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ilianasbruce · 1 month ago

Text

“Something in the air.”

word count: 5,400

summary: it was either an illness or love in the air — and maybe both in your husband.

warning: +18 content with a plot. minors do not interact, please.

notes: well, hello, hello!!! ♡ i’m back with a piece that I hope i could contribute to Bruce’s early husband years with a little bit of adventures of his. i’ve been re-watching Batman: Caped Crusader (2024) since yesterday and maybe, maybe, i’d write my next piece based on the series. don’t know, but thank you so much for you support!!! see ya’, guys later!!! ♡♡ if you’ve any prompts or ideas, please be my guest and come to my ask-aways!! ♡ ♡

“What are you doing?”

You murmured as you pressed your cheek to his upper back, arms circling his waist. He had been busy for the whole day in the cave, working on a case about nauseous people in Gotham for the last two weeks. Few people got infected with some cells from the air during Christmas Eve at first, with bizarre symptoms and with the incredibly petrifying results. Then, suddenly it spread like a wildfire and the pus-covered bodies and yellow-like skin color on the poor people of Gotham started to multiply day by day. There was no indicator of what or who had caused that but Bruce couldn't let his city suffer like that.

“Working.” he muttered as his contemplative blue eyes stayed on the screen of Batcomputer. “Why are you still awake?” he continued.

“Wanted to see you.” you retorted with a small sigh through your lips. It had been a few times during the day that you’d seen him throughout the whole two weeks.

It was either a morning kiss before he left the warm bed of yours or an afternoon glimpse bypassing each other or a whisper of his ‘Go to sleep.’ when you were trying to stay awake to see him a little bit of time. Nothing more than those.

You and Alfred were trying to have an effect on the process — his day and night working schedule since the infection had started. Keep him at least sleeping or eating since Bruce was too concentrated on his city to think or care about. Poor Gordon was sending his Bat-Signal for him to appear as much as he could. Constant patrolling and the first week of investigation led Batman to be busy with the enigma about the cells that caused the sickness all over Gotham.

He was constantly telling you not to come down the cave. The main reason was that he did not want you to catch something from him. Maybe some amount of partitions would be on his suit and he couldn't risk it. As a man of science, before he slipped into bed, Bruce had to take a double shower — with water and alcohol to prevent any cell. Thus, he was taking extra caution for you.

“I told you not to come down here.” he said matter-of-factly.

“I missed you.”

He smirked but not out of amusement. “I’m at home all the time.”

That husband of yours had a habit of accepting that being at home meant you shouldn't miss him. You huffed, still pressing your cheek to his black shirt. “That isn’t a reason for not missing you.”

His eyes found the curved numbers of the clock on the screen. “I’ll be in bed after a few hours. Go to bed.”

Liar.

Alfred had to drag him to bed every single night — technically every morning. Since Bruce was prohibiting you from coming to see him, you were always bound to sleep the night without him. And Alfred was good at his job, with years of experience in knowing his son to take the reins into his hands. You’d usually find Bruce’s form nuzzling you as he slept when you woke up.

You wished you could stay in the cave but you knew better. You reluctantly kissed the part you pressed your cheek on and unwrapped your arms from him. He could’ve sensed your distaste (as he always did when you were upset), turned his head to you.

“I’ll see you later, sweetheart.”

“Alright.”

But before you moved, he grabbed your hand to pull you to him. He placed one hand on your waist, the other palm on your neck as he pulled you in for a kiss. He kissed you lovingly, in a way of saying he meant his words.

He would see you later truthfully.

A few seconds of kissing you ended up with his “Go to bed, baby.” murmur. You nodded your head, marked by his lips, and unwillingly left the cave for your room. You knew his responsibilities and you supported him no matter what, but when Gotham had him more than you did, as if he belonged to her, (not to you) it upset you. She had all of his mind and body as if he was not a human being. That was what worried you also.

The next few weeks passed in chaos. Gotham was inflicted. Even the criminals were infected with to do something, thus the crime rate was significantly below. Nevertheless, the city was a nest of pus-covered illness. You did see them on TV or when you had permission to be in the cave for fifteen minutes. You were horrified as well as the whole of Gotham. It was obvious that this was planned by whoever released them into the city, but Bruce had other thoughts about that.

The freezing January days weren’t helping, either — not to the city or Batman. The heavy snow-covered streets of the city and on some days snowstorms had you apprehensive and tense about Bruce. Alfred made sure to feed him with the nutritional foods to keep him intact as he promised but you were scared.

“Come to bed early.” you, on one night, said to him. He was searching for an article on the Batcomputer.

“I can't.” he said, his focus on the screen.

“I am scared that you’ll catch the disease. Either the infection or the cold.” you reasoned. He did not make any remark on your words.

“I am scared, Bruce.”

And your fears became true, unfortunately. Well, he just caught a cold but still; it made you apprehensive. You were trying to keep him in bed at least for a few more hours after his usual short sleep schedule, but to no avail. He was just headstrong about the situation of Gotham, running to the cave as soon as he was awake. That led to an argument between you. You two quarreled and he gave you a cold shoulder from then on.

Bruce had a habit of staying silent instead of arguing with you. He knew his potential — knew his quarrels with Alfred and how he sometimes left him speechless with his harshness. And he knew all too well to shut his mouth before saying any word to you. He loved you and he wasn’t stupid enough to hurt you.

As you were irritated with him, he just gave you a nonchalant stare and then continued with his daily sickness-covered activities. No lie, you were annoyed with his action but you did not push more, because you loved him, too. It was almost a terrible month in Gotham that left everything in chaos, including your home.

You were watching him as much as you could, sometimes waking up earlier than him to see his condition. The first few days of his cold-catching passed with a light fever but he was good. Then, it affected his throat. He did not have a fever anymore — after one week of his sickness — but his throat was sore. Other than that his immune system response was expectedly good. You’d sleep in your bed naturally, even though he was sick. It was your anger that compelled him to the bed of yours, because you couldn't let him get out of your sight. You did not care about catching a cold, you didn’t want to play by his rules anymore.

You needed to switch on the bedside lamp, since the curtains were drawn every night, lighting up the room. He was sometimes disheveled in his slumber, sometimes comfortable; it was different every morning. You’d press your warm hand to his forehead to see if he had an extra warmth. When you were sure that he was good, you’d switch off the light and cuddle him until he woke up. It did not matter that he was still quiet with you, you still missed your husband. He was probably being quiet for not to push your worries about Gotham and Batman up and keep you safe until everything was promising. After everything was normal again, he’d gladly come back to you with his zeal.

You’d sleepily count the mintues, knew the exact time when he woke up before leaving the bed in silence. Sometimes, he’d catch your sleep-filled but longing eyes, looking up at him from your pillow. He’d keep his composure, grab his robe, and head to the bathroom while you'd watch his form. Sometimes, you were asleep after counting the minutes, unaware of his lips on your temple — a softest kiss — and him leaving the bed. You’d wake up to the empty bed. Either way, you were counting the days of the misery to end.

Well, it did end on the earliest week of February. A few days ago before January ended, you were informed by the news that the city was safe to leave the Manor. You were stunned by the things you heard from Alfred but you could finally breathe in peace.

Three of you.

None of you were allowed to leave the Manor — it was decided by Bruce after the early weeks of infection. Only on the vital conditions Alfred or Bruce himself was the exception — for grocery shopping, for instance. You knew every point and curve of the Manor now, after wandering its halls.

The chaos must have ceased completely so that you were now allowed to leave the Manor. You were elated by the news, but you would be more elated if you saw your husband.

“Where is he then?” you asked Alfred, as you followed him. “Master Bruce has left for a few hours to check the city, madam. Would you like some tea?”

That husband of yours.

That night you tried to stay awake in your bed because you were withered without him. Almost one and a half month passed in the dreadful slowness; the foolish tension between you and him addition to that. You missed your Bruce overly.

Unfortunately, your usual bedtime hour and warm quilts were enough to put you to sleep before Bruce came. The last thing you remembered was that your eyelids were heavy under the dim light of your bedside lamp.

When you woke up the next morning, your bed was empty again. He must have woken early as his habit. You left your bed with great excitement to see your husband after all the days and tension. You were sure that he was in the cave or a little chance of eating breakfast in the dining room (he usually ate with you there or he ate in the cave alone). But when you heard the news that he left for Wayne Tech, you were disappointed.

Truly.

Alfred saw the expression on you and he was dissatisfied with the scene, too. He tried to lighten your mood, but to no avail. Your zeal was smudged. You spent the day in the Manor, reading or playing chess against yourself, counting the hours until he would be at home. You did not just miss him, that was not the whole reason why you were disappointed, but you were also worried about his health. He was still sick with a sore throat and he was refusing you to give you a word about his health for the past weeks after the quarrel. Just the small words of “I’m fine.” or “I can handle that.” were on his lips and a nonchalant look was in his eyes. You did not know what was going on in his head, but you did not like it.

So, when you woke up from the nap you took on the sofa in the reading room, your feet took you to the kitchen. Your mind was still filled with sleep as you walked through the corridors. But you walked into the scene of Bruce’s back towards you as he listened to Alfred. He must have sensed your presence so he looked back at you from his shoulder, his blue eyes finding yours.

You two stared at each other for a few seconds, before he turned his attention to Alfred. And you… well, you were silent when you walked to one of the chairs.

“Oh, I see you’re awake, madam. Would you like to eat dinner?”

Alfred was always kind to acknowledge you and your daily routine — and the tension between you and Bruce.

“No, Alfred, thank you.” you answered in a quiet tone of voice but your eyes stared daggers at Bruce as you were sitting. He seemed to be aware of your gaze, but he did not cast you a single glance. You were now both irritated and hurt by his act, unaware of his reason. A few minutes of Alfred’s dialogue about something trivial for you and the sound of a dish clinking, Bruce finally murmured something in return to him. Then added a “I’ll be at the cave.” as he turned to leave.

A silence took over the kitchen, except for the sound of the plates. You knew exactly why he was speaking in a low tone since his voice was altered slightly by his throat. Oh, you knew you should go and make a hell out of his ridiculous sore throat, but you knew better. You just gave Alfred a knowing stare of your anger and he immediately nodded.

“Do not worry, madam. We are making progress on that.”

A few days later, Alfred really did make progress on Bruce’s damaged throat but the tension between you two was still piercing. You were either seeing each other in the silent and glacial February mornings — two of you still under the quilts, catching each other’s eyes blurred by sleep. But before you made a motion, he was already leaving the bed. That would leave you quiet through the whole day around him. You did not understand why he was still doing that; the damned city was almost cured after the infection, and it was absurd that he was still giving you a headache. So, he kept being quiet and you kept being quiet, too. It continued until the earliest hours of one morning after a few days.

You woke up to the darkness of your shared bedroom. It was too dark, both from the winter season and Alfred’s curtain-drawing habit. It must be early, you thought because you were still sleepy and nuzzled to your pillow. However, you were not the only one who was nuzzled.

You felt Bruce’s sturdy body pressed against yours from behind as he slept in peace. His arms were on either side of your body, his face against your temple. He was asleep, you could tell from his steady breathing and softest snores, on you. You sighed at the sensation of the moment, savoring the sweetness of it because you did miss him and your mornings together. You tried to prolong the feeling, bask in the feeling of him. Who would know when you’d gone back to your normal days again? But the warmth of his body was too much for you at the moment, scorching you under the quilts you two shared which was the reason why you were awake in the first place.

You tried to get some space from his body, at least some air to hit your skin. But it was futile. He was holding you as if you could be a dream, wrapped around you with his arms and legs that were tangled up with you. You were drowsy already; unable to have the power to gain some space. Yet, you tried to do something under him.

“What are you doing?” he muttered sleepily. Before waking him up or maybe he was slightly awake, you never knew, you attempted to unwrap him from yourself. It was unsuccessful. You tried to utter something before he tightened his arms around you.

“It is too warm..” you murmured to your pillow. He kissed your temple before saying anything. “Is it?” he breathed out to your skin. Then he drew a few warm kisses on your skin, from your temple to your left cheek, your jaw, and the skin of your throat before pressing his nose to your neck. He stayed there for a few minutes, breathing your scent.

“Bruce,” you sighed in need of some fresh air on your skin.

“Hm?”

“You are so warm.” you said. “You are, too.” he replied with a yawn. You smiled sheepishly on your pillow.

“I did not mean that way.” you retorted. But you understood he knew what you meant since he sighed as he let you go. He loosened his arms around you and lay on his back, one arm still on your waist. You sighed in pleasure as you finally found some air after his resignation, whispering a ‘thank you.’ to the dark covered room.

You two stayed quiet for a long period of time. You thought he was asleep again since he was breathing steadily as he did when he slept peacefully. You were saddened by the thought since you thought you had his attention again. But it was silent again. You did not blame him since he needed sleep and rest. Thus, you turned to his side and did what you always did — pressed your face against his shoulder. But to your wonder, you found him tightening his arm around your waist.

“Hi,” you murmured barely. He got his face closer to yours before kissing your hair.

“Hi.” he whispered back. Your hand went up to his face, trying to find his cheek in the dark. But it instead found his messy hair. You dived your fingers through them, started to slightly playing with them. You two were quiet for a few minutes before you spoke.

“Why are you awake?” you murmured to the darkness and his warm skin. “Why are you awake?” he muttered back.

“Couldn’t sleep.” you said in honesty. His earliest morning — hell, you did not even know if it was morning or still night. You just woke up to the suffocating warmth of his body. — nuzzling made you miss your usual, sweet Bruce in your sleep-blurred mind and heart. He just hummed to your words.

You did not know what to speak about and your fingers were curling the lock of his hair, causing your eyes to close. But Bruce must have sensed that he took your hand into his and started to kiss your fingers. That made you puzzled but you knew what his motives were in the next mintues.

“I missed you,” he muttered to your knuckles. You murmured back without any hesitation. “I missed you, too.”

That must encourage him well enough to let your hand go on his shoulder and incline you back against the sheets. When his lips found yours in a sweet kiss, you were so glad that he was not asleep.

You two kissed for quite a while — some of them left you breathless, some of them were light with his hand on your bare thighs. You pulled him by his hair to your lips again and again, sighing in pleasure on his lips. He had made your wishes true by kissing you more to the point you were drunk on him.

When he pressed his lazy kisses to your cheeks or your jaw next while his fingers played with the waistband of your panties, you were quiet. The only sounds heard by you two were his lips on your skin or the soft ruffling of the sheets. Bruce made sure to wake you up more with his soft bites on your throat, which made you tug his dark hair between your fingers to the back to halt his teeth. That made him laugh with a ‘Too much?’ of his baritone, morning (or whatever time of the night) voice.

He kissed the skin where he bit and came back to your lips. “Do you want to take the lead?” he asked you. You answered him with your kisses. You had missed him dearly and you did not even hesitate when the words left his lips. Your kisses were rushed and needy compared to his. You kissed him as much as you wanted which led you to feel his action of altering the position of yours.

You found yourself on him, him on his back and your face hovering over his with your hips in his hands. You couldn't see his gorgeous blue eyes until his hand suddenly went from your hip to the bedside lamp. The sudden flicker of light made you close your eyes and then open them with a few flutters of your lashes. When your eyes adjusted to the light with your creased brows, you saw his face finally. He was looking up at you with his exhausted but focused gaze. When he realized that you adjusted to the light, he gave you a small curve of a smile and a whisper of “Something got your tongue?”.

You stared at him for a few seconds before your eyes found the digital alarm clock. It was 04:13. It all made sense why you were tired when you woke up. When your eyes found his again, he wasn't smiling anymore but gazing up at you in an unreadable expression (he was actually adoring you but you were dazzled to notice it).

“Do you want me to take over?” he asked you. You shook your head as a ‘no’ and leaned on to kiss him. God, why was he inclined to the idea of having sex as soon as he woke up, you never knew. But the fact that it was the first thing he had in his mind in the darkness was enough for you.

As you kissed him with idleness and neediness, one of his hands found your soft things, covered with your cotton, white panties. He grazed his fingertips on your skin with great pleasure, slightly guiding them to open for his next move as you were breathless from kissing him. His other hand was already in your hair, his fingers threading through it. You broke the kiss with a soft moan when he pressed you to his bulge — he pulled you back to his lips through your hair, causing you to melt into him. But it was slightly challenging when he was hard and you were sensitive in your morning body.

You did not wish to stop kissing him, but you were weakly balancing yourself in his arms. You sighed in pleasure as you withdrew your kisses. He looked into your eyes with a hazy look, questioning you silently.

“I want to kiss you but,” you told him in a complaining tone, not even finishing your sentence. That earned you a smile on his handsome face. “Can't be in the position?” he asked you as he pulled you slightly to himself.

“Yes.”

He kissed you one more time and then, he whispered. “Let me, baby.” he said as he pushed his body with his elbows to the headboard with you on him. He fixed his part, got himself in a sitting position as you ended up straddling him. He pulled you back to his lips with a “Good enough?”.

You answered him by kissing him as your hands found his shoulders. You two made out until it was breathless for you. He broke the fervent kisses of yours by slipping his fingers through your panties, earning a soft moan from you. He pecked your lips with his words.

“Will you-”

“No,” you answered him, interrupting him quietly. “I just want you.”

He was not expecting that honestly, and after your yearning, he did not have any other question. When you started to catch his lips again, you let him slip your panties from your legs, letting them fall on the floor. Then your camisole afterwards followed by his deft fingers, leaving your bare chest for his eyes. In exchange, you let your fingers free his throbbing cock from his boxers. When Bruce had you where you two wanted to be, he helped you to straddle his hips to take him fully.

You gripped his shoulders when you started to take him. But without a good stretch, it took some time for you. Your soft moans were against Bruce’s mouth as he kissed you while you had him to yourself.

“Shit,” he muttered to your lips when you took him fully, your viscous walls wrapping him utterly. You just pressed your face to his throat at the feeling, the rich thickness of his cock. He kissed your hair before muttering to you.

“Are you alright, baby?”

“Mhm.” you hummed. He dipped his face close to your ear while his hands found your thighs.

“Yeah?” he kissed the sweet spot below your ear. “Do you want me to help?” he went on with his words. You just shook your head as a ‘yes’, pressing your cheek to the crook of his neck. He muttered an ‘Okay.’ and helped you to move. The first few thrusts were overwhelming and left you with moans and creased brows against his skin. But his groan against your ear and words of desperation eased the whole process.

“Fuck, can we do this until morning?”

Oh, when you got used to his thickness in you? It felt so good. So sweet, perfect, and left you yearning for more. As if you were made just right for him as he was made for you.

When it started to feel good enough, you withdrew your face from the curve of his neck. He caught your lips immediately. But it was not easy to kiss when you were almost breathless with soft moans against him. His hands were gripping your thighs slightly as you rode him. It could be easy if you let him stretch you out first, but you missed him so much that you wanted only him.

Bruce could see the clumsy attempts of you and he nuzzled to your face before speaking. “Do you want me to take over?”

You nodded at him with your sweet “Yes, p-please.”

He kissed your lips briefly, then helped you to take him out of your cunt. You sighed at the emptiness in disappointment, but as soon as you lay down, he was on you in seconds. But before he slipped where he belonged, he opened the drawer of bedstand. He took the usual condom packet out of it, then opened it hastily for not to waste any time.

“I don't want to come out of you,” he told you before capturing your lips when he was between your thighs. When he entered you again, the feeling was so sweet for both of you. He hooked your legs around his waist and your hands were around his neck, started to thrust your scorching pussy. She was wrapped around him too perfectly that his thick brows were creased in pleasure.

“Damn,” he muttered against your lips. “It had been one fucking month since I touched you.”

It really had been and you had no idea how he was pent up. That was the reason why he was throbbing just by kissing you and your warm body against his. Bruce started with his usual steady and gentle pace for not to overwhelm you. Then, he found his pace slightly faster.

You were a breathtaking mess under him. Your hair was slightly messy, cheeks flushed by your earlier position, and your eyes were closed, preventing Bruce from seeing your gorgeous eyes as he thrust into you. He was too good at fucking you so right. Never missing any spot, any angle you wanted to see the stars. Just against your expensive sheets, under the quilts in the slightly dim bedroom.

He was balancing his body with his elbows on either side of your ribs, one hand on your hip and the other under your pillow, caging you in. You were always touch-starved of each other and you managed to fix the issue during the sex. That was the reason why you were always wishing to stay close to each other.

You felt Bruce’s wet kisses on your neck, nestling after every thrust he gave to you. He had missed you very much, as much as you missed him. After that tension and the case in Gotham had him starved for you and your pussy. He pressed and sucked whatever skin he could reach on your bare shoulders or chest, with the equal pleasure he was having from your tight walls around his cock.

He fucked you so perfectly at the five in the morning — as if either of you cared the hour, hitting every single spot with an effortless skill.

When you told him with broken sentence that it was too much for you, his hand on your hip went to your clit for the stimulate you. Oh, it felt too overwhelming for you that you couldn't fully remember where you let go and see the stars. But after your first-ever climax, you thought he could be coming, too. But, no.

Bruce continued with his thrusts, solemnly focused on you. He did not care about starting all over and getting you to the finishing point one more time. A few more fervent kisses, and his sped up pace made your toes curl again. Your forehead was against his neck, nails digging into his skin on the back of his shoulders as he dived into you again and again, until you called him with a broken voice.

He kissed your ear before having you finish again. You were so relished in the feeling of your orgasm and he saw it with his bare, hazy eyes. The delight on your face was the reason he tried to try something again but he couldn't do it anymore. He was already holding himself back with great effort since the beginning. You just remembered from your heavy-lidded gaze that he came with gritted teeth between your arms.

You two were breathless, gasping from the pressure and sweetness. You just held him right in your arms, while he was nuzzling your neck. For a long time, you stayed like that, catching your breath. You were playing with his dark, sweaty locks curled on the ends of his neck while he was snuggled to you.

He kissed your neck before raising his head and looking at you with his yearning eyes. “I missed you.” he muttered to your lips before stealing a kiss from you. Then, pressed his forehead against yours with his closed eyes.

“Missed you more.” you murmured back. You wanted to guide him to sleep. But he did not want to sleep; not for now. He sweetly caught your lips in a kiss, hovering over you again. He kissed you until you pushed him slightly to breathe. He smiled down at you sheepishly, his blue eyes filled with a lovely glint.

“Your throat,” you muttered to him the words that had been running through your head for day and night. “How is it?” you asked more.

Your flustered cheeks and worry in your eyes made him laugh. He leaned on to kiss your cheek or the skin of your face as he resumed his genuine delight.

“Baby, we just,” he murmured to your cheek, “We just had sex and I thought we could have it again, but you are worried about my throat?”

He saw your furrowed brows and stopped laughing. “I am good,” he said truthfully, with a kiss on your temple. “I’ve said that to you earlier.”

But you both knew he was just telling a white lie earlier. Well, it was your turn to create a fuss to make him learn but he pressed an apology to your lips. “I’m sorry. I won’t let it happen again.”

“You worried me-”

“I’m sorry, baby, so sorry.” he pressed another kiss to intoxicate you with him. “Won’t do it again.”

Truthfully, Bruce was not good with vulnerability or apologizing. Maybe he could be good, if he wasn't stabbed in the back in his younger years for letting his guard down, or gave his care unconditionally. But, you weren’t a renegade to him and it still struggled him to realize that. So, when you looked at him with a pang in your eyes to tell him he did no good, he only did what he was good at.

Loving you with his lips and body.

He sealed your lips with his needy kisses, getting you drunk on him as he was between your thighs. Because he couldn't handle the thought of wounding you or letting you down when you were the rarest thing in his hands. Thus, when he had your attention again, you just let him.

thank you so much for reading! ♡

#bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne x reader smut #bruce wayne x you #bruce wayne smut #bruce wayne #bruce wayne x batmom #batman x reader #batman x reader smut #batman x you #batman smut #batman x batmom #batman and batmom as newlyweds!!!#bruce wayne x fem!reader #batman x fem!reader

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abbotjack · 5 days ago

Text

Showing Up Anyway

THE LIFE WE GREW SERIES MASTERLIST , PREVIOUS PART : IRREGULARITIES

summary : A wedding countdown set against night shifts, compliance deadlines, trauma bays, and Target registries. Two imperfect people, choosing each other again and again.

word count : 16,330

a/n : Here it is.. the long-awaited new official chapter in the series! I’ve been working on this one since I released the prequel back in May, so it’s been a labor of love (and many, many rewrites). Because it’s grown into something bigger than I expected, I ended up splitting it into two part. This chapter is the lead-up, and the wedding + honeymoon will be posted later this week. Thank you for your patience ♡

warnings/content : 18+ MDNI !!! slow burn, emotional intimacy, wedding planning, night shift/9–5 relationship dynamic, war references, hospital setting, mass casualty events (mentioned), depictions of burnout, dissociation, anxiety, perfectionism, implied PTSD, suicidal ideation mention (15 months chapter), partner care during illness, grief and loss, parental death, strained mother/daughter relationship, reader is competent and exhausted, pie charts as emotional coping, soft possessive Jack, love through the mess, mutual devotion

18 Months Until the Wedding — Tuesday, 7:52 PM | Kane & Turner LLP, Federal Compliance Division, Downtown Office ✧ Lesson One: Love Is Showing Up Anyway

You’ve forgotten what time it is.

