as he took in the sight of you, Dallas. The way the sunlight highlighted your curves, the sway of your hips as you walked. He couldn't tear his gaze away. After months of surveillance, he finally had you alone. He revved the engine, preparing to pull up beside you.

“Hey there, beautiful.” He called out, trying to sound casual despite the excitement coursing through him. “Fancy running into you here.”

You turned around, looking at him. His eyes captivated you in a trance.

“Oh, Hi. You are?” you asked, looking at him as you stood on your lawn.

“Terry.” Terry flashed you a charming smile, leaning across the passenger seat to get a better look at you. “I've seen you around town quite a bit lately. You're absolutely stunning, if I do say so myself.” His eyes roamed over your body appreciatively before meeting yours again. “So, what brings a gorgeous lady like yourself to this part of town?”

“Oh I moved here a couple months back. I have never seen you around here before.” You said not taking your eyes off of him.

Terry chuckled, shaking his head. “Well, that's because I've been keeping an eye on you from afar, darlin'.You caught my attention right off the bat.”

He winked playfully. “And now, fate seems to have brought us together. What a lovely coincidence, don't you think?”

Terry pulled up alongside you, rolling down the window further. “Say, would you mind hopping in for a quick chat? I promise I won't bite... unless you want me to.” He smirked, his tone dripping with innuendo.

“Uhh.. I don’t hop in the car with strangers.”

Terry's smile faltered for a moment, but he quickly recovered, not wanting to scare you off just yet.

“Ah, fair enough, sweetheart. I understand your caution. But let me assure you, I'm no ordinary stranger. I've been watching you, getting to know you, for months now.”

Your eyes widened and your mouth opened wide.

“Excuse me? You’ve been what?!”

“You heard me babygirl, I’ve been watching you.”

He reached over on his side and pulled out a photo album, flipping it open to reveal numerous pictures of you going about your daily life.

Sweat began to form on your head and panic sat in, but you didn’t want to call the cops right away. Some kind of way this man had you intrigued.

“See? I've documented all of you. You're all I can think about, baby.” His voice dropped to a husky whisper. “And I need to be close to you. Very close.”

“You’re fucking crazy!” You shouted as you sprinted back into the house.

You rushed and locked all of your doors. You peeked out the window to find Terry’s truck gone, you sighed in relief but you wondered where he could have gone.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Later that night >

As you were getting ready for bed, you heard faint rustling from outside. Spooked that it might be Terry again, you quickly went into your closet and grabbed your loaded pistol from the top shelf. You looked outside of your windows but there was no one there, probably a small animal rummaging around your yard. You sat the gun on your dresser.

After putting on your night clothes, you engaged your security system. You then doubled checked all of your doors to make sure that they were secure and locked, you didn’t need this man to come into your house.

You climbed into bed, strolling on your phone until sleepiness took over.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Hours later, Terry pulled up around the corner of your house and sat there, contemplating his plan to get you to himself .

He grabbed a black ski mask and threw it on before grabbing a black duffel bag that was full of rope, tape, etc. He climbed out of his Dudley Truck, zipped up his jacket and walked towards your house.

Once he reached it, he saw that all of your lights were off. Being the skilled person he is, he disengaged the security system of yours from his own phone and picked the locks of your front door.

He walked in, scanning the house with predatory eyes.

Making his way up the stairs, he was careful not to make any loud noises. He quickly spotted your room, as you left your door open and walked in to find you spreaded out with your leg hitched up and your gown pooled around your waist. That sight of you alone made him silently groan.

The way the moonlight highlighted your beautiful face and skin was making it harder for him not to yank you up and force his dick into you.

He unzipped his bag and pulled out the rope and tape. He sat it on the floor next to your bed.

You heard noises and woke up to find him standing next to you. You shrieked, reaching for your gun but you couldn’t find it.

“Looking for this babygirl?” He smirked, holding up the gun that he unloaded. “So defenseless right now.”

You were in complete shock.

“If you make a sound, I’ll do more to you than I want to.” He took the rope and secured your arms behind your back, before duct taping your mouth shut.

Part of you wanted to kick and squirm, but the other was loving the way he handled you with such dominance. Terry snatched your body up out of your bed and threw you over his shoulders. He walked with you downstairs and to his truck.

It clicked to you that this man was fucking kidnapping you and you accepted it. He opened the door and put you in the passenger seat before going to his side of the truck.

Terry got in and snatched the tape off of you. You immediately screamed like a banshee. Terry’s hand came in contact with your throat and lightly gave it a squeeze.

“Let me go, you motherfuckin’ psycho!”

“I don’t think so, right now you belong to me & I always get what I want or else. You betta’ look me up, princess.” He said looking into your eyes with a look that made the thongs you were wearing moist.

“Fuck you bitch!” You spat in his face.

Terry chuckled and wiped it away with his hand, taking it into his mouth.

“Oh I plan too. In every way possible.”

“I got something for bratty bitches like you.”

With that he sped off to who knows where.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

As the truck came to a halt, you looked out the window to see that you were at what looked like his house. It wasn’t big, maybe medium sized.

Terry hopped out, coming to your side and picking you up off the seat. He opened his front door and walked to a door that appeared to be the way to a basement, you were right.

He then unlocked a metal lock and opened the door to a cage and put you inside.

“What the fuck?! Let me out, Terry!”

“Nah.”

“You're gonna stay there until you can control that mouth of yours.”

He turned on the light and unsurprisingly, he had pictures of you EVERYWHERE, even some of them were of you naked. He left the basement to leave you sulking and thinking why did he want you.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

What seems like hours later, Terry came back. He leaned down to your level and smirked as he saw you tied up, looking helpless, eyes pleading to be let out.

“Terry please, I’ll be good. I won’t talk back anymore. Just let me out of here.” You begged him, but he just smiled at you.

“Oh I know you will. You’ll do everything I tell you.”

Terry opened the door and grabbed you. He took you upstairs to his bedroom and opened the door with his leg. He threw up on the bed, making your gown rise up showing your baby pink thongs.

“Mmm, that pussy looks so phat! She phat baby? Let Daddy see.” He pushed your legs wider and looked between your legs. His fingers ran long lines around the damp fabric, the sensation was too much for you.

“Hell yeah, she phat and wet, just how I like ‘em. Daddy needs to see all of you babygirl.”

Terry used his strong hands and tore your clothes, ripping them off your body leaving you completely naked, and tied. In the back of your mind, you were screaming for this maniac to stop but the whimpers that came out of your mouth said otherwise.

“Fuckin’ perfect. Look at these big ass titties. You tryna’ smother a nigga with em’?” He roughly groped your breast as his fingers began to rub your nipples, twisting and pulling on them.

“T-Terry.”

“Wassup Mamas? Huh? Tell Daddy.”

Your words were caught in the back of your throat. He continued to touch and toy with your body in ways you’ve never felt before.

Terry pulled your thongs off, taking a whiff of them, & stuffing them into your mouth.

He lowered his head, throwing your legs up to your chest. He took his two pointer fingers and spread your pussy lips. He took your scent in and instantly groaned.

“Such a pretty phat puss for me to suck on.” With that his tongue went to WORK!

He latched his lips around your clit and suckled until you were withering. You tried to move your body but he popped you on your ass cheeks.

“Stop fuckin’ movin’ while I’m tryna’ eat.”

While he was eating you like you were his last meal, he stuck two of his fingers inside your wet hole. “Tight ass pussy. Gotta loosen you up for this big ol’ dick, baby.”

At this point, you were moaning and slopping out of your mouth like crazy! You stopped trying to fight against him and just let him do whatever he wanted with you.

You felt your nut coming in the pit of your stomach.

“Cum in my mouth. I can feel that shit.” He said pushing down on your stomach more.

As on cue, you instantly flooded his mouth like a waterfall. When you came down from your high, Terry pulled you up and turned your body around to where your head was basically hanging off the bed.

He undressed and you could see that thick ass dick all in its glory, your mouth drooled at the sight. Terry gave himself a few small strokes, yanking the thong out of your mouth, before smearing his precum on your lips.

“Open ya’ mouth.”

You opened your mouth and he pushed his entire length down your throat, not giving you any time to adjust to the size. You gagged and almost threw up.

“You bet not, relax ya’ throat.”

You did what he said and began taking more and more of him in.

“Shit, that fuckin’ head lethal.”

Spit and tears ran down your face but Terry didn’t care.

“Just like that, just like that. Ugh, girl you gone make big daddy bust in this pretty throat.” His strokes got sloppier, balls smacking you in the face with every thrust.

“Ouuu, you such a good dick sucka’. You suckin’ that shit like my dick was made outta’ candy. FUCKKK! I’m nuttin’.”

His warm cum slid down your throat with such ease. He pulled out and slapped the remaining cum on your lips. Terry smiled and grabbed his camera, taking a picture of you in such a disgraceful manner.

“Picture perfect, baby.”

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Terry had you arched into the bed, ass up high in the air as he pounded you from the back. Your moans and screams were music to his ears as they echoed off the walls. He was giving you everything he had pent up inside of his soul seemed like.

“Yeah, that’s it. Take all this dick. Take. It.”

“F-F-Fuck, ouuu Daddy, just like that! Don’t stop fucking me!” You wailed.

“With a pussy this good, I could never stop fucking you. I would kill a mothafucka’ behind this shit.”

Terry grabbed the ropes that were holding your arms in place and pulled you against his body, continuing to give you sharp thrusts. One hand reached around to grab your throat and the other grabbed one of your titties.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Tears of ecstasy streamed down your face. The way you were being loud, you knew that you would be hoarse in the morning.

“Mhmm. This my pussy?”

You didn’t answer, only a moan came out.

Terry pulled out of your creamy hole, untied the ropes and flipped you over on your back. He then tied you legs to the bed rails and slid his dick between your folds, giving your clit light smacks with his mushroom tip.

He quickly filled you up again, stretching you deliciously.

“Oh! My! God!”

“Uhh Uht, cry out for me princess.”

He started hammering your poor cunt, pulling back to where only the tip remained before slamming back into you.

“Tell Daddy this his pussy.” He said while taking his thumb rubbing it on your clit.

“It’s yours, this pussy all yours! Take it from me Daddy!” You were just saying shit at this point, words coming up all together sounding like one big word.

“Ouu Daddy! I-I love you and this dick. I don’t ever want to leave you alone!”

Terry smirked, pleased with himself as you said those words.

“Daddy loves you too babygirl, I promise you ain’t going’ nowhere.”

“You stretching my pussy sooo good! I feel it all in my stomach!”

“There were I’m supposed to be, right fuckin’ there.”

You squirted and he pulled out, rubbing your pussy up and down, thrusting back in.

Your eyes rolled in the back of your head momentarily before focusing on his. They put you in a hypnotic state.

You soon uttered the words that would send Terry into a feral frenzy.

“Nut in your pussy Big Daddy. I want your baby inside my womb.”

You felt his dick twitch inside of you and he flashed that killer smile at you!

“Oh yeah? You want Daddy to put a baby inside this puss, yeah?”

You shook your head.

“I’ma’ give you exactly what you want.”

Terry planted his feet into the mattress and drove his dick damn near past your cervix. You felt him throbbing as his thrusts grew stronger.

“Oh fuck, I’m bouta’ nut in this sloppy little pussy, fill you up til you got my baby in there.”

“Shit, shit, SHIT! I’m cumming too!”

“AHHH FUCK!” His body shivered and collapsed on yours as you both rode out of your orgasms.

He pulled out and a trail of cum flowed out of you onto the sheets. He quickly scooped it up with his fingers, pushing it back into you as your cunt accepted it, greedily.

Terry laid down beside you, pulling you close and snuggling his head in your neck as the heaviness of your eyes reached its peak, making you fall asleep.

“L-Love you Terry.”

“Never losing or letting you go. I love you too. You’re Mines.”

@pocketsizedpanther @kimuzostar @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @nayaesworld @writingsbytee @theereina @planetblaque @dxddykenn

[the-unidentified-author]

To Love Is to Antagonize | LT. Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd | Top Gun: Maverick

Warnings/ Tags: SMUT[NSFW], teasing, slow build, slow burn?, sly glances, shy Bob, not so shy Bob, rough, loving, talks you through it, reader wears a bikini, no descriptions of the readers body, horny bob, frustrated bob, shirtless bob, unprotected p in v, you have to keep quiet, hand over mouth, bob knows what hes doing, bobs hand on readers body, truth or dare, mention of boobs, breeding kink? consensual!

Summary: A camping trip with the squad is the perfect opportunity for you to get to know Bob a little better. But, of course things can't ever be easy. Nat decides that the best way for you to finally get to jump, Bobs bones is if you antagonize him until the shy, polite part of him gives way to the feral, dirty minded freak he really is.

A/n: I had to split this into individual parts as editing a huge chunk of text actually almost fried my brain. Only the first chapters are posted here because this fic is LONG. There is a link HERE, and at the bottom of this post to the completed fic on AO3. Enjoy!

This fic is inspired by the plan ; robert 'bob' floyd by @geminiwritten, I couldn't stop thinking about it, I think it changed my brain chemistry. Give it a read! If you haven't already!!!

Word Count: 29,075

Not my gif, if its yours and you would like me to remove it just ask <3

I think this is one of the longest, fully completed fics that I have ever written. I don’t even care if there are mistakes and if it’s shit. I had so much fun writing it and I am fucking proud that I finished it!!!

Chapter 1:

The late afternoon sun slanted through the half-open blinds, painting the cluttered room with warm, golden light. You were sitting cross-legged on the scuffed hardwood floor, your backpack propped open beside you like a hungry mouth, methodically sorting through the piles of camping gear strewn around you.

Phoenix, your roommate and perennial mischief-maker, lounged on the mussed bed, idly tossing a balled-up sock in the air and catching it with a flourish. Their dark eyes danced with suppressed laughter, and you could practically see the gears turning in their head.

"Hey," Phoenix said suddenly, a grin spreading across her face like a slow sunrise. "You notice how Bob's been acting around you lately?"

You looked up from your packing, raising an eyebrow inquisitively. "What do you mean?"

Phoenix snorted, rolling her eyes with exaggerated patience. "Come on, don't play dumb. He's been all flustered and tongue-tied, tripping over himself whenever you're nearby. It's adorable, really."

You rolled your eyes, trying to suppress a smile as you turned back to your gear. "He does not."

"Does too!" Phoenix retorted, sitting up with a smirk. "I bet he's got a massive crush on you. He's just too shy to make a move."

You scoffed, reaching for a rolled-up sleeping bag and tucking it into your backpack with a little more force than necessary. "You're imagining things. Bob's just… Bob. He's like that with everyone."

"Nope. I know what I see," Phoenix insisted, leaning forward with a conspiratorial wink. "Mark my words, something's gonna happen on this trip. All those long, moonlit walks in the woods? The romantic campfire stories? It's the perfect setup."

You crossed your arms, giving Phoenix a skeptical look. “Hardly romantic—the whole squad's going to be there. Plus, Bob’s just shy. He’s like that with everyone.”

Phoenix grinned, leaning back on her elbows, unshaken. “Exactly. That’s what makes it even more adorable. Shy guys are always the most intense when they finally get the guts to make a move. And trust me, I’ve seen the way he looks at you. It’s not just friendly.”

You rolled your eyes, stuffing a few more socks into your pack. “He’s probably just nervous. It’s a big trip, big group—don’t overthink it.”

Phoenix snorted softly, eyes narrowing playfully. “Nope. I think he's got it bad—secretly scripting long walks, staring at your profile while pretending to be lost in thought. Trust me, I’ve seen those little glances—you’re not that oblivious, right?”

You let out an exasperated breath, shaking your head. “Please. It’s all in your head. Bob’s a nice guy, but I think you’re reading way too much into it.”

Phoenix sat up, her expression turning playful but insistent. “You’re missing the signs. Those subtle hints? The way he fidgets around you, trying to hide how much he’s staring? That’s crush 101. And I’m telling you, something’s gonna happen—probably accidental, probably sweet. But definitely happening.”

You sighed, feeling a mixture of amusement and awkwardness. “You’re impossible.”

Phoenix grinned wider, crossing her arms exaggeratedly. “Hey, I’m just saying—if I were him, I’d be too nervous to say anything directly.”

You blinked, caught between amusement and a little flutter of nerves. “You’ve got enough confidence for both of us.”

Phoenix leaned in slightly, a sly smile curling her lips. “Maybe. Or perhaps I just know how these things work. The subtle signals, the waiting game. Trust me, this trip’s going to turn into something pretty interesting.”

You sighed, shaking your head. “Even if you’re right, it doesn’t matter. Bob’s far too shy to admit anything, even if he’s got a crush. He’s polite and nervous—he wouldn’t make a move, not even if I practically waved it in his face.”

Phoenix’s eyes sparkled with mischief, a grin tugging at her lips. “That’s precisely where you come in. You just need to drive him absolutely insane—that’s how you’ll get his attention.”

You looked at her, skeptical. “What? How?”

Phoenix sat forward, excitement laced her words. “Listen—I’m talking about just enough teasing, a little flirtation. Show him a little more of that smile, a little suggestive glance now and then. And the best way? Giving him glimpses of your cleavage—nothing crazy, just enough to make his head spin. Make him realise what he’s been missing.”

You felt your cheeks flush but tried to stay nonchalant. “You want me to flirt with him?”

Phoenix winked, eyes glinting with scheming amusement. “Exactly. You’re gorgeous—what’s the worst that could happen? Just enough teasing that he starts second-guessing everything, wondering if you’re interested. When he finally gets it—trust me, the guy’s a man, manners can only hold him back for so long.” She grinned wider. “You’re the one who’s got the power in this game. Just give him enough glimpses, enough softly spoken hints, and watch him unravel. He won’t be able to resist eventually.”

You raised an eyebrow, struggling not to smile. “You want me to blue-ball, poor Bob?”

Phoenix snorted, batting you lightly with the balled-up sock. “Please, it’s not about torturing him. This might be the only way to get him to actually admit he likes you.” She paused, eyes sparkling. “Shy boys never just come out and say it. You have to make it so obvious they can’t help themselves. But honestly, isn’t that half the fun?”

You snorted, cheeks warming. “So I just flirt him into a confession?”

She grinned, clearly enjoying herself. “Exactly! Shy boys are always so much fun—every glance, every accidental brush, it drives them wild. It’s adorable. Besides, you like a chase too, don’t you?”

You shrugged, not trusting yourself to meet her gaze, though you felt that flutter of anticipation. “Maybe. Just a little.”

Phoenix nudged your leg with her foot, her grin impossibly wide. “Trust me. If you want him to make a move, this is the way. It’ll be fun for both of you.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling now. “You’re dangerous, Phoenix.”

She winked. “You haven’t seen anything yet. Just start with a few smiles and a little less hoodie—he won’t know what hit him.”

Chapter 2:

The gravel crunched beneath your boots as the squad clustered in the busy car park, vehicles parked haphazardly, gear spilling out. The late afternoon sun cast a warm glow, shadows stretching long as everyone prepared to head into the woods.

Jake sparred with Bradley, both bouncing on their toes, fists raised. Jake’s grin was wide, teasing as he threw quick jabs, while Bradley’s smirk matched his playful aggression, both clearly enjoying themselves.

Reuben was doubled over, roaring with laughter, while Mickey stared at the map, eyebrows raising as he took in the scene. “Wait, wait—what? So, we’re hiking before setting up camp? I thought we just show up, pitch tents, and chill,” Mickey said, shaking his head with a weird mix of surprise and annoyance.

Reuben chuckled, smacking Mickey on the back. “Dude, you seriously thought they were just gonna drive us here and call it a day? Nah, buddy. You gotta earn your s'mores.”

Mickey looked genuinely puzzled, crossing his arms. “Nah, I just thought—y’know, a chill weekend. I didn’t expect a full hike before we even set up.” He shrugged, a wide grin curling his lips. “But, hey, I’ll survive. Just didn’t plan on breaking a sweat today, that’s all.”

Phoenix leaned casually against a van, arms crossed, enjoying the scene with her usual mischievous smile. She shot you a quick glance, clearly amused. “Well, Mickey, think of it as pre-camping cardio. Nothing like a good hike to kick off the weekend, right?”

Meanwhile, standing near the back, Bob was perfectly still. His backpack was already on, buckled tight, everything arranged with military precision—every strap and pocket exactly in place. His gear was spotless, each item meticulously packed, as if he had just stepped out of uniform instead of the chaos of the car park.

He watched quietly, calm and composed, like he’d seen it all before—the sparring, the teasing, the group’s playful fuss. His gaze flicked over Jake and Bradley still going at it, Mickey’s reaction, everyone joking around, but his posture remained steady, as if ready for whatever unfolded next.

You caught his eye for a split second, and he offered you a shy smile before awkwardly shifting his focus back to your teammates. His demeanour was as sharp and precise as his gear—completely at ease, almost military in how ready he seemed to face whatever came.