Not in a casual way. Not like, oh, it’s later than I thought, but in the disorienting, jarring way that happens when your body and your mind are no longer in sync. When the clock reads 7:52 and you swear it was just 4:30. When your hands are still typing but your vision keeps blurring out at the corners. When the last thing you ate was a protein bar shoved into your mouth between flagged grant summaries, and your coffee’s cold and untouched next to your elbow.

You’re still in work mode... or what's left of it.

Your office glows down the darkened hallway, the only one still lit. Everyone else is gone. Even the interns who pretend to like staying late. You haven’t moved in hours, not really... just shifted, stiffened, cracked your neck now and then and blinked too long at your dual monitors, waiting for the numbers to make sense again.

There’s a manila folder open on your desk. Pages covered in fine-tipped notes and color-coded underlines. Red for risk. Pink for inconsistencies. Blue for double checked lines. Your system. Your safety net.

This case is bad.

Worse than AGH.

Which says something, because you still wake up some nights thinking about those trauma logs. But this one? This one is messier. Bigger. More money. More eyes. More ways to screw it up.

Your phone buzzes again. A soft, short vibration against your desk.

You don’t look. You can’t.

If you look, you’ll remember that Jack’s been calling. That he texted an hour ago. That he probably texted again. That your silence is saying something you don’t mean to say.

So you keep your head down. Keep your pen in your hand. Keep breathing like it’s your job. You tell yourself: If I stay ahead now, I’ll have breathing room later. If I catch everything early, I won’t be drowning come next quarter. I can be sharp. Composed. The kind of person who doesn’t fall apart eighteen months from now, standing at the end of an aisle she didn’t give herself permission to enjoy.

That’s when you hear the knock.

Soft. Muffled through the glass door.

You look up.

Jack.

He’s standing just outside your office, half shadowed in the hallway light, one hand braced against the frame. He’s in his hoodie, the dark gray one with the thinning sleeves. Hair still damp from what must’ve been a quick, distracted shower. There’s a takeout bag in his other hand. His brow is furrowed.

He looks worried.

You can feel it in your chest.

You stand. Walk over and unlock the door. Jack slips in with a kind of quiet you’ve only ever seen in him when something’s wrong.

“Dale let me up,” he says, gently.

“Security Dale?”

“Yeah. He said I looked like I knew where I was going.” Jack shrugs, but there’s no humor in it. “Figured he recognized me from the Christmas party. Or the bake off thing… or that time I had to come rescue you after the emergency stairwell coffee disaster."

You almost smile.

You don’t.

He looks at you for a long moment, eyes dragging across your face. Down to your posture. Your hands. The tired set of your shoulders. “You didn’t answer your phone,” he says, softly.

“I turned it on silent,” you reply, not quite meeting his gaze.

“I texted.”

“I know.”

“I called.”

“I know, Jack.”

He doesn’t move.

The bag in his hand sags a little with the weight of the cannoli inside. You recognize the bakery stamp on the side. “I just…” You swallow. “I didn’t mean to ignore you.”

“I know you didn’t,” he says, too quietly.

He takes a few steps toward your desk. His limp is more pronounced when he’s tired, you’ve learned that. He favors the left, absorbs with the right. It’s subtle, but tonight it’s worse. Which means he didn’t rest today. Which means he was waiting for you. That realization makes your throat burn.

Jack sets the bag down gently next to your folders. Then he turns and looks at you again. “You’ve been here how long?”

You hesitate. “Since seven.”

He doesn’t sigh. He doesn’t raise his voice. But something in his jaw shifts. “You eat?”

You don’t answer.

“Water?”

You glance at your bottle. “It’s full.”

He nods. Like that tells him everything.

“Jack,” you say, trying to head off whatever he’s about to do. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I just need to get ahead of this—”

“No, you don’t.”

He walks around your desk, slow but deliberate, and crouches down beside your chair. Places a hand on your knee.

“You’re trying to outrun it,” he says. “The stress. The risk. The idea that if you just work hard enough now, you won’t have to panic later. That if you make yourself perfect, the rest of the world will back off and leave you alone.”

You blink fast. Jack’s voice softens, breaks a little at the edges.

“But baby,” he says, “you already fixed everything that needed fixing.”

You shake your head, jaw tight. “No. I didn’t. This case is a mess. If I miss even one item, the feds will escalate it. The firm gets hit. The client sues. And I...”

“You what?” Jack asks, gently. “You don’t get to marry me?”

Your breath stutters. He leans in a little, eyes locked on yours. “You think I need you to earn that? Like it’s some kind of performance review?”

You look away.

“Don’t,” he says, voice firm now. “Don’t look away. You haven’t looked at me in a week.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“I know. I’m not mad. I’m not here to fight you. I’m just—” he exhales, “I’m scared. Because I see you disappearing and I can’t get to you. I’m on nights. I sleep while you work. And I keep hoping we’ll meet in the middle but you’re getting harder to find.”

The words hit harder than you expect. Right in the ribcage. You press your fingers to your eyes. “I just want it to be good, Jack.”

“It is.”

“But it needs to be perfect.”

“It already is.”

You let your hand fall. Look at him.

“I’m not perfect,” you whisper.

Jack reaches for your hand. Laces your fingers together. Holds them there, like they matter. “You are the most perfectly perfect person I have ever loved,” he says, with a kind of quiet conviction that shatters you.

And then his voice softens again. “I made a cake tasting appointment.”

You blink. “What?”

“Late slot. Guy said we could come in right before close. I figured you might need sugar and something dumb to make fun of.”

You stare at him.

“It’s not about the wedding,” he adds quickly. “I mean... okay. It is. But it’s really just an excuse. To get you in my car. To get you out of this building. To sit across from you and watch your eyes do that thing when you taste something you don’t expect to like.”

You let out a quiet laugh. It breaks on the edges. Jack stands slowly, careful with his leg, and offers you a hand.

You take it.

And when he tugs you up, when he wraps his arms around you and holds you close, when he presses a kiss into your temple and whispers, “Come home,” you finally let yourself lean.

Not because the work is done. But because you don’t have to carry it alone anymore.

Not tonight.

17 Months Until the Wedding — Saturday, 9:03 PM | Wedding Reception, Oakmont Country Club ✧ Lesson Two: Love Is Not Looking for a Mirror

You’ve lost track of how many chandeliers are in this tent.

Three? Four? A dozen? All you know is that they’re casting this impossibly soft glow over everything. Over polished cutlery and thousand dollar centerpieces and sequins and pressed tuxedos. The whole place looks like the inside of a champagne flute.

And somewhere in the middle of it all is Jack.

Your fiancé. Your problem. Your person. Leaning against a cocktail table like he didn’t just spend fifteen minutes pretending to care about someone’s hedge fund. He’s already ditched the tie. His shirt sleeves are rolled up. His boots... yes, his boots, because Jack Abbot will die before he wears dress shoes (unless it's for something that involves you), are planted wide, stance loose, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

He looks like the only real thing in the room.

“You realize we are the only people here not wearing pastels,” you murmur.

Jack doesn’t look at you. Just raises his glass in mock salute. “We’re a bold contrast.”

“We’re the problem.”

He grins. “And yet here we are. Still invited.”

“For now.”

“Until someone’s mother tries to seat us closer to the photobooth.”

“You were mean to the photobooth guy.”

Jack shrugs. “He asked me to smile with props. That’s a crime.”

You laugh and sip your drink. Jack watches you over the rim of his glass. His gaze flicks down, from your eyes to your lips to the skin just visible beneath the off-shoulder neckline of your dress. The look is slow. Possessive, but not in a showy way. Just… anchored. Like he needs to keep reminding himself you’re here. That this is real.

“I like this dress,” he says, like it’s a secret.

You raise an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Even though it’s…” You gesture vaguely. “Wedding-y?”

“Especially because it’s wedding-y.”

You study him for a moment. His jaw’s clean-shaven. He wore the suit you laid out without complaint, but only because you didn’t try to get him into something double breasted or God forbid velvet. And even now, stripped of the tie and already sweating under the lights, he hasn’t taken off the jacket. You know he’s doing it for you.

“You look good too,” you say, quieter this time.

Jack doesn’t respond. Just slides his hand around your waist, fingers brushing the zipper at the small of your back. “I feel like a security risk,” he murmurs.

“You look like you want to start a bar fight with the DJ.”

“I do want to start a bar fight with the DJ.”

You grin. “Too many Ed Sheeran remixes?”

“One is too many.”

You lean in, your voice dropping conspiratorially. “We’re gonna have to pick a first dance song at some point.”

Jack groans into his drink.

“I’m just saying,” you tease. “This could be us.”

“I’d rather deploy again.”

“Jack.”

“No, really. Give me a Kevlar vest and a sandstorm over choreographed dancing any day.”

You’re still laughing when a hand taps your shoulder. It’s Charles, the bride’s dad. All broad smiles and cologne. A little too tipsy. A little too charming. You don’t even remember shaking his hand during the ceremony, but suddenly he’s there.

“Mind if I steal her?” he asks, already offering his arm.

You glance at Jack. His entire expression changes in a heartbeat. His smile doesn't falter. But the warmth drops. Just slightly. “Go ahead,” he says, voice even. “Just don’t drop her.”

Charles chuckles like it’s a joke. You press your fingers lightly to Jack’s hand and let yourself be led onto the dance floor. The lights are even warmer here. The music soft and nostalgic. You sway politely, smiling when you’re supposed to, nodding through a conversation about how much everyone’s grown, how wild it is to see college girls getting married now.

You feel Jack watching you the entire time.

When you return, he’s already standing, glass abandoned, jacket unbuttoned now. His eyes cut through the crowd to you like a spotlight. “You let him spin you,” he says the moment you reach him.

“It was one spin.”

“He dipped you.”

“I dipped myself.”

He gives you a look.

You grin. “Jealous?”

“I’m not jealous,” Jack mutters. “I just have eyes. And a pulse. And an extremely vivid imagination when I see someone else touching you.”

You let that hang for a beat longer than you need to.

Then, “Would you dance with me if I asked?”

Jack doesn’t flinch. “No one else,” he says. “But yeah. You? Always.”

You blink. Then slide your hand into his. His palm is warm. Dry. Familiar. You lead him out. The music’s slow again. Nothing formal. Nothing choreographed. Just something you can move to without thinking. Jack pulls you close. One hand at your waist. The other curled loosely around your hand.

“This is nice,” you say.

“Don’t get used to it.”

“You’re so romantic.”

“Keep saying nice things,” he whispers. “I’ll put the tie back on.”

You laugh against his chest. You’re silent for a few moments. Just the music. His heartbeat. His breath against your temple. Then quietly, you say: “Would you wear it?”

Jack doesn’t answer right away.

You tilt your head to look up at him. “The mess uniform. At our wedding.”

His body tenses almost subtle. His hand at your back stops moving. You’re careful not to fill the silence too fast.

“You don’t have to,” you add quickly. “I just... thought about it. I didn’t know if you’d already decided. Or if you didn’t want to. I mean... God, forget I said anything—”

Jack shakes his head, voice low. “You don’t have to walk it back.”

You look up.

His expression is faint. But not cold. “I haven’t put that thing on in years,” he says. “Didn’t think I’d ever have a reason to again.”

You squeeze his hand. “I’m not asking because of the photos. Or the guests. Or the aesthetics.”

“I know.”

“I’m asking because it’s yours. And I love all of it. Even the parts that still scare you.”

Jack’s jaw tightens. Not defensive. Just... moved. After a long moment, he nods. “If you want me in it, I’ll wear it.”

You stare at him. Then, because it’s Jack, you whisper, “Only if I get to unbutton it later.”

Jack groans.

You grin.

The song changes again. He leans in, nose brushing your temple. “You’re dangerous,” he mutters.

“You’re obsessed with me.”

“Undeniably.”

He kisses you. Not for the tent. Not for the guests. For you. And you think, this isn’t the wedding I pictured growing up.

But it’s ours.

It’s real.

And it’s so much better.

16 Months Until the Wedding — Sunday, 10:24 AM | Their House, Kitchen ✧ Lesson Three: Love Is Letting It Be Ugly Sometimes

The skillet is smoking. Your eyes are stinging. And for some godforsaken reason, the fire alarm is going off like you’ve just staged a small domestic war.

You’re barefoot on cold tile, wearing Jack’s ripped-at-the-hem Purdue sweatshirt and no bra. There's flour on your cheekbone, batter on your forearm, and the only thing more scorched than the eggs is your patience. You reach for the dish towel. Swat at the smoke alarm. Miss. Swear. Swat again.

It screams louder.

Of course it does.

You drop the towel, slam the pan on the back burner, and curse under your breath so hard it echoes. From upstairs, a voice:

“Hey... what the hell—?”

And then: footsteps. Jack appears a second later at the landing, shirtless, drawstring of his sweatpants trailing loose. He stops cold in the doorway, taking in the scene: the haze of burnt oil, the crusted pan, the smoke alarm, your arms mid-air like you’re about to start round two with the ceiling.

You look at him. He blinks at you. “…Are we under siege?” he asks.

You point the spatula at him. “Not now.”

Jack squints. “Is this… an emotional spiral or a kitchen fire?”

“Pick one.”

He walks in, quiet, slow, like you’re both in a hostage situation. Then casually grabs a chair, drags it under the smoke alarm, climbs up, and yanks the battery out. The beeping dies mid-wail.

Silence.

You close your eyes.

Jack steps down. Sets the chair back. Then gestures vaguely around the kitchen. “You wanna walk me through the crime scene?”

“I was making breakfast.”

“That’s a strong word for what’s in that pan.”

You glare.

He holds up his hands. “Hey. Just trying to understand the chain of events that led us to DEFCON 3 at ten in the morning.”

You turn your back on him and run cold water over the edge of the skillet. Steam hisses up like it’s offended. Jack leans against the counter. Watches you. “You’re not mad about the eggs,” he says.

“No,” you mutter.

“So what is it?”

You don’t answer. He waits. Not pushing. Just there. You scrub at the pan like it wronged you personally. “I just wanted to do something nice,” you say finally. “Something simple. Something domestic and… normal.”

Jack lifts a brow. “You chose a frittata.”

“I chose trying.” Your voice cracks, and you hate that it does. “Because everything’s been work and logistics and checklists, and I thought... maybe if I got it right today, I could feel human again.”

Jack’s face softens. But you keep going. The words start pouring before you can stop them. “And you’re off, for once, and we’re here, in this house we actually get to live in, and I thought, if I made something that didn’t come in a takeout container, maybe I’d stop feeling like a failure.”

His eyes flick over you, the sleeves rolled to your elbows, the flour in your hair, the exhaustion smudged beneath your eyes.

“You’re not a failure,” he says.

“You didn’t see the frittata.”

“I saw a woman I love trying too hard not to fall apart.”

You freeze. Jack steps in. Takes the ruined spatula from your hand. Sets it down. “Babe,” he says, voice low. “You don’t need to impress me.”

“It’s not just you,” you say. “It’s the wedding. The planner. The project. The group chat with your family that has seven unread messages about linen swatches. And I—Jack, I don’t want to be the girl who fakes it through her own engagement. I want to be ready. I want to be good.”

Jack cups the back of your neck, thumb brushing behind your ear. Not possessive, anchoring. “You are good,” he says. “You’re so fucking good, I forget sometimes that you’re human.”

You exhale. Your eyes are wet now. Not crying. Just on the edge. Jack leans his forehead against yours.

“You burn things sometimes. You forget coffee filters. You start spiral-cleaning the second you get overwhelmed.... you alphabetize canned goods.”

You crack a smile. “You told me to.”

“Look,” he says, thumb tracing your jaw. “I love the girl who color codes our budget. I love the one who triple checks the emergency contacts. I love the one who’s already mapped the guest list like it’s a war plan.”

“That’s not—”

“But I also love this,” he says, eyes on you. “Right here. The mess. The smoke. The ruined pan. All of it.”

You bite your lip.

“I don’t need a picture perfect fiancée,” Jack adds, softer now. “I need you. The one who’s in this with me. Even when it sucks.”

You look at him. And it clicks, how he’s always known how to let you be messy without flinching. That he doesn’t need the Pinterest version of your love. Just the one standing in front of him. You throw your arms around his neck and bury your face in his chest. He wraps around you instantly, warm and solid and sure.

“So,” Jack says, voice muffled against your hair. “You still want eggs?”

You pull back just enough to look at him. “You’re not gonna try and make a second frittata, are you?”

Jack grins. “God, no. We’re ordering bagels and pretending none of this ever happened.”

You smile, even as you swipe flour from your cheek. “I love you,” you say, quietly.

He kisses you. Fast, firm, forehead to yours.

“I know.”

Then he pauses.

Tilts his head.

“Do we still have any of that fancy jam?”

You laugh. “You mean the one you said tasted like ‘fruit that went to private school’?”

Jack lifts both hands in mock defense. “It grew on me.”

You shake your head, grinning now.

The house still smells like smoke. The kitchen’s still a disaster. But it feels lighter. Like you can breathe again.

Like love doesn’t need to look good to be right.

15 Months Until the Wedding — Tuesday, 6:41 AM | Their House ✧ Lesson Four: Love Is Knowing When to Knock Softly

You’re not supposed to be awake. But the buzz on your nightstand has weight. You reach without thinking, already expecting the worst. The screen lights up.

ROBBY (6:41 AM)

Hey Jack’s okay. Just wanted to tell you before you hear from anyone else... He was on the roof after the crash but it was different this time, He was past the railing

You sit up too fast. Everything blurs. Your throat tightens, stomach dropping straight through the mattress. The room is too quiet. Your heart fills all the space.

Past the railing.

Not the usual. Not just air. Not just darkness and coping.

You try calling him.

Nothing.

Again.

Still nothing.

You’re already out of bed. Hoodie. Keys. Phone in hand. You don’t remember putting on socks. Don’t remember how the floor got so cold. Just that your hands won’t stop shaking. You get as far as the front door when you see it. Headlights, slow, pulling into the drive.

You pause. Your hand’s already on the knob.

The door opens before you touch it.

Jack steps in.

The porch light hits him in pieces. Boots, scrubs, jaw, eyes. His face is flushed from the cold, but something in him is too still. He stops when he sees you. His mouth opens like he’s going to speak, but nothing comes out. Not at first.

“I was gonna shower first,” he says finally, voice low. Hoarse. “Didn’t want you to see me like this.”

You don’t speak.

You just walk straight to him and wrap your arms around his chest, burying your face in the fabric of his scrubs. You don’t care that he smells like sweat and disinfectant. You don’t care that your knees go weak halfway into the hug. He doesn't resist. He just stands there, breathing you in.

Your hand fists into his back. You press your forehead to his shoulder. “Don’t do that,” you whisper. “Don’t not come home.”

He exhales slowly. Doesn’t answer. You pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are rimmed in red. Not crying, past crying. The hollow, end-of-the-line kind of tired.

“How bad?” you ask, voice barely above a breath.

Jack blinks slowly, like answering costs him something.

“Bad enough,” he says. “Bus crash. Kids. No warning, no prep. Half the bay was still flipping rooms. One of the boys was—” His jaw locks. “He was wearing a little league jersey. I thought about what I’d say to his parents, but the mom was already there. She knew.”

You don’t realize you’ve moved until your fingers are in his hair, carding slowly. He leans into the touch like it’s the first real thing he’s felt all night.

“I went upstairs,” he says, voice breaking in the middle. “Didn’t mean to. Just ended up there.”

You nod slowly.

“I know.”

“I wasn't going to jump,” he says. “But I didn’t not want to.”

That’s when your breath catches. His voice is low and steady, like he’s reciting numbers, charting vitals. Like if he says it clinical enough, it won’t count as a confession.

You lift your hand to his face. His skin is cold. Your thumb brushes the space beneath his eye. “I’m here,” you whisper. “You’re not alone. You never were.”

Jack’s eyes close, and for the first time, he doesn’t look like a doctor or a soldier or a man trying to hold the whole world in his chest. He just looks tired.

“I kept thinking about how this house has your name on the lease,” he murmurs, like it’s some unholy secret. “That you’ll come down the stairs and find out I left you with that.”

You swallow hard.

“I’d burn the house down if it meant keeping you in it.”

That gets him. His throat bobs. He drops his forehead to yours and exhales. You wrap your arms tighter. “I didn’t know how to call you,” he admits. “Didn’t know what I’d say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” you murmur. “You just have to let me in.”

He nods once. Then again, slower. The silence shifts. Not heavier. Just more shared. You guide him to the couch. Don’t ask. Just pull him down beside you. You curl into him the way he always curls into the dark. Quiet, without demand.

You press a kiss to his jaw. To his temple. To the place behind his ear where he’s warmest. “I need you to promise me something,” you say.

Jack glances sideways. “Okay.”

“If it ever gets too loud, if it gets bad like that again... call me.”

He starts to shake his head. You stop him with a hand on his cheek. “I mean it. Even if you’re just sitting there thinking about it. Especially then. You call.”

Jack doesn’t nod. He just presses his face to your shoulder, hand clutching the back of your top like it’s the only thing keeping him from unraveling.

And you let him.

You stay until the sky lightens further. Until the birds start. Until his breathing slows.

Later, when he finally falls asleep with his head on your lap and your fingers in his hair, you reach for the blanket on the back of the couch and drape it over both of you.

You don’t sleep. You don’t move.

You just stay.

Because this, this moment, is what the love lesson is: Not saving. Not fixing. Just being there when the roof stops feeling safe.

And showing up again in the morning.

12 Months Until the Wedding — Sunday, 1:12 PM | Highland Park — Back Room of a Florist-Wine Bar Hybrid ✧ Lesson Five: Love Is Reading the Fine Print

The upstairs room smells like citrus and eucalyptus. Not overpowering, just enough to remind you the space doubles as a wedding florist during the week and a sensory friendly poetry venue every third Thursday. Rain beads against the windows, soaking the outside world in silver. You and Jack sit at a mismatched table of reclaimed wood, surrounded by dried flower bundles, stacks of linen bound vow books, and a pot of herbal tea that tastes faintly like pine.

Your officiant, Ramona, wears wire rimmed glasses and Doc Martens. She’s in her fifties, has a doctorate in philosophy, and once paused a funeral for a rainbow. You trust her almost instantly.

“I like to get a feel for the texture of a couple before I start writing their ceremony,” she says, flipping open a folio. “Not just your origin story. The actual feel of you. Your voice, your contradictions, your shared language. I want the ceremony to sound like something you’d say to each other in the car.”

Jack smiles faintly. “In that case, I hope you like petty arguments about traffic and why she won’t use Google Maps.”

“Because Google Maps tried to kill me once,” you mutter.

Ramona grins, pen poised. “Let’s start.”

She glances down, then back up. “This won’t be formal. Just real. Answer however you want.”

You both nod.

“What surprised you the most about falling in love with each other?”

Jack speaks first, after a beat.

He doesn’t look up right away, just rubs the pad of his thumb over his lower lip like he’s turning the words over in his mouth before committing to them. “I think what surprised me most was… how quiet it felt,” Jack says, voice low but steady. “Not in a dull way. Just... safe."

He glances over at you, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “She didn’t storm in. She just… walked in with a ledger and started pulling the wires out of the bomb like it was her job.”

A pause. Then, a little softer:

“I’m not easy. I know that. And I’ve had a lot of people… love me in theory. Love the idea of what I survived, or what I do. But not a lot of people have stayed long enough to love the parts of me that aren’t so noble. The sharp stuff. The quiet.”

He exhales through his nose. “But she did. She just stayed. And I kept expecting it to feel terrifying, but it didn’t. It is just easy”

You shift slightly in your seat before answering.

“I didn’t think I was someone who could be surprised,” you say. “Not in relationships. I’ve seen enough messes, enough ruined budgets, enough imploded dynamics, enough emotional disaster zones with overdue invoices... to assume most things unravel exactly on schedule.”

You glance at Jack. He meets your eyes without flinching.

“But he didn’t unravel. He endured. And more than that, he met me where I was. Not just the good parts. Not just the organized, always-has-an-answer parts. He saw the panic underneath the planning. The anxiety under the armor.”

You smile faintly.

“And he didn’t flinch. He just asked what color highlighter to use.”

“Tell me about a time you misunderstood each other... and what you learned from it.”

You go first this time.

You sit forward a little, folding your hands in your lap, searching for the right entry point.

“There was a week early on… maybe four, five months in. Jack had back-to-back trauma shifts. I was in the middle of a government bid audit that was leaking data requests like a pipe. We barely saw each other. I think we passed like ships. He’d get home just as I left for work. It wasn’t… dramatic. Just silent.”

Your voice softens.

“And I took that silence personally. I thought he was pulling back. That maybe I’d asked for too much without realizing it. Or—God—forgiven too easily. That maybe I’d read into it wrong.”

Jack looks over at you, brow tense, but you’re not crying. You’re just being honest.

“So I did what I do,” you go on. “I built walls. Quietly. Strategically. Tried to get ahead of the hurt by preparing for it. I told myself if I just didn’t need him, then it wouldn’t matter. And he... he noticed. But he didn’t push. Not right away.”

A beat.

“And then one morning, I came downstairs and he’d made coffee. He was sitting on the floor in yesterday’s hoodie with a post-it on the mug that said I’m sorry I haven’t had words lately. I still love you, even when I’m empty.”

You pause, blinking once.

“It wasn’t the silence that was the problem. It was the assumptions we each made about it.”

Jack nods slowly before answering.

“I thought if I just kept showing up, if I kept the ship running, she’d know. That she’d feel it. That I didn’t need to explain I was drowning a little because explaining it felt like another form of work.”