The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting a warm amber glow over the busy car park. Vehicles scattered in every direction, gear spilling out like a jumble of chaos. The smell of fresh pine and earth drifted in the air as everyone started to gather their packs.

Natasha, or Nat as everyone called her, pushed off from the van with a confident grin. "Alright, folks, let's get moving before the sun dips too low. No dilly-dallying—get those boots clicking."

She glanced around at the excited crowd, her eyes twinkling. “You all good on your gear? No forgotten snacks or emergency marshmallows?” she added with a mischievous wink.

Jake clapped Bob on the back, a friendly, almost teasing gesture that made Bob straighten his glasses and adjust his already pristine gear with practiced precision. He let himself be led by the group, his posture steady and military-precise, ready for whatever was coming next.

The others grabbed their packs, slinging bags over shoulders and exchanging quick, energetic glances. With a collective nod, they turned toward the trail leading into the woods, footsteps crunching on gravel as they began their trek.

Natasha’s eyes shifted from the group to you. She sidled up quietly, lowering her voice so just you could hear. “Hey, have you packed everything we agreed on for Operation Flirt with bob until he breaks and jumps your bones?”

Your eyes flicked to her, and she grinned mischievously. Without missing a beat, she leaned in close, whispering with a conspiratorial wink, “You know… the whole mission to make Bob think he’s missing out on the best thing that’s ever happened to him’”

She gave you a playful nudge. “Think you’re ready for it?”

"As I will ever be." you replied with a shake of your head and a soft smile.

The trail narrowed as you followed the group into the shade of the pines, leaves crunching beneath your boots. When you’d packed with Nat, she’d settled on your hiking outfit with gleeful precision: tight black cycling shorts that clung to your thighs and left nothing for the imagination, paired with a slick, supportive sports bra—probably the most engineering you’d ever worn under your clothes. You’d thrown a zip-up hoodie on top, tugged just low enough to almost hide the curve of your breasts, though not quite.

Nat had eyed you critically before you left, giving a brisk nod of approval. “Perfect. Athletic, strategic, and just distracting enough. Plenty for him to think about while pretending he’s focused on the route.”

Now, as the hike stretched on, bits of sunlight filtered down through the branches, occasionally catching on the bare length of your legs or the hint of your silhouette beneath the hoodie. Each time the trail bent, or you adjusted your straps, you felt eyes on you—Bob’s eyes, in particular. He tried valiantly to keep his gaze front and centre, but every few minutes, he’d look your way, glasses glinting, cheeks suspiciously warm, quickly shifting his focus back to his boots.

You feigned obliviousness, letting your conversation drift loosely around Nat, Mickey, and the others ahead. A casual laugh, a stretch overhead to fix your backpack strap, revealing just a sliver more skin. Bob, walking beside you, never said a word about it. But the hush in his throat, the way he fumbled with his water bottle, the uncharacteristic distraction in his step—all gave him away.

His composure stayed in place by sheer force of will, but every so often he'd fidget with his gear, or awkwardly clear his throat, and you couldn’t help but smile to yourself.

The trees finally opened onto the edge of a small lake, sunlight flickering silver and gold across the rippling surface. The campsite itself was tucked beneath a tall stand of pines, the ground carpeted with needles and moss so soft it muted every step. Birdsong drifted down from somewhere high in the branches, and the water lapped gently against the stones lining the shore. To one side, a weathered fire pit marked the heart of the clearing, already circled by flat-topped logs and half-buried stones for makeshift seating. Across the water, a distant ridge glazed in late-afternoon light promised privacy and peace—your group the only intruders on a scene so still it almost felt untouched.

Mickey shrugged off his pack with a huff, bending from the waist and letting it fall with an exaggerated grunt. “Honestly, that was at least twice the walk it looked on the map,” he groaned, but his complaints trailed off as he turned to the water, unable to hide a wide, genuine smile. “This is gorgeous, though. Totally, worth it.”

The others scattered, Jake and Bradley immediately making a beeline for the fire pit, clapping each other on the back as they poked at the charred logs and debated how best to arrange things. Reuben was already eyeing the shoreline, calculating the best spot to drop his gear and maybe sneak in a stone-skimming contest before dark. Bob, immaculate as ever, had set down his pack and was surveying the perimeter—probably cataloguing landmarks and escape routes, you thought, amused.

As you stretched your arms and let your muscles relax, Natasha sidled up, her face bright with playful intent. She nudged your side, voice low and brimming with delight. “So,” she whispered, not even glancing at the lake, “did you see the way Bob couldn’t take his eyes off you the whole hike up here? He’s lucky he didn’t walk straight into a tree.”

You shot Natasha a sly look, unable to keep the smile off your face. “How long do you think it’ll take before he finally snaps and says something?”

Natasha grinned, eyes sparkling as she surveyed the group’s bustling chaos. “That depends. If you’re planning to keep up the subtle torture, I’d give it another day. But if you really want to push him over the edge…” She arched a brow in your direction. “You did bring that absolutely scandalous bikini, didn’t you?”

Heat crept into your cheeks—part nerves, part excitement. “Maybe. Though I might need a bodyguard if I actually walk out in it. It’s barely more than a couple of strings.”

Natasha barked a quiet laugh. “Perfect. Honestly, after the day we’ve had, a dip in the lake is non-negotiable tomorrow morning. I want to see if Bradley and Jake can actually swim, or if they just flex near the shore.”

You nudged her side, lowering your voice. “You’re just hoping Bob short-circuits.”

“I’m hoping everyone short-circuits,” she shot back, grinning. “We’ll swim, you will act normal, and I will watch Bob for a reaction. Tomorrow?” She glanced up at the fading sun. “I’m thinking coffee by the lake at sunrise. Possibly an early swim—just the two of us. That’ll set the mood for the whole day.”

You spun an innocent look her way. “You mean, Operation break bob, phase two?”

Natasha’s grin grew wicked. “Exactly. Tonight campfire, stories, and just enough flirting that Bob can’t sleep. Tomorrow, bikini entrance and a whole new level of distraction. Ready for it?”

You looked out at the water, sunlight gleaming off the small ripples, feeling anticipation buzz along your skin. “Absolutely. Let’s make this a trip to remember.”

Chapter 3:

The path down by the lake rippled with the gold of the lowering sun. You tugged your hoodie back on, leaving your pack behind for the short walk, and Bob fell into step beside you. Before you’d even left the rough mossy boundary of the campsite, he paused and crouched beside his pack—already arranged in a neat, regulation-perfect stack. With practiced ease, he unzipped a small pocket and pulled out a slim foldable saw, testing the hinge before stashing it in his back pocket.

You blinked, caught somewhere between admiration and amusement. Of course, Bob came prepared for everything, but it still surprised you—the rest of you just grabbed sticks and hoped for the best, but Bob had clearly thought this through.

He glanced at the tree line with a quiet sort of certainty. “Best place for dry wood’s usually up by the rocks,” he said, as the two of you stepped out into the deepening green. “It stays out of the wind and the ground drains faster. Less likely to be rotted.”

You shot him a sidelong smile, letting the admiration show just a little. “No wonder Nat keeps you as her back seater,” you teased, falling into step beside him as you followed the trail toward the rocks. “You’re like a human survival manual—she’ll never let you out of her sight with skills like that.”

A faint flush crept up Bob’s neck. He ducked his head, but not before you caught the ghost of a proud, shy smile flickering across his face. “Well, she likes things to run smooth,” he mumbled, adjusting his grip on the saw. “It’s easier to be prepared. I like making sure nothing gets missed.”

You nudged him lightly, grinning. “And here I thought you just wanted an excuse to show off all your special gear. Very impressive.”

He laughed softly, the sound low and genuine, glasses slipping a fraction down his nose. “Trust me—if I was showing off, I’d have brought the portable espresso machine.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Next trip, then?”

This time, he glanced over, braver somehow. “Deal.”

The rocks tumbled in mossy clusters, and Bob scanned the ground until he found a branch that looked promising. He appraised a fallen pine, then knelt, rolling up his sleeves with a practiced flick. The muscles in his forearms flexed beneath golden skin as he braced the saw and set to work.

You let your gaze linger, indulging for just a moment—the slice of his jaw in profile, the almost methodical way he worked, each motion deliberate. There was a quiet concentration to him, the steady back-and-forth of the saw and the way the light caught on his dampening hairline. If Phoenix could see you now, she’d be snickering in the underbrush.

Bob paused, breath shallow, and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “This wood is stubborn,” he said, not quite meeting your eyes, chest rising and falling with the effort.

You offered him a teasing smile, stepping closer but not quite taking over. “I’m impressed. Honestly, I thought you were all brains and field manuals—but you’re not so bad with your hands, either.”

He glanced at you then, startled, and for a beat you let your gaze drop—lingering, suggestive—before you grinned and bent to begin gathering the cut branches. Bob coughed, looking suddenly desperate to concentrate solely on the saw, but you didn’t miss the flush creeping up his neck again.

Your mind wandered wickedly: there was something undeniably hot about Bob like this, strips of sunlight freckling his arms, intent on the task, something less shy and more commanding taking over as he worked. If this was what a camping trip could offer, you’d gladly volunteer for wood-gathering duty every time.

You let your fingers graze his as you reached for a branch, close enough that he’d feel it—a quiet spark under the guise of teamwork. He flinched slightly, then immediately pulled his hand back, cheeks flushed.

“S-sorry, that was—my fault,” he stammered, though you both knew it wasn’t. He looked at the ground as if willing it to swallow him.

You fought the urge to smile, a quiet satisfaction blooming in your chest. Phoenix would have a field day if she could see him now.

He collected himself and cleared his throat, not quite meeting your eyes. “I think we’ve got enough,” he managed, stacking the freshly cut branches at his feet. “We should, um… gather it up and head back.”

You nodded, biting back a smirk. If your goal was to gently rattle him, you were definitely on the right track. Without another word, you stooped to gather the wood—close enough that your shoulders touched for just a heartbeat longer than necessary. As you straightened, you caught the brief hesitation in his peripheral gaze, his eyes lingering at the edge of your hoodie for a moment too long. You pretended not to notice, busying yourself with the smooth rhythm of stacking branches.

Then you started back toward camp, feeling the heat of his stolen glances still trailing after you all the way through the dappled light.

A Link to the COMPLETE FIC ON AO3

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[justmymindandstuff]

all the miles in between get in your head- Garrick Tavis x Reader

summary: your boyfriend Garrick had to go to Basgiath, he had to leave you behind. One year without any contact. Your heart breaks a little more every day. Even your friends don't offer you any comfort. Until the moment the distance between Garrick and you is not so far anymore.

words: 4.233

titel: Hollywood Hills by Sunrise Awenue

warnings: angst, long-distance relationship, talk about cheating, talk about character death, thinking about cheating, Reader has kind of bad friends (OCs), kissing, fluff

requests are open / main-masterlist/ the empyrean- masterlist/ A03

You open your eyes and stare at your ceiling. Tears gather in your eyes as cold fear grip your entire body. Your nightmare haunts you. You try as best you can to banish the images of a blood-stained, dying Garrick from your mind as you breathe through your panic and blink away your tears.  

You hate these nightmares, but nothing helps. They keep coming back. At night, your imagination paints your worst fears in vivid colors.

The fear slowly leaves your body, retreating until it only wraps itself around your heart. You know it won't get better than this. These feelings, fear and longing never completely go away. They accompanied you since Garrick was forced to enter the Riders Quadrant. Forced to leave you behind. 

You crawl out of your bed, still tired. You pull back the curtains from your window. Outside, the sun shines down on you, reflecting off the soft blanket of snow. Annoyed by the beautiful sight, you turn away. It doesn't match your mood.

You miss Garrick. You miss your boyfriend every day.

You knew the year would be tough until you enter the Healer Quadrant and see each other again.

However you never thought it would be this hard.

You miss him so much. His voice, his laughter, his hugs, his kisses, his humor. Everything about him.

A year without contact, without letters. Your heart aches painfully at this thought, as it does every time.

Today is especially bad. Your nightmare is gnawing at you.

You would love to go back to bed, pull the covers over your head and cry. Wallow in self-pity, and only crawl out from under the warm sheets when it's time for you to head off to Basgiath. But of course, you can't do that. So you turn away from the window, not before glaring angrily at the sun as if it could do something about your bad mood.

Your first stop is the kitchen. You start making your tea. Your gaze goes to the kitchen table, thinking of the countless times you've sat there with Garrick. The death stare he gave his breakfast, Garrick has never been a morning person. The rider Quadrant gets up early. You wonder if Garrick got used to it? Longing tugs at your heart. 

Your mother comes into the kitchen, already dressed for the day and in a great mood. "Good morning," she greets, presses a kiss at the top of your head before she gently ruffles your hair.

"Morning." you don't even try to make your voice cheerful.

"Did you sleep badly?"

"I had a bad dream," you grumble. "About Garr."

Your mother sighs, and that familiar pitying look comes to her face. You hate it when she looks at you like that. She comes over to puts her arm around you. "He's probably fine. He's probably flying through the skies on his dragon." she tries to cheer you up. "Garrick is tough and he has trained for this."

Despite her doubts at the beginning about the marked one boy you introduced to her as your new boyfriend, she warmed up to Garrick over time. Showing genuine interest in him and his life. It's thanks to your mother that Garrick was allowed to come and go from your house as if the place belonged to him.

Tears burn in your eyes again. You blink them away quickly. You feel like you've already cried an entire ocean since he left. You're pathetic. Despite that, there is nothing you can do about the heaviness in your heart.

If only he could write you letters. Then you would know how he's doing. Have his fears come true and most people in the Quadrant want to kill him? Probably! It's not like he can hide who his parents were; the relic on his arm gives him away. Even if he could, Garrick would never hide who he is.

"I miss him so much."

Your mother kisses your forehead. "I know. But it's not forever. You'll see him again."

If he doesn't die first.

You quickly push these thoughts away. No, you can't and don't want to believe that Garrick is dead.

And what if he doesn't want to see you next year?

You sometimes hate your own thoughts. Nevertheless, your mood sinks a little further. Fear tugs at your heart. 

A year without contact is a long time. What if Garrick forgets that he loves you? What if he's already left you long ago?

The front door swings open, tearing you from your thoughts. The next moment your best friend Mara comes into the kitchen.

One look at you makes her cheerful smile slip. The next moment, determination takes over her expression. "No! We're not in a bad mood today. No more heartbreak! We're going to the Festival of Lights!"

You groan in annoyance. In your current mood, you don't have the nerves for the crowded market, loud people, and crowds. "I don't want to."

"No arguments. Hop, hop. Get dressed, the others are already waiting."

You have known Mara your whole life, and that's why you know that arguing with that look on her face is pointless. So you obey.

Obviously, you're too slow. When you get back downstairs Mara is already waiting at the door. "Come on, we have to pick up the others. And I bet Jace is still asleep."

You take your jacket and pull it over your, Garrick's, hoodie before following Mara outside.

She is right. Jace is really still asleep as you arrive. So is Terry. Only Ella is already waiting for you when you show up at her place. Considerably late.

Your mood doesn't improve despite the boys' constant stupid jokes, the new gossip from around town, and Jace's long story about his nephew's first attempts at horse riding.

You barely participate in the conversation. Just trudge along beside your friends while your thoughts jump back and forth between worrying about Garrick and the desire to finally see him again, to hug him, to kiss him.

Only when you hear your name do you look up from the path in front of you. "What?" you ask.

Ella looks at you confused. "What's wrong with you? Are you not feeling well?"

Mara answers for you before you even have a chance to take a breath. "She's just brooding over Garrick again. Broken heart and all."

"Still?" Terry interjects.

"Yeah, still!" you snarl angrily. Your friends have never been Garrick fans.

A marked one, a child of the rebels, his family is responsible for the deaths of so many loyal citizens. Blah blah! None of this is Garrick's fault. And your friends are just too blind to see his big heart, his compassion, his kindness.

They judge him even though they haven't even bothered to get to know him.

"And you think that will do any good?" you know Jace doesn't mean any harm. Still, you have to swallow down your anger.

"He's probably already forgotten about you," Terry interjects.

As if the mean voice in your head that keeps telling you that Garrick is done with you wasn't bad enough. No, now your friends are saying things like this too. 

"Well, my brother said he had never been fucking around again like he did in his first year the Rider Quadrant." Jace leans past Ella to look at you. Ella slaps him hard in the side for his stupid comment.

"You're so stupid," she whispers to him.

"Garrick isn't like that," you say firmly, ignoring the pitying looks from your friends. They think you are naive. A stupid girl who's been lied to and cheated on by Garrick.

"You once said he was acting strangely. Suspicious. You even thought he was cheating on you. Now he has it even easier. No need to sneak away anymore," says Mara.

You suppress an eye roll. That was ages ago. When you first noticed Garrick disappearing for a few days every now and then.

You're angry with yourself for telling Mara about your worries before talking to Garrick about it.

"I wish I could explain it properly, but I can't. You have to trust me. If it were safe for you, I'd tell you everything. Please trust me." And you trust him! He's not cheating on you!

"I told you he was meeting his friends," you defend Garrick. Even though you know it's a hopeless battle.

"Friends none of us have ever met. Neither do you, by the way," Terry points out.

"I know Xaden," you defend yourself immediately. It's an exaggeration, you only saw Xaden once for five minutes. But that's not the point. You don't even want to imagine how your friends would have treated Garrick's childhood friends from Tyrrendor.

Let them think what they want. You know it's not the truth. You know he would never cheat on you. He loves you. Just as much as you love him. One year. You can do this. Your relationship can survive. 

"You don't even know if he's still alive."

"He is!"

The most dangerous thing in the first year is Threshing, and this was months ago. If Garrick survived that, he can survive anything! You wish you could see him for just a brief moment. You wouldn't even have to talk to him. Just seeing him for a brief moment would be enough. His smile, his bright eyes, his dimples.

Your hand goes to your necklace with the small heart pendant. The small package arrived for your birthday a few weeks ago. Garrick left it with Bodhi before his departure, with strict instructions to send it on time.

At least, that's what Bodhi's letter to you said. You only know him from Garrick's stories. But he sent you a birthday greeting and a gift from Garrick. You will be forever grateful for that.

Every time you touch your necklace, the distance to Garrick doesn't feel quite so far. You feel close to him again.

The card that came with the package is in your nightstand drawer.

So you don't forget me.

As if you weren't thinking about him every second. And every second it hurts more.

Does he miss you as much as you miss him? The next moment, your thoughts seem silly. Of course not. He has enough to do just to survive.

You're sure he is still alive. Someone would have told you! You cling to that hope. You repeat it over and over in your head when fear for Garrick keeps you awake at night. He's alive.

You finally arrive at the marketplace, your hands already frozen solid. And Garrick isn't there to warm them between his. 

As you feared, it's crowded, but Ella still digs her arm through yours and pulls you through the crowd. You stroll from stall to stall, buying lottery tickets even though you know none of you will win. You take a long break for food. You warm yourself up with hot cocoa.

The day flies by. Still, even though you really try, the cheerful atmosphere around you doesn't make it into your heart. For the first time in your life you are glad for the short winter days. The sun is slowly setting, and when it's time to gather in the middle of the marketplace, you are almost relieved.

"Three. Two. One." sounds over the place. In the next moment the lamps are lit. All around you, small flames in colorful glasses ignite. The lights illuminate the dark sky above you, casting sparks and shadows across everything and bathing the snow-covered roofs in bright colors.

It's beautiful. Nevertheless tears well up in your eyes again and your heart grows heavy.

Last year you were here with Garrick. Just as the lights came on, he kissed you. His hand on your cheek was warm as he pulled you close. A whole firework of happiness exploded inside you. "I love you," he whispered against your lips and then kissed you again.

Mara nudges you in the side, bringing you back to the moment. When she sees your tears, she sighs, half annoyed, half sympathetic. When she puts her arm around you, you are still grateful and lean against her shoulder.

You manage to get through the rest of the afternoon with a forced smile on your lips, but as you step through the front door, tears stream down your cheeks. Annoyed by everything and yourself, you wipe them away. 

You could have had a nice day with your friends, but your stupid heart had to remind you especially strongly today how much you miss your boyfriend. Probably because you know the day would have been a thousand times better if Garrick had been by your side.

Without really talking to your parents, you go upstairs, take a hot bath, and then retreat to your room. You light a few candles, draw the curtains across your window to shut out the outside world.

Maybe you can sleep away your bad mood and your aching heart. You slip into comfortable clothes and sit in front of your mirror and start brushing your still damp hair. The mirror in front of you shows sad eyes that look back at you tiredly. You take a deep breath. You ask How much longer can you endure all of this?

Maybe it really would have been wiser to break up before Garrick had to go to Basgiath. Then everything would be easier now. You wouldn't worry so much, you wouldn't be so sad.

You shake your head slightly at this lie. You would probably be even sadder, worry even more. Your love for Garrick wouldn't have disappeared just because you broke up.