He rubs the back of his neck.

“But she’s not a mind reader. And I’m not made of stone. And somewhere in the middle of that week, I realized… she’d rather hear messy truth than be left filling in blanks I’m too tired to name.”

He looks at you.

“I’m learning how to name things.”

“When do you feel the most loved by each other? Not the big moments. The small, almost invisible ones.”

Jack answers. He leans back in his chair, eyes flicking toward the window like he's watching the answer unfold in the back of his mind before bringing it forward.

“When she packs my bag,” he says eventually. “I never ask her to. She plays it off like it’s just practical. Habit. But it’s more than that.”

A beat. He shifts forward, voice lower now, rough at the edges.

“There’s always something in there that says, I love you. A folded note in the side pocket. A packet of ibuprofen. One of those overpriced protein bars she claims she only bought for the office. My phone charger wrapped up right, because she knows I won’t do it right myself.”

He taps a finger against his thigh, thoughtful.

“It’s her way of saying I can’t be in the trauma bay with you, but I can make sure you're okay when you get out. And that… that’s love. The kind you feel before you name it. The kind that doesn’t need a witness.”

He turns to you, something soft pulling at the corners of his expression.

“She takes care of me in ways I didn’t know I needed.”

You answer without taking your eyes off him.

“When he comes home and doesn’t make noise.”

You pause, let that hang there for a second.

“It’s gonna sound weird, but... he comes in soft. After twelve hours of blood and adrenaline and chaos, he doesn’t slam the door or crash into the fridge or announce that he’s back. He just… re-enters quietly. Takes his boots off by the door. Showers without waking me. Leaves his pager in the kitchen. Like he’s trying not to break the spell.”

You smile faintly.

“And then he’ll climb into bed and just rest his forehead against mine. Not to wake me. Just to check that I’m breathing okay. That I’m there. That he’s home. And sometimes I’ll pretend to still be asleep because the moment is too good to interrupt.”

A breath.

“That’s when I feel it most. The care that doesn’t need to be loud.”

“What’s one completely ridiculous thing about your partner that you find weirdly endearing?”

You jump in first, already grinning.

“He can’t whisper,” you say, and Jack immediately groans.

“I can whisper,” he protests.

You raise a brow. “Jack. You stage whisper like a man doing bad improv.”

Ramona laughs. Jack mutters something under his breath, but he’s smiling.

“It’s not just that it’s loud,” you go on. “It’s the urgency. Like he thinks if he says it fast enough, it’ll count as subtle. He’ll lean over during a formal event. Like, say, the staff Christmas dinner where my boss is ten feet away, and be like: ‘That guy’s absolutely embezzling.’” You mimic the hoarse, rushed tone. “‘Look at his shoes. No one buys those on a public salary.’”

“And I was right,” Jack says.

You point at him. “You always think you’re right. And somehow, even when you are, I’m still the one doing damage control.”

“You got engaged to a trauma doc with a forensic brain and a God complex,” Jack says, palms up like he’s pleading the fifth. “At a certain point, that’s on you.”

Jack answers next, looking far too smug.

“She makes her bed like she’s preparing for a hotel inspection,” he says, deadpan.

“That is not ridiculous,” you interject.

“She fluffs the pillows. Under the decorative pillows. There are sub pillows. There’s a throw blanket with diagonal angles measured like it’s a geometry quiz. I watched her adjust the fringe once because it looked ‘unsettled.’”

You try not to laugh. “Fringe can have a mood.”

“It can’t,” Jack replies. “And here’s the thing, I ruined the whole bed three hours later. And she still makes it like it’s a sacred ritual.”

He shrugs, softer now.

“I don’t know. It’s her way of making order out of chaos. And maybe I’ve had enough chaos that the order feels like a love letter.”

“What’s your most controversial opinion about your partner’s habits or routines?”

Jack answers first. He sighs like he’s been waiting to get this one off his chest for months.

“She thinks spreadsheets are a coping mechanism.”

He looks at you, then at Ramona. “And not just in the ‘I’m organized’ way. I mean she builds full-scale tactical battle plans in Excel. I once walked into the kitchen and she had a spreadsheet open titled ‘Contingency Plan – Worst Case Guest Seating.’”

You shrug. “That was responsible.”

“That was psychotic,” Jack replies, deadpan. “There were color coded tabs for in-law arguments, dietary restrictions, and what to do if someone dies on the dance floor. She had a section labeled ‘emotional fallout’ with subcategories.”

He looks at the officiant again. “And, she once made a pie chart of our arguments.”

“It was an illustrative tool,” you mutter.

“It had a legend!” Jack says. “She gave our passive-aggressive silences colors!”

Then he softens. “But the part that gets me is that it’s not an act. It’s how she steadies herself. How she makes sense of the world. When things start to spiral, she opens up Excel and starts building structure. Order. Exit plans.”

A breath.

“And I used to think it was funny... or neurotic. But now I think it’s the bravest thing in the world in a way. She tries to organize the storm because she wants to make sure everyone makes it through it alive.”

He smiles, crooked and quiet. “I get it now. I just… wish she’d let the pie charts go.”

You answer next, slow and steady.

“Jack eats like the fridge might explode if he opens it too fast,” you say. “Like he’s afraid it’ll startle.”

Jack groans. “It’s called moving with intention.”

“No, it’s called closing the door with your foot while holding a spoon in your teeth like you're stealing fire from the gods.”

Ramona laughs. You go on.

“He doesn’t meal prep. He meal guesses. He gets home at 7AM after twelve hours of pure hell and just stands there, staring into the fridge like it’s a patient he’s trying to diagnose.”

Jack shrugs. You smile, fond, but exasperated. “One time, he made an entire dinner out of half a lemon, three olives, and a protein bar.”

Jack raises a finger. “It worked.”

“You were starving two hours later.”

“Then it mostly worked.”

You pause, then look at him more softly.

“But here’s the thing. He doesn’t ask for much. He’s not high maintenance. He’d eat cereal and call it a meal. But when I bring him something, when I actually cook, he eats it like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Like it’s church. Like someone made the world quiet for a second.”

You glance down, voice gentler now.

“That’s what gets me. The way he treats care like it’s rare. And sacred. Like it’s a surprise every time someone chooses him.”

Ramona smiles gently. “Well,” she says. “That’s more than enough to work with.”

She closes the folio.

“Y’all are going to ruin me, you know that?”

Jack raises his eyebrows. “We try.”

And as the rain thickens outside and the air inside settles into a quiet warmth, you realize that somehow, even with opposite schedules, opposite coping styles, and two wildly different calendars, you’ve built a kind of rhythm neither of you saw coming.

A new kind of fluency.

A love that speaks in fine print and late-night texts and hand touches under the table.

And right now?

It speaks just fine.

13 Months Until the Wedding — Saturday, 9:16 AM | Target Superstore ✧ Lesson Six: Love Is Not Dividing the Closet

You’ve been here for forty-six minutes and Jack Abbot has scanned:

one neon green NERF blaster

a velvet throw blanket that you told him would attract lint like a graveyard attracts ghosts

and a plastic skull-shaped candy bowl from the Halloween clearance bin.

“Essential,” he says now, holding it aloft like Hamlet’s skull. “Picture it. Movie night. Swedish Fish. Macabre ambiance.”

You stare at him. “Honey... we are building a wedding registry.”

“Exactly,” he says, slinging the registry scanner like it’s a sidearm. “A registry should reflect the soul of the couple.”

“Which part of the skull screams us?”

Jack gives you a beat of mock-thoughtful silence, then, “Probably the part where it looks normal until you look closer and realize something deeply unhinged is going on beneath the surface.”

You snort, try to fight it, fail miserably. “Put it back.”

He sighs, dramatic and long suffering, and places it in the nearest red cart as if he's someone laying a hero to rest. You don’t remember who suggested doing the registry in person. Probably you. Jack’s always game for an errand, especially on his post shift high. The weird adrenaline laced exhaustion that turns into mischief if left unchecked.

He met you in the parking lot after you ran a few errands, holding a coffee you hadn’t asked for but probably needed. You were still cloudy from spreadsheet hell, and he looked like a man whose entire shift smelled like antiseptic and sorrow. And yet, he grinned. That sharp, sideways Jack grin, all teeth and unslept eyes and: “Let’s go argue about towels.”

You said yes because you loved him. And because, if you’re being honest, you wanted to see what kind of towels he’d fight for.

Spoiler: Jack doesn’t care about towels.

“I just think it’s weird they’re labeled ‘quick dry,’” he says now, poking one. “Like that’s not the basic expectation of a towel.”

“They dry the person quickly,” you argue. “Not themselves.”

“Then the marketing is a lie.”

He holds one up to his face, rubs his cheek against it like a cat. “Too scratchy,” he declares. “This one feels like the trauma sheets after a code.”

“That is the most horrifying comparison you could’ve made.”

“You brought me here,” Jack says. “This is on you.”

You sigh, rub your temples. “Can we just pick something practical? One brand, one set, good reviews, nothing red or teal or embroidered with ‘his’ and ‘hers.’”

Jack frowns. “What about ‘hers’ and ‘also hers’?”

You pause. “That’s kind of funny.”

“Or,” he says, lifting a grey towel, “we each pick one. Yours is practical. Mine’s wildly impractical but emotionally satisfying.”

“Like you?”

He grins. “Exactly.”

You find yourselves standing in front of a display of Dutch ovens, and something about the look of them makes you both go quiet. Jack nudges one of them. “Do you actually want this stuff?”

You glance at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” He shrugs, scans the floor. “I know you. I know you’d be just as happy cooking pasta in a scratched up pan if it meant we could put the rest toward something practical. You’re not here for the aesthetic.”

You smile. “I want our house to feel lived in. Not staged.”

Jack hums.

“Then why do it?” he asks. “Why the registry? Why drag me to aisle forty seven of hell?”

You look at him.

“I want things we choose together,” you say finally. “Not just things that end up in our house because someone handed them down or because I panicked during a flash sale.”

You gesture to the rows of over designed bakeware.

“This isn’t about what we own. It’s about what we build.”

Jack is quiet for a moment. Then, in that way he does, the way he softens without warning, he says, “Okay. Let’s build something.”

You leave the store with a registry that includes:

a beautiful, neutral-toned towel set

one aggressively orange mixing bowl, Jack’s justification being, This feels like something I would’ve stolen from your college apartment if I’d known you back then.

a Dutch oven you didn’t think you’d care about but kind of love

…and, yes, the goddamn skull candy bowl... which Jack, apparently, couldn’t wait to add to a registry and just bought outright.

“Compromise,” Jack says, loading it into the car.

You shake your head. “You’re lucky I love you.”

He leans across the console before starting the engine, presses a kiss to your temple, and murmurs, “I’d register for that, too.”

You roll your eyes. But you’re smiling.

And somewhere, between aisle forty seven and the trunk of Jack’s ancient car, you realize: You’re not building a registry.

You’re building a home.

And you’re doing it with him.

10 Months Until the Wedding — Saturday, 11:22 AM | Solstice Bridal Studio ✧ Lesson Seven: Love Is Letting Yourself Be Seen

The mirrors catch you before you’re ready. Three angles. Soft lighting. The kind of dress that doesn’t just lay on your body, but convinces you that you need to stand still and see yourself.

It’s not even the first one you’ve tried on. It’s not the most dramatic, or the most expensive. But something about this one, the way the neckline settles against your collarbone, makes everyone go quiet. And that’s what gets you. Not the price. Not the lace. The silence.

“Holy shit,” Kennedy breathes, mouth half covered by her prosecco flute.

“She’s gonna make me cry,” Mara mutters from the couch, already dabbing at her mascara.

Bri grins like she’s known this was the one since you walked in the door. “Jack's gonna pass out.”

You blink fast and try to laugh, but it catches halfway. You can't cry, not yet, but your hand curls slightly at your side. A quiet tic Jack would recognize. A holdover from stress.

Heather sees it too.

She doesn’t say anything at first. She just leans forward, elbows to knees, that steady, unreadable look you’ve only ever seen in the trauma bay. Like she’s assessing the wound before calling it what it is.

You remember the first time Jack told you about her. Heather Collins, resident, terrifyingly competent. Back then she was just a name. A force of ER nature. But then came the double dates, you and Jack meeting Robby and Heather at trivia nights, or that one ill-fated bowling night where Robby showed up in scrubs and Heather casually demolished everyone with perfect form and no trash talk.

The friendship wasn’t immediate. Heather’s not the kind of person who gives herself away. But slowly, with each shared plate of dumplings, each side glance during a rant from Jack or Robby, it started to shift. She started sitting closer. Started texting you outside of plans. Started staying after for one more glass of wine.

Then one night, she invited you out. Just you. No boys. No buffer. You sat at the bar until closing, talking about work, womanhood, the unspoken heaviness of holding yourself together for everyone else. She told you, without flourish, about her miscarriage. About how she’d gone back to work two days later. Now she’s here, sitting among the champagne glasses and velvet armchairs, and her voice is the one that cuts through the noise.

“It’s a good dress,” she says softly. “But that’s not why you’re freaking out.”

You flinch. Not visibly, but enough that Heather raises an eyebrow.

You glance at your reflection. Then away. “It’s just—” You swallow. “I didn’t expect it to feel like this. So... much.”

Mara pipes up from the couch. “That’s because it’s working.”

“It’s not just the dress,” you say. You’re talking to the room, but really you’re looking at Heather. “It’s the moment. Like… this is the part where everything starts to count. Like if I let myself be excited, I have to admit that it’s real. And if it’s real... what if I mess it up?”

Heather doesn’t answer right away. She stands. Crosses the room quietly and stands beside you at the mirror. “You won’t,” she says.

You huff a laugh. “You can’t know that.”

“No,” she agrees. “But I’ve seen you love him. And I’ve seen him love you. And I’ve worked in trauma for years. Trust me, that kind of loyalty? It’s not common.”

You blink again. Your throat’s starting to close.

“Also,” Heather adds lightly, “I’ve watched that man wince every time he leaves your house in the morning. Like he’s being separated from a lung.”

That makes you laugh. Shaky and wet but real. Your friends start chattering again behind you. The stylist murmurs something about bustle options. But Heather stays quiet beside you, like she knows what it’s like to be surrounded and still feel alone.

You glance over at her. “I’m glad you came.”

She gives you a look that isn’t quite a smile, but close. “Me too. For what it’s worth… you’re allowed to feel overwhelmed. And you’re allowed to be the bride.”

You nod. “Even if I don’t know how?”

Heather’s voice softens. “Especially then.”

You step down from the pedestal and turn toward the group. Kennedy’s already waving her phone around. Bri’s asking for champagne refills. Heather stands with her arms crossed, watching it all unfold. She meets your eyes, and in that steady gaze is a kind of permission you didn’t know you needed.

You don’t know if this is the dress. You don’t know if there’s a right one.

But you do know, this is the first time it hasn’t felt like you were pretending.

And that counts for something.

9 Months Until the Wedding — Tuesday, 12:03 PM | West End Bridal Co. ✧ Lesson Eight: Love Is Allowing The Unexpected

You’re thirty two minutes into your planning meeting with Tessa, your wedding coordinator, and Jack has already declared open hostility toward the word “tablescape.”

“You know what that sounds like?” he says, shifting in the antique French armchair that’s clearly not built for him. “Some kind of military op. Like we’re storming the beach... but with dinnerware.”

Tessa, unfazed, makes a note on her tablet without looking up. “Noted. Groom prefers classic, not coastal.”

He shoots you a look. “She didn’t even flinch.”

You mouth, be nice.

Jack doesn’t look particularly bridal. He’s in scrubs under a hoodie under a jacket, hair still damp from a too fast shower. He came straight from The Pitt, where he worked a fifteen hour overnight shift and left his name tag in the trauma bay. Again. His prosthetic leg creaks every time he shifts in the dainty chair, but he hasn't complained. Not once.

You’re in your work blazer, still wearing the same lipstick from this morning’s conference, and you’re trying not to over highlight anything in your wedding binder.

Tessa taps her stylus. “So. Let’s go through tone. Theme. The aesthetic of the day.”

You glance at Jack, who gives a shrug that somehow says, Don’t look at me. I still think we should’ve eloped.

“I want it to feel like us,” you say slowly. “Not too formal. But still intentional.”

Jack leans back, stretching his bad leg out to the side. “She means she wants people to cry. But in an elevated way.”

“Jack.”

“I’m being supportive.”

He is. In his own dry, night shift warped way. Tessa looks between you like she’s taking notes for a relationship case study.

“What about colors?” she asks.

“No sage green,” you say instantly. “Or beige.”

“No dusty anything,” Jack adds. “If the name sounds like a 19th century disease, we don’t want it.”

You glance at him. “You really did not sleep.”

“I’m choosing to channel that into productive critique.”

The next few questions blur. Venue confirmations, vendor scheduling, cake flavors. Jack starts quietly doodling in the margin of your to-do list with your pen. He draws a tiny anatomical heart, then another, then writes: you’re here in one ventricle, in all caps.

Tessa asks, “What kind of ceremony are you envisioning?”

You go quiet. Jack tilts his head slightly, watching you. “I think we want something honest,” you say. “Not too rehearsed. Something that feels grounded. Real.”

“She means I’m not allowed to quote Star Wars,” Jack says, “which is a shame, because Yoda had a lot to say about commitment.”

Tessa smiles. “And vows? Writing your own?”

Jack’s voice softens. “Yeah. We are.”

He doesn’t say more than that. But you feel it in your chest. The way he says we. Not I. Not her. We.

Tessa scrolls. “Let’s talk must haves.”

“Food,” you both say in unison.

Jack grins. “Specifically, food that will not insult the working class palate. No foam. No flowers. No dishes that look like they would appear out of 'The Bear.'’”

Tessa nods seriously. “Comfort food, elevated. Got it.”

“Also, no DJ who talks like he runs a podcast.”

“And no cover bands who turn every song into a ballad.”

“No slideshow of us as babies set to an Ed Sheeran remix.”

You both keep going, rapid fire, in perfect sync. The list is ridiculous. You’re laughing. Tessa is trying to keep up. And for a moment, it feels less like planning and more so something that has you and Jack at the very center of it.

Eventually, the meeting winds down. Tessa gives you a revised checklist, a follow up email promise, and a very stern warning not to book any new vendors without looping her in. You stand. Jack rises slower, like the shift just hit him all at once. He picks up your binder before you can and slides it under his arm.

Outside, the afternoon sun makes the city haze look almost gold. Jack stops just before you reach the car. “Hey,” he says.

You turn. His face is tired, unshaven, his eyes still a little red from the night. But he’s looking at you like he remembers why he does all of it. Every shift. Every sunrise.

“You did good in there,” he says quietly.

You blink. “I didn’t say anything that important.”

“You didn’t have to,” Jack replies. “You were you.”

He steps forward, brushes your hair behind your ear, like he’s done a hundred times, but somehow it still feels brand new. “I’ve been in rooms where people don’t show up for each other,” he says. “You always do. Even when you’re exhausted. Even when you’re scared.”

Your throat tightens.

“I’m really glad it’s you,” you whisper.

He leans in and kisses you. Tired, slow, sure.

In the middle of a busy sidewalk, in front of a studio, with traffic groaning in the distance and the wind catching your coat hem, it feels like the world pauses just long enough to let you breathe.

Nine months to go.

8 Months Until the Wedding — Saturday, 11:38 AM | East End Convention Center ✧ Lesson Nine: Love Is Knowing When to Bail

You knew it was going to be a disaster the second someone handed Jack a glitter coated swag bag that said Bride Vibes Only in pink script.

He looked at it like it might explode.

“I think it’s cursed,” he said flatly. “Like, if I open this, I get possessed by the ghost of a bridezilla.”

You didn’t even bother to hide your grin. “Don’t open it, then. You’re already a lot.”

Jack gave you a look. “I’m exactly enough. You knew what you were signing up for.”

What you were signing up for, apparently, was a wedding expo with three indoor fountains, nine signature cocktail stations, a ring light photo booth, and a host named Sebastian who referred to himself as your “love concierge.”

The harpist in the corner was playing a slowed down version of Beyoncé’s “Love On Top.” Someone offered you champagne at 11:40 in the morning. Jack’s eye twitched. He was wearing blue jeans, a button-down you’d only seen twice before, and that wary, bracing for impact look that meant he was trying not to be rude. Trying very hard.

“We’ve been here twelve minutes,” he said, deadpan. “And I’m one cake pop away from declaring war on the string quartet.”

You patted his chest. “Deep breaths, Dr. Abbot.”

He muttered something about this being worse than the time he had to disimpact a bowel during a mass casualty event.

You tried. You really did. You tasted a sample of fig compote. You listened to a sales pitch on laser engraved chair signs. You nodded solemnly while a woman named Lisa explained the spiritual benefits of biodegradable confetti. Jack trailed behind you, loyal and suffering, occasionally squeezing your hand like he was making sure you still existed. But his eyes were starting to glaze over. Somewhere around the personalized ice sculpture booth, he stopped pretending.

He looked at you and said, very gently, “Babe, I love you. So much. So very much. But I think I’ve developed wedding themed vertigo.”

You burst out laughing. “Okay. That’s it. We’re pulling the plug.”

And just like that, you were gone. No excuses, no apologies. Just a shared glance, a silent agreement. You ditched the expo, Jack’s cursed swag bag still in hand, and made your way three blocks over to a dingy little diner with sticky menus and laminate tables. It smelled like maple syrup and something fried in oil that had been alive during the Bush administration. Jack held the door open for you like it was the Ritz.

“This,” he said, sliding into a booth, “is my version of a sacred space.”

You joined him, already feeling the tension bleed out of your shoulders. He looked so much more himself here, relaxed, hair still a little messy from sleep, prosthetic leg stretched out under the table like it had a right to exist there. Which it did. Which he did.

You took his hand across the table. “Thank you for trying. Really.”

He shrugged. “Hey. I’ll wade through ten thousand cupcakes on sticks if it means I get to marry you.”

You rolled your eyes. “That was disgustingly sweet.”

“I’m trying to keep you off balance,” he said, grinning as he reached for his coffee. “Gotta maintain the upper hand before you add another color to the pie chart argument. What are we at now, eight slices of doom?”

You roll your eyes. “It’s not doom. It’s detail.”

The waitress brought you coffee. Jack took his black, always. You drowned yours in cream and sugar. He made fun of you for it every time, but this time, he just smiled and watched the way your hands cradled the mug like it was anchoring you.

Then quietly, you say, “Do you think you want kids?”

Jack didn’t move for a moment. Didn’t flinch. Just blinked, like he was adjusting to sudden sunlight.

“That’s not a trap question, by the way,” you added quickly. “I just realized we’ve never really talked about it. Not seriously.”

He was quiet for a while. Not with fear, but with thought. “I think… there was a time I couldn’t picture it,” he said, voice low. “Not because I didn’t want it. But because it didn’t feel real. Like I wasn’t allowed to imagine that kind of softness. I spent so long being the guy who works nights, eats leftovers cold in the staff lounge at 3AM, and comes home covered in other people’s blood.”

You reached out, gently brushing your thumb along his knuckles.

“But then you,” he continued, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “And suddenly, I’m thinking about things like first steps and reading bedtime stories with terrible voices. I think—I think I’d like to be the kind of man who makes space for that. For them.”

You were already blinking back tears. “Don’t cry,” he said, soft but teasing. “We haven’t even ordered pancakes yet.”

You smiled wetly. “I’m just trying to picture you with a baby strapped to your chest in one of those wrap things.”

Jack looked genuinely alarmed. “You mean the infant burrito slings?”

“Yes. That.”

He grinned. “Only if I get to wear the kid to Costco.”

“I’d marry you tomorrow.”

His face went still, open and serious. “Good. Because I’m already yours. For whatever kind of life we end up choosing. Whether we get three kids or ten dogs or just the weird skull bowl.”

You laughed then. Loud. Unfiltered. And he looked at you like he never wanted to look away.

They didn’t have champagne towers or harpists at the diner. The lighting was bad and the toast was cold. But sitting there with Jack, talking about maybe somedays and what ifs and little half formed dreams neither of you had dared name until now.

It felt like a life.

7 Months Until the Wedding — Friday, 9:09 AM | Their House ✧ Lesson Ten: Love Is Letting Go of Control

You’re not vacuuming anymore. You’re just standing in the center of the living room. You took the day off from work, burned a precious PTO day you couldn’t really afford, just to make sure every corner of the house looked untouched by stress. The rug has been vacuumed three times. The couch cushions have been rotated, reshaped, and fluffed to showroom precision. There are fresh flowers in three different vases, one strategically tucked behind a framed photo so your mother won’t accuse you of trying too hard. Or worse, trying to impress her.

When Jack walks in, still wearing his scrubs and the exhaustion of a long night shift, he clocks everything at once. The third round of vacuuming and the arrangement of coasters. And then he finds you. He leans against the doorway, watching you in that way he does sometimes. Quiet, concerned, like he’s mentally noting which version of you he’s walking into. Then he speaks.

“Okay,” he says softly, tipping his head. “Just checking in, is this a cry for help?”

You don’t laugh, though you want to. You just shake your head and lower the vacuum handle.

“She gets in at noon,” you say. “I still need to re-steam the curtains. And I don’t think the towels are—”

“Baby,” Jack interrupts softly. “She’s not bringing a clipboard.”

You meet his eyes. “No, but she’ll make one.”

He walks over, gently plucks the cord from your fingers. His hands linger at your wrists.