You put your brush aside, close your eyes and sigh sadly. Today was a shitty day. But tomorrow will surely be better! And soon you willl be able to see Garrick again. This separation, this distance, is not forever. 

A dull thud behind you makes you flinch. You open your eyes and spin around.

Your eyes play a cruel trick on you. Garrick is standing in your room, handsome as ever. Your heart starts beating wildly in your chest. You're surely dreaming. This can only be a dream. Garrick would never just show up in your room like this, hundreds of miles away from Morraine.

"Hey, Honey." his voice is soft and warm, a slight smile dances around his lips. Your heart leaps.

You blink,  stare at him. You can't believe he's really standing in front of you. The next moment you jump up and throw yourself into his arms. Garrick immediately wraps his strong arms around you, pulls you to his chest, buries his nose in your hair. You feel his warmth, his heartbeat, breathe in his pleasant scent deeply. He's real. This isn't a dream. Garrick is really standing in your room, really holding you in his arms. This fact hits you, and you can't suppress a sob.

"No, Honey. Don't cry. Everything's fine." your boyfriend gently strokes the back of your head. You pull away a little, just enough to look at him. His hazel eyes shine warmly at you, flicking over your face as if he wants to memorize every inch of it. He gently wipes the tears from your cheeks. When he smiles, dimples form on his cheek. You take half a step back, reaching for his hand as you study him closely.

He's always been fit, but his muscles are even more pronounced now under his black clothing. A nearly healed wound stands out on his cheekbone, his knuckles are scraped, and there's a new scar on his neck. His black hair is shorter than you have ever seen it.

But he is alive. And he is standing right in front of you.

"How?" you ask, confused. Your mind is having a hard time keeping up with all the feelings swirling around inside you.

The smile on his face widens even a little. "Signet. But shhh." he puts a finger to his lips. "I've been trying to come to you for days. Xaden said it was a bad idea, but I just couldn't resist. Gods. I've missed you so much."

His hand goes to your hip and he pulls you back against him. Your heart begins to flutter as he slowly bends his head and your lips meet. Fireworks explode inside you as his lips gently move against yours. You wrap your arms around him, savoring the feeling of finally being able to kiss Garrick again. You never want to be separated from him again.

"Better than I remember," he whispers against your lips. You giggle, but Garrick's lips capture yours again and he pulls you closer. Only when you both run out of breath do you separate.

"I missed you so much," you say, snuggling up in his arms and burying your face in the crook of his neck.

Garrick's hand finds the back of your head, gently strokes your hair, and he kisses the top of your head. "Me too. I think of you every day, Honey."

You breathe in his scent deeply before looking into his beautiful eyes again. Warmth and love spread through you. For the first time today you are truly, completely and unconditionally happy.

"How are you?" you ask, checking for injuries again.

"It's gotten better since Threshing," he answers. You frown your eyebrows. Garrick places a hand on your cheek again, gently caress it. "Don't worry. They are not seriously trying to kill us anymore."

You have to swallow. You knew it would be hard for him, but real assassination attempts? Rage burns beneath your skin. How dare they! Garrick has done nothing wrong. "I hate them for this," you say, squeezing his hand. You're not a violent person, the sight of blood makes you sick. Still, you want to kill them all just because they're trying to kill your boyfriend. "I wish everyone would leave you alone."

Garrick laughs mirthlessly and shrugs. "I got used to it." you hate that he's gotten used to assassination attempts. You're afraid that one day your kind, cheerful, gentle Garrick won't be there anymore. That they will break him. "But that's not important right now. I want to show you something." Garrick raises his hand, and a few colorful mage lights appear around you, casting soft rays onto the walls. Fascinated, you watch as the colorful lights dance in the air around you. It's a thousand times more beautiful than the Festival of Lights.

"That's damn cool," you say laughing.

"I know," Garrick grins like a little kid. No, noone will ever be able to take your Garrick away from you. "I can do more." another twist of his wrist, and your door lock clicks softly as it locks. You giggle softly at the proud grin on his face.

 "So you use your magic for little party tricks?" you grin at him.

"What else? That's the only positive thing about the whole Rider Quadrant," he grins, and then suddenly flinches. Is he in pain? Before you can ask what's wrong, Garrick speaks again. "Chradh disagrees." he then laughs. A gentle smile now appears on his face. "I wish you could get to know him. He's, after you, the best thing that ever happened to me. As soon as you get to the Healer Quadrant, we'll sneak away and you'll get to know him."

"I would love that," you say, swallowing your fear. As long as Garrick is by your side, nothing will happen to you, even if you were facing a fire-breathing dragon.

Garrick pulls you closer again, kissing your forehead gently. "Enough of this. How are you?"

"I miss you terribly. All the time." you admit.

Garrick sighs softly, resting his chin on your head while his arms wrap around your body. "I miss you all the time too," he says.

You swallow your tears before whispering, "Mara thinks you're cheating on me. And forgot about me."

Garrick snorts derisively. He dislikes Mara as much as Mara dislikes him. He takes a half-step back to look you in the eyes. "You know I would never do that! I love you and only you. The mere idea of ​​being with anyone else is ridiculous."

You beam at him. "I told her that too." you stand on tiptoes to kiss him. "I'm sorry I sometimes doubt."

Garrick sighs again. "It's fine. I know it's hard. I'm sorry you have to go through this. That I can't be by your side."

"You were forced," you say. Then you shake your head. "But you're here now. I don't want to talk about us being apart for so long when you are standing right in front of me."

Garrick smiles again, his gaze flickering from your eyes to your lips and then to the necklace around your neck. His smile widens even further.

"I see Bodhi did what I asked," he says, gently stroking the piece of jewelry with his finger.

"Yes," you grin. "Thank you. The necklace is beautiful. I was very happy." Garrick tries to suppress it, but a yawn escapes. "Would you like to rest a bit?" you ask immediately.

"No. I want to spend every second we have with you."

Your heart flutters and warmth spreads through your entire body. You take Garrick's hand and pull him over to the bed.

You cuddle up tightly. It's a little tight, especially since Garrick has gained a lot of muscle since the last time you were here. It doesn't bother you, just one more reason to snuggle even closer to him. You breathe in his scent, finally feeling like being home again. Garrick's hand gently strokes your back.

Garrick talks about Basgiath, Xaden, and Sgaeyl, about flying and how good it feels. About his lessons, sparring. He only tells you the good things, and you're glad for that. You don't want any more fuel for your worries. Again and again, he steals a kiss from your lips. The whole night passes like this, and you wish time would stand still.

But at some point, he sighs sadly. Immediately, your body tenses and your heart clenches. You know it is time to say goodbye again.

"I don't want you to leave." you bury your face in the crook of his neck, pressing a quick kiss to the skin of his neck.

Garrick presses a kiss to the top of your head. "I don't want to go either," he says, his voice husky. You feel him swallow before he takes a deep breath and then sits up with you in his arms. You clutch your shirt, wanting to hold on tight. He shouldn't go back to this death factory. He should stay with you. Tears burn in your eyes.

"Hey, Honey. Please don't cry. I'll be back as soon as I can," he says, but his grip on your hip tightens.

"Promise?" you ask, giving in to the urge to lean in and kiss him before he even can answer. Garrick pulls you close, kissing you as if you'd never see each other again. But then he pulls away, quickly swinging himself out of bed.

"Don't look at me like that. How can I leave when you look at me like that?"

"You're not supposed to leave." you grip his hand tighter, as if he wouldn't be able to tear himself away easily. You get out of bed as well. You're slightly tense from lying cuddled up to Garrick for hours. You don't care.

A quiet laugh shakes his chest. You walk over to him and wrap your arms around his waist, burying your face in his chest. "I don't want to go. But I have to," he whispers.

"I know," you say. You hold on to him for a moment longer before you manage to pull away.

Garrick twists his wrist, and all the mage lights around you, except for a small, warm, shimmering one, go out. They simply disappear as if they were never there.

"I'll be back. Until then: Whenever you're worried, look at my mage light. As long as it's lit, I'm alive.”

You stare at the soft glow and nod. "Okay," you whisper, tears gathering in your eyes again, but you stay strong. You know it has to go. Iif his absence is noticed, he'll be in big trouble.

Deserters die by dragon fire. The thought makes you shake yourself before you turn your attention back to Garrick.

You look at him closely, trying to memorize him exactly. His smile, the dimples, his warm hazel eyes that look down at you full of love.

He leans forward again, your lips meet. You try to pour all your love and longing for him into this kiss. You let the warmth in your body carry you away as his lips move perfectly against his.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

You blink and he is gone. You're alone again. What's left is just his small mage light. Your heart is a little lighter than before, and you breathe deeply. His scent still lingers in your room. You can't help but smile. Garrick has found a way to make the distance between you less painful until you finally enter the Healer Quadrant.

Confidence spreads through you. When you can see Garrick from time to time, the months of separation don't feel so bad anymore.

[flyingwargle]

march fanfic recs!

ooh boy, i read a lot of amazing fics this month, and still got so much more to go. feel free to keep recommending fics to me, i've enjoyed all of them so far <3

some of these fics are rated e!

sakuatsu

i keep a couple of feet between everybody and me t. 5.6k. in which sakuatsu don't think they're dating and publicly announce they aren't. cue social media and the rest of their friends calling their bullshit. comedic and fun to read.

let them talk about us (talk too much) g. 8.6k. sakusa and atsumu are interviewed and work through who atsumu's mysterious lover is (not knowing it's sakusa). the greatest thing since sliced bread. please read this.

every action has an equal and opposite reaction t. 10.4k. in which sakusa realizes he has feelings for atsumu after seeing his calvin klein ad. i adore how the fandom's go-to sponsor for any of the boys is calvin klein, and how it's always with copious amounts of godly description and thirsting. also, physics metaphors. as someone allergic to science, i appreciate writers who use them.

For Someone Worth It g. 15.7k. atsumu hears sakusa sing in the locker room, but it isn't any song - it's a love song. that means sakusa has a crush, but who? atsumu is determined to find out, until he realizes he has a crush on sakusa. very lovely prose and writing!

and curfew's at midnight (we watch the sunrise) t. 19.6k. atsumu is upset about osamu's decision not to go pro but also freaks out when he learns sakusa is going to college instead, hence a whirlwind trip to tokyo to convince him otherwise. this is peak miya atsumu behavior with all his annoying traits but also insecurities. loved his characterization in this one.

The Superstitions of Cabin 4 t. 20.1k. 2/2. sakusa and atsumu are trapped in a cabin on the mountain due to a snowstorm and slowly fall in love while learning more about each other.

Other Boys in Other Ports e. 26.5k. 3/3. space sailor atsumu meets bartender sakusa for three days every few months. the yearning is STRONG in this. it's not very spicy if you aren't into that, but if you are into mutual pining, romance, and angst with a happy ending (it's HAPPY), you'll definitely be into this.

a tachycardic response t. 64.8k. 10/10. the next longfic after the posterior probability in atsumu's pov. i love fics that delve into how relationships go wrong because it isn't just miscommunication but insecurity, making assumptions, feeling inferior, etc. all of that is portrayed amazingly in atsumu's pov, and i'm eager to continue with this series!

homebody and dry skin t. 66.3k. 7/7. atsumu is stranded at the airport and calls sakusa to pick him up, which he miraculously does. this fic is underrated. i was worried about the estranged family tag, thinking it would be between atsumu and osamu (it isn't) but it was beautifully done. i love the prose, the backstory, the interactions with atsumu and sakusa's extended families - honestly one of my favorites of the year so far. <3

Insert Coin To Play e. 178.3k. 17/17. this one is recommended on every sakuatsu fanfic list you will ever find with good reason. amazing premise, details, prose, action, and on-point character development and portrayal. you will also be doing yourself a favor by reading this.

sunaosa

if you like what you see (end your curiosity) e. 5.1k. i try to keep what explicit fics i read to myself but this one deserves to be here. steamy prose and even steamier descriptions. you're doing yourself a favor by reading this.

good luck charm t. 5.7k. in the past, a fox rescued the miya twins from their burning house. 10 years later, osamu meets suna. you can probably tell where this will go 👀 the prose is very whimsical and light, which i enjoyed very much.

i'd like to call you on the way home t. 6.3k. apartment hunting is a form of love, and this fic exemplifies this very well, along with all the little details that bring snos's relationship to life. a beautiful read <3

learning to warm cold hands m. 84.6k. 11/11. suna returns to hyogo after retiring as a pro and reconnects with his ex after seven years, osamu. told in both present and past pov, with a healthy dose of angst, comfort, and eventual happy ending <3 this was in my tabs for the longest time and i finally got around to reading it. definitely one of snos's best gems.

iwaoi

the yellow room t. 14.2k. iwa and oikawa broke up but still live together and pictures of them kissing are still on their fridge. i love vulnerability and insecurity because of how raw it makes a relationship, and this was done beautifully.

kagehina

a green ring upon my finger t. 7.5k. in which hinata thinks his finger is turning green after wearing his wedding ring once too often. very cute with a dash of insecure hinata and comforting kageyama.

from this day forward t. 9.5k. in which kageyama thought it'd be romantic to propose to hinata by putting the ring in a meat bun. absolutely amazing and hilarious. you need this in your life, trust me.

tsukkiyama

Goodnight, Tadashi g. 5.3k. tsukkiyama. in which tsukki buys a body pillow and names it tadashi. i love this trope to death and the ending is just superb!

a good pair of headphones t. 5.8k. tsukkiyama. tsukishima discovers he likes yamaguchi. lots of pining and questioning because tsukki is nothing if not fastidious about his love for yamaguchi. lovely prose!

other

The Best/Worst Places to Cry in the City t. 4.4k. matsukawa gets hit on while crying by hanamaki and then brings him somewhere to cry. poor mattsun, but at least you got your man in the end? i still stand by happiness is in matsuhana fics, btw.

The Mystery of Ushijima Wakatoshi’s Chocolate-Making, Paris-Living Boyfriend t. 8.2k. ushiten. got another rec for you, ushiten anon 😎 the adlers try to figure out who ushijima's boyfriend is and only kageyama seems to figure it out, which is fine. i loved all the different perspectives in this one!

A Perfect Fit t. 10k. arankita. kita gives a pair of gloves to aran, who wears them to ruin during 3rd year and atsumu makes a snarky comment, only for kita to reveal he was the one who made them. aran's brain promptly stops working. very fluffy read!

My Nameless World (I’ll Let You In) t. 18k. kuroken, kagehina. kenma and hinata are roommates and it might as well be like kageyama lives with them too, because of how often he's over. kenma observes their relationship and thinks maybe...maybe's something going on with him and kuroo.

The Five Stages of Being in Love with Your Roommate t. 18.6k. 5/5. bokuaka and kuroken. aka the five stages of grief when it comes to wanting to admit you're in love with your roommate but you don't want to confess, afraid the other won't reciprocate. very cute with both couples getting their happy ending.

[dakusan]

hi dear! i've been in absolute love with your writing ever since i found out about this blog when it was just a tiny baby with a few posts~ thank you for always bringing such artistry and poetry to the tl, you're so incredible at this!!

i really like your fluff posts, and since sunday is knocking at the door already, i'd like to ask you about something really specific! - how would the skz guys act like on special occasions like birthdays, anniversaries, valentine's day etc? would they express their love in gifts? words? would thay plan special dates or just keep it lowkey at home? would it lead to soft sex later, or are these invitations for special nights? hehe

looking forward to this!! thank youuu ❤️🌹

hi angel~ 🥀 thank you so much for this message — my heart genuinely melted rereading it a few times (ok like seven). i'm honoured you’ve been here since the baby blog days, and i'm so grateful you trust me with your fluffy fix on a Sunday 🫶🏻🌷

now onto your request — skz on special occasions

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

bang chan.

Chan plans for weeks. No, months. Every anniversary, birthday, Valentine’s — he treats like a sacred ceremony. Think midnight flower deliveries, long handwritten letters sealed with wax, and playlists named after inside jokes only you two understand. He’ll take you to the beach just to watch sunrise in silence, your hand cradled in his lap like it’s the only thing anchoring him to earth. He doesn’t just say he loves you — he proves it in 38 layers of forethought.

And yes, it ends in sex. Slow, reverent, worshipful. Like every kiss is an oath, every breath a prayer. You cum under his praise, and he holds you after like he’s grateful you chose him.

⸺⟡⸺

lee know.

You won’t think he’s planning anything — until he shows up at your door in all black, with one hand behind his back and a gaze that says: “Don’t ask questions. Just follow.” He’ll cook for you in silence, pour you wine, pull you onto his lap mid-dinner. Gifts? Subtle but haunting — something custom-engraved, or scented with your favourite perfume. Words? Rare but devastating:

“No one else gets this version of me. You know that, right?” He doesn’t do fireworks. He is the fire. And the sex? Hushed. Heated. His mouth against your throat as he fucks you with the same intensity he ties his shoelaces — precise. Ruthless. Like he’s undoing you on purpose.

⸺⟡⸺

changbin

Anniversaries? He’s up at 6am blasting music, making heart-shaped pancakes, aggressively loving you out loud. He gives you a gift every hour on the hour — from cheesy keychains to letters written on napkins. Expect a slideshow of your selfies set to emotional music and tears in his eyes when you say thank you. He feels everything, deeply, loudly, honestly. And when it’s time for bed? He whispers how much he loves you in between kisses, until the kisses turn to soft bites, then full-body worship.

Sex with Bin on special days is passionate. Focused. Filthy in its sweetness. “I love you so much I could ruin you.” And he might.

⸺⟡⸺

hyunjin

Your entire house is covered in rose petals by noon. He’s written you a poem and painted something in your honour — probably a surreal portrait with tears made of stardust. He plans elaborate dates in art museums, rooftops, hidden gardens. But the real gift? The way he looks at you — like he’s trying to memorize your soul.

And when the lights are low? Hyunjin makes love like it’s a scene in a French film. Lots of whispered “I can’t believe you’re mine”s, shaky breaths, and hands tangled in hair. It’s not sex. It’s cinema.

⸺⟡⸺

han jisung

Jisung forgets until the day before. But then he overcompensates insanely. He’ll write you a three-minute diss track about anyone who ever hurt you. Make a PowerPoint slideshow. Cry while gifting you a badly-wrapped necklace that cost him his soul. He panics. Then he overdelivers. Every. Time. Words? Yes — panicked, heartfelt, often cursed.

“I fucking love you, okay?! Like so much it makes me want to eat drywall!” And the sex? Chaotic divine comedy. He’ll start off trying to be romantic and end up moaning your name like a worship chant, crying a little, holding you so tight it’s embarrassing. But you love it. He means every second.

⸺⟡⸺

felix

Felix goes soft mode on special days. He makes breakfast in bed with glitter pancakes and blueberry syrup. He decorates the house like it’s your birthday at Disneyland. He gives you themed gifts — a crystal for calm, a note for comfort, a photo album with glitter tape. He doesn’t just celebrate the occasion. He celebrates you.

And at night? He’s so gentle, it’s almost spiritual. He lights candles. He asks permission even after a thousand times. The sex is slow, worshipful, and little giggles between moans. You end up crying. So does he.

⸺⟡⸺

seungmin

Acts like he doesn’t care. Teases you all day. Calls your birthday “mid” while secretly planning a surprise party with all your favourite people. He gives gifts he pretends are practical — but they’re always thoughtful, personal, perfect. Words? Rare, but lethal.

“I don’t say it often. But I’d rather die than lose you.” He makes you feel seen. Even when he’s roasting you. And when the lights go out? He’s a menace. Dry wit, soft touches, and filthy pillow talk in that calm voice — it’s psychological warfare. He’ll edge you until you’re crying “Please”, then kiss your tears like they’re holy water.

⸺⟡⸺

jeongin

He’s shy about it. But you find out he’s been counting down to your anniversary for weeks. He gives you a small box with a silly doodle he drew. Inside? The most meaningful thing you’ve ever received. He fumbles over compliments, blushes, then suddenly drops the line of the century.

“You’re the only home I’ve ever wanted to build.” Dates are chill — stargazing, ramen shops, movie marathons in PJs. But the sex? Oh. Jeongin on special occasions pulls out his hidden dom side. It’s quiet, breathless dominance. You blink and you’re pinned. “I want to make you remember this day every time you close your eyes.” He means it.

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

thank you again for this delicious ask 🥀🌙

[jessesluvr]

heyyy do you write angst? the ending can be whatever you like, even fluff!!!!!! i was thinking of jesse and dina being done for good and jesse and reader are already friends and start trying it out yk dating and stuff and them 2 months later they are so in love and everyone can see it until dina shows up saying she's pregnant and jesse was the last man she been with. reader tries to keep going and accept the situation but she can't help but thinking she can't do this, being a stepmom and knowing that if her and jesse ever get pregnant jesse will already have experienced the whole thing and this makes her sick and sad since she wants kids and has mentioned wanting a boy. she tries to keep going but a few months in jesse and dina says he thinks it's a boy she breaks down and say she can't do this. i think that's messy so i'm sorry

first, not mine | jesse x reader

author's note : to the anon that requested this.. COUNT YOUR DAYS?! you're my number one enemy now. i did this for you ! jk jk, i love you to bits, please enjoy this absolute heart shattering oneshot (at least to me). do other authors SOB at their own works, and feel their heart absolutely break, because mine did.

summary : after falling deeply in love with jesse, the reader’s world quietly unravels when dina reveals she’s pregnant with his child, forcing her to confront a future where she’ll always come second. despite trying to stay, the reader ultimately walks away, unable to bear the weight of a dream that now belongs to someone else.

word count : 3.7k

jackson’s nights were quiet in the way that made people nervous. too much silence often meant a storm was coming — literal or otherwise — but tonight, the wind was easy and the moon was low, casting gentle light on the muddy trails near the stables.

you had the early patrol tomorrow, but you found yourself lingering.

jesse stood beside you, leaning his arms on the top rail of the corral fence, boots scuffed and shirt rolled to the elbows. his skin glowed faintly in the lantern-light, bronze and shadowed, his eyes tracing the horizon like he was waiting for something to arrive. or leave.

neither of you spoke for a while.

not because there was nothing to say — but because there was finally nothing that needed to be said.

“i heard eugene found another old comic stash in the radio tower,” you said eventually, breaking the stillness with a lopsided smile. “swore he wasn’t gonna let anyone touch it, but i think ellie bribed him with jerky.”

jesse huffed a quiet laugh, glancing at you. “she probably threatened to melt his snow globes if he didn’t give her first pick.”

you chuckled, and his grin widened at the sound. there it was again — that little flutter in your stomach. it had been coming more often lately. every time he looked at you too long. every time your hands brushed when passing tools. every time he waited for you after patrol, even when you had nothing to do.

you hadn’t expected it. you’d been friends with jesse for over a year — long enough to know his tells, his sense of humor, the way his mood changed with the weather.

long enough to remember how he looked when he was still with dina.

they’d been over for a while now. nobody talked about it much — not even jesse. they still saw each other around town, made polite nods, exchanged words like they weren’t bitter in the back of their throats.

but jesse hadn’t gone back. he hadn’t waited around, either. instead, he started standing next to you more often. sitting beside you on watch. sharing meals. laughing longer at your jokes.

you didn’t know when friendship became something else — only that it had.

“tomorrow’s gonna suck,” you muttered, tugging your jacket tighter around you. “rain’s supposed to start around sunrise.”

“i’ll bring extra coffee,” jesse said. “you take cream, right?”

you blinked, surprised. “i didn’t know you noticed that.”

“i notice a lot of things,” he said softly, and your stomach turned to heat.

he pushed off the fence then, standing close. not too close — not assuming — but close enough that your hands almost touched in the dark.

you looked up at him.

it should’ve been awkward. but there was nothing unsure about the way jesse looked at you — only warmth, only patience, like he’d been waiting for you to catch up.

so you reached for his hand.

and he let you.

you didn’t tell anyone at first.

it wasn’t about hiding. it was about keeping something soft. something untouched by the rest of the world.

jackson had a way of putting its nose where it didn’t belong. couples were everyone’s business. breakups even more so. and jesse… jesse had always been at the center of things — trusted, reliable, always smiling. it made people curious. gossip slipped like frost through the streets, and you didn’t want to be part of it.

so instead, you kept it simple. quiet touches. shared lunches. books passed back and forth. you kissed only once that first week, in the corner of the library when no one was looking — a hesitant, hopeful thing.

he kissed you like he wasn’t used to being kissed gently.

and you kissed him like you were terrified to wake up from it.

two months later, it didn’t feel like hiding anymore.

it felt like home.

you found comfort in the routines — early morning rides, mid-day fencing repairs, jesse waiting for you with two mugs of bitter coffee and that stupid grin that made your knees wobble. it didn’t matter if the days were long. he made them lighter.

and everyone noticed.

maria had caught you two talking by the greenhouse and raised an eyebrow that said finally. ellie gave you shit for it, but it was the fond kind — the kind that meant she approved, even if she’d never say it directly. tommy started putting you on patrols together more often.

even dina… well, dina hadn’t said much.

she was still around, of course. she never left jackson after the breakup — just stopped being part of your circle. she kept to herself. took late patrols. worked in the armory when you weren’t there.

you crossed paths sometimes. she’d nod. you’d nod. but she never lingered.

it didn’t feel hostile. just distant.

jesse didn’t talk about her much. you never asked him to. but sometimes you caught something in his expression — a flicker of guilt, maybe. regret. not for being with you, but for how much time had passed in the in-between.

still, those thoughts faded when he pulled you into bed at night, hands warm and words soft in the dark.

he touched you like he was grateful you existed. like you were something good in a world that rarely allowed it.

you’d fallen for him so fast, it scared you.

and somehow, he always knew when you needed to be held tighter.

you talked about the future once.

lying in the tall grass behind the orchard, sun high overhead, a blanket beneath you and jesse’s hand tangled in yours.

he was telling a dumb story — something about ellie mistaking a raccoon for a dog — and you were laughing so hard your stomach hurt. when the laughter faded, you said, without really meaning to:

“i always thought i’d have a little boy someday.”

jesse’s brow arched. “oh yeah?”

“yeah,” you said, smiling softly. “one of those loud, scrappy kids. always falling off things. covered in dirt. would probably drive me crazy.”

jesse grinned. “you’d make a good mom.”

you went still for a moment, startled.

“i mean it,” he said, voice gentle. “you’ve got a big heart. and you’re tougher than half the people in this town. any kid would be lucky to have you.”

you turned your face away before he could see the tears.

you didn’t know what the future held. but for the first time in years, you hoped for something more.

the day started like any other.

light rain fell in the early hours, turning the dirt paths of jackson into soft mud. you’d just finished restocking ammo at the armory when jesse came in, soaked from the waist down and grumbling about wet socks. he looked boyish like that — cheeks flushed, hair a mess, and smiling just for you.

you kissed him behind the workbench, hands resting on his chest, fingers grazing the damp fabric of his jacket. he tasted like rain and warmth and something safe. he hummed against your lips, then whispered something about dinner at his place.

it should’ve stayed that simple.

but then, halfway through your shift, maria stuck her head into the room.

“jesse,” she said, her voice unreadable. “dina needs to speak with you. privately.”

the way she said it made your stomach tighten.

jesse straightened slowly, brushing his hands on his jeans. “where?”

“she’s over by the supply depot,” maria said. her eyes flicked to you, something hesitant in them. “said it’s urgent.”

you didn’t say anything.

jesse looked at you then — really looked — and offered a soft squeeze to your shoulder before stepping out.

he didn’t come back for an hour.

by the time you got to his house that evening, the rain had stopped. the sky was bruised purple, and smoke curled lazily from the chimney.

you knocked once and let yourself in. his place was warm — always a little messy but lived in. you liked it that way. a guitar leaned against the wall, one of ellie’s old drawings pinned to the fridge. your scarf hung on the back of a chair. you’d forgotten it there days ago.

jesse sat at the kitchen table, elbows resting on the wood, head in his hands.

he looked up when you entered.

something in your chest tightened.

you pulled off your coat slowly. “hey… everything okay?”

he didn’t answer at first.

you moved closer, setting your gloves down, brows drawn. “jesse?”

he stood abruptly and walked to you — not urgently, but with that kind of restless energy that made you brace. his hands landed on your arms, grounding you, and his expression was conflicted. kind, but distant.

“i didn’t know how to tell you,” he said quietly.

“what happened?”

his jaw flexed. “it’s… dina.”

your stomach dropped.

“she said she’s pregnant.”

silence. cold. breath caught somewhere in your chest.

you stared at him, unsure if you’d heard correctly.

“she—what?”

jesse exhaled hard, his grip tightening slightly. “she said she didn’t say anything sooner because she didn’t know for sure. she’s a couple months along. she said… i was the last person she was with.”

your thoughts were slow. sticky. refusing to form the right shapes.

“she’s been here. in jackson. this whole time.”

jesse nodded once. “yeah. i didn’t know either. i mean, i saw her around, but… i figured she just wanted space. she didn’t even look at me. until today.”

something cold crawled down your spine.

it wasn’t betrayal. he hadn’t done anything wrong. but still, you couldn’t breathe right.

you took a step back, folding your arms, trying not to show how shaky you were.

“are you sure it’s yours?”

“she’s sure,” he said, quietly. “and i believe her.”

you nodded slowly. once. twice. “okay.”

jesse stepped forward, alarm in his eyes. “hey—no. i don’t want this to change anything between us. i’m with you. that hasn’t changed. i didn’t know.”

you nodded again, tighter this time. “i know.”

“i mean it,” he said, reaching for you. his hand hovered at your waist. “we’ve built something together. i’m not walking away from that.”

you leaned into his touch before your body could betray how sick you felt.

a baby.

dina was pregnant.

and jesse was going to be a father.

you remembered the orchard. the tall grass. that quiet moment when you said you wanted a boy someday. the way he smiled at you and said you’d make a good mom.

you wondered if he still believed that.

or if that dream — the one you barely let yourself whisper aloud — had already come true for someone else.

not you.

her.

“i’m okay,” you said, and it sounded almost convincing.

jesse’s face softened. “you sure?”

you kissed him before he could ask again. just once. just to stop the words.

but deep in your chest, something cracked.

you didn’t cry that night.

you lay in jesse’s bed with his arm around you, your cheek against his shoulder, and listened to the rhythm of his breathing. you studied the pattern of his freckles in the moonlight. counted the beats between heartbeats.

his child. growing in someone else.

you wanted to want to be strong.

but all you could think about was how your first time wouldn’t be his first time. how when your child came — if they ever came — it wouldn’t be something new. something shared. it would be second. a repeat. a retread of footsteps you’d never walked.

you closed your eyes.

and for the first time in a long while, you wished you hadn’t let yourself hope for more.

you didn’t leave him.

not right away.

you stayed, because you loved him — because jesse was kind, and steady, and still looked at you like you hung the stars. and for a while, that was enough to keep the ache from swallowing you whole.

you helped him fix up his place in preparation for the baby. just little things: building shelves, reinforcing the porch railing, collecting blankets that didn’t smell like old mold and leather.

you didn’t go with him to see dina. that was an unspoken agreement. their conversations happened quietly, behind closed doors. jesse always told you afterward — not everything, but enough. you never asked for more.

he said dina was calm. mature about it. that she didn’t want to interfere in his life, or with you. she only wanted what was best for the child.

you believed that.

it didn’t make it easier.

dina never said a cruel word. never glared. never got in your way.

but she didn’t have to.

her presence was enough.

you saw her more often now. brief glimpses — around the greenhouses, at the bartering stalls, in the hallway after patrol meetings. she never approached, but her eyes followed you. not with bitterness.

just... quiet knowing.

and you hated that it made you feel small.

jesse was gentle.

he made tea when your hands were shaking. left notes on your pillow when he had early shifts. made you laugh even when your heart felt bruised.

he’d talk about baby things sometimes — like he didn’t notice the way your body tensed.

“they’re measuring a little ahead,” he told you one night over dinner, stirring stew with the back of his spoon. “dina thinks it’s a boy.”

you nodded, and your throat closed so tight you couldn’t speak.

“she said she’s sure. don’t know how, but… i kind of believe her.”

you smiled. or tried to.

“that’s good,” you said, eyes on your bowl.

jesse reached across the table to touch your hand.

“you’re not saying much.”

you forced a breath. “i’m just tired.”

he watched you for a long moment.

but he didn’t press.

the nightmares came back.

not the kind with blood or clickers or fire — but the quiet ones. dreams of holding a child who never opened his eyes. of standing behind glass, watching jesse with someone else’s family. of telling a boy he wasn’t yours.

you stopped talking about kids.

jesse noticed.

but he didn’t know what to do.

you kept trying. you really did. you helped him sort baby supplies, sat with him when he read parenting books he borrowed from the library, helped repaint a dresser drawer he said might be good for diapers.

you held it together when people smiled at the two of you and said things like “he’s gonna be such a good dad” and “you’ll make a great stepmom.”

you nodded and smiled and bled on the inside.

the worst part?

you were starting to believe that maybe this was your role now.

not mother. not first love. not partner in some new chapter.

just support.

just next.

a few months passed.

dina was showing now. she wore loose clothes, but it was obvious — the slight curve of her stomach, the way she moved slower, how people started offering to carry her baskets.

jesse was with her more often. not alone — not like that — but enough to make your chest ache when you saw them talking outside the food hall. close. familiar. once in love.

he always came home to you.

but you stopped asking what they talked about.

you didn’t want to know.

the night it broke, everything felt too normal.

you and jesse were curled up on the couch. he had his arm around you, warm and steady, thumbing through a well-worn map. you were half-asleep, your head on his shoulder, when he murmured:

“she’s still sure it’s a boy.”

you stilled.

“she said she had a dream,” he continued, smiling faintly. “said he looked just like me.”

you sat up slowly.

he didn’t notice at first. “kind of funny, huh? wonder if he’ll have my stupid hair.”

you stared at him.

your mouth moved before you could stop it.

“i can’t do this.”

jesse’s smile faltered. “what?”

you stood, suddenly too warm, too raw, wrapping your arms around yourself. the room spun a little. you took a shaky breath.

“i thought i could,” you whispered. “i really, really thought i could. but i can’t.”

jesse sat up straighter, alarmed. “hey—hey, what’s going on?”

tears came before words did.

“i can’t be the one who comes second,” you said. “i can’t smile and pretend i’m okay while you’re… while you’re having all of this with someone else.”

jesse stood, moving toward you. “you’re not second—”

“i am,” you cut in, voice cracking. “i’m after. i’m everything that comes after. you’re already doing it, jesse. you’re already becoming a father. you’re getting the firsts. the first son. the first baby. the first experience. and it’s not with me.”

silence.

you tried to breathe.

“i wanted that,” you said, quieter now. “i told you once, remember? that i wanted a boy someday. a messy, loud little kid that looked like you. and you smiled, like it was something we might share.”

jesse’s voice was hoarse. “we still can—”

“but it won’t be first,” you said. “it won’t be ours. you’ll have already done it. and i’ll always know. i’ll always wonder if it compares. if i compare.”

you looked at him, eyes wet and broken.

“i love you,” you said. “i love you so much it hurts. but i’m not strong enough for this. i thought i was. i really tried to be.”

jesse stepped forward, face pale, throat working.

“don’t walk away,” he said, voice shaking. “please.”

you wanted to run into his arms. god, you wanted to forget everything and stay wrapped in his warmth.

but the ache in your chest had grown roots.

and you couldn’t unfeel it.

not anymore.

you didn’t pack much when you left jesse’s place.

a scarf. a few books. the necklace he’d carved for you — a wooden bead shaped like a little star, now tucked in the bottom of your coat pocket like a secret you didn’t have the heart to throw away.

you didn’t move far — just a cabin on the east side of town, near the lookout post. it was smaller, colder, and lonelier than the warmth of his bed and his arms and his steady heartbeat at night. but it was quiet. and you needed quiet now more than anything.

jackson was too small for heartbreak.

people noticed.

they tried not to stare when they passed you in the market, or when you sat alone by the firepit outside the dining hall. but the whispers came anyway.

“did you hear…?”

“she was with him after dina, right?”

“i thought they were solid.”

you hated how much your own name sounded like a question now. like an interruption in a story that had already been written without you.

dina never gloated. never rubbed it in. but you saw her sometimes — out walking slow, one hand cradling her growing belly. jesse was always a few steps away. close, but never touching.

he still looked for you.

every time you crossed paths — every time your eyes met across the yard, or inside the town hall, or at the stables before patrol — he looked at you like someone trying to wake from a bad dream. like if he blinked hard enough, you might still be there.

but you weren’t.

you couldn’t be.

not when your chest still ached every time someone said “the baby.”

not when you still dreamed of a son with jesse’s smile — a dream that now belonged to someone else.

the worst part was that you missed him even in the anger.

even when you tried to build a wall out of everything you’d felt — the jealousy, the loss, the fear of not being enough — some part of you still ached for him in the quiet moments.

when the first snow fell, you thought of how jesse used to race you back to the porch, brushing flakes from your hair and calling you slowpoke with a grin.

when you found a bent nail in the fencepost, you thought of how he always had a spare tucked behind his ear, ready to fix things with those calloused, gentle hands.

when you heard music drifting from ellie’s porch one night, you remembered jesse’s laugh — the sound he made when you pretended to hate his singing, even though you secretly loved every off-key second.

you didn’t go to him.

but god, you missed him.

weeks passed.

spring threatened the edges of the sky, melting the frost from the windows. the smell of wet earth returned.

and then came the letter.

a note, folded twice, slipped under your door.

meet me at the orchard. please. just once.

you stared at it for an hour before moving.

the orchard was just starting to bloom.

not fully, not yet — but the buds were there, small and pink and brave.

jesse stood beneath the same tree where he’d kissed you that first time. the same one where you’d told him you wanted a boy. the same one where he’d said me too.

he looked older now. tired.

but still jesse.

you stopped a few feet away. said nothing.

he spoke first.

“i know i don’t have the right to ask for anything.”

you stared at the bark.

“i just… i wanted to say that i’m sorry. for everything i put you through.”

your throat tightened.

“i didn’t know how much it was hurting you,” he said. “i thought… if i just kept choosing you, that it would be enough. that maybe you wouldn’t feel second. but i get it now.”

you closed your eyes. the wind stirred the branches above.

“i never meant to make you feel replaceable,” jesse whispered. “you never were. you aren’t.”

silence.

when you finally spoke, your voice was softer than you meant it to be.

“i know.”

he stepped forward once.

“i still love you,” he said, simply.

you didn’t answer right away.

because you loved him too.

but love isn’t always enough to heal the parts that broke.

“i believe you,” you said at last. “but i can’t come back. not yet.”

jesse nodded.

“i’ll wait,” he said. “as long as it takes.”

you looked up at him then — this man who had been your warmth, your safety, your home. and for the first time in weeks, you smiled. it hurt, but it was real.

“take care of your son,” you whispered.

he nodded once. “i will.”

you turned and walked away, heart full and empty all at once.

because some stories don’t end with a kiss.

some end beneath a blooming tree, where the ghosts of what could’ve been still linger like petals in the wind.

and maybe, one day, you’d walk this path again.

but not today.

today, you kept walking.

and let yourself mourn the boy you never got to name.

[bogkeep]

in which i tell you about medieval timekeeping methods

ok we gotta start with BABYLONIAN TIME and SUNDIALS because this is the Foundation. this is what they used for thousands of years. pretty much every structure we have for understanding and conceptualizing time is based on The Movements Of The Universe - years, months, days, this is how we understand Time to pass. the sun and stars were used for keeping time since Always!!!! there were also multiple ways of keeping time with the Shadows of the sun, not just sundials, but also tablets to measure the length of shadows. And Such

BABYLONIAN TIME is twelve hours daylight, twelve hours nighttime. this makes very good sense considering Sundials, you just split the indicators into twelve parts. don't know why Twelve specifically other than that the babylonians liked it, but it is a very nice, divisible number, and its been kept as the base for all the hour keeping systems i've read about so far.

but yes this does mean that a babylonian hour does not have a set, static length like a modern hour does...! it changes with the seasons and the place, so a babylonian winter hour is different from, say, a winter hour in northern norway. it probably helps to be closer to the equator and reliable sunny weather.

until the invention of mechanical escapement clocks, babylonian time was The main, foundational understanding of timekeeping, BUT...!!!!!! the church put a spin on it. what the monasteries needed to keep time for was Prayer Times, which they had seven of and were based on the passion of the christ. so they signaled the Seven Canonical Hours, starting at sunrise, ending at sunset. church bells is also how people kept time, because you could hear them out in the fields. timekeeping was a bit of a wibbly wobbly art but accuracy wasn't That important.

the various methods used to keep time in addition to sundials included: the cock's crow, candles, hymns, incense, and water clocks. not hour glasses, as they were invented around the same time as mechanical clocks. isn't that wild!!!!!!!