“I know this isn’t easy for you,” he says.

You look away. “It’s not about her. It’s just... she’s never seen this house. Or… this life. And part of me feels like if it’s not flawless, she’s going to decide I’m a failure.”

Jack doesn’t speak immediately. He waits. Always lets you come to your own senses.

“She got harder after my dad died,” you finally say. “It was like… she had to control something. And I was what was left.”

His hands move to your shoulders. “You’ve never told me that.”

You shrug. “There was never a good time. And I didn’t want to make it your burden. You already hold so much.”

Jack shakes his head. “You’re not a burden. Your grief isn’t a burden.”

You press the heel of your hand to your forehead. “I keep thinking, if I just get every part of this wedding right, then maybe she’ll relax. Maybe she’ll think I turned out okay.”

Jack steps closer. “Hey. You didn’t turn out okay. You turned out brilliant. And if she can’t see that, it’s not because you’re not enough. It’s because she never figured out how to deal with losing the person who made you both softer.”

You inhale. It shudders. “I miss him.”

“I know,” he says, voice low. “I know you do.”

There’s a beat of silence. Just the two of you, standing in the middle of your over cleaned house with the weight of grief buzzing low between your ribs. Then, quietly, you say, “When we talked about kids…”

Jack stills, but he doesn’t flinch. “…I don’t know if I can be her,” you finish. “I don’t want to pass down everything she made me afraid of. I don’t want to love someone in a way that makes them small just because I’m scared.”

Jack’s hand slides down to yours. “You won’t be her.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you,” he says simply. “I’ve seen how you love. Even when you’re tired. Even when you’re scared. You make space. You give people air.”

You blink hard, trying not to cry. “But what if I mess it up? What if I don’t know how to be soft?”

He leans in until his forehead rests against yours. “Then we learn,” he whispers. “We learn together. And if we get it wrong, we try again. We don’t weaponize the love. We don’t use silence as punishment. And we never let fear win. Not in this house.”

You’re quiet for a long time, breathing through it. Jack waits. Always. Not pushing, not pulling. Just holding steady like he always does.

Finally, you nod. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” you murmur.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s talk about how I’m going to be the buffer when she inevitably asks why we don’t have a cheese course.”

You snort, softly. “You think she’ll wait that long?”

Jack grins. “I give it twenty minutes. Tops.”

You finally move toward him, tuck your head against his chest. He holds you like it’s instinct.

Later, when your mother arrives and critiques the driveway lighting before even stepping inside, Jack only smiles. He helps with her bags, offers her coffee, listens to her dissect your color palette without blinking. And when you look at him, you realize this is what it means to be loved in a way that lets you lay your weapons down.

Jack catches your eye across the kitchen later and winks.

You don’t need to impress your mother. You just need to be you.

6 Months Until the Wedding — Friday, 9:14 PM | Their House ✧ Lesson Eleven: Love Is Remembering

The wine glasses are still half full.

The record player is still spinning.

You’re barefoot in the kitchen in that navy button down from Jack’s side of the closet. The same one he wore on your first date, sleeves now rolled to your elbows, hem grazing the tops of your thighs. Your hair is a little undone. Your makeup is mostly gone. The house smells like rosemary and lemon and something human. Skin warmed cotton. Cologne, maybe. Him.

Jack’s standing in front of you, backlit by the soft kitchen light, shirtless and half smiling. Not cocky. Not confident. Just blissful.

He steps closer. “I remember the second you got out of that Uber,” he murmurs. “You looked at me like you already knew what would happen.”

“And you looked at me like you hoped I was right.”

Jack huffs a laugh, low and hot. “I was fucked from the second I saw you.”

His hand finds your waist. The other cups your cheek, thumb brushing the hinge of your jaw. He kisses you slowly like he has time. And you melt. Because this is the same man who once looked across a candlelit table and said, “I’ve never been afraid of blood. But I’ve always been afraid of this.”

And still, he stayed.

You pull him closer, fingers curling into his shoulder, the press of your bodies so familiar it’s muscle memory. He kisses you again, open mouthed and low sighing, like he’s trying to say something without words.

“Bedroom,” you whisper against his mouth. Jack lifts you before you finish the sentence. Your bedroom is dark, the only light coming from the hallway, honey warm and soft across the sheets. He lays you down like you’re something precious. Like you’re a promise he’s keeping.

“This feels like that night,” he murmurs.

Your voice catches. “It is that night.”

But not rushed. Not new. Not unknown.

This time, he knows your body. He knows how your breath hitches when he kisses the spot below your ear. He knows how you sound when you try to keep quiet. He knows where to touch, where to slow down, where to ruin you just right. Jack pulls your his shirt over your head with quiet precision, mouth following the trail he uncovers, throat, collarbone, the soft dip at your sternum. His hands settle on your hips. His grip is firm. Grounding.

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” he says, voice low, like he’s afraid saying it too loud will break the spell.

“You always say that when you’re about to wreck me,” you whisper, breathless.

He smirks.

Then wrecks you anyway.

Slow. Intentional. Every movement like a memory. Every kiss a callback. Every shift of his hips like a vow. When he sinks into you, it’s with a sound that feels like a prayer. You gasp, hands curling against his back, body arching to meet him. He stills for a moment. Just looks down at you. “You good?”

“Jack,” you whisper, “move.”

He does.

The rhythm builds. Steady at first, then deeper, more urgent. Like the years between that first night and this one has only made him hungrier. His hand laces with yours, fingers gripping tight.

And you remember—god, you remember—the way he looked that night when you offered your hand. The look of disbelief. Of awe. Of the first time he let himself hope. You pull him closer now. Mouth to his ear. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Jack groans. Half laugh, half sound of someone holding on too tight. You both fall apart like that. Like two people who stopped being afraid of what this could become. When it’s over, neither of you move right away. Jack stays above you, chest heaving. Then slowly lowers himself, rolling to the side but keeping one hand anchored at your waist.

Later, your head on his chest, your fingers tracing a line down his sternum, he murmurs, “Three years.”

You hum, lazy and warm. “And?”

“I still remember the color of your dress. The way your eyes looked in candlelight.”

You smile. “What color was the dress?”

“Midnight blue. Just barely clinging to your shoulders.” His hand drags softly along your bare spine. “I almost didn't want to touch you that night.”

You tilt your head up. “Why not?”

“Because I knew,” he says. “If I touched you… I’d never want to stop.”

You kiss him slow.

He doesn’t stop.

Not for a long time.

And somewhere, in the soft haze of lamplight and breathless laughter, with his body warm against yours and the echo of that first night lingering like a heartbeat, Jack Abbot falls in love again.

He didn't think that was possible.

5 Months Until the Wedding — Friday, 2:04 PM | Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center ✧ Lesson Twelve: Love Is Letting Yourself Be Taken Care Of

It doesn’t happen in the way anyone expects. No warning. No graceful fade. Just... collapse.

You’re at the office copier. Fluorescent lights humming above you, screen blaring a “paper jam” message you can barely read. You haven’t eaten. You haven’t slept. You’ve had a fever for days. Ignored it. Took DayQuil. Drank tea. Told yourself it’d pass.

It doesn’t.

Instead, your knees give out. Your coffee spills across the floor. And then the world tilts hard and fast.

You crumple like paper.

The only sound is your body hitting the tile. Then a scream. Then running footsteps. Then everything blurs.

Jack is halfway through his shift at The Pitt when the trauma alert comes through. Female, syncopal episode at a downtown office. Fever. Hypoxic. Unresponsive en route. He’s barely listening. Just another Friday.

Until the EMT’s voice crackles over the intercom and says your name. Jack stops moving. Stops breathing. The world narrows like a camera lens. He doesn’t remember barking for a room or snapping at Dana. All he knows is that when the stretcher rounds the corner,

It’s you.

Soaked in sweat. Eyes half-lidded. Fever warming every inch of your skin. IV started. And still, still, you’re shaking.

“No. Move. Let me in.”

“Jack—”

“She’s my fiancée,” he growls. “I’m not standing behind the glass.”

They don’t argue. He’s already at your side.

“Hey. Sweetheart.” His voice fractures. “It’s me. I’ve got you, okay?”

You blink slowly. Your lips move. But no sound comes out. Then your oxygen monitor starts to plummet.

“Sat’s dropping. 86. 82. 77—”

“Get me heated high flow and the crash cart,” Jack snaps. “Get cultures. Ice bath, now, not when you get around to it. Go.”

“Jack, maybe we should assign this to—?”

“She’s my patient. She’s mine.” He doesn’t yell it. He doesn’t need to. The words come out low and final, grounded in panic and something older than fear. Someone peels off your shirt, which is soaked through. Jack doesn’t flinch. He’s already pressing his palm to your clavicle, counting your heartbeats with practiced fingers.

“God, you’re burning up,” he whispers. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

You can’t answer. You’re too far gone. The team lifts you. The ice packs and cooling blanket is placed. Your body seizes. Jack catches you before you arch off the bed. Holds your face between both hands. Anchors you there with his voice alone.

“I know, I know, I’m here. You’re okay. I’ve got you, baby, stay with me. Just... stay.”

Your teeth chatter. You moan softly, in pain, confused, slipping in and out. Someone says something about intubation if your O2 doesn’t rise. Jack growls a curse under his breath, brushing hair out of your face.

“She hates the cold,” he tells them.

A nurse stares. “How do you...”

“She’s my fiancée,” Jack says again, quieter now. “I know everything.”

You wake up in a hospital bed, hours later.

The fever’s broken. Your head pounds. There’s an oxygen line under your nose and the soft hum of a monitor nearby. And Jack is there. Sitting in a chair beside your bed, elbows on his knees, hands knotted tight in front of his mouth like he’s praying.

“Jack,” you croak.

He’s up in an instant. At your side. His hand goes to your cheek, trembling. His voice drops to something hoarse and hollow: “Oh, thank God.”

“I’m okay,” you whisper.

“You’re not.” It comes out too fast, too sharp. His eyes close. He steadies himself. “You weren’t. You didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t want to be dramatic,” you mumble. “I thought it was just a cold. You’d picked up a double. I didn’t want to interrupt your night.”

Jack pulls back like he’s been struck.

“Interrupt?” he says, almost stunned. “You don’t interrupt my life. You are my life.”

The silence crackles.

“We practically had to put you in an ice bath,” he whispers. “You weren’t breathing right. You had a fever of 105. I didn’t know if—” He swallows. “I didn’t know if I was going to lose you before we made it to the altar.”

You blink hard, eyes stinging. “I’m sorry,” you say. “I just, I thought I could power through it. I didn’t want to bother you.”

Jack’s eyes flash. He leans forward, voice breaking open. “If I’m supposed to call you when I’m on the roof,” he says, “then you are supposed to call me when you can’t stand up. That’s the deal.”

You nod, tears slipping down your cheeks. “Yeah,” you say. “That’s the deal.”

He leans in slowly. Forehead to yours. His hand wrapped around your wrist like a tether. “I need you to stop pretending you don’t matter,” he murmurs. “You do. To me. To everyone. But mostly me.”

You nod again, smaller this time. Jack brushes a kiss to your temple, slow and steady. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.

“You’re here,” he breathes.

And for the first time in days, your chest feels lighter.

Because Jack is here. Still worried. Still angry. Still your doctor, your fiancé, your home.

4 Months Until the Wedding — Sunday, 3:12 PM | Their House ✧ Lesson Thirteen: Love Is Remembering the Yes

The dining table looks like it’s been through a minor catastrophe.

There are RSVP cards in chaotic stacks that no longer correspond to any known system. A rogue envelope lies open and abandoned, its flap torn. Wax seals, once delicately arranged in a tin, have spilled across the oak surface. A roll of postage stamps is unraveling off the edge close to your mug of half-cold tea.

The scent of teakwood hangs in the air burned low from the candle you lit nearly two hours ago when this still felt exciting. Fun, even. Jack is hunched at the far end of the table, brow furrowed in surgical concentration, the exact posture he wears when threading a central line or building a cabinet without instructions. His sleeves are rolled up. His penmanship has started to slant. There’s a smear of dark ink along his thumb joint.

You’re on the hardwood floor with your back against a dining chair, legs stretched long in front of you, an envelope balanced on your thighs. Your hair is twisted up with the same pen you used to address the last twenty five envelopes. It doesn’t feel particularly secure.

Jack exhales, not dramatically, just a long slow drag of air. “I’d rather do a thoracotomy than figure out if your Aunt Cynthia counts as plus one material.”

“She does,” you mutter. “Unless you want to trigger another text chain where she threatens to rent a llama”

Jack winces. “She still says that like it’s a metaphor.”

“It’s not. She tried to get one for my cousin's baby shower.’”

He raises his eyebrows but doesn’t comment. You can tell he’s trying not to smile. Jack glances at you sideways, amused. “You sure you don’t want to elope?”

His voice is dry but there’s that softness underneath it. That Jack softness that sounds like teasing but scans like an offer. His hair is a little wild from running his hand through it too many times. His shirt is slightly rumpled from leaning too far across the table to double check addresses. His face is tired but glowing in the way it gets when he’s fully immersed in something. Even this.

Even you.

“I do want to elope,” you say, voice light. “Right after we lick seventy six more envelopes and threaten each other over the font size on the return address.”

Jack gives a quiet, exaggerated shudder. “You adjusted the kerning again, didn’t you?”

“I like even spacing!”

“You are chaos incarnate,” he mutters fondly, sealing another envelope with the wax stamp you bought off Etsy at 2:00 a.m. on a whim. There’s something special in the way he handles it. Not just careful, but intentional. Like every invitation is a promise. Not just to your guests, but to each other. It’s such a small thing. But Jack’s always understood the weight of small things. You stare for a moment longer, chest tight with something unspoken.

“Hey,” you murmur, setting down your envelope. “Can I ask you something?”

He looks up immediately, eyes alert, not worried, just open in that way he only is with you. It still makes your heart ache, how freely he listens. “Always.”

“When’s the last time you RSVP’d to something?”

It’s a question born of nothing. A whim. Or maybe not.

But Jack stills.

Not dramatically. Just entirely. His hands still, the seal halfway lifted. His shoulders freeze in place. His eyes go somewhere else for a long moment. Then, finally, he sets the seal down and says, quietly, “My friend Caleb’s funeral.”

You don’t move.

Jack doesn’t either.

“He was in my unit,” he adds, voice lower now. “Didn’t make it home. The funeral was back in Boston. They sent the invite in an envelope like this. Heavy paper. Formal. Starched. With his name misspelled on the return address.”

You reach for his hand before you think it through. You just move. He lets you. Doesn’t flinch. But he doesn’t look at you, either. His eyes stay on the stack of finished invitations, like they’re keeping him tethered.

“I didn’t go,” he says after a while.

Your voice is soft. “Why not?”

He draws a breath. Holds it. Lets it go slowly, through his nose.

“Because then it would have been real.”

Your throat catches. Jack’s eyes flick toward you then, like he’s checking your reaction even though he doesn’t want to. Or maybe because he needs to. You squeeze his hand. You don’t speak. You just hold him steady.

“It felt like... if I went, if I said yes to that... that would be the shape of my future,” he continues. “Loss. Grief. Empty chairs. I wasn’t ready to make that kind of peace.”

There’s a pause. His grip tightens around yours. “It’s not that I didn’t care. I just couldn’t...”

You’re quiet for a long moment.

Then you shift toward him, still sitting on the floor, knees brushing his. “Jack,” you whisper. “You’ve said yes to so many things since then.”

“I know,” he says. “But this one, this whole wedding thing, it’s the first time in years where I feel like I’m not waiting for something to go wrong. I’m not just surviving. I’m—” He breaks off. Starts again. “It means something different now.”

“What does?”

“Saying yes. To this. To you. To us.” He swallows. “It doesn’t feel like the end of anything.”

“It’s not,” you say, fierce and low. “It’s the opposite.”

Jack shifts off his chair and sinks down to the floor beside you, knees pulled up, hands laced in yours. “You know how we said we’d call each other when we’re 'stuck on the roof'?” he asks suddenly.

“Yeah,” you whisper.

“Well...” he squeezes your hand. “I think I also need to call you when I get stuck on the floor. Inside my head. Inside some old envelope that showed up eight years too late.”

You nod. Your voice is rough. “Deal.”

He kisses you. Slowly. The envelopes dwindle. The light shifts across the kitchen. Outside, a neighbor’s lawn mower hums. A dog barks at nothing in particular. Somewhere far off, the city goes on, unaware.

You sit there in the middle of it. Legs tangled. Tea gone cold. Surrounded by stacks of hand-written names and tiny declarations of presence.

Later, just before the sun sets, you gather the last of the invitations and slide them into the box. Jack walks beside you down the driveway, the early evening sun casting long shadows across the sidewalk. His fingers brush yours the whole way.

You pause at the mailbox. It feels... ceremonial.

Jack looks at you. “Ready?”

You look back at him. “Yeah. You?”

His nod is slow. Steady. “Yeah.”

3 Months Until the Wedding — Tuesday, 4:02 PM | Downtown Pittsburgh ✧ Lesson Fourteen: Love Is Sharing the Blueprint

The office is warmer than you expect. Not by temperature, but by tone. There’s golden afternoon light catching on the glass table, a faint smell of espresso drifting from a side counter, and a little dish of peppermint bark sitting like a dare beside a crystal coaster. Outside, the city hums. You can see the tops of yellow bridges cutting across the Monongahela, traffic crawling like toy cars.

Jack sits beside you, relaxed but alert, still wearing his scrubs beneath a quarter zip. Badge clipped. It’s almost 4PM; he’ll be heading straight to the hospital after this meeting. He doesn’t say anything when he notices the bowl of peppermint bark on the table, just quietly nudges it toward you like an unspoken offering.

“I’m not getting roped into another Are Roth IRAs Romantic? podcast after this,” he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear.

You nudge his ankle with yours under the table. “You liked that episode. You said the hosts had good banter.”

“I said they had predictable banter,” he corrects. “One of them mispronounced ‘fiduciary’ three times. I was physically in pain.”

Across the desk, Annette, your financial planner, late fourties, elegant sweater set, kind eyes, a well practiced brow raise, smiles without looking up. “You two always talk like this?”

“Only when money’s involved,” you say, and Jack makes a noise of quiet agreement.

Annette closes the folder she’s been reviewing. “Well, I’ll say this. You’re ahead of most couples I meet three months before a wedding. Joint checking, good credit scores, already fighting about the candy dish on your registry…”

Jack leans back. “It’s a skull. With fangs. It’s delightful.”

“It’s a Halloween decoration,” you say. “It's not even October."

“Which is exactly when one should prepare for spooky season and buy it early,” Jack replies.

Annette clears her throat gently, smiling. “Let’s get into it, then.”

She moves easily through the numbers. Earnings, benefits, deductions. The two of you answer questions about emergency funds, insurance, whose student loans still exist (yours). Jack answers most things with dry, grounded precision, occasionally passing you a sticky note or circling a detail he wants to revisit. You feel the rhythm of the thing between you. But the shift happens like it always does... with a question that you aren't prepared for.

Annette sets her pen down.

“And how are you both feeling about long-term planning?” she asks. “Five years out, ten?”

There’s a pause. Not the awkward kind... just the kind that asks you both to reach for something a little deeper. You glance at Jack. He’s already looking at you.

“I think,” you start, slowly, “we’re trying to take it one thing at a time. Wedding first. House projects. Then... see what we grow into.”

Jack’s quiet a moment longer. Then: “I want to start a savings account.”

Annette tilts her head. “For what specifically?”

Jack doesn’t look at her. He looks at you.

“For a kid,” he says simply.

You blink.

There’s no hesitation in the way he says it. No performance, no apology. “I mean—” he continues, eyes still on you, voice softer now. “Not tomorrow. Or even next year. I just... want to start planning like we believe we’ll get there. Like we’ll be ready.”

Your heart thuds against your ribs. You sit with it. With him. With the man who once admitted that for years, he didn’t RSVP to things because it felt like making a promise the world would take away. And now he’s sitting in an office with paperclips shaped like dollar signs and a coffee ring on his printout, saying he wants to open a savings account for your future child.

You clear your throat. “You really want to?”

Jack gives the smallest nod. “I do.”

And not the wedding kind of I do. The this is what I’m choosing, every day kind. “I know I talk about wanting control,” you admit. “Budgets. Plans. Lists. It’s how I survived for a long time. After my dad died... things stopped feeling stable. Money especially. So I overcompensated. I still do.”

Jack doesn’t flinch. He just slides his hand and brushes his thumb over yours. You keep going. “But with you... it’s different. It’s not about trying to protect myself anymore.”

He looks at you like you’re the most legible thing in the room. Annette clears her throat, but there’s a softness in her eyes. “Would you like to set up a short-term and long-term goal tracker? Just the basics: house, retirement, hypothetical mini-human?”

Jack grins faintly. “Throw in a new vacuum. Ours doesn't like the stairs.”

“I’ll make a note,” Annette says, flipping a tab on her binder.

The meeting wraps with warm handshakes and follow up dates. You leave with a slight ache in your throat, and a new joint account scheduled to open next month titled “Future Projects.”

In the parking garage, the air smells like cement and late summer. Jack walks with one hand in his pocket, the other brushing against yours. You stop by your car. “You really want to save for that?” you ask quietly. “Even if it’s still just a... maybe?”

Jack shrugs. “I don’t think it’s about certainty. I think it’s about faith.”

You lean into him, forehead against his shoulder.

“Maybe we can start small,” you murmur. “Like... every time we skip takeout or return something impulsive, we put twenty dollars in the account.”

Jack hums. “So far we’ve returned a decorative vase, an extra toaster, and sequined napkin rings.”

You grin. “So... sixty bucks and counting.”

He tilts his head and kisses your temple. “Look at us. Practically billionaires.”

You don’t say anything.

You just lean there, pressed into the warm beat of his chest, the folder with your blueprint tucked between you.

2 Months Until the Wedding — Thursday, 5:11 PM | Their Backyard ✧ Lesson Fifteen: Love Is Letting It Be Messy

There’s a suspicious gurgle from the corner of the yard.

You glance up from where you’re kneeling in the dirt. Gloves muddy and sweat dripping down your neck despite the breeze. Jack’s by the hose spigot, frowning down at the PVC pipes you both thought would make a perfectly straightforward raised bed irrigation system.

That gurgle? It turns into a hiss.

Then a pop.

Then a full pressure geyser.

You barely have time to yelp before it hits, an arc of cold water blasting Jack in the chest. He stands there, dripping. You don’t laugh. You shouldn’t laugh.

But you do. Helplessly. Loudly. The kind of laughter that curls your shoulders and steals your breath, muddy gloves pressed to your face. Jack just stares at you. Soaked. Hair plastered back. T-shirt transparent against the muscle of his chest. He blinks. Water drips from his nose. “You find this funny?”

You nod, gasping. “Oh my god, I think this is the best day of my life.”

He glances down at himself. “Well, whose idea was it to do ‘just a little weeding and measuring’ before dinner?” he asks, stepping carefully over the spray like he’s walking through landmines. “Whose grand plan was the backyard irrigation system?”

“Yours.”

Jack levels you with a look. “No. I said, ‘We should probably look into drip irrigation.’ You said, ‘We’re smart. We can DIY.’ And then you watched a TikTok and ordered pipe fittings.”

You blink. “You seemed excited.”

“I was tired. I was impressionable.”

You tug off your gloves and wipe your brow with your forearm, still grinning. “Do you regret saying yes yet?”

Jack tilts his head, water still running down his jawline. “To the irrigation system? Yes. To you? Never.”

That wipes the smirk off your face. Because even now, mud-streaked and sun-tired and definitely going to need a plumber... Jack Abbot still looks at you like there’s no place he’d rather be than ankle-deep in a mess you made together.

You drop the gloves. Walk toward him.

He meets you halfway.

“You’re soaking wet,” you murmur.

“You’re filthy,” he says, brushing a thumb against your cheekbone where dirt smudged.

You loop your arms around his neck. “Perfect match.”

He kisses you and it's warm despite the cold spray still misting around you. You taste water and earth and something sweeter, deeper. Home.

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours. “You know this means we’re showering before dinner, right?”

You smirk. “Together?”

Jack sighs dramatically. “For water conservation.”

“Sure,” you say, stepping closer. “For the environment.”

He kisses you again.

Somewhere behind you, the hose explodes off the connector with a comical pop. Neither of you move.

Eventually, you call a real plumber. But you keep the crooked garden bed just the way it is. Half-built, half-wrecked, and entirely yours.

Because the thing about building a life with someone like Jack Abbot is that it’s never going to be clean.

It’s going to be messy.

Imperfect.

Soaked to the bone, blistered hands, laugh until you cry kind of messy.

And if you’re lucky?

It’s the kind of mess you both keep choosing. Over and over again.

1 Month Until the Wedding — Friday, 7:12 PM | Their House ✧ Lesson Sixteen: Love Is in the Ordinary Hours

The dryer hums like a lullaby you don’t remember learning as a child.

You’re sitting on the hallway floor. Legs tucked under you, fingers combing absently through a basket of clean laundry that smells like cedar and soap and the detergent Jack picked out because it “smelled like something you’d like.”

The overhead light flickers once before settling. The sky outside is pinking at the edges, and the air feels like summer wanting to stay.

Jack is here.

Dressed in his scrubs—black, slightly wrinkled from where they sat at the bottom of the clean pile. He’s half-sitting, half-sprawled across from you, one socked foot nudging yours beneath the basket. He smells like mint and steam and the smallest trace of your shampoo.

He’s supposed to be at work in twenty minutes.

The towel in your hand goes unfolded for the third time.

Jack watches you with that half-smile... the one that starts in the corner of his mouth and makes you feel like you’re glowing even when you’re just folding bath towels and trying not to cry over how close it all is now. One month. Thirty days. Four Friday nights.

“You know,” he says, voice low, teasing, “if you keep folding the same towel over and over again, I’m going to start thinking you’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” you lie.

He tilts his head.

You groan and bury your face in the towel. “Fine. I’m nervous.”

Jack leans back. “Talk to me.”

You pull your knees up to your chest, still holding the towel. “I don’t even know what I’m nervous about. It’s not the getting married part. It’s not you. It’s—god, I don’t know. I think it’s just that everything’s about to... happen. And I keep thinking about how I want it to feel, and what if I mess it up?”

Jack exhales and reaches across the laundry pile to gently tug the towel from your hands. He folds it neatly. Of course he does, surgical corners, and sets it aside.

“You won’t mess it up,” he says simply.

“How do you know?”

“Because you’re you,” he says. “And you love me. And I know that like I know how to put pressure on a wound.”

You blink. “That’s your metaphor?”

“I’m not a poet,” he says. “I’m a trauma doctor. It’s the highest praise I’ve got.”

You laugh, breath catching. “Well, in that case.”

Jack grins and reaches for another towel. Folds it perfectly. Sets it aside.

You let yourself watch him for a moment. The ease of him. The steadiness. The way he anchors you without even meaning to. Then you sit up straighter. “Okay. But we still haven’t written our vows.”

Jack doesn’t look up. “I have.”

You stare. “What?”

“I mean—they’re messy. And they’re not done. And there’s definitely a metaphor about drywall I need to workshop. But yeah. I started.”

“You told me we’d write them together.”

“I know. I lied. I was lovesick and weak.”

You swat him with a pair of socks.

He just smirks.

You narrow your eyes. “Well, I’m writing mine in private.”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “Oh, we’re doing secret vows now?”

“I want them to be a surprise,” you say, firm. “I want you to hear them for the first time when I say them. On the day. With everything.”

Jack quiets. Something flickers in his eyes. “Okay,” he says, softer now. “Yeah. That’s... yeah. That’s good.”

“You sure?” you ask, suddenly nervous again.

He nods. “If that’s what you want.”

You study his face.

He’s quiet.

Then, still watching you, “I might cry.”

Your heart thumps.

You whisper, “Really?”

He shrugs a little, like it’s no big deal. “I almost did when you added me to the grocery list app when we started dating. That felt like commitment.”

You snort. “Jack.”

“I’m serious. I was seen.”

You’re laughing now, full on, and then you’re leaning forward and grabbing his face and kissing him hard enough to tip the laundry basket sideways.

He kisses you back with all the quiet passion you love about him. His hand at your jaw, his other arm sliding around your waist. The laundry shifts beneath you. You don’t care.

You pull back, breathless. “Okay. Then I have a surprise for you.”

Jack’s eyes narrow. “What kind of surprise?”

You grin. “Wedding night. But you have to wait.”

His voice drops. “You’re cruel.”

“You like it.”

He nods solemnly. “Desperately.”

You kiss his cheek. “You’re going to love it.”

“I already love you,” he says.

You pause.

He means it. You can feel it in your bones. You sit there on the floor, pressed together, surrounded by socks and half folded towels, and suddenly your eyes sting with the weight of how much this is.

You reach for his hand. “I can’t wait to marry you.”

He squeezes it. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

Jack checks the time and sighs. “I really do have to go.”

You groan and flop onto the floor. “Nooooo.”

He stands, leans down, kisses your forehead, then your nose, then your lips.

Just before he reaches the door, you call after him.

“Jack?”

He turns.

You give him the softest smile you’ve got.

“Promise me you won’t cry before I get through my whole vows. You have to make it through. I’m dramatic, structured and I need the audience.”

Jack grins. “I’ll try.”

“You have to.”

He opens the door.

“I’ll do my best,” he says. “But you have no idea what you sound like when you’re in love. It’s lethal.”

Then he disappears into the night shift air, the door shutting gently behind him. You’re still sitting on the floor. The laundry is still warm. And somewhere in the pile, half folded, slightly wrinkled, is the T-shirt you’re planning to wear while you get ready for your wedding.

You pick it up.

And tucked beneath it, where you’re positive you didn’t put it—is a sheet of paper. Folded twice. Your name is on the front. Jack’s handwriting.

You freeze.

Your fingers tremble.

Then—footsteps on the porch.

You look up.

The door opens again.

Jack’s head pokes back in through the door, one eyebrow raised, that familiar crooked smile already in place.

You blink, caught between the paper in your hand and the man in your doorway.

Jack grins.

“Whatever surprise you’re saving for our wedding night…” he pauses, voice dropping, eyes steady, teasing but real. “Just know I’ve been in love with you through every version of you. And I’m not surviving that night. I’m surrendering.”

Then he’s gone again.

And the wedding is suddenly, wildly, heartbreakingly close.

#the life we grew #tlwg #x reader #jack abbot fanfiction #jack abbot smut #jack abbot x reader #dr jack abbot x reader #dr jack abbot #jack abbot #dr abbot #dr abbot x you #dr abbot x reader #the pitt #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt smut #the pitt x reader

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lucidfairies · 3 months ago

Text

— m'lady [sevika]

part one

synopsis: your sister was in need of something, anything to reel her in, and a handsome new knight was just the one for the job.

pairing: sister's!knight!sevika x queen!reader

warnings: forbidden/off limits, mentions of parental death, light angst, essentially an introduction to the rest of the series, lots of sexual tension, eventual smut (see: parts 4, 6, probably more)

wc: 3k

a/n: check out the @sevsgiirl cameo ;) so much love to them, she's helping me so much with this so go follow them and love on all their work!!!!

2 YEARS PRIOR

Your father's death came and went with haste.

He was a noble man, the King. After your mother's death, he took control of Piltover and led with proficiency. There was never a moment where he wasn't thinking of the people, rather than himself. Your mother was born of royal blood, and married your father against her parents will. And together, they lead beautifully.

You said that all in the obituary, before he was lowered into the ground to rest next to the Queen. It was one week prior that he was joking about your queenhood, and the following week he was dead, only bringing that joke into reality.

Everything moved too fast for you. Your father died, you hosted his funeral at the castle, and five days later you were being crowned. The coronation was a dull thing; the colors weren't as bright in your eyes, and the dress was simply another designed to make you look ready to assume the duty of Queen. You weren't.

You couldn't find joy in the occasion. While most girls dreamt of their sweet sixteen, you spent nights dreaming about your coronation. You've had the colors picked out since you were 12 - a gorgeous mix of yellows and pinks, and even some light blue. Spring colors. However, as a young girl, nobody told you what had to come before the coronation for it to happen.

As your eyes drilled holes into the floor and your knees splintered from the old wood of the church steps, the royal priest placed your crown atop your head, finishing the ceremony with the exchange of the sword of state. You rose, he blessed you, and it was over. You could retreat back to your quarters and simply not attend the party, stating to the townspeople that you had fallen ill, but they should enjoy the party in your absence.

And now, you were Queen.

What came after that might've even been worse. Upon taking over the entire kingdom and all duties, you also took over the responsibility of Sarah - your younger sister. At 13, she was a brilliant thing, but also a hell of a lot for you to handle. To you, she was a rebellious child who channelled her guilt into sneaking out of the castle and piercing her ears.

You wouldn't pretend like it wasn't a burden, all of it. Sometimes you spent hours thinking about what it would be like to go back to when you didn't have to fret over foreign relations and the Piltover school system, when both of your parents were alive. There were nine years before your sister existed, nine years that you clung onto like a crutch.

You remembered the day your parents found out about Sarah's existence clearly. Your mother told you in your bedroom, and you were excited. You had no idea what would happen five months later, when your mother had an emergency birth at 22 weeks. She died that day, and so did your excitement.

It took you years to stop resenting your sister. Like most kids did, you blamed her for the death of your mother, but you never told her. After years of therapy, you worked through your resentment, but her constant presence and reliance on you led to the feelings creeping back up your spine, and you knew then that you had to do anything in your power to stop them.

PRESENT

“Elora,” you yelled from your writing room, as you continued to glance over a law that is on track to pass. She arrived in front of you in a moment's time, hands behind her back with a small smile. “I need you to find a knight for my sister. Organize interviews for the coming day and make sure to run background checks.”

“Yes ma'am.” She nodded and turned on her heel, quickly leaving to begin researching and organizing. You required the knight quickly; in a few short weeks, Piltover would be hosting its annual creation ball, that you had to plan all of. You needed Sarah safe and off your plate, so that you could focus on passing legislation and planning the biggest event of your royal career.

After countless attempts at reigning Sarah in, you had finally given up. You had put her in therapy and in public school, given her a royal advisor, and even offered to pay her to act right, and nothing managed to get through to her. You hoped that, now that she was 15, she would've moved past this part of her life, but she has yet to.

This was the one thing that she was absolutely against. She insisted that she didn't need a person, especially a man, following her around all the time. She hated the idea of someone posted outside her door. But her wants were too late for your needs - she would be dead by 16 if she kept up the way she was acting.

You would need three of them - each taking eight hours shifts to cover all 24 hours of the day. You had three, and you hardly noticed them. Sarah's guards would be no different, and you wouldn't take her no as an answer.

The first interview was nothing less than abhorrent bland. It was a man, of course, who barely met the qualifications and basically had to talk Elora into letting him interview. He failed knight training because of drugs, and had to retake it at much too old. He wasn’t in shape, and he refused to refer to you as Queen, rather than princess. You asked him to leave quickly after.

Terribly, the rest of the interviews followed the first one steadily. You had two potential candidates lined up, neither of which you were particularly fond of, but it didn’t matter. They met the requirements, and that was what was important. But, with the rate that the interviews were going, you truly didn’t believe that you would ever find a third, and that was an issue. No knight would settle for twelve hour days, it was against kingdom policy anyway.

Your final interview of the day was late, and found you swiftly. You were tired, and damn close to simply asking Elora to do the interview for you. You feared that if this woman wasn’t exactly what you wanted, you would absolutely flip your shit at her. In between each meeting, plans crept up your neck and you scribbled as much as you could down before the contestant arrived, and you were desperate to hide in your chambers and sort through all of your notes. But you were far from that.

The woman that stood before you as Elora opened the door was nothing like you had expected. It wasn’t like you got pictures when you looked over the recruits’ files, simply just a handout from the knight academy that was hardly legible. She was extremely tall, towering over Elora and eating up the space in the room, and her muscle wasn’t that of anyone that you had seen before - man or woman. Elora looked over at you with rosy cheeks and a hinting smile before she shut the door and left you to your business.

It was almost sensual the way the woman bowed to your presence, but kept her dark gaze on your eyes. Even bent at the waist, she took up a grand amount of space, in the best way possible. It was as if you couldn’t look away, even if she was burning you. Your eyes begged for hers, prayed on hers. There wasn’t anything in the world other than you and the pair of eyes gazing back at you.

Her eyes were something of magic - a dark mix of steel greys that got darker as she scanned your face. They almost made you shiver, the way she was looking at you. Her eyes fit perfectly in respect to her face; the high cheekbones, sharp nose, broad lips, scar drawn across her cheek. It gave her the most perfect blend of masculine and feminine, put together in one. She was beautifully a sight for sore eyes.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my Queen,” she spoke low and smooth, taking your hand as she stood up. She left a kiss to your knuckle, something that none of the other recruits had even dreamt of doing. She had a sense of unrequited confidence to her that oozed, and it was drawing you in far more than you wished it was.

“The pleasure is mine,” you spoke before you could think, clearly your throat with haste to subdue the tension that she had created. “Please, sit,” you insisted, taking your seat as she took hers. You couldn’t help but watch as she sunk down in her chair and shifted her legs, letting them fall open wide. You swallowed, quickly averting your gaze to the paper in your hand with her work on it. “I must say, I did not have time in between applicants to look over your resume, but it is incredibly impressive,”

“That is the goal, after all.” She snickered, and you pursed your lips to restrict yourself from grinning. She had numerous highly selective and incredibly prestigious positions listed for her, and she passed at the top of her class at the academy, however, she graduated several years before any of the other applicants had.

“So, Sevika, I must ask what led you to leaving your post with the Kiramman’s? It appears as if you held the post for several years, and it's a highly competitive program, after all.” She sighed, shifting awkwardly and scratching the back of her neck.

“There was an incident that led me to become temporarily unable to provide them with the service that they needed. I chose to step down under the idea that I was not serving them to the extent that they needed.” You nodded slowly.

“May I ask what this ‘incident’ was?” You pressed. It could’ve been anything, with the vagueness of her speech. Slowly, with caution, she pulled back the partial cape that was covering the left half of her body. You had wondered why she was still wearing it when she appeared in your office, it was unusual and you were sure Elora had offered to take it.

Under it was a gorgeously mechanical prosthetic arm, one that looked as if it took years to build. “I can promise you, ma’am, that my injury doesn’t negate my ability to care for the princess. In fact, I believe that it makes me a stronger candidate-”

“Sevika, you aren’t ruled out of the competition simply because of a disability,” you insisted, softly. “It was the Kiramman bombing, I assume?” She nodded briskly. “I see. Well, moving past that, aside from the oath of Piltover, what does loyalty to the royal family mean to you?” You sat the paper down and clasped your hands on the oak table.

“Loyalty means everything to me, my Queen. There is nothing in the world that could make me turn my back on the post I’m assigned to. Nothing.” She insisted. You noticed the gap in her teeth as you spoke, and you almost forgot to listen to the words she was uttering.

“And if another realm were to offer you money or land in exchange for betrayal, what do you see yourself doing, honestly? I’ll kindly remind you that all of these answers are private and not shared.” She didn’t have to think before answering this one.

“Like I said, ma’am, I value loyalty above all else. Once I’m committed to a position, there is nothing that could draw me from it, especially something like money or land. My commitment to you means more than anything.” You couldn’t help the warmth that flooded your cheeks, even though you knew deep down that she was just trying to butter you up into hiring her.

“If you did not morally agree with an order given to you by the princess or myself, how would you respond?” She thought for a moment before answering this question. You couldn’t think of anything morally or ethically wrong that you would ever order her to do, but the questions were left by your father from when he hired knights, and you trusted his judgement over your own.

“In either situation, I would bring that up with you. If I don’t agree with somethin’, I won’t just blindly follow orders. And if it's something that I can’t do, I will resign from my duties.” You nodded, scribbling a few things down on the paper.

“If you would like a straight answer, I’m going to hire you undoubtedly. However, I need to warn you before you accept this position that my sister is quite a… handful. She can be difficult to deal with and she doesn’t often listen to directions. It may be difficult keeping her in check and protecting her to the best of your ability.” She laughed, and you couldn’t imagine why.

“If you think she’s bad, you clearly haven’t met a young Caitlyn Kiramman. Man, was that woman a lot to handle. You couldn’t help but join her laughs at that one. You had known the Kirammans for quite some time, and it was a well known fact that Caitlyn was quite the trickster in her developing years, much like Sarah. But Caitlyn’s was rooted in grief, like Sarah’s.

“I appreciate the sentiment, but Sarah hasn’t healed from the death of our parents, and it can be difficult for her to regain control sometimes. So, that being said, if you don’t think this is the position for you, it’s completely understood.”

“No, I think this is definitely the position for me. I’ve trained in both physical handling and mental handling. I’m sure that I can meet all of your sister’s needs within my station. I won’t let you down, m’lady.” The name rolled off her tongue unlike any other, even though thousands of other people had called you the exact same thing. “It can’t possibly be that difficult with a boss as pretty as you.” You couldn’t escape the blush that the woman gave you.

“You’ll start promptly tomorrow with two other soldiers. I’ll train you for a portion of the day and my general will spend the rest of the day with you. It was lovely meeting you Sevika, and thank you for your service to our kingdom. I’ll see you tomorrow, Elora will show you out.” She rose with you, bowing once again.

“Thank you for the opportunity, my Queen.” She shot you a smile as she made her way to the door, where Elora was already waiting. Once Elora had walked her out, you let out a breath that you had been holding. The woman was more than attractive. She made you forget about the gala and how taxing your day had been - if you hadn’t taken notes, you would have zero recollection of anything she said. She was entrancing, enchanting, and you knew that this was going to cause a problem.

Elora found her way back into your writing room steadily after she presumably walked Sevika to the door. “Miss,” she chirped with excitement. “Now, that has never been my particular taste, but I must say that that woman was very attractive.” Elora was never the outspoken type, so when she plopped down in the seat across from you and fanned herself, you were more than a little surprised.

“I must agree,” you said, quietly. It hardly mattered whether you found her attractive or not. In fact, it mattered not. She was to protect your sister, and that was that. “She worked for Kiramman House, I would’ve hired her on the spot if I knew that. She’ll start tomorrow with Loris and Steb, could you make sure the Generals are aware that this is happening?” Elora stood, wiping her hands on the apron covering her dress.

“Yes ma’am, right away.” She left you with a suggestive smile as she made her way out of the writing room and away, and you stopped to think about it for a moment. Think about everything. This was the first person you had found undeniably appealing since long before your father’s death, and it made you wonder. Why her? Why someone who was the definition of off limits? You couldn’t bear the thought of distracting someone as qualified as Sevika from her work, not that you would ever explore that option in the first place.

You had come to a point in your life where you believed that the castle and the kingdom and all the needs of others were more of substance than your own. As a queen, you couldn’t see yourself settling down or bringing someone into your life who sought to slow you down. You had no room in your brain or heart to focus on another human being to the extent that they needed, and that was okay with you, at least for now.

But gods, did the woman have pretty eyes.

taglist: @lovinglynny @ferxanda @sevsgiirl @lilithyys @ayooooohush lmk if you want a tag :)

#sevika #sevika x y/n #sevika x reader #sevika arcane #arcane sevika #knight!sevika #knight #queen #arcane #arcane league of legends #arcane smut #arcane league of lesbians #league of legends sevika #league of lesbians #league of legends #sevika smut

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ce1estiall · 22 days ago

Text

different

warnings fluff

summary uconn!paige x fem!reader paige asks you a question about meeting you for the first time that seems to be taking over her head. masterlist.

celestial notes hey guys! quick fic i thought of right now. i’m going to work of chapter 3 of taste of love this week, but i need some ideas!! feel free to send any. enjoy!

“i got the sauce, can’t be compared

i am different, only one in the world

only one.” le sserafim - different

the library was at peace, only a handful of students studying. keyboard typing and scribbling filled the empty background noise.

your anatomy textbook stared infront of you, filled with different colors and side notes on the pages. your matcha you had bought earlier that day stood on the side, sweating. your computer glowed with different presentations that you were taking notes on. you were at a desk that had window views on the left side, there was a hallway and a door infront of your desk on the right.

you placed your earbuds in, putting on a lofi playlist from spotify as your kept going through the presentations on your computer, taking notes on important details. you heard the door open but decided to ignore it, until you felt a tap on your shoulder.

“do you mind if i sit next to you?” a voice spoke. you took off your earbuds and turned around. paige bueckers was talking to you. a stranger she’s never met, talking to you out of the blue.

you were caught off guard. “oh yeah, sure.” you moved your backpack and some of your stationary supplies, allowing her to have some room on the desk.

paige placed her backpack on the side of her chair. “sorry if i interrupted a study session, i really didn’t mean to bother you.”

“i was just writing some notes, no worries.” you didn’t place your earbuds back in, having a feeling she was gonna strike up a conversation. and bingo, she did.

“you take anatomy? i have that class, but i feel like i’ve never seen you before.” paige asked curiously as she started to take her computer out of her backpack.

“i usually sit in the very back. i’m either here or in my dorm studying or reading books.” you say, sending paige a soft smile.

she smiled back. “bookworm i see, no shame.”

“none taken.” you chuckle. you grabbed your matcha and took a sip, the cooling sensation lingering down your throat.

paige pointed at the cup. “what’s that? green juice?”

you giggle. “not really. its matcha, green tea.”

“is it good?” paige asked curiously.

“well i love matcha, but some people don’t really enjoy the taste. that’s because they don’t add flavoring or sweetener.” you placed the drink back down and started highlighting in your textbook again.

“sorry if i keep sounding like a bother, but i’m kinda stuck on the assignment, do you mind helping me?” she asked. paige felt like she was taking up your time or interrupting you. however, you loved helping other people any way you could.

you spoke softly. “don’t ever think your a bother to me. i love helping people. of course ill help you.”

its now been 3 years since that interaction. you both are now seniors in college. she never left your side since that day, and even started sitting next to you in the back in anatomy.

paige asked you to be your girlfriend while you both were juniors, and you were the happiest you’ve ever been.

a soft knock rattled on your door, “come in!” you shouted. once you saw the blonde hair from the couch, you knew who it was.

“i had a feeling you were coming.” you said, springing up and running to give her a hug. paige rested your head on your shoulder, kissing your neck then your cheek, leaving a tingle after every one.

“missed you so much today, i’m exhausted.” she spoke. paige sounded tired, a tired you’ve never heard from her.

you cupped her cheek, “long day?” she nodded. her eyes temporarily lost her sparkle. you took her hand and guided her to the couch. paige laid down on you lap, you hands finding her scalp. you massaged small circles, hoping to give her some relaxation. “wanna watch a movie?” you asked handing her the control.

“nah, just wanna be here with you.” she whispered. she sounded like she couple fall asleep any minute, until a question popped up in her mind. “baby, can i ask you something?”

“anything.” you spoke back, raking her hair back from her face.

“how come when i first met you, you weren’t like a super crazy fan. like the one’s who would freak out when they see me or the ones who wait for my signature. you didn’t see me as a celebrity, you saw me as a person. why?” it sounded like a question she had for a while, but never brought herself to ask you. maybe she was scared for your response.

a wave of silence took over until you had your answer. “i knew about you, but i wasn’t like i guess a huge fan. i don’t know how to explain it. maybe its because i didn’t really know how basketball worked back then?” you said, giving a chuckle. “i just saw you as a unselfish curious person with a big heart, and that’s who i fell in love with. now, obviously i’m going to be your #1 fan, always.”

she turned her head to give you a smile. a smile that could make you warm instantly. you placed a kiss on her cheek.

“i like that. you’re not like the other girls i used to date. you’re…different.” she said, turning around to soak up the scalp massage you were giving her.

you paused. “what do you mean?”

paige sighed, her body language changed. you could feel the sadness on her. “all the girls i talked to wanted me for my fame or for them to only say ‘look, i’m dating the paige bueckers!’. and it hurt me back then because i thought i loved them. but that changed when i found you.” she got up and sat next to you, using your shoulder as a head rest. you rested your head alongside hers, feeling the warmth.

“and you still don’t like matcha.” you smiled, remembering her first impressions of it.

paige pouted. “yuck. its green and its bitter, i have no idea how you drink that stuff.”

“whatever your opinions are, i’ll still love you.” you gave her a small peck on the lips. “thank you for asking me that question, paige.”

#dallas wings #paige bueckers #paige bueckers x reader #uconn wbb #uconn womens basketball #wnba #paige bueckers fluff #paige bueckers smut #paige bueckers x you #paige x reader

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10ava01 · 3 months ago

Note

hiii!! Can i request a childhood bestfriends to lovers au with joaquin where he went off to the airforce and they lost contact a little then she is like helping out sam in some way (idk how 😭) and her and joaquin reunite again and thats where the love part starts

i have no idea if this makes any sense but 😍 if not ill re word it😭

Hi darling! Thank you for your request—omg, I totally see your vision! Let me know what you think, and I hope you enjoy reading it! 😚🩷

"If you want a part 2 of this story, tell me!"

Materlist

Part 2

Falling back in

The very first time you laid your eyes on Joaquin Torres was when you were five years old. He had moved in with his parents next door. From the window in your room, you saw him unpack one box after another. You observed his every move—how he might be your age or maybe a little older, his curls falling into his eyes, his face lighting up as he looked around the neighborhood—and you just hoped that one day, you could become friends with that boy.

When he showed up the next day on your porch with a crooked smile and two popsicles—one already half-melted in his hands because of the Texas sun—you just stared at him in shock. Your wish had come true.

"Hello, I’m your new neighbor. Do you wanna play in the garden with me?" he asked so simply, without knowing that you were exploding inside.

Your shy behavior didn’t turn him away; it only made him more interested in you.

And for the longest time, everything about your friendship was that simple and easy.

You grew up together—bare feet on hot pavement, scraped knees, and whispered secrets under starry skies. Because of him, your childhood became more colorful. Every memory you had was with him. He was always there. Until he wasn’t.

You knew that all Joaquin ever wanted was to make a difference in the world. To become a hero. Only, he didn’t realize that he had been your hero your whole life. He had saved you in ways that were impossible for you to put into words. But he needed to be more than just one person’s hero. You had to accept that fact and let him go.

The day he left for the Air Force, your whole world shattered. You wanted him to become the person he had always dreamed of being, but practically signing up for death? You wanted to beg him to stay, to find a new purpose, to find a different dream—but the smile on his face told you that no matter what, no one, not even you, could change his mind. That’s why you stood at the edge of his driveway, watching him throw his bag into the back of his truck. You forced a smile, shoving down the ache in your chest. You did it for him. You would go to the ends of the earth if it meant he would be by your side. Only for him.