WATER CLOCKS, also called clepsydra, are a diverse category of clocks ranging from a container with water dripping out of it at a steady pace, to complex hydraulic mechanisms with weights and stuff that i honestly have yet to grasp. the simple versions were used in classical greece + rome in the same way you'd use hourglasses, to keep track of speech time, watch time, et cetera. the islamic world + china were the ones to develop the complex water clocks. there's documentation of a water clock in gaza that had like, moving automata and stuff around year 500. there was a water driven astronomical clock in china around year 1000. water clocks made a comeback in europe around the 1100ds, and were getting more widespread use. like at least they work at night, unlike SOME dials

"mechanical clock" is a bit of a misnomer since water clocks were clearly also mechanical, and the exact time of invention of what we think of as mechanical clocks is Vague. the word "horologia" was used to refer to any kind of timekeeping device, including the noble rooster, so it's a bit of a semantic haze.

they had astrolabes, which Could be used to tell the time, but weren't used to do that in the daily life. scientists wanted to make an automated astrolabe for like, the Science, they just needed to invent the perpetuum mobile first and then combine them. obviously.

the missing piece for the MECHANICAL CLOCK was the escapement, the mechanism that regulates the time with which the gears turn. once they got this going, probably early 1300ds, they got the shows on the road. the shows being: the astronomical clock, and the public striking clock. these were considered different things, you see.

the astronomical clock is the Automated Astrolabe. it shows the movement of the sun and moon and stars and as a consequence, the Time. they had dials that people could read the time from, but they were generally considered objects of prestige and god's glory, kind of like cathedrals. they often had moving figures and such.

now, public clocks that mark the hours with sound, THAT'S a timekeeping device. they didn't even have clock faces at first, and it really is so interesting to think about how looking at a clock wasn't considered the main way to tell the time. these clocks seem to have originated in italian cities and spread from there, and this is where we get ITALIAN TIME.

to show babylonian time with a mechanical clock is impractical. the machinery is good at regular movement, to show babylonian hours you kind of need the astrolabe. so italian hours were static and unchanging in length. you had twenty four hours in a day, and the cut-off point was half an hour past sunset. that was the end of the twenty fourth hour, and a new calendar date begun.

of course, the time of the sunset keeps changing all the time As Well, so these clocks had to be adjusted for that Continuously. which was annoying but they still did it until the 17th century. this method was used in italy, bohemia, silesia and maybe poland? i'm unsure what they used outside these spaces at the time, if they stuck to the babylonian hours even with mechanical clocks and did complex maths about it.

at least the NUREMBERG CLOCK had its own take on it, even if it didn't spread beyond southern germany at all. they used babylonian hours, but instead of changing the length of an hour, they changed the amount. eight day hours and sixteen night hours in december, opposite in june. the tables needed for how many days with how many hours were very complex and annoying also.

the concept of starting a new calender day at midnight, and never needing to constantly adjust day hours or when the sunset begins, WAS known but only used for scientific and astronomical purposes. like that's such a weird way to split the day!!!!! twelve at MIDDAY?? WEIRD. some travellers noted that this was a very practical and elegant solution, though, but travel and far flung communication was still very slow, so mismatched timekeeping was more annoying than inconvenient. but anyway that's for the future to figure out

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | part thirty-five preview (updated hehe<3)

Jagged rock burns into your palms. Slapping a hand up, you feel for the grassy ledge, barely visible in the darkness. You heft the backpack over it before managing to pull yourself up, landing on your stomach with a grunt through your teeth. The sneakers you scavenged from the closet are tight around your toes—better than Salome's thin shoes, but still far from pleasing as you stand and press on towards the road.

Moonlight guides you north. 

Not long until sunrise, judging by the sky.

Small white clouds puff around your mouth as the chilled air brushes the damp spot on your too-big jeans, the cuffs rolled and the waist cinched to keep them from slipping. You couldn't leave in the middle of the night, so you held a mug of water as a makeshift alarm. The moment sleep tried to steal you, the splash on your thigh ended it abruptly. 

You'd woken Blue up to tell her. At first, grey eyes scolded you in the dark. She looked away, ready to argue, before quietly reciting instead: the house they kept her in, the layout, any hiding places she may have seen.

"What about her?" you had asked. "Anything important to her. She probably saw antibiotics as a gift from God or something."

"Yeah. She would've," Blue muttered. "She liked to knit. And, um, talked about birds. Her husband owned the whole place, but he died. I don't know if any of that helps."

"It does. It's better than nothing." You gave her hand a squeeze. "Make sure he eats again. And check his back. You might need to drain it. You know how now, right? Nereida could—"

"I've got it." She slipped her hand away. "Just—don't do anything stupid, okay?"

"Of course not."

Sneaking out had been easy—only because Nereida was on watch. You slipped out the back and wove through the tall grass, barely stirring the stalks. Price would've caught you for sure. But you made it across the creek with nothing more than the slow unrolling of your jeans to slow you down, the cuffs dragging in the water and soaking through. You rolled them back up, but a kilometer up the road, they've slouched back down, heavy and clinging to your legs.

Time feels like an enemy, one you've already let get the better of you for over a day now. Begrudgingly, you sink onto the hood of a rusted car and take the knife from your waist, slashing roughly at the ends of the fabric. A serrated one would be easier to work with. The end result is jagged hems. Less of a nuisance now, at least.

Ghost's persistent fever isn't the only threat. It's the sepsis. The blood poisoning. The shutting down of his organs. The things you haven't explained to Blue. At best, he could have a week. At worst, if they set in quickly, another day. The thought scrubs your hands over your bleary eyes, recentering your vision, and you push away from the car. You toss the cut scraps in the grass just when a disturbance skims the back of your neck.

You whirl around, dropping the knife in favor of the pistol. 

"Just me."

"Jesus. Kyle. I was ready to shoot."

"Honorable of you to give me a quick one."

You huff, bend for the knife, and slip it back at your waist.

He closes the gap, rifle and backpack slung over his shoulders. 

"Why wouldn't you tell anyone?" His brows lower. "I went to feed him, and Blue said you’d gone back. Hell of a surprise."

You give him your back. "I've already wasted time. I knew what you'd say."

"And what exactly did you think I'd say?" A hand on your shoulders pries you back around.

Your eyes drift up to his, narrow, then veer to the side. "That it's a long shot."

"Yeah, it is." His hand drops. He brushes past you, adjusting the rifle on his back. "Come on, then. You're not the only one who gives a shit about him."

There isn't anything to be said as you trudge beside him, no argument able to form. You know his company is invaluable. Gratitude is still hard to conjure. The road fills the gaps of silence, dawn breathing life into the buzz of cicadas. Long drags of air fill your lungs: sweet flowers only, until, something else. A waft of charred meat.

"You should eat."

Kyle extends a piece of squirrel. Despite the twinge in your stomach, you brush him off. "While they were starving you, we were getting stuffed. Fatten the mares, get a strong foal." 

His jaw ticks. "Ah."

"Damn good food, too."

"Lucky you."

"Lucky us."

Conversation shrinks to a brief exchange of what Blue said. He doesn't look convinced it'll help much. The stench doesn’t sour the air until the first sign for Fleurbaix rises at your right—like a breath in your face. Humidity clings to it, thick and unmoving, until there’s nothing else to breathe. In the sunlight, familiar stone walls and red-shingled rooftops repulse you, almost more than the sight of aimless Greys—some weaving between clotheslines, most trapped within the fenced pasture. The cows, however, have already fled through a broken gap, eager to escape uphill.

"They should've lost interest by now. The blood isn't fresh," you mutter.

"Humidity. Less evaporation, more smell." He nods the tip of his rifle. "Over there. That one has a wraparound porch like Blue said."

The view vanishes behind overgrown trees as you crest a hill, descending toward the commune. Kyle motions you forward, weaving through structures, keeping clear of the Greys. As long as they can’t scent you, they will stay distracted. Clinging to a stone wall as you follow, a bony hand bursts forth from a window—Kyle knifes its skull before it can grab you.

Other than that, there aren't any close calls.

You reach the house that fits Blue's description.

The door is wide open.

Kyle sweeps in with the poised rifle.

You are greeted by an already ransacked interior. Tipped chairs, half-yanked cabinets, tossed couch cushions. A sick understanding settles at your fingertips, curling them around the gun. 

"They were here. The women. They knew she would've hidden them."

Rage sparks in your veins. You blink hard to keep it from frothing to the surface. More signs that this is just a dead end; a waste of precious time.  

Kyle lowers the guns and presses forward into the hall. "That doesn't mean they found what they were looking for. Check the rooms."

Maman's house is as expected, even in disarray. Quiet and balmy. Polished wood, gold-embellished hinges, a closet stuffed with white gowns. A knitting bag catches your eye. You sift through it, tossing out balls of red yarn. Nothing.

More nothing under the bed. 

A family photo thrashes to the floor beneath a swipe of your fist. You find Kyle in the other room, where a smaller bed is tucked against the wall—the sight makes it hard to breathe for a moment. The blood stain on the sheets. Somehow you know whose it is. Your stomach rips at itself. You force yourself to look away before you lose it. 

"The floorboards. They didn't look under them. Help me."

[obsessive-valentine]

Dark-Yandere!Farmer x GN!Reader

Wishing it was summer so bad so have this.

Being used to your captor being crude and rough towards you to keep you in line and obedient, today came as a shock when he seems to be empathetic and soften for you when you get sick during a heatwave. TW- kidnapped reader, non-con touching and hint of farmers past anger issues traumatising reader making them paranoid.

Its stifling hot, all the windows and doors are open for circulation and lace curtains drawn to try keep the house cool, but it does little. He had left the house earlier than usual to start his morning chores before the heat got unbearable, he had kissed your head and left hours before sunrise. You hadn’t seen him since. You probably could walk a few steps outside and see him in the distance somewhere but you barely had the energy to drag yourself from the bed to the sofa- infront of the fan.

You wished you hadn’t wasted energy on finding a cooler spot because the fan was only pushing around the hot air. With a exasperated sight you excepted your fate, waiting to succumb to heat stroke and begin vomiting. Laying flat on your stomach with only a vest top and underwear on, thinking about how good a glass of water would be right about now.

Until the dreaded sound of heavy boots stomp onto the deck, and into the house. “Fuckin’ hell” he huffed wiping sweat from his face with the shirt he instead slung over his shoulder when the sun had risen. You almost jumped a mile when the next time you opened your eyes from a slow blink he was standing right infront of you.

You braced yourself for whatever might come, used to being exposed to emotional whiplash. You could never read his face until it was to late, you tried to calm yourself from overacting by reasoning that you haven’t done anything wrong recently.

He leaned down without a word, the back of his dirty calloused hand pressed against your cheek and then the other one “you’ve been drinking water?” He questions suspiciously straightening up and towering over your form. You stayed laying down wishing to sink into the sofa, how do you tell him you couldn’t be bothered? You mumble a pathetic ‘no’ staring lifelessly at his dusty beaten up boots.

Expecting a scolding or to be told to ‘toughen up’, you flinched when instead you were met with his rough hand rubbing your back out of pity “hang tight for a moment”. It could have been just a minute or hour from when he left the room and returned with a glass of ice and water, you were to disorientated to get a grasp of the time or if you’d blinked or napped.

Slowly he pulled you up into a sitting position by your wrist, you groaned as a pulsating ache in your skull began “I know, hurts hu?” He steadies you with a firm hand in your shoulder before giving you the glass of water and made sure you drink it all. You feel the cold salvation trickle down your throat leaving your mouth cold for a moment, savouring the way the ice kissed your lips.

“Stupid of me, shoulda checked up on you. Think it’s heatstroke” he takes the cup off you once it’s all gone and places it on the table before bending down to pick you up “Can’t I trust you to look after yourself for just a few hours? This is why you need me sweetheart” he rather softly lectures you as he carries you down the hall, to the bathroom, turning on the cold tap to the bath.

He helped you out of what’s left of your clothes and steadied you as you stepped into the slow rising water. You felt to nauseous and uncomfortable to mind being naked or the fact he was also stripping down and slipping in the small bath behind you.

To tired to fight when he pulled you to rest your head back onto his shoulder or when his hands wandered when washing you with a cold cloth. You just closed your eyes and welcomed the cold goosebumps that spread up your legs and arms. You both stayed there for maybe half an hour, laying back in the cold with his hands mindlessly gliding up and down your body.

...

“Come on, I got work to finish” he huffed out pulling away his hands, watching you stir awake from you half conscious sate before getting out and wrapping a towel around himself. You grabbed ahold of his hands as he helped you out and handed you a towel. He wordlessly left but returned with one of his shirts walking past you to wet it under the cold tap “put this on, it will keep away heat rash and cool you down” his eyes wandered as you pulled it over yourself but you were none the wiser, struggling to pull the wet shirt over you as it clung to your skin.

Pulling on his clothes and boots he then lead you outside onto the shady front porch, sitting you on the old rocking chair with a book and glass of water. “Holler if you need anything, sweetheart” you felt a lot better but still exhausted, and for a moment relaxed and unafraid of the unusually caring man. That is until he turned around for a breif moment as he walked away “don’t you go wandering”

He was half smiling and it sounded light hearted but you knew it was anything but. It was a clear threat. A wave of sickness reintroduced it’s self, but now for a different reason.

You didn’t read the book but rather watch him work in a nearby field with sleepy eyes. How he would lovingly interact with the animals, how scarily strong he was lifting and dragging feed and muck around, how he’d carefully and proudly inspect his vegetables when watering them.

One of the livestock-guard-dogs came up onto the deck to keep you company, laying at your feet, and the cool breeze against the wet shirt sent waves of relief over you body.

...

At some point you had fallen asleep and when you woke up it was late afternoon and your shirt was dry, the chair rocked forward a bit then arms snaked around your waist and under you butt. You almost flew into fight or flight mode until you remembered where you are and who with, even though yet another headache you knew it was useless.

To your surprise he scooped you up and sat back down In the chair with you in his lap “welcome back to the land of the living” he joked, he didn’t even have to look at you to know he’d woken you up, to busy digging around in his pocket for a cigarette. You didn’t answer still getting to grips of what time it is after being rudely pulled from a heat coma.

“How you feeling? Want me to wet the shirt again?” He lit the cigarette before pressing the back of his hand to your cheek seemingly satisfied with how much your temperature has come down “no thank you” you glanced at him but adverting you eyes quickly remembering how unusually soft he treated you this morning when you were dazed and confused. Wondering when he’d become crude and rough again.

He hummed in a response resting against the back of the chair dragging you down with him, he takes a long drag of the cigarette “How about we watch a movie tonight? Got some old DVDs in the attic” he offers looking out contently at his farm and his free hand runs through your hair. “I’d like that” you said sounding more like a question, unsure if there was a catch but there was nothing.

Just a short nod and some peaceful quiet with the chirps of birds and one of the horses whinny’ing in the nearby field. There was no lingering dread or fear, just peace. And maybe if you closed your eyes and imagined hard enough you could trick yourself into thinking you are on a summer country vacation with the man you dreamed of as a teenager.

For the first time since you got kidnapped, you aren’t plotting an escape, trying to stay quiet and unseen, or fearful of facing the mans wrath or worried about spending the night in the shed. Your heads empty and feel rested.

...

Tomorrow you’d lash out again, remembering today and how you seem to be slowly accepting your situation -accepting your kidnapper. With a clear-head in the morning you will grow afraid of the reality that your stuck here for life. But as for today, you have a moment of peace - free from worry and perhaps a bit of contentment even if just for the night. As he finally has the chance to lovingly hold you close -watching the movie he let you pick.

[4pfsukuna]

Bed Peace

Debrief: Touch deprived and exhausted Terry always finds solace in your bed. Fluff

‘Curled up with my head on your chest is the best remedy for the pain and the stress’

The first thing you notice when your eyes open is that you aren't home alone. You don't move though, instead just listening to the sounds fluttering through your apartment before noticing it's the early hours of the morning right before the sun rises and the sky is that wicked purple color.

The morning breeze flutters through the room making the curtains rustle,  goosebumps raise slightly on your skin, the brown silk sheets not helping to keep you warm. You settle for closing your eyes letting your head sink further into the plush pillows, scarf somewhere on the floor.

It's when the bed dips slightly and you feel a pressure on your lower abdomen that you finally relax. Being on edge for weeks not knowing if he was okay or where he even was. It's when your hands come down to the nape of his neck playing with the hair there that he sighs heavily, finally wrapping his arms around your waist, fingers curling into you as if you're going to float away if he doesn't.

As if this is just a dream that he's going to wake up from and be back in training.

As if this a dream and he’ll go back to the nightmare his reality turned into.

“I'm here” you promised, squeezing his arm watching the large man visibly sigh, one arm falling to hang off the bed as he begins to doze off the fatigue of the past few days finally catching up to him. Fatigue from constantly running, moving, planning, executing… PACING.

Running your fingers down his spine, the nape of his neck, ears, sideburns and even his hair for what feels like minutes but is actually hours and in your own way this was your version of how he curled his fingers around you to really make sure he's there. Not that he minds between falling asleep and basking in your soft touch does he notice how touch starved he actually is. 

The next time he wakes up is only 2 hours later the sunlight dancing through the spaces in your blackout curtains flashing through his eyelids. The heat of the morning sun warming up the parts of his skin you weren't still rubbing, caressing and it eases him again though he hates he can't stay asleep past the sunrise.

“Sorry i forgot to close the curtains” you whisper, reaching for it not expecting his hand to grab yours placing it back on his neck his own way of saying he didn't mind… as long as you kept touching him.

And when he doesnt feel your hands moving on him he lifts his head green eyes looking unreal in the morning sun, fucking perfect. Flawless skin, pretty and thick lips… who was talking about who?

“Just say you wanted to see my eyes in the sun” he teases watching as you smile a small giggle erupting past your lips before he pulls the curtain closed this time laying on your chest. He's quick, wrapping and arm around you, his hand sliding up your shirt fully locking you in place and you aren't even sure who's holding who any more as you tangle your legs in his and that's when he really sighs.

It's like you were holding him down, keeping him grounded.

“Missed you” he murmurs into your neck inhaling your scent of strawberry vanilla unfamiliar since he was so used to your coconut scent. He keeps inhaling, holding you tight each time he does.

“Stop it” you giggle pushing him not that it does anything from how tight he's wrapped himself around you.

“You smell good” his morning voice rasp and it takes everything in you not to shudder. It's probably for the better if you couldn't see his eyes right now. And it's silent for a while. you almost think he dozed back off until—

“Really missed you” 

“You're safe with me, it's just us. You and me” you promise and it's your turn to squeeze him tight. 

“You can stay right here. Just lay right here. Everything is okay right here” you soothe running your hands down his cheeks over his broad shoulder feeling the gauze pad and then his spine— another gauze pad.

The sadness fills your heart for him and the way that THIS is the only thing he wants. The only thing he needs.

“You can stay right here” you squeeze tighter, pulling a soft groan from him as he nuzzles further into your chest.

“Just lay right here” your hand runs over his head caressing and stroking with your thumb his eyes closing and just focusing on your words and the feeling of your body against his.

“Everything is okay right here” you promise, leaving a kiss on his forehead running your hands over his hot skin once more before the two of you slowly doze off locked in another unable to move.

[fireside-fanfics]

Hello! Can I request something where Joaquin is extremely busy with working and being The Falcon and it’s wearing on his girlfriend trying to get some time with him? 🫶🏾

omg this ended up being soooooo much longer than I anticipated lol all because I added a long backstory at the beginning I hope you enjoy it!

Duty and Devotion

They’d met when they were barely eighteen—wide-eyed, half-terrified, trying to fake a confidence neither of them had yet earned. The Air Force didn’t waste time on fear, though, and basic training didn’t care if you were scared. You showed up. You shut up. You didn’t fall behind. That’s how they ended up in the same unit: two kids who hadn’t lived a whole lot yet, tossed into the deep end of something that would shape the rest of their lives.

Joaquin remembered the first time he saw her.

Frankie was the only girl in the mechanic and aviation group of their unit. She was quiet, eyes sharp but distant, like she was always three steps ahead in her mind. She already had grease on her knuckles before lunch, arms streaked and uniform wrinkled like she’d been elbow-deep in an engine since sunrise—which, knowing her now, she probably had. Most people stumbled through the first weeks, unsure what to touch, what to say, when to breathe. Not Frankie. She didn’t flinch, didn’t fumble, and sure as hell didn’t wait to be noticed.

The Arizona sun hadn’t even started dipping behind the hangars yet, and the heat was relentless. It stuck to your skin, soaking into every surface until even the metal hummed with it. Nevertheless, Frankie was under the Huey, flat on her back, head deep in its guts, ignoring the sting of sweat and sand in her eyes. There’d been a problem with the engine—something high-pitched and erratic—and a lieutenant had come by grumbling about lazy techs and how “someone ought to grow a spine.”

Frankie didn’t wait for the order to come down the chain. She’d just tossed her water bottle aside, dropped to the tarmac, and slid back under the chopper with a flashlight in her teeth and a wrench in her hand. Like always, she just did. That was what stuck with Joaquin. Not the grime or the heat or even the way her stubborn streak practically radiated off her like jet fuel. It was that Frankie moved. She didn’t hesitate. And she sure as hell didn’t wait for permission.

She was a mystery to most of them—especially the guys, who couldn’t figure out whether to be impressed, threatened, or both. Frankie didn’t talk much—barely at all, really—but she had always been that way. She could fillet you with three words and a raised brow. She was sarcastic in the way people from hard places learn to be, quick-witted in a way that left others scrambling to keep up. She could take apart a jet engine with one hand and dismantle your pride with the other.