“Don’t forget about me when you get all important and stuff.”

Sure, there was no way he would think about forgetting you. To this day, you had both been glued to each other at the hip, and there could never be a time when you weren’t together. But the pit of feeling in your belly rose with every second. All you could do was push it away because even thinking about it sounded absurd. No one could truly take him away from you—not distance, not fame, not even time itself.

Joaquin laughed, nudging your shoulder. “Like I could.”

At his answer, he reassured your absurd thoughts. So you pushed everything aside as you said your goodbyes and made pinky promises to stay in contact no matter what.

But time had other plans.

The first few weeks, the calls calmed your heartbeat. He was alive, and his voice assured you of that—until they stopped.

The only communication you had with him was through letters, and even those stopped after a while. You wrote him, one after another, but there was no response.

Only radio silence.

And eventually, you forced yourself to move on. To move on from the only person who saw you, made you feel alive, and most importantly, stuck by your side no matter what.

The shy and awkward kid you once were should see you now—confident and outspoken. But working for the past five years as a SHIELD agent changed you. You learned so much, even about yourself, that there was no time to look back at your old self. And you were happy that way. You were good at your job, and you wouldn’t dare change anything about your current life.

That’s what you thought this morning—until you saw him on the battlefield. Anywhere else, but not in the middle of this.

The bullets had long stopped flying by now, which was good news and also meant that, after all, Sam Willson was useful rather than leaving you to handle everything. Even Sam’s good work couldn’t put you in a good mood. The tension in the aftermath of this mission was unraveling.

You didn’t notice him while helping clean up whatever mess was left behind. For a second, you tried to gaslight yourself into thinking that you had seen a ghost from your past. But his voice was all you needed to know that the ghost was very real.

“Well, damn. If it isn’t trouble herself.”

You freeze.

You had dreamed so often about finally hearing his voice again, but nothing had prepared you for your nightmares.

As you slowly turn—there he is.

Joaquin Torres. Your first love and heartbreak.

The boy you once knew everything about, but not anymore. His uniform is crisp, his stance more solid, and the sun catches the sharp edges of his face in a way that makes your heart stutter. All the feelings you thought you had left behind betray you at the sight of him standing in front of you.

It’s been years.

You’ve written so much in your journal, but now that he’s here—alive—you have no words. Every system inside you leaves you hanging. Because of him.

Joaquin grins, shifting his weight like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. “You look good.”

You swallow, something thick forming in your throat. “So do you.”

There’s a beat of silence as you stare at each other. Everything feels heavy with all the things left unsaid.

Then he clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “I—uh—I meant to reach out.”

Your chest tightens. “Yeah?”

He nods, eyes flickering with something almost nervous. “I guess I thought… maybe you moved on. Didn’t need me around anymore.”

You had thought about every possible reason why he would disappear from your life without a word, but his answer leaves you stunned. Because you should be angry. You should call him out for disappearing.

But the truth is, deep down, you know that you need him. You always needed him.

And standing here now, with him looking at you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear on him, you realize something.

No matter how much he hurt you, you will forgive him over and over again as long as you have him. As a lover, a friend, or even a stranger. As long as he is alive and in your life, you are whole again.

#joaquin torres x reader #marvel #falcon #sam wilson #danny ramirez #the shield #hurt/comfort #childhood nostalgia #tfatws #captain america brave new world

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pomefioredove · 8 months ago

Note

I'm not sure exactly which day counts as "weekend" bc of cultural differences lol but you can ignore this if it's not on the permitted day!!

But for the brief Rollo x reader thing that's you're doing, can I please have something with him and a reader that is generally very tactile? One day they grab his hand to pull him somewhere as they absentmindedly ramble, and they don't realize it until he speaks up about it (or not....? <w<)

hii anon!! ofc this is a very cute request

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ cold hands

type of post: short fic characters: rollo additional info: platonic or romantic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu

Winter in Fleur City is as unkind as it is beautiful.

Autumn's colorful embrace was short and sweet, giving you but three weeks of cozy, lukewarm mornings before the trees were bare and bending in the breeze that carried along the Soleil.

The first snow of the winter season had completely frozen over the river.

It had also kissed everything in frost, blanketed the streets, and canceled classes at Noble Bell College for the morning. It was heavy and restless.

It became no wonder to you that the people of Fleur City were eager to put up their tinsel and candles. The smell of cinnamon and pine is an effective distraction from the icy wind, after all.

And so, without classes to attend to, you find yourself walking through the city on crushed snow, already muddy with boot prints and animal hooves, to a seasonal cafe which had just opened.

Oh, and the Student Council President has offered to escort you.

It's, apparently, quite an ordeal; the few Noble Bell students you pass by in the streets stop mid-snowball fight or nearly drop their to-go coffees from their mittens when they see you, bundled up in Rollo Flamme's scarf, walking hand-in-hand.

You honestly hadn't even noticed you had grabbed him. It had been somewhat of an impulse, your cold, undressed hands feeling out for something to hold.

And usually, that would have been a quill, or one of those artisanal wooden blocks this city so loves, just something to run your thumb over while you think, not the Student Council President's hand.

But he doesn't say anything, and, more presently, doesn't pull away.

"You really ought to have dressed warmer," Rollo says, fussing over the scarf he'd given you off his own neck. "You'll catch something, and missing class over a frivolous venture such as is unacceptable."

"I suppose I didn't think of it,"

"Then next time," he says. "I don't know what I would do with myself if you were ill. It's the busiest time of year."

Right. Finals are coming up.

"I won't do it again,"

He sighs. "I know. Now, come along. Morning classes may have been dismissed, quite unnecessarily, I might say, but we'll both be expected on campus at noon,"

His hand tightens around yours, and his pace becomes brisker, cutting through the myriad of tourists and laughing children and pigeons. He shields you from the falling snow and blistering wind, holding you behind him until you reach the cafe.

It's bustling and loud inside, busier than the annual cafes you're used to visiting, but Rollo somehow has you in and out with a warm drink and a pastry in no more than five minutes.

You have the treat outside, your hands already cracked from the dry cold in the air, and once you've finished he slips his hand into yours and begins walking again.

There's not much conversation. Rollo is a strange man; some days, he's happy to talk about the history of Fleur City or what he's studying in Noble Bell's prestigious law class, and some days he's like this. Quiet.

His hand is surprisingly warm, though, despite the cold he seems to maintain a high body temperature all on his own. He runs a thumb over the back of your hand, feeling the dry skin there.

"You're freezing,"

"I'm okay,"

"Honesty is a virtue," he snaps, his sharp way of reminding you that he can always tell when you're lying, and he doesn't like it.

"You'll catch your death of cold. And then what would I do?"

For a fleeting moment, you can swear he gets a little warmer; or, at least, his hand does. You must be imagining things.

The silence lingers like the cold in the air, but, finally, he gets you to start talking about your favorite class subject, which you do until you've reached the gates of the school.

Rollo stops you, bids you an overly formal good-bye, and takes his hand, too, leaving you with the cold.

Hm. He seemed so off today. You wonder what that could be?

You won't realize that you'd been holding his hand all morning until later, but for now, you're content with the mystery and the warm scarf he left on your shoulders.

#twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #rollo flamme x reader

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aurianavaloria · 1 year ago

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KoH - To Rival Eden (Baldwin IV x Reader)

Fandom: Kingdom of Heaven

Pairing: Baldwin IV x Fem!Reader

PoV: Split (Baldwin - Fem!Reader)

Length: Short (<4k words)

TW: Vague mentions of leprosy

A/N: Well, here we have it, the much-anticipated sequel to "What Good May Come"! I took your feedback into account regarding Y/N's preferences, as well as circumstances and relationships, and created another chapter in this little romance. As in the previous story, I've done my best to keep Y/N as generic as possible with a personality that seemed to fit what is currently popular. I hope you enjoy it as much as the first, and once again, thank you all for being awesome! 🤗

Baldwin could hardly believe his good fortune.

Tiberias had spoken truth: she loved him.

He hadn’t slept a wink that night after she left his chambers. Had barely paid attention to his physicians’ work as he’d given his failing body to their care for the hundred-thousandth time in his short life. Whilst his mortal shell continued its slow and endless march towards inevitable disintegration, his heart and mind were soaring above the clouds, his spirit filled with a fire he hadn’t felt in years.

Lady Y/N loved him.

He lay in his bed, eyes staring up into the canopy’s shadows, yet unseeing of anything that was actually there. Instead, he saw her sitting before him as she had that evening, the smile dancing across her lips, the color in her cheek…

Thus lost in his thoughts, all he had to do was close his eyes to still feel her warmth in his arms, the touch of her hand upon his own… still smell the sweet perfume that cloaked her in its allure. Even as his fears screamed at him that every moment he spent near her was a risk he was selfish to take, that the poison coursing through his veins could destroy her like some fetid rot devouring a perfect flower, all he desired was to hold her again… to imagine what her hair would feel like slipping between his silk-gloved fingers…

These visions of her swirled in his mind all night long and into the next week, until he thought he might go mad with them. He had never thought much of the songs of the troubadours before, dismissing their melodramatic lyrics as nothing more than mere fantasy.

But now he had tasted that very pain of love of which they sang, and he knew they were right.

Love was insanity.

Unfortunately, it was an insanity he had to endure through nearly a week’s worth of increasingly-numerous duties that forbade his interaction with anyone other than his advisors and court petitioners. Conversation on such matters proved his only respite, for when he was finally left alone once more, she haunted the depths of his mind.

And as his quill slowly glided through the practiced motions of his signature upon his latest letter, his aching heart wondered if he haunted hers the same way…

He hoped and prayed she had not taken offense to his exclusion of visitors outside his immediate council. It was all such ill-timing, and yet the administration of his kingdom could not wait for courtship. He could not afford the distraction of anyone else’s presence amidst such delicate matters, and there were some things that he refused to delegate to others.

That he could not trust to others.

The thoughts of sharing those tasks with a queen he truly loved and adored above all else, however…

Plunk!

He abruptly sat back in his chair, squeezing his eyes shut.

That was it. It was time for some fresh air.

Rising slowly to his feet, he reached for his hooded cloak where it hung nearby. Without even being asked, his servant Ihsan wordlessly appeared from the shadows to help him don it, moving with quiet grace.

“Shall I accompany His Majesty?” the Christian Syrian asked, aiding Baldwin in pulling the hood over his head. Jerusalem’s sun was bright today, and harsh on the ill king’s eyes.

“No, I shall walk alone, I think.”

“As you wish, sire.”

And loyal Ihsan melted into those shadows once more, as quickly as he had emerged.

With that, Baldwin began making his way to the palace gardens, keeping his pace measured as he followed the long halls, close to the wall should he need it for support. Alas, his numbed foot would allow for nothing else. Yet, even so, he didn’t wish for this stroll to be a hurried one, crammed in between the endless sessions of his work. He needed time to center himself – to clear his mind and ease his heart.

His hood low over his mask, he still squinted against the sun as he emerged into the palace gardens. The strength of its rays had only seemed to intensify in recent years, even as their warmth had faded; his body hardly felt it, now, beaming down upon him, as if he had already hovered between the land of the living and the dead. But his eyes most certainly did, and he kept his head dipped low, his mask half-shadowed by the hood of his cloak.

Anyone else who had chosen to wander the gardens the same as he soon found themselves departing, as usual. The king was instantly recognizable, even cloaked like this, his presence garnering immediate notice by his courtiers. Their dread of his disease they always attempted to cover with pretense – the courtesy of yielding the space to their liege-lord as they offered deep bows and curtseys. Yet they always slipped away with the hiss of whispers swirling in their wake…

His lips twisted in amusement at the thought that his experience behind a mask had made it easier to see past theirs.

Thus, he largely ignored them as they bestowed upon him their customary greetings, their well-rehearsed gestures of obeisance. And the answers he gave in reply were just as superficial. They deserved nothing more. Little by little, they left as he slowly made his way along those meandering paths, bordered by every plant native to these lands, flowering or not…

All but one.

At the end of one of the paths, perched upon a bench before a towering hedge, was Lady Y/N.

She sat with a small book open in her lap, her garb a simple green bliaut with a matching embroidered belt. A brilliant white veil over her hair, pinned to the barbette that looped beneath her chin, shielded her downturned face from the sun. Even from this angle, he could see the slight smile that played across her lips, and he felt his own mimic the expression beneath his mask.

The sight of her thus made him pause his stride, and he considered backtracking to the previous fork in the path and leaving her to her peace. Yet another part of him desired nothing more than to speak to her – to self-indulgently converse, even if only briefly, with this sweet angel of a woman he’d neglected for the sake of his divinely-mandated duty.

What resulted then, was an indecisive hovering, a prolonged pause at the bells of the lovely flowers that brushed his silken sleeve – blossoms whose aroma was now all but lost to his dulled senses. But none of the velvet-petaled jewels gracing this paradise of a garden now compared to the one he could not tear his eyes from, yet hadn’t the heart to approach…

================

Jerusalem’s palace garden was a sanctuary as peaceful as the cloister of any church you’d seen and perhaps twice as beautiful. The open air was filled with the scent of the exotic flowers that had been meticulously cultivated there, surrounding visitors in an alluring embrace. The cool shade beneath the towering hedgerows and elegant palms had been too tempting to resist, and, with a new book of poetry in hand, you’d made a beeline for an empty bench in the farthest shadowed nook you could find.

Gardens such as these were haunts for lovers, or so you’d been told. Some had even been designed in such a manner that encouraged clandestine trysts – a convenient niche here, a cleverly-planted bush there…

Alas, there were no such surreptitious visits in your near future. No, you’d merely come to the gardens this day for some fresh air and relative peace and quiet.

It was with great eagerness that you had rushed to the bench, sweeping your skirts beneath you and opening the book upon your lap. It was a loan, in fact, from Sibylla; the princess had been spending more time with you in the past week, indulging in light conversation mostly revolving around scholarly interests and pastimes. During the course of one of these discussions, she mentioned having received a few books from France and, quite unexpectedly, asked if you would like to borrow one of them.

Such a generous offer had been impossible to refuse, and your eyes had lit up as the princess passed you the small, leather-bound book of poetry, which you handled with utmost care.

The plan was to spend an upcoming evening sharing what the two of you had enjoyed most about the tomes over refreshments.

It was something you rather looked forward to.

Now, you were fully immersed in the book, your eyes drinking in the copyist’s hand as it swirled across the delicate vellum pages; it was a work of art in and of itself, to say nothing of the words it held within. So engrossed were you that, for a long moment, you failed to notice you were being watched…

But then, suddenly, a slight movement from the periphery of your vision caused you to glance up, and for a brief second, you thought you saw an angel. You quickly realized, however, that it was not.

The awestruck smile that tugged at your lips was perhaps a bit uncouth, but you couldn’t help it. Angel he was not, and yet the king was still radiant enough that you wouldn’t have been at all surprised to see a pair of wings upon his back or a fiery halo ringing his head. The hooded cloak he wore, trimmed in gold, was such a blinding white in the midday sun that it almost blurred his outline, and the half-concealed silver mask with its perfectly-chiseled countenance could easily be mistaken for the face of a saint…

“Your Majesty!”

On reflex, you stood, abandoning the book on the bench before starting to dip into a curtsey, but the upwards flash of his gloved hand stopped you mid-movement.

“I require no epithets or courtesies from you, Lady Y/N,” he replied as he wandered down the path towards you. “I should hope that I may abandon such performance in your presence.”

The warmth in his voice heated your cheeks. “Very well… Baldwin.” This was only the second time you’d dared to speak his name without a title preceding it, and it felt oddly right on your tongue. “If that is the case, then I must also insist that I am simply Y/N.”

His hooded head dipped. “Of course. Y/N.”

Something about the way he said your name made your heart flutter, and you glanced away briefly even as you sidled nearer to him. “It is good to see you again. Baldwin. You are well, I hope?”

“I am now,” he replied softly. Now you could look up into his silver-clad face and see the glitter of his eyes beneath the shadow of his hood. In their impossibly-blue gaze you found a softness that belied the sharpness of their hue.

“I… missed you,” you breathed at last, your voice lowering. “I must admit, I’ve worried for you. Lord Tiberias assured me all was well, but… well, you’ll forgive me for being a bit distrusting.”

A low chuckle emanated from him. “If there is anyone you may trust with his honest assessment of matters, it is Tiberias.”

A chuckle of your own escaped you in response to his jesting remark before he continued in a far more serious tone, “I must offer you my sincerest apologies, Y/N – here you’ve given me the most beautiful gift anyone has ever bestowed upon me, and I’ve done nothing but neglect you in return. Already, I fear I must seem a poor partner in courtship.”

Your mouth opened a little in shock at that. “Absolutely nothing of the sort! I understand you are busy. I know you wouldn’t have isolated yourself like this otherwise.” A light smile played upon your lips as you met his eyes again. “I’m just glad to see you again now.”

It was then you reached forth, brushing his nearest forearm lightly in reassurance. The damask silk of his sleeve was so very soft and smooth beneath your fingertips. And warm. Though from his body heat or the sun, it was difficult to tell…

Suddenly, another movement out of the corner of your eye had you glancing past the king at a visitor on the garden path: a small tabby cat – silver with stripes of black – trotting along the hedgerow towards you.

“Oh, look!”

You pointed, and Baldwin half-turned to follow your gesture, another quiet chuckle following once he realized what had caught your attention. “Ah, a palace mouser, I see. Either that or a street cat has managed to breach the walls.”

His choice of words elicited a light laugh from you. “Perhaps he is a scout, then. Come to assess our defenses.”

The two of you watched as the cat slowed a few paces away, looking up at the both of you.

“Mrow?”

It was a questioning little sound the tomcat made as he hunkered close, sniffing first at the toe of Baldwin’s shoe before doing the same at the hem of your skirt. For a moment he merely stood there, his banded tail a waving S in the air as he continued to take in king and lady with shining green eyes.

“Mrrp.”

A quiet trill followed as the cat proceeded to bump up against your shin, tail curling about as he wound his way behind you before bumping against Baldwin’s calf in the same manner. He paused, staring upwards, and then he repeated the pattern, his path creating an infinity knot around both your feet.

“Aww, I think the darling wants attention,” you cooed, bending at the waist towards the little feline as you held out your hand. You were rewarded with another bump up against your palm, whereupon you happily scratched behind the cat’s ears, a grin plastered to your face.

“I would greet him as he wishes,” Baldwin remarked beside you, “but I fear I’d lose balance and keep going.”

You glanced up at him. “Well… we can’t have His Majesty tumbling face-first into the roses, can we?”

“No, I do believe that would tarnish my reputation for being upright.”

A snort escaped you at that. Baldwin’s sense of humor never ceased to amaze you – that he could find humor at all amidst his terrible suffering was a testament to his fortitude.

Confident that the cat was comfortable with you, you then reached for him, moving to pick him up, which he allowed with surprising ease. Palace mouser indeed, and obviously used to human company; you were certain no street cat would allow such familiar handling so soon…

“Oh, look, he has little gloves, like you.”

Your observation of the cat’s stark white mittens, curled as they were overtop your arm, had Baldwin chuckling lightly once more, and he nodded in reply, his own gloved hand slowly approaching. “So he does. Alas, I fear his bear weapons mine do not.”

He paused long enough for the cat to sniff again at his fingers – which he did – before gently stroking the top of the creature’s head between his ears. Almost immediately, a rumbling purr emanated from the feline’s throat, his eyes half-closing. Despite the near tentativeness of Baldwin’s movements, the cat seemed quite satisfied with the attention, though a part of you wondered how much the king himself gleaned from it…

“Can you feel that?” you heard yourself ask.

“Barely,” was the quiet reply, a lengthy pause following before he withdrew and added, “I relish moments like these while I can. There will come a day when I shall feel nothing with these diseased hands, glove or not.”

His words shot like an arrow straight to your heart. As much as you both tried to ignore it, to look past it, the truth of the matter was that Baldwin was slowly being eaten alive from the inside out, and it was only a matter of time before it utterly consumed him. Just this simple encounter with a sweet palace cat was enough to bring reality crashing down around both your ears.

And you hated it.

Swallowing, you cleared your throat and then bent to set the curious feline back on his feet. “Let’s let our intrepid little friend here continue on his way now, to do the noble work his kind has been mandated to do, yes?”

Once released, you gave the cat one final pat on his head and he was off, trotting away down the path before promptly disappearing under a bush.

“Y/N?”

The softness of your name upon Baldwin’s lips suddenly brought your attention back to him, and then there was his hand on your cheek, cupping your face gently as his eyes searched yours. You could feel the concern in their depths, his gaze probing your own for answers. No doubt he sensed the shift in your mood – you never had been the best at keeping your emotions hidden…

“I wish I could do more for you,” you whispered before he could ask. “I wish I could… I wish…”

There were so many things that you wished. You wished for him to be healthy again. You wished you could lift the many burdens from his shoulders. You wished you could rid his court of the treacherous vultures just waiting for his final breath to tear apart the corpse of his dream. You wished you could send his enemies running for their lives beyond the desert sands. Alas, you could do none of that.

But you could do this…

Without a word, you swiftly closed what gap was left between you, wrapping your arms around him in a tight embrace.

Instantly, he stiffened, his hands clamping to your shoulders on reflex, their grip tighter than you anticipated.

“Y/N…”

“Hush!” you hissed, interrupting any warning he felt impelled to give you. “Let me do this… let me do it, and let yourself have it!”

You could feel him tremble in your arms, his breathing uneven. For a harrowing moment, he was naught but a statue, indecisive – no-doubt waging a war in his own mind, if you knew him by now as well as you thought you did…

Whichever side flew the banners of Propriety and Precaution, though, evidently lost the battle, as a shaky sigh escaped him at last, a quivering hiss of breath between the lips of his mask.

“God forgive me.”

And then, in a move that made your heart flutter wildly again, his own arms slid around you, pulling you into him and shrouding you in sun-soaked silk. The pungent scent of herbal salves alongside crisp linen followed, piercing past the exotic fragrances of the garden flowers, although you detected the distinct note of roses rising amidst it all – perhaps from the oils the physicians applied to soothe his ravaged flesh. He cocooned you in this warmth, the hardness of his mask as it rested atop of your head a sharp contrast to the softness of the rest of him. And thus he held you tight, tighter than you had expected him to, your ear pressed to his chest where you heard the quickened thumping of his heart.

For one blessed moment, nothing else existed. Perhaps he was an angel after all, just awaiting the wings set aside for him in Heaven. For here he held you in earthly Paradise amidst a garden to rival Eden, shining bright as the light of the sun that enveloped you both in its purifying rays, and you knew peace…

You heard the raggedness in his breath, however. The unsteadiness of his hold. Pulling back from him, you promptly swept his hands up in your own, tugging him towards the bench. “Come. Sit. Stay with me a while and forget your troubles, if only for a few moments. If you can spare them, at least.”

His regard held an almost painful tenderness as it met yours, his voice dropping to a silken timbre. “That and more, should you but ask.”

Your eyes never left his, then, as you led him with ease to your chosen perch. Scooping up Sibylla’s book, you made room for him to sit beside you there, and as he slowly settled himself, letting out what sounded like a sigh of relief, you were keenly aware that your legs were touching, hip to knee…

“Do you like poetry?” you inquired, choosing to ignore how your heart continued to race a little at his continued close proximity.

He glanced sideways, his eyes flicking downwards towards the book in your lap. “As much as the next person, I suppose. Is that a new acquisition?”

You grinned up at him. “Princess Sibylla loaned it to me, actually. We’re planning on discussing it in a few days.”

He nodded slowly at that, seeming to approve. “My sister is in need of good company. I am glad to hear you are getting along well with her.”

“She terrified me at first,” you admitted with a laugh. “But I think she truly wishes for us to be friends.”

Baldwin’s gaze leveled at you behind the mask. “And you were not terrified of me?”

The question was a soft one, wavering slightly, though from recent exertion or emotion, you couldn’t quite tell.

A gentle smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. “Never.”

For a long moment, his eyes searched yours, and you couldn’t help but let them. Their color, their shape, their intensity… they were so beautifully expressive that it didn’t matter that his mask concealed everything else. When they looked at you, you were almost certain you could feel what he felt in your own heart. And what you felt now was more warmth. This time, though, it blossomed from within as those eyes relaxed into a half-lidded stare that was so much like that of the cat you’d just found…

Aware of the blush heating your cheeks at such a look, you finally tore your gaze from his and cleared your throat. “Would you like to hear a bit of this? It’s rather good…”

“Yes, I very much would,” he answered, his tone an almost distant one.

With that, you opened the book where you left off, taking a breath before beginning to read aloud. You hoped he didn’t mind romances, as that was precisely what this one was – a chivalric tale of doomed love…

Any self-consciousness you possessed about the contents was banished, however, the moment you felt his hand curl around your waist.

It was so light a touch it barely registered at first. But then you saw the flash of white out of the corner of your eye, bright upon the green of your gown. Felt the slight weight of that hand upon the curve of your waist. Almost instinctively, you leaned into him in response, and his grip tightened a little.

“I am not hurting you, am I?” you asked quietly, concerned about the effects of any weight against his fragile flesh.

“You could never hurt me,” he replied in a whisper.

And that was the moment you felt his head rest against yours as you continued to read.

Thank you all very much for reading! 😊I hope you enjoyed! ✨ And if you have any other ideas for Y/N, I'd love to hear them!

#kingdom of heaven #kingdom of heaven 2005 #kingdom of heaven fandom #king baldwin iv #baldwin iv #koh fandom #baldwin iv of jerusalem #the leper king #fanfiction #reader insert #baldwin iv x reader #king baldwin iv x reader #fem reader #my fanfiction

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thewritingofspencerrose · 9 months ago

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mclaren masterlist : masterlist

New Addition

Lando Norris x OC Inspired by Mclaren surprising Lando with the puppies! I've had this in the drafts for a while, but was lacking a lot of writing drive lately, so we'll see if this gets me back into the groove!

The week began as they always do when we're just beginning the summer break.

Lan and I, lazying about the condo in the morning, simply enjoying each others company, before he is called off to MTC and I hop online for my asynchronis classwork.

It's our routine that I love so much, no matter how chaotic, before we take off on whatever adventures he has planned for us for the next few weeks.

Today was different though.

I spent the morning sick as a sailor, Lan holding my hair back and wiping my forehead with a damp towel. That is, until he had to go in to the MTC for a filming session, one he had convinced the uppers to allow Max to film for a Quadrant day in the life. His hesitance was written all over his face, but with a bit of convincing and the promise that I would invite a friend over, I was able to coax him out the door.

"It sounds like you've had a long morning," Kelly sighs with a frown, sitting across from me. When I had called her up, she and P were more than happy to come keep me company. There may be nearly twelve years between us, but from the moment Max and Lando introduced the two of us, it was easy to bring Kelly into my life as the elder sister I so dearly wished for as a child. And now she's here, her daughter's head fast asleep on my lap as I card my fingers through her hair.

"It's just that I am so rarely sick that to be this sick is more annoying than anything," I try to explain, "We're supposed to leave to travel with Martin in a week and I just can't keep being ill, my least favorite thing in life is feeling like I'm not up to my usual speed."

Kelly's eyes light up a bit, glazing over in a look of recognition. "Have you had any other weird symptoms lately? Anything you should keep in mind if you call the doctor?"

"Just some extra tenderness and I've been exhausted, but it's been a long few weeks with the double header and triple header nearly back to back," Its an explanation, one all of the girlfriends have discussed while sipping drinks over the weekends away.

The older of the two can't help but smile, "Dahlia, how about we run to the corner store and see about a test or two?"

A test? A test!

Oh my God.

"Baby? It's me!" Lan's smooth voice follows click of the door. He's always so loud while out and about, but home, with me, he's so soft.

It's why he's so good with kids at the track.

With Leo and Roscoe and Simba.

With me.

"In the kitchen, love!" In the kitchen with a bag that will change everything.

And there's a yip. A tiny little bark that has my brows furrowing and thoughts leaving my head.

"Lan? What was that noise?" Feet tapping against the ground, I can hear his approach as I step away from the cutting board, the yipping sound continuing. "Okay Lan honestly, what is that-"

It's his rounding the corner that cuts off the all the thoughts that have been spiraling through my head since Kelly, P and I took our little adventure.

He has a dog. In his arms. A little one that is squirming every which way, a collar the color of his race suit around its neck.

Lan has a hesitant smile, the same one he had when he asked me out way back when, and the same one I wasn't expecting to see today. "Surprise?"

My hands find him hips with little thought, staring him down. "Lando Norris, why do you have a dog?"

"I was hoping she could be the newest member of our family?" Oh he's in for something else in a minute or two.

She's is adorable, all happy and squirmy as she rests in whats basically the size of Lan's palm. It's why I move towards him, taking the little thing into my arms and letting her lap at me. "Where did you even find her?"

"Mclaren promo video for a shelter, I spent the morning with dogs and she just really seemed to like me! Stayed in my lap the whole time! So I couldn't just let her be taken back when I knew we could offer her a home!" He's stepping closer, breathe gently fanning over my head as he scratches the pups, his eyes meeting my own with a softness I wasn't expecting. "I know I can't commit to a real kid for a few years, but I was thinking that she could take that place in the mean time."

"About that-" I begin, knowing now is the only right time to mention it. "You know how I was throwing up all morning? And for the last few weeks?"

Theres a spark, the light recognition of an idea in his head, but all he does is nod.

"Well, I had Kelly and P over today while you were out, and we got talking as we do, and she suggested that I take a test."

"A test?" He's piecing this all together.

"A pregnancy test."

"And?" Tears are pooling in his eyes, and while we've discussed kids, we've never discussed the possibility of kids this early, while he's at the peak of his career. "You can't just leave me on a cliff hanger like that, Babe."

"What do you want the answer to be?"

"Babe," This may be the one time in Lando's life that he's stern out of bed.

"It was positive."

There's a pause, the longest of my life, if it wasn't for the fact it was only mere seconds before his arms are wrapped around me, nearly crushing the puppy between us who's only thought is to continue yipping happily. "Lan, baby, I'm going to need something verbal here."

His eyes are meeting mine again, tears trailing down his cheeks as his million dollar smile shines. His hands are still planted on my hips, keeping us close. "You could not have said anything to make me happier than I am right now," and there's so much emotion behind each and every word that I can't help but begin to cry as well. "We're having a baby!"

I can't help but giggle at his joy, "We are! And we have a puppy!"

His lips meet mine, before coming down and meeting the dogs head, nearly bouncing out of his skin. "This is perfect babe, we'll be able to train her and by the time baby Norris is born she'll be ready to be her best friend!"

"Her?"

"I'm calling it now," He states as if it's a matter of fact, curls bopping on his head as he moves. Our lips meet once more, smiles making it awkward like our teenage years, but with so much joy it feels infectious. "Oh my God I need to call Carlos!"

"You what?" There is no way Carlos is the one on his mind right now.

"I have to tell him that Pinon has a new friend! And I'm going to be a dad! He can stop making jokes about me being a child!" He may just be more enthusiastic about this than the baby or the dog. But he's Lando, and I'll give him a time for it later, because seeing him this enthusiastic is a sight too good to miss.

#the writing of spencer rose #original character #formula 1 fanfiction #formula 1 #best friends to lovers trope #lando norris x oc #lando norris #carlos sainz #new family #pregnancy #lando norris imagine

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homiesexual-or-homosexual · 1 year ago

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King! Eddie Munson but w/ dragons

Pairing: King!Eddie Munson x Princess!reader

Warnings: Eddie is 21 and the reader is somewhere between 18-19, hopefully it's proofread enough, my first 5k I think, very very slowburn, like one creepy old man, a spoiled prince, you get slapped (not by Eddie), your dad and brothers are kinda eh, if I missed any then let me know

Word Count: 5k

Summary: You're of age now and your kingdoms throws a Choosing of the Suitors for you. On day one, a certain king catches your eye.

———

You sat on the far right side of the five thrones. Your mother and father in the middle, both of your older brothers on either side of them, and you on the far right side (if you were to face the thrones). A large dog-sized white dragon with blue undertones lounged across the top of your throne, eyeing the large crowd below with light yellow eyes. Its tail swayed, catching on the frills of your long sleeves.

You were dressed in one of your best dresses, hair done, and subtle makeup on your face. To mimic your big dragon, your dress was white with pastel lilac highlights, an add-on in honor of your favorite color.

You tried your best to sit up right, you really did, but today’s occasion just couldn’t grasp your full attention. You were Of Age now. Suitors of nearby kingdoms and far-off allies were brought to your father’s kingdom and displayed to you by their parents or executives, which were often older siblings, personal knights, or other older family members that were highly respected. But the suitors were either men that were too old for you, way too young for you, or something about them would throw you off if they were in your age group. You scanned over those in your age group, taking in characteristics but mostly how they watched you. Some looked as bored as you felt, but most looked at you with ill intent, never quite meeting your eyes. Your little dragon huffed and puffed at the men, which was your key indicator of which of them not to expect much out of.

You watch the announcer at the bottom of the steps announce the next suitor. You watch as a king and queen guide a boy about your age up the steps and stop on the third step down from the thrones.

“Good evening King Aven and Queen Victoria,” the king of the Morning Hills greeted. “I present my only son, William Hill. He has come of age, just like your princess. As your closest ally, I believe this will bring us even closer.”

Your presented suitor was a tall blond, his hair brushed back and his ice blue eyes scanned over you. He was rather fit, but still, just like others, nothing about him caught your eye.

“Oh yes, King Charles,” Your father spoke. “We are glad you’ve decided to present your recent Of Age son, and we will gladly consider him amongst the others.”

You knew what that meant. It meant that William Hill of Morning Hills was going to be the top most considered suitor of this week, as the Presentation of the Suitors usually lasted all week.

You and your little dragon huffed as you leaned an elbow on the arm of your little throne and smushed your cheek into your fist. You crossed your ankles and stared into the crowd, watching as castle staff brought in tables that surrounded the perimeters of the throne room so that when dinner was ready, everyone sat in the same room.

Four more suitors went by, none catching your eye. Until the fifth.

An older man, maybe in his late forties or early fifties and dressed in black and garnet formal wear led a boy, about your age, up the stairs.

The boy was dressed in king wear, black and garnet colored like the older man. A simple jeweled crown atop his head. A chain necklace adorned his neck, as did thick rings on both of his hands. He had long, dark, curly hair and dark chocolate eyes that seemed to pull you in like tar. He met your eyes, the first man to do so. He gave you and small wave, and you one back.

“Executive Wayne Munson,” The older man spoke. “Of the Mordor Kingdom. I present my nephew, King Edward Munson, son of King Munson. He became king at 17 years of age and is currently 20 years of age. I know things between our kingdoms have been tense in the past, but we hope to renew the trust between our two kingdoms.”

You look at your parents and brothers. They look tense.

Surely this kind looking boy can’t be the son of King Munson. The king that almost caused multiple wars and has killed many dragons in his reign of terror.

“Why aren’t you King, Wayne Munson?” Your father asked. “When you had the opportunity? Why allow a 17 year old kid to become king?”

“He was King Munson’s hier. Rightful to the throne,” Wayne Munson answered. “I would not be fit to be King. And I believed King Edward Munson would’ve done great things for our kingdom, as he has done and is doing currently.”

“Do you have your own dragon, King Edward Munson?” You father turned his attention to the boy, who’s been quietly observing you.

The boy, King Edward Munson, turned his attention to your parents, “King Munson, please.”

Your father stared him down, and King Munson only stared back with a small, sincere small on his face. It took a few seconds before your father nodded and muttered a “King Munson.”

“And I do,” King Munson answered.

“What kind?” You father pressed.

“A big red one,” The king answered. “I’ve raised him from an egg and he’s grown mighty big since then. As you might know, the Mordor Kingdom is known for our rather large dragons.”

Your father hummed, “And your kingdom?”

“Yes,” King Munson nodded. “We’ve replenished our dragon population and as well as have grown the wealth of my people. People live well and have what they need and want. My common folk are wealthy enough for a family of four and a dragon or two. We’ve opened our trades if you would like to discuss that further in the future.”

“Let’s just focus on the princess here,” Your father redirected the boy.

King Munson’s eyes drifted to you and he smiled, “Yes, let’s. I hope she will consider me. I welcome her with open arms and open doors.”

Your father nodded and waved them away. The announcer at the bottom of the steps was already guiding up another suitor and his parents. But you can’t take your eyes from King Munson. You follow his frame as he and his uncle settle at one of the large tables off on the left side of the room, easily in eyesight of you.

Your brother kicks your leg. You glare at him, before looking back at the present suitor. You huff and slouch back down, still stealing looks at your highly considered suitor.

Fifteen more suitors go by. Announcing their families, kingdoms, and whatnot. But none more catch you eyes. And soon, it’s dinner time. Castle staff bring in another table and sit it at the bottom of the stairs to the thrones and set the table.

Kitchen staff come out and line the tables with fresh meat, fruits, bread, and wines.

Your family makes your way down to your table, with your baby dragon at your side. You fill your plate with chicken slices, fruit pieces, and bread. Your wine is filled. You wait until your family’s four executives fill in the empty seats at your table to eat. Your father and mother sit on opposites heads, one brother for each parent and you sit by your father. You dig in once everyone is sat, tuning out the conversation at the table.

You notice your baby dragon is antsy, looking at the tables. You nudge him and give him the go-ahead. He scrambles and off and under the tables and you watched the faces of executives and suitors as your dragon passed over their feet. It’s your personal test of the suitors and a test of the dragons. Whomever treats your dragon best will allow you to be able to tell which suitors to consider and which to toss to the dragon’s pit.

You’re brought out of your survey by a hand on your thigh. You look who it is and it’s your father’s oldest and most trusted executive. You scrunch your nose and pull your leg away.

“No matter who you’re married off to,” He starts. “You’ll always be our little girl.”

You cross your legs and pull away more. You bring your attention back to the suitors, seeing the faces of those your dragon passed by. They were looking at you with multitudes of expressions but most whispering and gossiping to their parents. You went down the tables, seeing who your dragon was at now and it brought you to King Munson and his uncle. A little white head was peaking out from under the table and between his legs. King Munson seemed surprised but not upset, patting your dragon on the head and giving him small pieces of meat. He looked up at you with a look that was asking a million questions. You shrugged like you had absolutely no idea what was going on and smiled. The King seemed to understand what your plan was and smiled back.

It seems your dragon likes him and that told you everything.

“You need to control that dragon,” The executive from before said, distaste on his tongue.

“You’re luckily we let you keep him,” Your oldest brother sneered from across the table.

“Oh yes. Because we can control who dragons breed with,” You said sarcastically. “I’m not at fault for taking away Tungi’s eggs and handing them off to other people like they were stale pieces of bread.”

“You only got to keep that egg because that dragon of yours severely injured one of my trustee’s,” Your father argued.

“Did he survive?” You asked, eyebrows raised. You already knew the answer.

Your father went quiet because, yes, his trustee survived the wrath of a mother dragon.

“What are you considered suitors, princess?” An executive that sat diagonal from you asked.

“Prince Williams Hill,” Your father answered.

“And King Munson,” You added.

The table went quiet.

“He is a tyrant’s son!” Your brother barked. “His father had caused many wars and many losses. It was his choice to separate from the United Kings!”

“And our choice to drive him farther away,” You added on. “And his son, King Munson, wants to reinforce the ties and open trades! And I think it’s a grand idea! And so far, he’s been the only suitor to look me in the eyes and nowhere else, and actually address me when presenting himself!”

“Our concerns should be with allies, not what you want!” Your father growled.

“King Munson is a chance to reconnect with a past ally,” You pointed out. “So I am thinking of your allies!”

Your table went quiet and the horns of announcement broke the tension.

You looked and saw a Castle Staff in the middle of the room.

“As dinner comes to a close, we will start the Dance of the Suitors,” the man announced. “Suitors may find this as a chance to dance with the princess. Those who wait to have a turn will be given a lady to dance with!”

Tens of ladies walk in from the doors and file into the center of the room.

“Each dance will last for 15 minutes and in total for two and a half hours,” The announcer made his way out of the crowd. “Start!”

Just as you got up, your baby dragon, Alioth, scampered over. You told him to go back up to your throne and gave him a little piece of watermelon as a treat for being so good. You watched as he crawled up and onto your throne, happily open-mouthed chewing the fruit as he settled to watch you on the floor. Your family settled in their thrones soon after.

You turned and bumped into someone. You went to apologize but noticed it was William Hill. You noticed how his eyes hurriedly switched from your bosom to your eyes.

“Want to dance?” He held out a hand.

You held in a sigh and took it.

William lead you to the dance floor and walked you along to the sound of the orchestra playing in the corner. He placed his free hand on your hip and kept hold your hand in his other. His hand on your waist was too low for comfort so you adjusted. Then it was too high, his thumb brushing under your breast. So you moved it back down, and it was still too low. You just sighed and settled for that.

“Your little pet paid me a visit,” William noted.

“Oh yes,” You acted like your forgot. “Sometimes it’s so hard to control baby dragons.”

“I remember those days with mine,” William sighed dreamily. “They didn’t last long though.”

You knew that. You’ve seen the way he treats his dragon. You’re surprised he hasn’t been eaten by now.

“I’m luckily to be your future husband,” William told you like he was already for certain to be your future spouse. “I just know you will give me many children. We will just fill up the castle because of how many you will have.”

You scrunched your nose and took a step back to separate yourself from the blond boy, but he took two steps forward, smushing your chests together. He looked down and smiled, but not warmly. You huffed in response, looking out into the surrounding crowd to see if you could see King Munson.

“Looking for someone?” William asked.

Before you could answer the horn blew to signal to switch partners. And you gladly did.

Your next conversation didn’t go much better than William, and neither were their hands.

You went round and round and your head felt dizzy and your lungs felt heavy. Your feet hurt and all noise seemed to mush together by the end of the last 30 minutes. When the last horn to switch rang, you accidentally bumped into your last partner. It woke you from your daze and you apologized profusely, but your rambling was cut short when you realized who you bumped into.

King Munson stood in front of you. He was so much taller and broader up close. He was so intimidating and so inviting at the same time. His curly hair was slightly frizzy from the day’s events and he had freckles dotting his cheeks. His eyes weren’t a dark brown, almost black like you thought before but a warm umber color, but they pulled you in all the same. His gaze was kind and apologetic. It must’ve been the opposite of yours, all wide-eyed and surprised.

“Sorry about that,” King Munson apologized, offering a hand.

“No-no! I’m sorry!” You apologized. “I wasn’t watching where I was going. I’ve just been dancing for so long- and I’m rambling, sorry!”

“Don’t be sorry,” King Munson slowly guided your hand into his and settled his hand appropriately on your waist. “It’s been a long two hours and a half.”

He smiled down at you and lead you along to the orchestra that’s been going this whole time. It almost feels like it’s just you two in the room once you get going. His hands feel appreciatively warm and respectful. King Munson’s hands have just the right amount of pressure against your layers of cloth.

“I was visited by a friend earlier,” King Munson starts. “And I assume it doesn’t just have to do with him being a baby dragon?”

He knows. And you smile, a glint in your eye.

“Alioth,” You start. “I sent him on a mission. Whomever he likes, I like. A dragon knows, and thus, do I.”

King Munson laughs, “So any suitors catch your eye?”

“Oh, just this,” You trail off. “Dark, curly haired king that’s adorned with thick rings on his fingers and a chain necklace. He’s pretty handsome. He seems nice too. And I hear he has the largest dragons in all of the United Kingdoms. Now that’s impressive.”

“Oh it’s nothing really, sweetheart,” He smiles again.

Sweetheart.

You blush.

“He seems like some guy, huh?” King Munson pushes gently, trying to catch your eyes.

“And I’m glad to be dancing with him,” You smile.

“And I’m glad to be dancing with you,” King Munson compliments.

The horn to end the dancing sounds out. The crowd disperses almost instantly but it takes you and King Munson a moment to separate, allowing prying eyes to see where the princess has gone.

Everyone goes back to their seats and executives, and you back to your throne. Your brothers and father glare at you. Your mother gives no indication of how she feels. But Alioth greets you with chirps and purrs, his wings flapping excitedly. You all settle as the announcer from before settles on the third step up from the ground floor.

“Tomorrow!” He starts. “Suitors will show what they learned during knighthood to show their strengths and weaknesses. Details will be discussed tomorrow. And tomorrow, a new ritual will be added. The royal family and the princess’s dragon will observe suitors' dragons. As previously stated, details will be discussed tomorrow. Now. Suitors and their executives will be led to their temporary stay rooms where they will stay nightly for the rest of this week. Goodnight to you all and I hope to see you all tomorrow!”

Castle Staff fills the room, leading guests to the visitor wing of the castle. Kitchen staff come to clean the tables, and your personal, and your brothers’ personal, staff come to accompany you to your room.

Once to your room, your ladies undress you and clean you up. They fluff up your bed and bring food for Tungi and Alioth, knowing you’ll feed them once your ladies leave. They bid you goodnight after leaving a plate of fruits for you to snack on and shut your door.

Your rooms takes the highest tower of the castle, the top half modified with stairs and a large open room with a large opening in the wall for your dragons to take off form. Being the princess has its perks.

You make your way to your dragons’ quarters, food in hand. Tungi, a large white dragon with oddly shaped spines that go from the back of her head to the end of her tail, meets you at the top of the stairs. You butt heads with her, reaching up to her horns, that curl in. She purrs as you pull back.

You pour the dragon food on the stone floor and let your dragons eat. You sit with them once their done, leaning against Tungi’s warm body. Soon enough, you’ve fallen asleep with Alioth’s head on your lap.

You wake up to a knock on your bedroom door. It’s just after sunrise. And you remember, how did you get to your bed? You don’t have time to think as your personal ladies come in and usher you from bed. They feed you breakfast as they dress you and brush your hair.

Your ladies don’t dress you in as many layers today. Still dressing you nice, but no corset, and with enough airflow for wind to blow throughout the dress. They do your hair so it won’t be too bothersome today.

As if he senses you up, Alioth comes barreling down from the stairs of the dragons’ quarters. Your ladies laugh at him and feed him some of your breakfast. Afterwards, they lead you out and down to the back courtyard, where the suitors are already practice with dull swords and daggers, but mostly swords. You scan the crowd for King Munson and spot him in a back corner, practice fighting one of your suitors. You settle beside your family under an overhang.

The announcers lets his presence be known as he stands in front of your family.

“Today we will be showing off the strengths of the suitors and what they’ve learned during knighthood. They will be practice with dull swords and other weapons of choosing. We will start with one on one and then switch to groups after ten minutes,” The announcer speaks. “Lest, rules! No harm will be permitted. Any intentional harm towards passive rival with result in immediate termination and sent back home. Yeigh?”

The suitors respond.

“Begin!”

The suitors begin their practice fighting, the clang of swords and grunts of men sounding out. You’re at the perfect angle to see King Munson. He’s obviously had some practice with the sword he’s chosen. He’s precise and an expert at blocking, aware of all parts of his body. He dodges and ducks, pointing out the weak spots in his opponent. You notice that the king has tied his hair back, keeping it from making multiple disadvantages on his end.

You watch a mixture of King Munson and the suitors for the next ten minutes. They’re all good fighters, and you hear your father and brothers praise the men or point out weaknesses. You don’t notice your mother coming to stand beside you until she puts a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“I didn’t get to choose,” She speaks.

You look over at her, surprised.

“But you do,” She pauses to look you in the eyes. “And whomever you choose will be a good one. Any thoughts?”

You look at the fake fighting men again, watching King Munson.

“I like King Munson,” You tell her.

“He seems like a good boy,” Your mother says. “He’ll take great care of you. I can’t say the same for Prince William Hill.”

You nod, agreeing.

A horn blows. The announcers says it’s time to group together in previously selected groups. He pauses and allows the men to get together and then gives the signal to begin.

You watch as King Munson, Prince William Hill, and a third suitor are paired together. They start at the signal, hitting swords to show off their area of perception and the speed of their defensive reflexes. It hits about the five minutes mark before King Munson catches both your and his opponents by surprise.

King Munson pushes both opponents back by two steps. He knocks William Hill’s sword from his hands a few feet away and holds his sword to William’s throat, a forced surrender. Anticipating the third man’s move, King Munson, whirls around and knocks into the man’s wrist which causes him to let go of his sword and drop it. King Munson holds a dagger to the man’s throat. They both surrender and he backs off. He goes to help Prince William off the ground, but the blond boy slaps King Munson’s hand away and lifts himself off the ground.

Before the trio can engaged in more practice fighting, the ending horn goes off. The men put their weapons back where they found them and they’re all filed through the castle and into the front courtyard where the suitor’s dragons have been brought out for observing. The suitors and their executives join their dragons.

You tell Alioth to go get “his mama”, Tungi. You watch him as he flies to your tower and comes back with Tungi. Tungi seems to know what’s going on, as she’s heard you talk about this for a couple months now. She looks around the courtyard.

Your parents and brothers go around the courtyard, conversing with the suitors and their companions, but you don’t move from Tungi as you wait for her to move.

Your dragon looks around and sounds out a purring sound. You hear the other dragons try to match it. After a moment, Tungi locks her target on a dragon. She starts moving, and you and Alioth follow. You look and see she’s heading towards a, rather large, red dragon. His horns twist twice and point back, never lifting above the line of his brow.

You look for the dragon’s companion and find a very familiar curly haired boy. He meets your eyes with a smile and a wave. You wave back, and unable to contain his excitement, Alioth gallops forwards and barrels towards King Munson. The king meets your baby dragon with eagerness and pets him when Alioth crashes into him.

You meet Eddie just beside your dragons.

“Hi,” King Munson greets, smiling with teeth at you.

“Hi,” You say back shyly.

“Princess Y/n,” King Munson’s uncle steps forward. “It’s an honor.”

“Oh no, it’s an honor for me, sir,” You tell him. “I’m glad to hear your kingdom is doing well.”

“Yours as well,” The older man says. “But may I ask, what is this new ritual?”

“Oh yes! A couple other kingdoms do it as well,” You start. “The princess is still able to choose her suitor, but it’s important that her dragon has a say too. So this new ritual allows the princess to either confirm her already chosen suitor, which no one else knows about, or for the princess to filter out some of the existing suitors if she hasn’t made a choice.”

“But I hear this princess already has a choice in mind,” King Munson says.

“Perhaps,” You smile and rock back and forth on your heels. “But that’s me to know and you to find out.”

Just before you can continue your conversation, something warm and large nudges you. You look to the side and is met with a large orange eye with yellow flecks in the iris. The large dragon switches sides so he can look at you from the other side and nudges you again, almost knocking you over.