By the time she rolled out from under the Huey that afternoon, her entire body was black with grime. Her hair stuck out from under her cap in damp, messy curls. She looked like hell and still, somehow, she looked right. At home. She lay there for a second, chest rising and falling, face tilted toward the sky like maybe it could tell her what to do next. The sun caught her eyes. They were sharper than any blade he’d carried.

That’s when the two clowns nearby decided to open their mouths.

“Damn,” one of them muttered. “She’s been under there so long, I think she’s fusing with the machine.”

“Maybe she is the engine noise,” the other added, chuckling at his own joke like it was the height of comedy.

Frankie turned her head slowly toward them. Then, flatly: “You two are talkin’ a whole lot of shit for a pair of idiots who can’t even tell a fuel leak from a shadow.”

Silence. Sharp. Surgical. The kind of dead air that sucked all the oxygen from the hangar. And then—

A laugh. The laugh was sudden and bright, not mocking, just honest. Just surprised and impressed in a way that Frankie hadn’t expected from anyone. She glanced around and her eyes landed on Joaquin Torres who was leaning against a ladder closeby, arms crossed, grinning like he’d been waiting for something worth hearing all day.

“That was cold,” he said, nodding in approval. “But fair.”

Frankie squinted at him through the sunlight and muttered, “Didn’t ask for commentary.”

“I know,” he said, still smiling. “I just appreciate a good engine and a good burn.”

Something shifted in her then. Barely. But enough. A twitch of the lips, a flicker of a smile. Frankie scooted over on an overturned bucket and jerked her chin toward the spot beside her. Joaquin walked over to her without hesitation. They talked for hours about nothing and everything. Where they were from. Why they enlisted. How they missed thunderstorms, real ones. How everything smelled like jet fuel and metal now, and weirdly, they were starting to like it. It was the easiest conversation either of them had ever had—fluid, honest, like they’d skipped the awkward parts and fast-forwarded into something real.

After that, they were everywhere together. They weren’t paired officially, not at first. Joaquin was a regular airman, training for field assignments, and Frankie was neck-deep in aviation systems, working through the aviation and mechanical sector. Their jobs didn’t overlap and their schedules didn’t line up well, but somehow, they always found each other. Somehow they were always together: during drills, during breaks, during chow. 

There was a kind of magnetic pull between them that didn’t make sense and didn’t need to. They moved like they’d been trained together for years. He anticipated her footwork when they sparred; she finished his sentences when instructors asked for answers. When they ran, she pushed him. When she couldn’t sleep, he kept her company. Where one was, the other was close behind—and everyone knew it.

Frankie might have been the only girl in her unit, but she didn’t carry herself like someone trying to prove anything. She didn’t puff up, didn’t talk big, didn’t strut. She just beat the boys in almost everything: distance runs, strength drills, mechanics exams … you name it she was in the lead. One morning, she smoked them all in a mile run—boots laced tight, face unreadable—and when someone asked how the hell she’d done it, she just shrugged and said, “Figure y’all might wanna pick up the pace.”

The instructors noticed her. Of course they did. They started looking relieved when she was on shift, like maybe the whole system wouldn’t fall apart today. She had that effect on people—calm in chaos, laser-focused, deadly smart.

They didn’t fall in love those first weeks, not officially, but something definitely shifted. It was quiet, permanent. It was well known that Frankie was exceptionally quiet. She didn’t fill the silence, but she didn’t need to. When she spoke, it was worth listening to, whether it was something brilliant or something brutal. She’d sit beside him, legs stretched out, dirt smudged on her cheek, and say one line that stayed with him for days.

By the end of basic, most people assumed they’d been best friends for years and were a couple by now. The truth was, Joaquin and Frankie didn’t even know what to call it yet either. It wasn’t just friendship; no, it was definitely more than that. All the two of them knew was that they had something. Something solid, unshakeable, and real. Something that wrapped around their spines and held them steady when everything else got loud.

By the time they were twenty-four—after deployments, rotations, new ranks and long nights with too much caffeine and not enough sleep—they realized what that something else finally was. They understood they hadn’t just found someone who made them better. They’d found the other half of their heartbeat and it had been there since the day she rolled out from under that helicopter, grease on her jaw and sun in her eyes.

It wasn’t a lightning bolt, not some big cinematic reveal. That wasn’t how they worked. What they shared was quieter—steadfast, familiar. It was the kind of thing that didn’t need a name to be real, but even so, eventually, it wanted one.

It happened on a beach, the same spot they always drove to on leave when they needed to breathe. No one else came with them. No music, no drinking, no crowds—just the two of them, towels thrown on the sand, boots off, the sound of the waves filling the quiet. They spent the whole day like that: talking, not talking; swimming, napping; letting the world slow down for once.

It wasn’t technically a date, but looking back, neither of them could pretend it hadn’t been. Everything about it had felt different. The entire day felt charged, warm, quiet in that way where everything that needed to be said already existed in the space between them. As the sun began to sink toward the horizon, casting a soft orange glow over the water, Joaquin leaned back on his hands beside her.

Frankie had her knees pulled to her chest, chin resting on them, eyes trained on the waves. Her curls moved slightly in the breeze, still damp from the water. She looked peaceful,  beautiful, like home.

“So…” Joaquin cleared his throat and nudged her lightly with his shoulder. “I’ve been thinking.”

Frankie glanced at him, brow raised. “Dangerous.”

He smiled. “Yeah, well, I thought it was worth the risk.”

She smirked, but waited patiently. He turned his head to look at her fully, expression serious now—gentle in a way he reserved only for her. 

“I know we don’t put labels on stuff. And we’ve been doing this whole… whatever this is… for a while now. But I think I’d like to be able to call you my girlfriend. If you want that.”

Frankie blinked, caught off guard in a way few things ever managed. For a second, she didn’t say anything. Just looked at him, really looked at him. 

Then, quiet but sure: “Yeah. I want that too.”

And just like that—no drama, no fireworks, just them—they made it official. The sun dipped lower, painting the water in gold. Joaquin reached for her hand, and she laced her fingers through his without hesitation. It wasn’t the start of something. It was the naming of something that had already begun long, long ago.

Years flew by and before they knew it they were engaged at 30. They both had moved on from the Air Force. Now their lives had taken a massive twist as Joaquin became the Falcon; on the other hand, Frankie’s job was relatively normal working with Rhodey as a S.H.I.E.L.D. mechanic. Although she put in more hours than the rest of her team, her shift schedule was pretty standard; Joaquin’s schedule was far less predictable...

Frankie stared at the takeout container growing cold on the coffee table, her thumb absently circling the condensation on her drink. She’d even bought his favorite—chicken enchiladas from that tiny corner joint in Shaw he swore tasted like home. The to-go box had gone cold. Again.

She hadn’t even sent the “you okay?” text this time because she already knew. He was out there saving someone. wearing wings. Carrying the weight of the world and calling it duty. And she was here again. Carrying the silence alone.

Frankie checked her phone: no new texts, no missed calls. She sighed and leaned back, sinking into the cushions. Her hoodie was too big—it was his, of course—and the sleeves dangled past her fingers when she crossed her arms tight over her chest. He wasn’t even late anymore … just gone.

It wasn’t that Joaquin didn’t love her. That wasn’t the problem. When he was around, it was magic—sleepy forehead kisses, shared street tacos, his strong hands cradling her waist like she was something fragile and precious. Lately, however, Joaquin had barely been around long enough to say good morning, let alone share a meal. Frankie understood; she really did. This was part of what it meant to have a superhero as a fiance. The whole world needed saving, and Joaquin was one of the few who could help.

Frankie never asked him to stop saving the world. She just wished, maybe, their moments could matter as much as the missions did. Frankie missed the version of them that had time to exist; she missed the time when they were each other’s whole world. She didn’t need a hero. She just needed him around more at home—where their life lived, where love wasn’t on hold.

Frankie was brushing her teeth when the front door opened after midnight. The sound was quiet but unmistakable. Joaquin was always careful with the lock—never too loud, always trying not to wake her. He stepped into view wearing his sweatpants and a hoodie, hair a windswept mess, face streaked with city soot. And that damn smile. That tired, crooked smile that made her feel like a sucker every time.

“Hey, baby,” Joaquin murmured, already peeling off his gloves. “Didn’t mean to be out so late. You’re still up?”

She spit out her toothpaste and grumbled, “Didn’t exactly want to be.”

Joaquin paused in the doorway, taken aback by her tone.

“I know. I’m sorry. Mission ran longer than—”

“Everything runs longer than expected lately,” she cut in, voice low but sharp. “You said we’d have dinner tonight so I got dinner and I waited… I waited for you for hours, Joaquin.”

“I know,” he breathed, guilt threading through every syllable. “I really tried, Frankie. Shit hit the fan with that smuggling op. I couldn’t just bail—”

“You never bail. Not on the Air Force, not on Sam, not on your missions.” She shook her head, pushing past him back into their bedroom. “But somehow, I’m the one who gets stood up.”

There was a long pause; the kind that echoed. Joaquin turned and watched as she moved around the room, not meeting his gaze. 

“Frankie, I’m doing the best I can.”

“I believe you,” she said, pulling the quilt back on their bed, “but your best hasn’t included me in a while.”

“Things are insane right now. You know that. We talked about this, babe. When I agreed to be the Falcon, we knew it’d get hectic. We knew it’d be shitty hours. Sam’s off the radar for a bit, and it’s just been me running recon, handling drop zones, trying to keep civilians safe—”

“Stop!” Frankie snapped, louder now. She dropped the pillow back onto the bed. Her hands covered her face as she heaved a heavy sigh. “Stop acting like this doesn’t hurt me. Like I didn’t know the risks. I signed up for difficult. I signed up for chaos, but I didn’t sign up to be forgotten.”

That stopped him. Just like that, the silence wasn’t just between them; it settled in his bones, thick and cold. Frankie’s words cut through all the noise he’d been drowning in: the missions, the comms, the endless movement. And now? Now there was just the weight of what he’d missed. She hadn’t asked him to choose between love and duty—only to remember that both still mattered. That she still mattered. And somehow, in the chaos, he’d let her start to fade from the picture he thought he was fighting for.

Frankie climbed into bed and leaned back against the headboard, legs stretched out in front of her, eyes fixed on her hands as if they held the answers she couldn’t find. Joaquin crossed the room without a word and eased down beside her, the mattress dipping under his weight, careful not to crowd her.

“I don’t need saving, Joaquin,” Frankie added, looking up now, voice shaking but steady. “I just want a damn night with the man I love. A real one. Not a voicemail. Not a cold plate of food. Not a post-it on the coffee machine when I wake up in the mornings.”

He looked wrecked. The kind of tiredness you can’t sleep off. The kind that lives in your bones. For the first time in weeks, he didn’t try to explain or make excuses. He just nodded and looked down at his boots like he’d been grounded.

“I miss you too,” Joaquin said softly. “I think about you every second I’m gone. But I keep hoping you’ll understand why I’m doing this. That I’m trying to build something better for everyone—including us.”

“I do understand, Quino. That’s the hardest part…” Frankie’s shoulders slumped. She reached over slowly and placed her hand over his chest, right where his dog tags rested under his shirt. “I love how kind you are, how good you are. I admire how you never stop fighting for the greater good, but I can’t be the only one fighting for us.”

Joaquin pressed his forehead to hers and whispered, “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You’re not going to lose me,” Frank replied softly, “but I need something to hold onto, Joaquin. Remind me I’m not always going to come second to the sky.”

Joaquin wrapped his arms around her, and they sat like that for a long time. No suit. No wings. No missions. Just Joaquin and Frankie. Two people trying to hold onto each other through the cracks. After a few moments, Joaquin reached into his jacket and pulled out something small—a beat-up Polaroid of the two of them, taken months ago at a street fair. Her arms were around his neck. He had churro sugar on his cheek.

“I carry this everywhere,” he said. “It’s stupid, I know, but on hard days, it reminds me why I get back up, why I fight to come home … even if you’re already asleep because at least you’re still safe.”

Frankie blinked at it. Then she looked up at him.

“It’s not stupid, Quino,” she said. “It’s everything… Let me be part of what keeps you going—not as a memory you visit in a picture when it’s quiet.”

Joaquin’s jaw clenched, the Polaroid still balanced in his hand. He looked down at it for a long moment before carefully setting it on the nightstand, like it was something fragile. His thumb brushed over hers where her hand rested against his chest, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I didn’t mean to start making you feel like an afterthought,” he murmured. “You’re not. You’ve never been.”

Frankie didn’t say anything right away, but she didn’t pull her hand away either. She squeezed his hand and traced shapes on his knuckles with her free hand. Joaquin turned, catching her gaze with his.

“I know how much the world asks of you,” she admitted finally, her voice softer now, but steady. “I just need to know it’s not taking all of you.”

“It won’t. Not anymore,” he promised.

There was no need for grand promises or perfect endings. In the quiet between them, a steady certainty settled that no matter what came, they were in this together. They had been through storms and battles, but here, wrapped in each other’s arms, they both knew they were exactly where they belonged. Joaquin leaned in slowly, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead, a silent promise woven into the touch. Frankie closed her eyes and let the moment wash over her—the steady beat of his heart against hers, the calm strength in his arms. This time, she didn’t have to wonder or hope.

The fight wasn’t just for the world anymore; it was for them, for their shared quiet amid the noise. And that was all that really mattered.

[spookysanta]

Chapter 4: Real Ones Only

Ongoing tags: [Modern Romance] [Slow Burn] to [Fireworks [Black!Reader] [Younger!Reader] [Reader is That Girl] [Obsessed Michael™] [So Much Eye Contact] [Vacation Fling] turns into [Something Real]

Potential TW/CW: [Swearing] [Light Sexual Tension] to [Eventual Smut]

Read Part 1. Part 2. Part 3.

IMPORTANT NOTE: SOOOOO you may or may not have noticed (probably not bc no one's said anything lmao) that i fucked up by having the faceclaim names in this post and the character names in the actual fics be different... yeah i'm writing multiple things at once.

SO HERE'S THE UPDATE: NYAH is now NAS, JAE is now LEX.

sorry for any confusion. hopefully this clears things up! and now i have to retire nyah and jae so i don't keep confusing myself. :)

also!! i'm trying something new with the text message layout. this took WAY longer than i intended for it to.. so pls lmk what you think!

The morning came in quiet waves. Sunlight stretched across the carpet. A half-full glass of champagne still sat on the dresser. The air smelled like heat-styling tools, edge control, and leftover perfume.

Your phone buzzed beside your pillow. You rolled over, eyes barely open, and smiled when you saw his message.

Just outside your room, the suite was buzzing with energy. When you entered the common area, Tati was in the kitchenette making mimosas with way too much champagne. Kris was curled on the couch in your robe like it belonged to her. Lex was sorting through her camera roll, muttering “why did y’all let me post this.”

But Nas — Nas was watching you. The quiet kind of watching. The kind that clocked your second smile at your phone and tilted her head gently.

“You good?” she asked, reaching across the breakfast bar for a croissant.

You looked up from your seat, soft. “I am.”

She smiled. “You sure?”

You nodded. She held your gaze, making sure that the smile you gave her actually reflected in your eyes. Then, she raised her glass. “To knowing the difference between good sex and being seen.”

You laughed out loud. And the whole suite followed.

-

Later, over brunch, you told them about the phone call.

The walk. The kiss. The way he didn’t try to push inside. The way he just stood there in front of four girls and said “hey ladies” like it was nothing.

“You don’t understand,” Tati said, leaning across the table. “The calmness. The confidence. That was not a man fumbling.”

“I think he’s just…” you hesitated.

“What.”

You looked down at your drink. “I think he’s serious.”

Nobody laughed ... Nobody teased.

Lex reached across the table and touched your hand. “Then we’re serious about protecting you.”

Kris nodded. “And cheering you on when he keeps showing up right.”

“Exactly,” Nas added. “We’re here to hype and hold. Real ones only.”

And that night, while you were getting dressed for the club in the way only you could — lashes curled, gloss slick, heels set by the mirror — your phone buzzed again.

Michael calling…

You picked up, smile already forming. “Hi.”

It's almost like you could see him smiling back at you. His voice, full of depth and rasp, sounded exhausted despite clearly being happy to talk to you. "Hey. What's goin' on?"

"Nothin' much," Setting your lip liner on the vanity, you put your phone on speaker so you could find the blotting powder in your makeup bag. "We're about to go to the club in a bit so I'm getting ready."

“You look good.” he said with finality, clearly imagining you in his mind.

You laughed. “You don't even know what I’m wearing!”

“I don’t,” he said, “but I know everyone at the club's about to hate how good you look.”

You sat on the bed to pack your clutch, suddenly shy. “You going out tonight too?”

“Late dinner, maybe. You gonna be safe?”

“Always.”

“Text me when y’all get back.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

“I mean it,” he said gently. “I wanna know when you’re home.”

-

When you did get back to your hotel after a night of tequila sunrises, dancing to T-Pain, and not-so-great truffle fries, it wasn't until 2:14 AM.

And, to no one's surprise, your phone buzzed as soon as your heels crossed the suite's threshold.

With a chuckle and a smile, your fingers danced across your screen to reply. And, as expected, he texted right back before you could blink.

You hesitated, thumbs hovering. Though yes, you wanted to tell him everything about your day – the ins and outs, the jokes with the girls, that one random guy you saw on the street dressed as a rat – you didn’t want to inundate him with everything. This is new, you reminded yourself, don’t bug him.

There. That seems reasonable. Answered the question but kept it short.

Oh. Okay, then.. “Hm.” You hummed to no one in particular, “That’s not what I was expecting him to say. Not quite sure where to go from here.”

You responded. Lighthearted but serious.

And again, he replied. It seemed as if he replied before you could even hit ‘send’. As if he responded to your thoughts.

You laid back against the pillow, lips parted, blinking slow. Biting back a shit-eating grin, you found yourself describing your day – still short and to the point, but with just enough detail to satisfy his craving to know more.

--

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[inherdaze]

jungle — kiyoomi sakusa

kiyoomi x f reader

18+ content, pining, slow burn, sakusa wears dog tags mmm, smut, acquaintances to lovers. kind of a historical au? (think 1930s) idk bro it's like all made up. mentions of pregnancy

9k

summary: kiyoomi seeks serenity after coming home from war.

There’s lots of commotion outside. Hollering, cheering, squeals and shouts paired with the sight of lovers reuniting, families coming together, men picking up their children and spinning them around in the air. You watch from the kitchen window as you wipe down the dishes, see some people carelessly pick the flowers from your yard to bunch up and give to wives, children, husbands, the like. Normally, you’d scold them for being so careless and probably offer a pair of garden trimmers so that they wouldn't crush the surrounding flowers, but you let it pass. Everyone is happy. The war is over. 

Your mother watches as she stands next to you, handing you over the dishes to dry once she’s finished washing them clean. She looks at you from the corner of her eye, gouging out your reaction before clearing her throat. 

“Do you remember Kiyoomi?”

 You freeze for a second, plate and rag in hand as you try to think. “Mm. No?”

“The Sakusa family?”

“Oh,” And then you start again, rubbing the plate dry. You don’t really remember the boy, only that your mother was friends with his mother and that apparently the two of you played around as young children. You don't remember the last time you saw him. Probably couldn’t even point him out in a crowd.

“He’s coming home.”

“From the war?”

 “Yes.” 

“Would you like me to gather some flowers for him? There’s plenty in the backyard, too. None of the crushed ones.” 

She sighs before placing the plate she held back into the sink, turning to face you entirely. 

She says your name softly. “He’s coming home. Here.” 

“Why? For dinner?”

“No– well, yes– but he’ll be staying here. With us.”

You slowly put out the plate face down on the long countertop cloth to let it air dry. “Since when?”

“We’ve been exchanging letters.”

Ah. You had been wondering what that was about. Each time the mail came in, your mother would scurry to get it before you could, holding it to her chest protectively before gently slicing it open in the study, purposely keeping it from you. You thought she had been exchanging letters with some sort of admirer, so to speak. You thought she’d be afraid to tell you she’s moving on after years of your father’s death. 

She continues, “His parents passed a while back– they both fell ill while he was away. He just needs somewhere to stay in the meantime so he can get back up on his feet. I'm sure there are plenty of other families that would be more than happy to host a soldier, but I suppose he would feel more comfortable here. I mentioned the garden and the chickens and he said he’d help you out with those. Don’t let him, though.”

“Huh? Why not?”

Your mother lightly swats your arm and gives a quiet scold of your name, “He isn't here to work. He’s here to rest. He’s been through a lot, you know. Just let him be while he’s here.”

You roll your eyes. Your mother can tell that you're not really annoyed. 

“He seems very reserved in the letters we exchanged. If he’s formal with you, insist that he don’t be. We are friends of his. Make him feel comfortable, okay?” 

You hum and nod. “Okay.”

There’s a pause.

“When will he be here?”

Your mother nearly answers before you've even finished asking.

“Tomorrow.”

You’re an early bird. Even when you don’t want to be, you must. You have to tend to the chickens in the morning, tidy up and make breakfast for your mother before she goes out to the market to sell the eggs. 

The morning dew that sits atop the grass kisses at your shins as you trudge towards the coop, face lit by the oncoming sunrise. The sky shifts from deep blue to a lighter blue to purples and pinks until the sun finally reaches the top of the sky. 

As you get closer to the coop, you hear the familiar and pesky repetitive clucks, appreciative that the coop is farther out into the yard and not by your window.

You slide the coop door open, stepping to the side as they rush out with curiosity.

“Mornin’ kids,” You start before emptying out their dirty water, tossing it into the grass before turning on the hose to fill up the bin.

You replace the water, give them more food, collect the eggs that are deemed ready, and hang out with them for a good thirty minutes to make sure they’re healthy and roaming around like normal. You sit on the grass, knees to your chest as you absentmindedly say hi to them when they pass by or stare at you.

Once the sun has almost fully risen, you grab the basket of eggs and make your way back into the house, slipping out of your boots before stepping inside.

The morning goes as always; Your mother wakes up, thanks you for handling the chickens, thanks you as you place her breakfast on the table, gathers all the eggs she needs to sell, and kisses your cheek before she heads out to the market. 

“Kiyoomi should be here later, once I’m already home. Please make sure the spare bedroom is clean, with fresh sheets. If he happens to arrive early, be nice.” 

“God, don’t act like I’m insufferable! I won’t drive him out.”

She smiles knowingly. “I know, my dear.” 

She looks like she wants to say more, but swiftly turns on her heel and takes her leave.

The rest of the day is spent cleaning up the spare bedroom to make sure it’s nice and welcoming for when your new guest arrives. You smooth out all the bed linen and wipe down the dressers, making all photo frames and little trinkets look presentable. It doesn't take long for you to set it all up– the bedroom has always been very empty. You wonder how it'll look like when it’s more lived-in, with boots and coats and whatever else he may carry laying around. 

You slip into the kitchen and wash your hands, preparing to make lunch. With the curtains on the kitchen window drawn shut, you fail to see the man that climbs up your porch steps, eyes downcast as he raps his knuckles on the door a few times. 

You freeze in your spot almost violently. It’s much too early for him to be here, and when you glance at the clock on the wall, you’re convinced that it has to be someone else– perhaps the neighbor? 

Drying your hands on the apron tied to your dress, you draw back the kitchen curtain to get a little peep.

You almost squeal as you back away from the window, covering your face with your hands like you’ve just seen something you weren't supposed to– but you had just seen him. He was… big. That’s all you could think.

When you open the front door, the two of you stare at each other, silent. 

Yes, he’s big. Broad shoulders, gifted with height, and his chest seems…. inviting in the military uniform he wears. You finally make eye contact with him, scanning over his handsome features, the two little beauty marks that rest atop his eyebrow, the pretty curve of his lips—

“Hello,” He says with an air of formality, and you clutch at the skirt of your dress.

“Hi… hi.”

He stares at you blankly.

“I, ah— come in, Kiyoomi,” You start, standing to the side as he takes off his boots and leaves them by the door, following diligently as you lead him to his room. He doesn’t even spare a glance to look around the house, eyes trained on your back. 

“Here,” You say, opening the door to his room. “The bathroom is down the hall, my room is right there– right across, and my mother’s room is the farthest one down the hallway. There’s a, um, study if you'd ever like to read or spend some time in there. Do as you like,” You explain gently, a warm smile on your features. “I was just making lunch. Are you hungry? Would you like some?”

“No thank you,” He says immediately, looking down at you. “Thank you for letting me stay here.” 

“Of course! My mother should be here in a few hours. For now, the house is all yours– er, ours, but– well, yeah, yours…” You trail off with embarrassment, looking into his eyes for help, hoping he’ll finish your sentence or laugh it off with you. 

He doesn't. 

As soon as you back away and start walking back to the kitchen, he shuts the door softly and coupes himself up in there. 

You frown to yourself, remembering your mother’s words. He seems very reserved, let him be, he’s been through a lot.

You do just that, careful to not make any noise as you prepare lunch, then sit by yourself at the table to eat. There’s a light clink and clatter of the dishes as you wash them, but you can only hope he doesn’t mind. 

Noon turns into night and you’re still alone. You haven’t heard Kiyoomi leave the room or rummage around at all. It’s like he never even arrived. 

You’re not surprised when your mother comes home and deems the house empty (besides you being there) and exclaims that the both of you must rush and start working on dinner because Kiyoomi deserves nothing but the best. You feel your skin prickle hot for some reason. She wasn’t wrong, but if Kiyoomi had heard her say it, it sounded like she was one of those old ladies who desperately fawn over younger men. You didn’t want him to get the wrong idea.

You laughed nervously and bumped her hip with yours, quietly telling her that he had already arrived. 

She gasps dramatically, hand flying to her heart as she scolds you. 

“Why didn’t you invite him out here to sit with you? Has he eaten lunch? Did you offer him lunch? Goodness, my dear, this is no way to host someone. Ask him to step out! Did you show him around the house, at least? Oh, heavens– did you change the sheets?”

Your ears feel terrifyingly warm, knowing very well that your mother was loud enough for Kiyoomi to hear her through closed doors. Just thinking of him overhearing you get scolded made you want to scuffle away and complain in embarrassment to the chickens. 

“My apologies, miss.”

The both of you whirl around to see Kiyoomi, who looks absolutely delightful, you think. 

His curls are mussed as if he had been sleeping, uniform ditched for a skimpy white undershirt tucked into some slacks, the planes of his chest peeking out and greeting you handsomely. The dog tags that are strung along the chain around his neck glint in the kitchen light, almost like they’re saying Hi. “It’s not her fault, I assure you– I had turned down her offer for lunch, and I just wanted some time to myself after arriving. No hard feelings at all.”

He speaks in such a collected and calm manner, and his face and eyes look empty. He’s good at containing all his emotions. 

“Oh,” Your mother breathes out, a wistful smile creeping onto her face. “Oh, my lovely Kiyoomi!” She rushes towards him and cups his face, smushing his cheeks in her hands, beaming up at him. The action makes his eyes widen, hands immediately flying up to push hers away, but he stops himself just in time and lets them fall back to his sides. 

“How you’ve grown! My goodness, it’s been ages, my love, please– please sit down, we’ll make some soup, okay? Just rest. Tell us, how have you been? Any good stories?”

She greets him like a mother would, and for a second, you think you see his features relax. Not wanting to get caught ogling at him, you turn and face the cutting board, lining up all the vegetables needed for the soup. 

The two talk the entire time, your mother silently leaving the task of cooking up to you. You don’t mind at all, keeping your back to the both of them to hide the look of shyness on your face. Every time Kiyoomi speaks, you feel your hands stutter. 

The conversation is mostly your mother gushing over him and how much he’s grown, telling him he’s such a handsome young man, asking him how his trip over here went, and then she asks him if there is a woman in his life. You know that it would be normal for him to feel a little flabbergasted from such a question, but you don’t know why you feel so embarrassed as well. 

You figure it’s because if he says he does have a special someone in his life, your mother would turn around and berate you (in front of him) for not being ‘out there’ enough and for not seeing someone already. 

To your surprise, he weakly mentions that no, he doesn’t have anyone like that in his life. He quickly excuses it by saying that he had been too busy during the war to worry about such things. 

Your mother laughs good-naturedly, flailing her hand around, “Oh, of course. Silly me!”

By the time your mother opens her mouth to tell him that there are plenty of riveting people around town that he may like, you announce with your back still facing them, “Soup’s ready.” 

You serve your mother and Kiyoomi, keeping your head down as you approach him and place his bowl on the table. He thanks you in a quiet, rumbly voice that makes you go completely still for a split second. 

Conversation dies down as the three of you eat. Your mother has pulled out as much as she can from Kiyoomi. He avoided a lot of questions about the war, about his experiences, about what he saw. You can’t help but wonder. 

Your mother interrupts the silence as she subtly turns to face you. 

“How are the vegetables doing?”

“Growing,” Is all you respond as you stuff another spoonful of soup into your mouth. She’s grasping at straws to not let the atmosphere turn awkward. 

You figure that if Kiyoomi is going to be staying here, may as well be casual, treat him like anyone else (despite the fact that he looks like he came down straight from Heaven). 

You shift in your chair, the wood creaking. “Tomorrow, could you buy some more flower seeds from the market? You can pick which. I need to fill in the spaces that were crushed yesterday from all the people.” 

Her eyes light up, “Of course, dearie. Thank you for reminding me.” 

The two of you talk about mundane things for the rest of dinner, topics you usually discuss. Kiyoomi finds it comforting. Makes him feel more at home. 

The next morning, you rise before the sun kisses the sky, as always.

You pull on the short linen clothing you use for working, old stains of mud and grass forever tainting the articles. As quietly as you can, you pad around the house before reaching the back porch, tugging on your work boots before stepping into the fresh morning grass. 

Unbeknownst to you, Kiyoomi is also an early riser, a habit that he has cultivated over years of training. He watches you from the backyard’s dutch door, the top half open. He rests his elbows on the bottom half and leans forward, watching and listening as you greet and coo at the chickens like they’re your children. His eyebrows twitch up when he hears you reprimand one– Stop putting grass in the water, Harold! 

After you dump out the water, you pick up the water bucket and take it over to the pump, working the water into it. With your back turned to Kiyoomi, you don’t hear as he steps through the grass towards you. 

“Good morning,” He greets politely, and you yelp.

Whirling around with the half-full bucket in hand, the water flies out and crashes right into him, soaking his torso and the entirety of his pants. 

You drop the bucket.

“Oh my gosh– oh, Kiyoomi— I’m so sorry, I’m so so sorry, oh my goodness– I didn’t– I’m so sorry—”

You're petting his torso worriedly, as if your hands will soak up all the water that has been spilled. He knows you have good intentions and are just trying to help somehow get the water to dry, but your touch makes him stiffen.

You’re repeating that you're sorry, and the more that you ramble on, the more he can hear the tremor in your voice as you squeak and swallow and try to push this upcoming embarrassment down. Kiyoomi lifts his hands and places them right on your arms, completely stilling you. “It's fine.” 

It comes out clipped, like it's not really fine, but you can’t tell if he's annoyed. His face remains stoic. 

“I’m so sorry,” You whisper.

“It's okay. You weren't aware that I was here. I understand.” 

You look over him again, the bottom half of his cotton shirt soaked and his pants clinging onto his legs like paint. You’re so embarrassed and ashamed that you can't even find it in yourself to admire him. 

“You’ll– you’ll get sick. Let’s go inside,” You plead, stepping away from his touch and gathering your skirt in your hands to run back into the house, hastily kicking off your boots before prying the bottom half of the door open.

He watches you scurry around the house to make him some tea, pouring water into the kettle and sorrowfully letting him know it’s gonna take a few minutes. You advise that he changes but don’t push it on him too much, not wanting to be over controlling.

He disappears into the room and shuts the door, and you plop onto the dining table chair. Resting your head in your hands, you mentally chastise yourself for messing up like this, and on the first day that he's been here, too. 

The kettle whistles. You pick yourself up to see Kiyoomi already looking at you, in a pair of clean clothes. Embarrassment crawls up your spine. 

“I’m sorry.” You say again, turning to silence the kettle and pour the water into a mug before adding a few loose tea leaves. 

“I’ve already forgiven you.” 

“I know, I know but– I’m really sorry.”

He only sighs. You take that as a sign he’s frustrated. 

“I’m stepping back outside,” You say, “Still have to get stuff done.” 

He nods stiffly. You walk with your tail between your legs to the backyard porch, putting on your boots and this time shutting both halves of the dutch door.

You confide and whine to the chickens as you clean up and spread out their food.

Despite the incident, Kiyoomi insists that he help you out in the mornings. He follows you out to the back porch and manages to slip past the threshold before you can shut the bottom half of the dutch door to trap him inside (he can always just open the door and walk by, but you tell him it’s the prospect of trapping him inside that matters the most. His eyebrow twitches at that). 

He lingers as you talk to the chickens, which you do quietly now that you know that he’s there. He pretends to look away when you tell Harold good morning. 

When you finish saying your greetings to the birds, you tell him to go back inside. This is your job only and he should take this time to rest or get some extra hours of sleep– but he insists. He tells you he can’t sleep for any longer, he’s spent years rising early and getting straight to work and if he were to lay in bed he’d just lay restless. 

You know your mother will scold you later, but you offer him some work to do anyway. You tell him to replace the water while you give them fresh food. And he does so gladly, falling into a rhythm with you that, if a stranger looked at the scene, would convince them that he belongs here and always has. 

There’s this sort of look of serenity on his face, like he’s content to be doing something rather than staying in the house (which is what your mother has been pressuring him to do). 

The rising sun kisses his face, reminding you of his beauty. His skin practically glows and you can’t help but let your eyes linger on the moles on his forehead. 

In this kind of lighting, you see faded scars on his hands and arms, earned from hardwork and fighting and war and other things you cannot even imagine. They make him seem gruff (more than he already is) and in a way, scary. But the way he handles the chickens and the land and the water with such a tender touch tells you otherwise. For a brief second, you wonder if he would hold you with such care as well. You shoo the thought away. 

Kiyoomi stays with you while you watch over the chickens. He stands while you sit on the grass.

“Talk to them,” You encourage. 

He lifts an eyebrow. “And what should I say?”

“Ask them how they are.” 

Kiyoomi clears his throat and looks at one of the chickens, “My… My dear Harold,” He starts, “I hope you are in good health.” 

You laugh, “So formal, Sakusa.”

He finds himself humming. Humming. Humming in amusement.

When you're done with the chickens, you tell him he can go back inside and relax while you check up on all the vegetables, but he tells you he wants to help with that too.

You untie your apron and start checking on and picking the ripe vegetables, bundling them in the cloth. Kiyoomi, truthfully, seems a little lost as he handles pulling out the vegetables and leafy greens with a sort of hesitance as if he’s afraid to hurt them. You scoot over closer to him and offer some help. 

“They won’t cry in agony, Kiyoomi.” 

“I–” He starts, embarrassed. “You mistake me.” 

“How so?”

He doesn’t answer, runs out of excuses. Suddenly Kiyoomi thinks the sun feels warmer when your hands brush over his own to guide him, encouraging him to pluck at the vegetables. He gets the hang of it, bundling up all the produce in your apron before the two of you make your way back inside. 

When your mother sees the both of you step in, kicking off your boots and hands stained with dirt, she tsks at you. 

“I specifically told you not to ask for any help.” 

Embarrassment blooms in the depths of your chest. Getting scolded in front of Kiyoomi will be the death of you. You want to defend yourself but you don’t want to throw him under the bus, either. You hold the bundle of vegetables and greens closer to your chest, almost protectively. 

“She did no such thing,” Kiyoomi interjects before your mother can continue. He stands tall, seems bigger, voice collected but strong enough to cause the both of you to jump. It’s been ages since you and your mother have been in the presence of someone as powerful as Kiyoomi. 

He visibly slackens, clears his throat. “She didn’t ask for my help– told me to go inside, actually. I took it upon myself to help her.” 

“Oh,” Your mother breathes out, tone suddenly sweet and forgiving. “I see.” 

The silence that rests between the three of you could pierce your ears. You skitter into the kitchen to wash all that you’ve collected and leave your mom and Kiyoomi alone. In a matter of seconds, she’s already cooing at him and telling him that there’s no need for him to be working, it’s fine if he wants to rest inside, there’s plenty of time for him to spend his days off. He’s silent in response. 

After you make breakfast and your mother leaves for the market, you gather all the dishes and make a beeline for the sink, pouring hot water over the dishes to scrub them clean. 

Kiyoomi follows up behind you, rolling up the sleeves of his cotton shirt, bunching it up right above his elbows. You watch as he leans forward to grab a washcloth, swallowing when you see his dog tags swing low as he dips down. They clink back onto his chest when he stands upright. 

“Thank you,” He says suddenly, eyes focused on the plate in his hands as he wipes it in a circular motion. 

“What for? I should be the one thanking you, Kiyoomi. You defended me in front of my mother.” 

He takes a second to formulate what he wants to say. “I must thank you for letting me work with you. I know your mother has good intentions, and I appreciate that she insists I rest.” 

You tilt your head up at him, silently asking if he will continue. 

Kiyoomi, unbeknownst to you, is facing an internal battle with himself. Years of being in war and surrounded by men who believe vulnerability is weakness often leaves him staying quiet in moments where he wishes to speak. He mulls over what he wants to say again, wondering if you’d laugh him off and tell him to not be silly. But he knows that you sense something is up, your eyes taking on a glimmer of understanding and kindness before you look down at your plate. “I won’t force it out of you, Kiyoomi.” 

He looks at you affectionately, but you miss it as you stack the plate on the counter. 

“Well, since you’re practically pleading me to share my thoughts, I’ll tell you.” 

That makes you laugh. You laugh a gentle little laugh, and Kiyoomi has to turn back and face the dishes so that he doesn’t lose his thoughts. 

“Your mother, I… I know she means no harm. I know that she may believe that I need rest and time and some sort of recuperation period. I don’t mean to be rude, but she… it feels as if she is doing worse than good, for me.” 

You nearly freeze on the spot, worried about what he’ll say next. You’re scared that you and your mother have ruined his whole stay. 

Kiyoomi breathes out your name, “I assure you that I am not a wounded dog that must be left alone to rest and sleep the pain away. I want to live a normal life, now. I’ve faced enough estrangement in the war. Please, allow me to work and live with you just as anyone else would.” 

It’s a simple, simple request. A simple request that would have anyone cheering and clapping and showing him to the damaged flowers in the front yard and putting him right to work. It’s a simple request that makes your heart clench and twist in the caverns of your chest, knowing that he wants to live a life of normality and serenity. Knowing that he has opened up to you about being shunned away. It makes you feel trusted, and in a way, sought out. 

You’re silent for a beat too long and Kiyoomi looks like he wants to scrub away all the words he just said with the way he resumes at washing his plate. As you set another one to dry, you tell him calmly, to prevent the feeling of pity arising in the air, “Of course, Kiyoomi.” 

The corners of his lips twitch up when you tell him the bushes out front need to be trimmed. 

You tell your mother of Kiyoomi’s request that same night, and she scoffs and frowns and throws a little fit before she caves. She initially insists that you only give him light work, but eats up her words at the glower you throw her way. 

He helps you trim the bushes, the weeds, helps you with the vegetables and the chickens and watches eagerly as you prepare food so that he can take on that task later on. 

You stir the soup around in the pot, sprinkling in some herbs and seasonings to add some more flavor. He asks you how much you use, you tell him you just know in your heart when to stop. When the kitchen falls quiet, you pick on him and teasingly ask, And how should you cook? And he answers, suppressing a laugh and an eye roll, With love. 

You peer down into the pot. 

“Okay. Kiyoomi, I am trusting you to deem it ready. Have a taste. The fate of this dinner falls on you.” 

He bites his cheek at your dramatics.

You bring the ladle up to his lips and Kiyoomi has to lean forward a little to meet you halfway. You press the spoon to his lips and he lets the liquid in, his eyes locked on yours as he takes a sip. You feel small in some invigorating, exciting way. 

He pulls away to think about the taste. “A little more rosemary.” 

You eye him carefully but take his word, dipping the ladle back into the pot and sprinkling in a few more leaves. After a few stirs, you scoop the liquid back into the spoon and hold it up to him again. 

He leans forward without being told, almost eager to have you press it to his mouth. Again, he keeps his eyes trained on your face as he has a taste. 

When you pull the ladle away, he remains close to you, face inches away from your own. 

Your fingers twitch. 

“Yes,” He breathes out, your lashes flutter. “It’s ready. Made with love.” 

You can’t tell if your mind is playing tricks on you, but he seems to be inching closer and closer, your grip tightening on the end of the ladle as you start freezing up, debating whether or not to shut your eyes. 

You watch as his pretty eyes close, and with your heart leaping and palms sweating around the ladle from nervousness and the heat that remains in the small space between you two, you let your eyes slip shut. 

You know it– you know it, it’s coming, his lips right against yours, you think you can already taste him—

“I’ve arrived early!”

The both of you jump backwards and the ladle collides with the floor. 

“S-Sorry,” You whisper to Kiyoomi, picking up the ladle and tossing it in the sink before grabbing a different one off the kitchen rack. His shoulders sag and you think you hear him sigh, but he composes himself quickly as your mother makes her way into the kitchen. 

She sees the two of you in front of the soup pot and beams, missing how stiff the both of you look and how you’re wiping your sweaty hands on your apron.

“Teaching Kiyoomi how to cook? Good! Good good, more men should partake in household chores. I cannot wait to taste how Kiyoomi’s soup comes out, should he cook for us soon.” 

He nods curtly, watching as you dip the new ladle into the liquid. You look shaken up, movements jagged and nervous, and he fears he’s done something terribly wrong.

“Did you teach him the most fundamental lesson in cooking, dearie?”

At that, a smile slips onto your face. 

“Yes. Cook with love.”

When the three of you eat dinner together, Kiyoomi mulls over the fact that it was made with love. Your love. He wants to eat so much that he feels full of your affections. He wants so much of it that he cannot help but decline anyone else who offers food, because he’ll be full of your love. 

You two never bring up the almost-kiss. Kiyoomi is scared that he’s pushed a boundary and you’re scared that you misread the situation– so the two of you remain silent and try to fall back into the familiar pattern of days, the rhythm you two share. 

The tension is nearly unbearable when the two of you are less than two feet apart. It almost hurts. It hurts Kiyoomi to look at you so longingly and you never notice. It hurts you when you try to scoot a little closer and all he does is move away. You think it's because he's disgusted with you. He just wants you to feel comfortable. 

Days pass and the both of you pack the incident up and back away into the furthest crevice in your minds. Everything seems alright again– you both talk to the chickens, trim the flowers and cook dinner by each other's side.

You’re preparing to cook and pull your apron off the hook rack that’s nailed right by the kitchen entrance. Kiyoomi watches as you slip it on and watches when you huff in frustration as you try to reach behind yourself and tie it off. Your arms start getting sore from the awkward position they've been in, the apron straps unraveling again and again in protest. You’re about to let the damn thing flail loose until you hear Kiyoomi clear his throat behind you. 

“Let me help.”

Your cheeks burn. 

He delicately takes the straps into his hands, making the base knot against your back and pulling it. “Is that good?” 

It’s a little loose. 

“Tighter, please.”

He pulls. It’s almost like you’re drawn backward, nearly knocking into his chest. He starts tying up a little bow and you feel the brush of his fingers against the small of your back, shivers running up your spine and shoulders. You have to hold yourself back from twitching. 

“There,” He says, taking a step back and admiring his handiwork. He keeps his eyes trained on the bow, tries to hold himself back from drinking in your entire figure. 

It’s oddly domestic, intimate. It has you drifting off in thought, has you confirming all your wonders about his touch that had crowded your mind ever since that day when you saw him pull out the vegetables. He is gentle. You can only hope that the softness of his touch is a testament to his feelings (more specifically, his feelings about you). 

You cough. You make it awkward. You thank him in a quiet, choked up voice before gathering all the pots needed for dinner before scrambling away to start on the food. Kiyoomi thinks he made you uneasy and this time, stands farther away from you when you show him how to prepare the food. Your heart aches at the same time as his. Both of you are back to square one. 

The following days are painfully repetitive. It’s a cycle of the two of you falling back into place, and then your hands brush his, or you catch him staring, or you lean in too close to him, and then the both of you are creating more distance and relapsing into silence and copious amounts of space. 

On this particular night, the two of you are sitting far apart, him on the rocking chair with an open book, and you on the other side of the living room, pressed into the far corner of the couch, embroidery hoop in hand. 

You could trick yourself into thinking that there’s a sense of peace that blankets the two of you, a scene of quiet comfort and domesticity before there’s a dull knock on the door. 

You both freeze. You’re the first one to get up to go check, and Kiyoomi is a little too late in his reaction as he tries to tell you that he’ll get it, a weird sense of protectiveness overcoming him. 

The door is already open and the air is knocked out of your lungs. 

Before you stands a tall, handsome man, brown hair slightly disheveled, a smile growing as he looks down at you. He is very attractive. But not as charming as Kiyoomi, a voice in your head whispers. 

“Well, well, well,” He starts, leaning onto the door frame. “Didn’t know Omi was staying with a pretty little lady.” 

“Miya,” You hear from behind you, nearly jumping as your skin burns hot knowing there are two striking men trapping you. 

“Ah! My old friend!” The man cheers, his eyes searching yours for approval to step inside. Without any hesitation, you grant him access, slowly backpedaling into Kiyoomi’s chest with a squeak before he moves out of the way, the two of you letting the man inside (much to Kiyoomi’s dismay). 

“Miya,” Kiyoomi starts again, gaze hardened. “What are you doing here?” 

“Don’t be like that, my good friend,” The man, Miya, repeats. “Hurts when you address me by last name.” 

Kiyomi doesn’t retort. He won’t play into the man’s tricks of beating around the bush. 

Finally, he fesses up. 

“Bo and Shoyo and I are going to meet up at the pub in a bit, thought you’d like to come along.” 

You see Kiyoomi make a face. 

“I have suffered enough from your presence over the last few years. Please do not try to rope me back into your antics.” 

“Omi!” The grown man whines, face falling before he remembers that you’re standing there. Slowly, his face shifts into a wicked smile, and Kiyoomi’s frown deepens. 

“Ah ah ah,” He starts, dipping down and leaning in closer as if he’s examining you. “I know why you’re so adamant about staying. Find yourself a pretty little wife?” 

The both of you choke. 

You’re about to protest, but Kiyoomi is pushing Miya out the door, effectively letting you hide behind the broad expanse of his back, but you peek out from behind him to see what’s happening. 

“If I– If I go with you this time, will you swear to not come back?”

“Don’t be like that, Omi.”

“Miya.”

“Just say Atsumu! And fine! I won’t visit after this. Won’t steal your pretty lady away.”

“You are unbearable.”

Your cheeks feel hot as Kiyoomi turns around to face you, face irritated. 

“I’ll be on my way. I should be back before it gets too dark out. Please stay safe.” 

You give him a meek goodbye as you watch him pull his coat from the rack next to the door and slide it on, watch closely as he threads his arms through the sleeves, watch as the article fits snugly against his form, watch as he again proves that he is a sight for sore eyes. 

After you shut and lock the door, you rush to the kitchen window to get a peek at the both of them descending the porch stairs, watch as Atsumu laughs and hangs close to Kiyoomi as the latter tries again and again to maintain the space between them and throws unimpressed looks his way. 

When your mother comes home, you tell her Kiyoomi went out with his friends. She smiles and thanks the heavens, happy that he’s finally getting out there. She tells you she hopes he finds someone he may like while he’s out.

You only hum in response. 

Hours pass and Kiyoomi is still out. You and your mother have already eaten dinner and she’s already fast asleep. You’re already in your nightgown and tired of waiting around. 

You step outside and stand by the chicken coop. You watch them sleep and some of them scatter around and you talk to them as if you’re sending wishes to the universe. Tell them you hope Kiyoomi is okay. Tell them you hope he gets home safe. 

As soon as you’re stepping back inside the house, there are drunken laughs and weak knocks at the front door. Not wanting to seem too excited, you take a few deep breaths to pass time before you hear that Miya boy holler out a muffled Pretty lady, come and get him! Which is nearly cut off by a familiar groan. Kiyoomi throws some swear words around. 

You open the door and find that the two of them were using it as support as they nearly fall into you. Atsumu catches you before you can trip on your own feet and fall backward. 

“Hi,” He breathes out into your face, and you have to hold back from scrunching your nose. He smells of liquor but his steady arms keep you rooted in place, his physique nearly swallowing you whole. 

“Hello,” You start, hyper aware of how you look and if you have any blemishes on your face and how close the two of you are, but before you can think of anything else to find a flaw in, Atsumu is pulled back by Kiyoomi. 

“Stop terrorizing my host,” Kiyoomi hiccups out, trying his hardest to remain stern and imposing, but his friend only laughs brightly.

Atsumu slurs out your name, “You must know,” He starts, leaning his arm on the door frame, trying to pose coolly. “Omi mentioned you an awful lot tonight. Think he might have taken a—” 

“Miya.” 

“Yes, my most beloved Omi,” Atsumu professes, cheeks pink and dewy from all the alcohol. “I’ll leave you two be.” 

He clumsily spins on his heel, trips on his way down the steps, and crushes another flower bush. 

Your eyes flash with pain and Kiyoomi shuts the door before you can see Atsumu trip into anything else. He’s rather good at composing himself, straightening his face and posture as he looks at you. 

“Would you like some dinner?”

“Yes, please.”

You find out soon that Kiyoomi is mouthy when he’s drunk. After you reheat what was left over from dinner and slide the plate towards him, he asks that you sit down with him. His face flashes with disappointment when you sit across from him instead of right by his side. 

In his drunken state, he spills all that he’s kept inside without you even needing to probe. Tells you he plans to get going soon, has his eye on a place, tells you he's ready to move on and start life from scratch. He tells you he's tired of you avoiding him like the plague, but there's no malice behind his voice– only pure disappointment, like he’s sulking. At that, you perk up and lean forward, guiltily trying to fish some more out of him.

“Hate that you stay so far away,” He grumbles before stuffing his fork in his mouth. “Always jumping and skittering around me like I’m, I’m– frightening. Hate that you think I’m scary.” 

He hates that you keep your distance, hates that you've deemed him untouchable, hates that you see him as some warlord man who will crush you beneath the soles of his shoes if you utter something incorrectly. 

“Miya,” He suddenly blurts, and for a second you think he thinks you’re the man that just left. 

“Miya told me to confess to you.” 

Your blood runs cold. Confess…? 

Kiyoomi is quiet after that, finishing up his food with sad eyes. He wants more and more and more, any drop of your love that he can get, he will take it. 

You don't ask if he means confessing by telling you all that he hates or if he means confessing something else. Something else that has your stomach stirring, heart doing odd twists as your fist the skirt of your dress. It's hard to think about it when he's right in front of you and slurring his words and clumsily pushing his plate away. It's something you must think about later, in the solace of your own room. 

When he’s done, you help him shrug off his coat, watch as the expanse of his back reveals himself to you. You guide him to his room, expecting him to close the door as soon as he steps in again, but this time, he turns to face you and leans on the frame. He swallows as he looks over you, eyes droopy and tired, and he looks so vulnerable in this light. He’s loosened up, mouth parted only slightly as he lets his eyes wander where he usually doesn't when sober, lets his mind think what he usually holds back on any other day. 

He breathes out your name. You look up at him curiously. 

“I wish you could come with me.” 

You stiffen. You gently place your hands on his chest and push him back into his room slowly– your touch makes him smile. 

“Goodnight, Kiyoomi,” is all you say. 

“Goodnight, angel.” 

Just like the almost-kiss, neither of you bring up what Kiyoomi said that night. It's an elephant in the room– at least, to you. You’re not sure if Kiyoomi even remembers what he said. (He does). 

The two of you delve into another game of dancing around each other in circles, putting on a show that makes it seem like everything's alright and that your hearts don’t ache. Neither of you are aware that when night falls and you're in your respective rooms, the both of you dwell and worry about what you've said and done. 

As of late, Kiyoomi hasn't been around. He still helps you with his morning tasks, but after breakfast, he slips out of the house and tells you he will be searching around town for work with his friend Miya. You know that he doesn't owe you any explanations, but some part of you appreciates it. 

(Kiyoomi knows this, too. He wants you to know he isn't seeking anyone else out there).

Day in and day out, he's around less and less. You start to think that Kiyoomi is now trying to get rid of his feelings ever since you didn't exactly reciprocate what he said that night, when he was drunk.

One heartbreaking evening, Kiyoomi announces that he’ll be leaving soon over dinner. Your mother has a big smile on her face as she congratulates him and cups his face and cries on and on about how proud she is and that he deserves all the best. You nod along to everything that she says, but your vision blurs and all the twines of your fork blend together and it’s hard to see what you’re eating. It's even harder to hold back your sniffles as she starts asking him where he’ll move and where he’ll be working and if he's met anyone. She's always on his back about that last one. It makes your heart feel bitter and heavy. 

The next morning, your mother insists that she go out to the market and get Kiyoomi some farewell gifts. He reassures her that she doesn't really have to, tries to convince her to stay as she's already putting on her coat, and then she's walking out the door. 

Kiyoomi asks if you could help him tidy up before he leaves. It’s more of a statement than a question, so you oblige. 

You help him take off his sheets and load them into a basket to wash later. You wipe down the dresser and the desk, help sweep the floors, help him fold his clothing neatly so that his suitcase shuts securely. 

When everything's done, you wipe your hands nervously on your apron and give him a curt nod, turning to leave the room.

“Stay,” He suddenly blurts, fists clenching at his sides. “I have to tell you something before I go.” 

And so you turn and face him, letting your hands fall to your sides. He steps closer to you. 

“Before I go,” He starts, eyes scanning your face for any emotion, but he gets nothing. You look numb. 

“I don’t expect anything from you in return, but I must tell you, or else I don’t think I can live with myself. You,” He hesitates, feeling like he instead wants to turn away and save it for another day. 

The curious glimmer in your eye pulls him back in. 

“You have captured my heart,” Kiyoomi says breathlessly, “The entirety of my soul. I have no regrets in opening myself up to you, in letting you in, and I can say that you have made me a better man. I want to be vulnerable with you as I am now, time and time again. I want us to be one, but to be our own all at once.” 

His eyes search yours frantically, “I love you.” 

Your mouth drops open. 

Hands shaky, you try smoothing out your dress and formulating a response, the right response, one that tells him you feel the same.

Kiyoomi begins to lean away, taking a step back, face calm. “As I’ve said, I don’t expect anything from you in return. You can leave, if you wish.” 

You stay rooted still. 

“Kiyoomi,” You finally squeak, voice cracking like you're on the verge of tears. The tone of it makes him stand up a little straighter, like he's worried about what he's done, but then you're beckoning him forward with your hand.  

He comes in closer, approaching you like you’re injured- gentle and calm like he mustn't startle you any further. You try to lean into him, try to pull him closer, hands wrapping around his shirt and bringing him towards yourself, voice shaky as you manage to get out, “And I you.” 

It’s all he needs. It’s all he needs before he’s dipping down, lips slotting against your own as you sigh out wantonly. Days and weeks and months of pent up feelings and unspoken words all pour out in one kiss, a kiss that has you stumbling backward and grasping at his shirt, his hands roaming down your back and pulling you into him, closer and closer and closer, like he is going to fuse the two of you together. 

(He wants to). 

It isn’t long until you find yourself pressed into his bed, both of your clothes thrown into some corner of the room, underwear torn off as he hovers above you, licking into your mouth and grinding against your cunt. 

“Kiyoomi,” You whimper once he pulls away. “Please.”

He dips down again to kiss and nip at your chest, the metal of his tags stinging your skin and giving you shivers. Kiyoomi hums into your shoulder, licks a stripe up your neck before lifting himself off the bed, planting his hands on your hips. He drags you closer to him, lifting you up as he drags his cock over your warmth. 

“Such a pretty little cunt,” he groans as he slips in, eyes falling shut when you immediately flutter around him. Kiyoomi almost falters, almost curls in on himself and leans atop of you again before he collects himself and starts dragging his cock in and out, hissing at the way you clamp down on him. 

It’s a build up, Kiyoomi starting gentle and slow until you’re bucking up your hips and whining at him to go faster, till the only thing you can get out is a weak string of please please please. 

Kiyoomi cages you beneath him again as he starts drilling into you, broken cries slipping past your lips as your hands race up and down his back, leaving light scratches that make him moan so prettily right by your ear. 

He brings his hands to your thighs, pushing them up and trapping them against your chest and your eyes roll back, body falling pliant to him. He’s so close, all up in your face and humming about how wet you are for him, how fucking good you feel, how you’re made for me, doll, all for me.

His breath fans your face as he thrusts into you desperately, making the bed shake. The tags on his chain bump into your chin, clinking softly like little chimes and bringing you back time and time again as your mind spirals under the feeling of him pounding into you. Kiyoomi grunts and lifts himself up for the fastest second, taking the tags in hand and ripping the chain off his neck, metal grazing the wood floor as it slides away. His irritation with it makes you want to laugh, but the sound gets caught in your throat as his cock hits the sweetest spot in you, making your toes curl as you cry out his name. 

He watches you as your hands sneak down, nimble fingers spreading apart your folds to try and get a good look at his length sliding in and out of you. Kiyoomi looks down, watches the spot where the two of you meet, watches as his dick comes out covered in slick before pushing himself back in. 

“Fuck, fuck, angel, you’re so– so good, such a good girl for me.”

Your head bobbles up and down in a nod, weakly whimpering out his name, “I want to cum, please let me– let me cum all over you, Kiyoomi!” 

He shudders, hand coming up to grab at your jaw. “Look at me. Look at me when you cum.” 

You sob out pathetically, legs shaking and twitching as you tighten around him, gushing for what seems like hours until you fall limp, tears invading your vision. Kiyoomi murmurs praises into your cheek before planting both hands on your hips again, using you to reach his high, and you let him, let yourself be his little doll. 

You feel his warm seed trickle into you, stomach fluttering at the sensation before he collapses on top of you. 

Kiyoomi nestles his face into your chest for a few minutes before rolling onto his side, cupping your cheek with his big hand. “Are you okay, sweetheart?” 

You nodded, trying to scoot in closer to him, albeit weakly. 

“I love you, Kiyoomi.” 

He smiles. He’s beautiful, you think. He opens his mouth to return the affection, your hand coming up to brush his curls away, but there’s a telltale sound at the door that alarms the both of you. 

In an instant, you two are up, laughing and tripping over your own feet, Kiyoomi hustling into his slacks as you awkwardly slide your dress back on, thumping into the footboard of the bed as your mother chirps out like a bird, “I’m home!” 

“Your mother,” Kiyoomi says in a hushed tone, leaning close to you as he buttons up his shirt, “Always has to go and interrupt us.” 

You smile up at him cheekily, and he catches the mischievousness in your eyes. 

“Just means that you must take me with you, I presume?” 

You step out into the grass of the backyard, the sun already hanging in the sky since you’re a little bit late to your task. Nonetheless, you head straight towards the chicken coop and unfasten the doors, the chickens pouring out and clucking around obnoxiously, as they always have. The rest is muscle memory– throw out the old water, replace it, add in fresh food, sit with the chickens. The familiarity of it all soothes you– not that you need soothing. You simply feel in touch with your roots again. 

“Good morning, Harold.” You jeer at one particular chicken, who eyes you warily. You laugh. “Now don’t be jealous, I’ll always come back to check on you.” 

He gives an approving cluck. 

You gather yourself and get back up, slipping off your boots on the back porch. As you approach the dutch door, you see someone already leaning onto the bottom half of it, a little bouquet in hand. 

“He told me to give this to you,” Your mother swoons, holding out the bundle of flowers to you. A laugh bubbles at your lips as you observe the flowers, holding the stems together, “Aren’t these from the front yard? Such a romantic,” You joke, rolling your eyes as you make your way inside. You tuck the flowers into one of your mother’s vases to keep them safe. 

“I’ll get started on breakfast,” You call out, despite it already being later in the day and, technically, lunch time would be rolling around. 

“Oh no no,” You mother gasps, a sound that you had become all too familiar with when Kiyoomi was around, when she’d clutch her chest in shock. 

“You rest, my dear, I’ll start working on the food.” 

“Mother,” You press, “You need to go rest. That’s the exact reason why we came over here!”

“Nonsense!” She chimes, pushing you down to sit at the dining table as she pads over to the kitchen. You remain still for a few moments to appease her, but then the front door creaks open and you’re on your feet immediately. 

“Hi lover,” You say almost bashfully as Kiyoomi approaches you, wiping the sweat off his forehead as he sinks down to kiss your forehead, your chin, your lips. 

“Hi, my little doll,” he mutters against you before pulling away. “Did you like the flowers I got you?” 

You laugh, observing the green and brown stains on his white undershirt, evidence of his hard work in the front yard. “I shouldn’t be praising a thief, seeing as you took my mother’s flowers right from her yard.” 

“Oh?” He suddenly challenges, “I think this thief deserves a little praise, seeing as I successfully made your heart mine.” 

You can’t help but scoff, tongue poking at your cheek with how embarrassing he is, how corny he’s become now that he’s in love. 

Your mother scurries back in with two plates in hand, telling you both to Sit, sit! like dogs, and Kiyoomi looks at you with a knowing smile on his face. Always interrupting things.

As the three of you start eating, your mother points her fork accusingly at you. 

“And you, my sweet girl, better eat up. You need more nutrients for when a baby is on the way.” 

You choke. Kiyoomi smiles into his cup as he takes a sip. 

“We’re not expecting,” You scold, stabbing your fork into your food. “You can’t just say things like that, mother—”

“How come? You never know! With the two of you in that new big home, you’ll surely want to fill in some space. You’re young! There’s no shame!” 

“You’re the one who may as well fill up the space, visiting nearly every day!” 

“Oh honey, I’m just excited for you—” 

The bickering is all in good fun, Kiyoomi knows. He takes your hand into his underneath the table, finger brushing against the golden band that encompasses your own. 

Yes, he thinks to himself, heart swelling. Perhaps it’s time to start filling up the space.