“Woah, Gourd,” King Munson catches you and gently shoves his dragon away.

Tungi puts her own face down beside Gourd’s and pushes him away, purring gently. Gourd purrs back. Their moment of calm is interrupted by Alioth who jumps up and puts his two front talons on Gourd’s muzzle, chirping up at him and talking with all excitement.

“Gourd?” You look at King Munson.

“Like pumpkins and stuff,” He explains.

“Do you have lots of pumpkins in Mordor?” You ask.

“Lots,” He nods.

You, King Munson, and his executive/Uncle Wayne Munson stand under an overhang for the rest of the afternoon, making small talk and people watching. You also watch how Gourd interacts with Alioth, nudging him around and blowing smoke at the youngling as a form of play.

As the sun sets, it blinds you but only for a moment as it’s blocked. King Munson and Wayne stop talking as you look over, seeing Prince William Hill creating the new shadow. He looks between you three before making eye contact with you.

“Wouldn’t you rather come converse with other suitors, princess?” Prince William asks.

“No, but thank you,” You say. “I prefer to stay with my dragon, and she prefers to stay with King Munson’s dragon. And King Munson and his executive are making lovely conversation at the moment.”

“Wouldn’t you rather consider an ally of your father’s?” Prince William presses. “A close ally. One that is more. . . suitable for you?”

“No,” You shake your head. “But again, thank you for your offer.”

Prince William opens his mouth to say something but is cut off by a horn sounding out throughout the front courtyard.

“Suitors!” The announcer that’s been helping announce and organize for this whole week long event starts. “Time to place your dragons back at the visitor stables and head back towards the dining hall in time for dinner. The royal family will see you there!”

“That is my cue, my princess,” King Munson straightens from leaning on the wall. “I will see you in a few, yes?”

“Yes,” You nod.

King Munson grabs your hand and kisses your knuckles before he and Wayne Munson lead Gourd away and back to the visitor stables. You watch them until they blend into the crowd of people and dragons.

You hadn’t notice Prince William walk away, but you shrug it off and go to meet your family in the middle of the courtyard. You tell them that you’ll bring Tungi and Alioth back to your room and that you’ll see them in the dining hall. You climb Tungi’s arm and up you go on your short journey to the dragon’s quarters above your own. Once there, you praise Tungi for her behavior and that you’ll feed her and Alioth after your dinner. Alioth follows you to the dining room and prances alongside you through the hallways. You get about halfway down the hallway to the dining hall before a hand grabs your wrist and pulls you off to the side and out of the way.

You’re met with disheveled blond hair and sharp blue eyes. Prince William. He still grips your wrist as he pulls you closer. Alioth pulls at his pant leg in an attempt to get Prince William to leave you alone, but the boy just shakes him off.

“What is with you?” The blond all but snarls at you.

“What?” You ask, having no idea what he’s implying as you try to pull away.

“We’re supposed to get married,” Prince William starts. “I’m supposed to be your chosen suitor. I’m supposed to be courting you, and you’re supposed to be all over me and so clung onto me that I can barely stand you by the time it’s our honeymoon.”

“Where do you get that idea? Who’s been telling you that?” You’ve had no news that this Choosing of the Suitors was supposed to end in an arranged marriage, if that’s what Prince William is implying.

“That executive of your father’s,” Prince William answers. “He said no matter what that we would be married and it is up to me to court you so it would end that way. But no matter what I do I can barely get you away from that son of a bastard king!”

You try to pull away again, “King Munson is no bastard’s son and you know that! He is as much of a suitor to me as you are! I just happen to be drawn to him very much because he’s very nice to me!”

“Nice shouldn’t matter!” William yells. “It should be your father’s allies that matter! Which is why this should’ve been an arranged marriage in the first place!!”

“Well I’m sorry for choosing someone that I like very much instead of thinking about my father!!” You yell back.

Your face whips to the side as a hand slaps you harshly on your cheek, making the skin hot and tingly. A gasp is torn from your throat and you’re in too much shock to cradle your cheek. Before either of you can say anything and voice speaks from down the corridor.

“Is there a problem here?”

You look over and it’s King Munson and Wayne Munson. You see King Munson speak some words to his uncle and Wayne walks towards the dining room. He eyes Prince William as he passes and disappears behind the large doors without a word. Steps echo as King Munson walks forward.

“Nothing that I can’t handle,” Prince William answers. “The princess was just out of line for a few moments. She needed to be reminded of who her superiors are.”

King Munson nods and stops just before you two, keeping a barely respectful distance.

“So if you don’t mind-“ the prince is cut off.

“I wasn’t asking you,” King Munson turns his attention towards you and waits for answer.

“No-no, King Munson,” You stutter, submissive under the eyes of the two men. “Just- um. . speaking, is all.”

The king eyes your face, obviously eyeing your reddened cheek. His eyes trail over to your wrist, still tightly grasped in Prince William’s hand. It seems to get tighter when King Munson’s eyes lay upon the connection, making you wince. That doesn’t go unnoticed either. He switches his gaze back to the prince.

“Well, as your superior,” King Munson starts. “I need you to let go of the princess.”

“But you are-“

“The son of a bastard does not make me any less king. And king I am, I am your superior,” King Munson says, threat in his tone. “And if you don’t let go of the princess, I will do it for you.”

“Oh yeah?” Prince William challenges. “What are you gonna-“

He’s cut off with a surprised noise as King Munson grips the prince’s shoulder and presses down on a spot with his thumb, instantly weakening his arm and sending him to the ground. King Munson brings you and him a few steps back as you both watch Prince William recover from the attack.

“Run along now, boy,” The king waves him off. “I have some words I need to say to the princess. They’re more important than your. . . threats.”

“My father will be hearing about this!” Prince William threatens as he wabbles his way toward the dining room doors.

“I’m sure he will,” King Munson nods.

King Munson waits for the doors to completely shut behind the boy before facing you.

Alioth, who’s been on the sidelines, bumps against King Munson’s leg.

The curly haired man glances down at your baby dragon and then back to you. He brings a hand to your red cheek, feeling the skin. There’s a small cut from one of the prince’s rings. The king wets his thumb with his tongue and wipes it over the small wound, cleaning it of previous debris.

“Are you alright? Does this hurt?” he asks.

“Just a bit,” You tell him. “It still tingles.”

“You’re welting,” The king notes. “Hopefully it will be gone by morning. There’s a small cut as well from his ring. And your wrist-“

You both look down as King Munson cradles your wrist in one of his hands, turning it over to inspect the redness and the small indents from where Prince William’s fingernails presses into your skin. It looks like a bruise will form on the outermost part of your wrist from the pressure.

“Does your wrist hurt?” he asks again. “It looks like it’ll be sore tomorrow, if not by tonight.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine, King Munson,” You take your wrist from his hand and hide it behind your back, away from his concerned eyes. “Do not worry about me. You can do that when we marry.”

“But if I do not worry now, who will worry?” He asks, distress swirling and mingling with the concern in his eyes.

“I’ve survived this long without you, King Munson,” You tell him. “I will survive a few days more.”

A light seems to go off in King Munson’s brain after a moment, “So we will marry? For sure?”

“You were considered,” You tell him. “And as my dragon chose, so did I.”

A big, teethy smile grows on the kings face, “Oh, I would kiss you, my dear, if it be allowed.”

“In a few days' time, King Munson,” You tell him. “But first, we must eat.”

#aj posts #stranger things #eddie munson #king!eddie munson #stranger things x reader #stranger things imagines #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson imagines #king!eddie munson x reader #king!eddie munson imagines

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brain-rot-central · 1 year ago

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Sonnet of the Lone Cardinal, Ch. 2

A/N: HEAVY TW FOR PREGNANCY AND TALK OF CHOICES. I understand this is a sensitive topic for some. Feel free to skip over this chapter; I will completely understand.

Rating: M - soft E Word count: 3.7k Pairing: Ascended Astarion/Fem!Tav Warnings: pregnancy, discussion of pregnancy termination, mention of prior sexual acts, emetophobia tw, angst, loss of consciousness, druids are connected with nature and shit, stalking behavior

Summary: Astarion's visit wasn't a one-off event. He and Tav have continued to meet nightly over the last few months, Tav all but losing track of time. It isn't until she ends up at the home of a certain druid that time catches up to her. She's now charged with a difficult choice, all while under the never-ending watch of her clandestine lover.

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It's a day of rest for the citizens of Baldur's Gate, and the market is restless. Errands that have been pushed off for the last tenday all beg the same level of attention as shoppers flit from one store to another. Children laugh in the streets as they run past, mothers hopelessly screaming their names in an attempt to track them down.

Tav peruses the wares of various street vendors and shopkeepers. Her bag is already full, though she makes a quick argument with herself that she could absolutely use a new scarf. Mindlessly, she scratches the side of her neck while browsing the collection of woolen scarves at an upscale boutique. A sting of pain shoots down her neck, an unpleasant reminder of the discolored welt she had sucked into her flesh a couple nights ago.

The visits have continued since that first night. Astarion never gives much warning as to when or if he will return. It’s always the same modus operandi - he shows up unannounced, they spat, they have sex, and he's gone come morning. Tav rubs over the sore spot on her neck again, wincing as she recalls the evening's events.

Astarion was particularly rough that night. She could tell something else must have been preoccupying his thoughts as he didn't care much for their usual banter. No, he very quickly got straight to work, his fingers sinking into her cunt as he sucked the mark deep into her throat. Feeling a blush rising to her cheeks, Tav shakes her head in an attempt to rid her mind of the memory. At least until she's no longer in public.

Gazing across the store, Tav settles on a particular scarf. It's a light-gray color with various types of flowers embroidered throughout. Bringing it to the shop owner, they make light conversation regarding the detailing of the scarf as Tav expresses her desire to buy it. Tav pays the fee, stepping over to the shop’s mirror to place it around her neck. She gasps as she narrows in on the bruised skin of her neck, seeming to be worse now than earlier this morning. Heat rises to her cheeks once again as she winds the scarf around the column of her neck, paying extra care to position the fabric over her secret.

Waving to the shopkeeper, Tav exits the boutique and heads toward her next destination - the butcher's. Her freezebox is running empty, and there's only so much more vegetable soup she can eat before tiring of it.

Truth be told, however, her appetite has shifted dramatically in the last few weeks. Even Astarion has commented after she nearly upchucked all over his loafers. He's agreed to go lighter on the cologne going forward, and thank the Gods he's obliged. Tav vaguely wonders if she's fighting off some type of illness, though it's been much too long for a simple stomach bug.

She's reminded just how tender her breasts have become as well, yelping aloud as she collides into the back of another shopper out in the street. “I'm so sorry!” Tav says quickly, ducking out of view before the victim can get a good look at her. She winces at the soreness of her bosom as she adjusts her bodice, dipping into her favorite butcher shop.

“Ah, Tav!” greets the butcher, warm and welcoming. A halfling, his amber eyes finding her as his lips pull into a smile. “Haven't seen your face a good while,” he comments. “I was startin’a wonder if you'd run off on yet another adventure.”

Tav chuckles and gives a nod. “Good to see you, Gideon. I'm still here!” The scent of meat is oddly strong today. Tav feels her stomach beginning to twist and turn as she surveys the various cuts of meat and fish laid out on the ice of the display cases.

They exchange pleasantries; Gideon shares quick stories about his family, Tav telling him more about her adventures to stop the Absolute. Disappearing into the back of the store, Gideon yells out, “Were ya interested in tryin’ some sausages, Tav?” Before she can reply, Gideon reappears holding a tub of meat trimmings.

Her nostrils are assaulted by the smell. Her stomach is lurching at this point, ready to spill freely up her throat and onto this poor man's pristine wooden floor. “I-Is it a new recipe?” Tav asks, feigning interest. She places a clenched fist over her mouth as she belches.

“No, not a new one,” he explains. Tav watches as he slips a sausage casing onto the spout of the meat grinder. “Improved!” Gideon grabs a handful of trimmings and places them into the funnel atop the grinder. Holding the casing in place, he begins to twist the crank with the opposite hand, machinery grinding the trimmings into mince.

Tav registers the sound of Gideon’s voice in her ears, though none of the words make it across her brain. She's transfixed on the way the meat mince fills the casing. Saliva pools thick on her tongue as a wave of sickness strikes her. The grinding of the meat has intensified the smell; it's not a particularly bad smell. In fact, it smells rather pleasant. But it's a smell; a strong smell, nonetheless, and strong smells are not something she can handle, as of late.

“Tav? Tav!”

She snaps from her daydream as Gideon's voice cuts through her mind. “Oh,” she says, “I'm so sorry. My mind was elsewhere, Gideon. Forgive me.” Tav’s eyes follow Gideon's hands as he gathers more meat trimmings to place within the funnel.

“That's totally fine, dearie! I was just goin’a tell you-”

Gideon cranks the handle again, grinding more meat into the casing. The accompanying smell overwhelms her nose again, and suddenly she's retching, violently, onto the pristine floorboards below - exactly what she didn't want to do.

After some time she's dry heaving, having emptied the full contents of her stomach. Tav then sinks to her knees, vaguely hearing Gideon scream from behind the counter. Her ears are filled with little else but the rapid beating of her own heart. As her chest heaves from the power of her emesis, Tav’s vision narrows a single tunnel. She falls gently onto her side, the touch of Gideon’s hands holding her head the last thing she remembers before slipping away into unconsciousness.

—------------------------------------

The ceiling is unfamiliar.

Tav snaps awake, rising curtly from the bed she lay on, certainly not her own. Immediately she's met with the soothing, pleasant scent of patchouli incense. And sage, lots and lots of sage.

“Ah, you've finally awoken,” a gruff yet feminine voice speaks from the far side of the room.

With a swivel of her head, Tav meets the hazel eyes belonging to this mysterious being. Wild blonde hair is woven into locks, adorned with beaded jewelry. Sun-kissed skin wrinkled by the passing of time, alluding to the beauty she beheld in her youth.

“Jaheira?” Tav asks in confusion. “How did I…?”

“You passed out in the market, little cub,” she explains. Jaheira comes to sit on the edge of the bed, a laugh escaping her. “Boy, you gave that poor shopkeeper a fright. I happened to be not far from where you were when I heard the commotion.”

Running a hand through her hair, Tav recoils after touching a particularly sore spot on the side of her scalp, face pulling into a scowl. “Did you bring me back here?” Tav asks.

With a quick laugh, Jaheira says, “With some help, yes.” She gives a quick nod to Tav. “Don't worry, we maintained your dignity.”

The episode at the butcher's begins to replay in her mind. “Oh, Gods, Gideon!” Tav exclaims, holding her head in her hands. “I ruined his beautiful floors!”

“He seemed more worried about you, little one,” says Jaheira. Quirking a brow as she tilts her head, Jaheira asks, “Who is this man to you? He's not exactly your type.”

Disbelief settling across her face, Tav yells defensively, “Jaheira! He's my butcher!” She winces as another bolt of pain shoots down the side of her skull.

“Ah, go easy,” coos Jaheira, hands coming up in a calming gesture. “I only tease.”

With a sigh, Tav pulls the covers off herself and moves to sit up. She rubs the back of her neck, stretching it side to side. A gentle “pop” is heard once she flexes her neck to the left, shaking out her shoulders before standing.

Looking down, Tav realizes she's naked. Embarrassed, she quickly grabs the duvet from the bed and wraps it around her body. “Why am I-”

“You hit your head on the way down,” Jaheira explains. “I had to check if there were any other injuries.” Seeing Tav’s pained expression, Jaheira adds, “No need to worry, there are none. I've also treated you with balms and oils to ward off a concussion.”

Nodding her head toward Jaheira, Tav scans the room until she finds her clothing in a neat pile on the dresser. She walks over to retrieve her garments, dropping the blanket onto the floor to begin stepping into her trousers.

Tav catches Jaheira's gaze in her periphery. Jaheira is studying her intently, looking curiously at the bruise on her neck. Her vision dips lower to the swell of Tav’s breasts, and further still to the unusual softness of her lower belly. Tav dresses hurriedly, feeling uneasy under Jaheira's watchful stare. She secures the embroidered scarf around her neck before searching for her boots.

“Forgive me for prying,” Jaheira says, cutting through the uneasy silence that has befallen the room. “I couldn't help but notice the mark on your neck.” Lips pulling into a smirk, Jaheira asks, “That isn't a gift from the butcher boy, is it?”

With a laugh, Tav bends down to pick up her boots that rest in the corner of the room. “Oh, most certainly not,” comes her answer. Sliding her feet into her boots with a huff, Tav says, “No, this is from…” Her voice drifts off as she thinks of Astarion. How to describe their situation? The question baffles her. “An old flame,” she settles.

“Ah, so you know this boy?” Jaheira inquiries while raising a brow.

Having tied the laces of her boots, Tav returns to the bed. “For some time, actually,” she explains, taking a seat. “We're… trying to rekindle what once was, I think.” An uneasy discomfort spreads throughout her chest.

Jaheira lifts a hand to Tav’s chin, gently turning her head to the side, exposing the marred flesh of her neck from under the scarf. “Is he handsome?” Jaheira asks jovially, her eyes roaming the young woman’s skin.

With a gentle laugh, Tav replies, “Quite.” Her eyes track the older woman's face, holding her chin steady within Jaheira's grasp.

“And how long have you been rekindling what once was, hmm?”

Furrowing her brow, Tav slowly turns her head, fully facing Jaheira. “I beg your pardon?” Tav asks, befuddled. “That's a rather personal question, don't you think?”

A heavy sigh escapes from the druid’s chest as she closes her eyes. Reopening them, Jaheira asks, “When was the last time you bled, little cub?” The hand that was on Tav’s chin now reaches up to tuck hair behind an ear.

Rage swells within Tav at the emboldened line of questioning. Before a response could form on her tongue, realization washes over her. “I-” she stammers, “I could have sworn it was a few weeks ago, but…”

It has indeed been quite some time. Months, in fact. She's been so preoccupied by Astarion's return into her life, the new dynamic they have formed, working on settling back into how things once were…

Tav simply… forgot. Forgot to keep track.

“Oh, Gods,” Tav exclaims, voice cracking as anxiety begins to take root. “Do you think… I could be…?”

“I have reason to believe,” comes Jaheira’s graceful response, compassion evident across her features. “It would only take a few moments to confirm, if you wish.”

Averting Jaheira's watchful gaze, Tav nods her head. Jaheira motions for Tav to lay down atop the bed, Tav hesitantly complying. A strong sense of despair settles over her as she rests against the pillow. Does she even want to know? Probably, as that would be the more responsible thing to do.

Right?

“Close your eyes and relax,” Jaheira says calmly, hands hovering over Tav’s abdomen. A faint green glow emanates from the palms of Jaheira's hands, and she hums softly. Tav closes her eyes and breathes in a cleansing breath, releasing as much tension on exhale as she can.

The room is silent for a few moments, until Jaheira suddenly jerks back. “By Silvanus,” she gasps, mouth falling agape. Eyes wide as she stares into Tav, who is now sitting upright on the bed.

“What is it?” Tav asks, panicked. “Am I..?”

Jaheira's face twists and contorts before finally settling on bewilderment. “You… are,” she confirms, hushed. Tentatively, she questions, “You… refused your father, did you not?”

Bhaal, her accursed paternity. The source of murderous rage and never-ending blood lust that once threatened to consume her. Something she and Astarion bonded over deeply, back then.

“I did,” Tav answers. “Why do you ask?” She studies Jaheira as the older woman falls silent, lips pressing into a thin line. “Jaheira, what is wrong? Tell me!” she demands.

The druid casts her eyes down at the floor. “The child… is unnatural,” Jaheira gasps, sucking in a large breath. “The aura… It goes against every law of nature.” Disbelief sours her expression further as she shakes her head. “It is an abomination.”

Unnatural. Abomination. Jaheira's words repeat in her mind. Tav's breath hitches as truth sinks in, her vision narrowing.

She is with child. An undead child.

Astarion's child.

“No,” Tav cries, “no, you have to be wrong. It's not possible.” Denial floods her chest, heart beating wildly. The fine hairs of her arms stand on end as a wave of nausea rushes over her; she feels sick. And stupid. So incredibly stupid.

Reclaiming her seat on the bed, Jaheira places her hands over Tav’s. “Oh, sweet girl,” Jaheira says, rubbing circles into her skin. Tav physically recoils at the pity laced within her voice. “Did he tell you he couldn't? They all say that, and none ever mean it.”

Tav shakes her head in disagreement. “No, it's… It isn't that,” Tav begins, voice cracking as a sob pushes past her lips. With a huff, she pulls her hands from Jaheira's and throws them into her lap, defeated. “It… it would have happened already…?” She stares into Jaheira’s eyes, searching desperately for a ledge to pull herself up and out of this nightmare.

Jaheira returns her gaze, her hand cupping Tav's jaw tenderly. She tilts her head, eyes full with understanding before asking, “Cub, do you mean to tell me the father is…?”

Her throat feels tight, almost to the point of suffocation. Pressure builds in her head as Tav tries to choke back the string of sobs that threaten to overwhelm her. Her stomach is flipping violently, much like earlier in the day, though she's unsure of what would come up. Her eyes burn as tears begin to roll down her cheeks, and she finally buries her face within Jaheira's chest, giving herself over to acceptance of her current situation.

Jaheira says nothing at first, placing her hands across the young woman's back, mindlessly rubbing up and down. She presses a kiss atop her hair and begins rocking Tav within her arms, all in an effort to comfort the distraught human. “I thought you left him, Tav?” the druid asks, delicately.

Pulling herself from Jaheira's bosom, Tav wipes her tears with the back of a hand. “I did, but he came looking for me a few months ago.” Stupid, she scolds herself. So godsdamned stupid to ever let him back in. Throwing her hands up, Tav says, “What do I do, Jaheira? He can't ever know.”

“No,” agrees Jaheira, rising from her place on the bed, “he absolutely must not.” Walking over to the dresser at the opposite end of the room, Jaheira opens the top drawer and begins rummaging within. Tav sees her retrieve a small midnight blue bottle, closing the drawer before stepping back over to the bed. “Take this,” Jaheira insists, holding out the bottle to Tav.

Raising a hand, Tav hesitantly retrieves the potion. She studies it intently, rotating the bottle within her grasp. “Essence of Moonshade,” Tav reads off the faded label, inquisitively. “What is this?”

Jaheira sits again on the bed next to Tav. “The wife of a tyrant's most trusted confidant,” explains Jaheira, leaning in closer to the younger woman. Raising her hands, Jaheira encloses them around Tav’s and the bottle. Their eyes meet, concern apparent across the druid’s face as she says, “Drink this, and you needn't worry any longer.”

Furrowing her brow, Tav takes a moment to consider Jaheira's instructions. She quickly stands, ripping her hands away from Jaheira as the puzzle begins to align. “Are you asking me to purge this child, Jaheira?” Tav questions, distraught.

The druid woman is silent for some time before weakly nodding her head. “I am giving you a chance to rid yourself of the curse that grows within.”

Tav clenches her fists rapidly as anger swells within her, beginning to boil over. “His seed sprouted in my belly; does that make me wretched, too, Jaheira?” she shouts, utterly bewildered by what the druid is asking her to consider. “Should I also be purged? Punished for my womb being so favorable as to nurture the child of a monster?” she yells, venomously.

“Tav, no-” Jaheira coos, eyes soft as she extends a hand.

But before the druid can continue, Tav begins to weep. Unrestrained sobs pour from her lips as she sinks to her knees, hiding her face in her hands as she screams, “I can't do it, Jaheira!” Wrapping her arms around her torso, Tav begins rocking herself back and forth. Her skin prickles with anxious energy, heat rising throughout her chest. “They're half of me,” Tav tries reasoning, weakly. Tears fall freely from her eyes, though the sobs begin to subside.

At least, until her arms press down over her chest and she winces at the tenderness of her breasts. A reminder that she is, indeed, pregnant. That this is not a dream. She's transported back into the hellish nightmare she sought such desperate momentary relief outside of, the sobs continuing.

Jaheira kneels down next to the young human woman, a gentle hand rubbing her back. “I am sorry, little one,” says Jaheira, mournfully. “To aid you was my only thought.” Jaheira elaborates while raking a hand through Tav’s auburn locks.

With a gentle shake of her head, Tav says, “No, I apologize, Jaheira. You're only trying to help and I'm…” Being ungrateful, she finishes within her mind. Her thoughts are muddled. A multitude of emotions rushes through her like a river after rain. Tav digs her palms into her eyes and rubs, giving her head another shake as her hands drop into her lap.

“Tav, look at me,” states the druid, a hand coming to hold Tav’s chin again. She lifts the young woman’s face to meet her eyes. “I do not fault you for being beguiled by him. I, too, was once a young woman,” Jaheria with an honest laugh. Her expression softens. “Whatever your decision, please know that I am here.” Jaheira gently strokes a thumb over Tav’s chin and adds, “You may always come to me, whenever you feel the need to.”

Warmth begins to radiate from Tav’s core as Jaheira's words settle over her. She feels pressure mounting in her face again, tears imminent, but for a much different reason. “Thank you, Jaheira,” Tav says, wrapping her arms around the other woman’s waist in a tight embrace.

Jaheira raises her arms, bringing them around Tav’s shoulders. “You are a beautiful, intelligent young woman. I trust you will be fine,” she states emphatically, pressing a kiss against Tav’s temple.

The two women separate, Tav wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. Jaheira helps them stand, nodding toward the forgotten bottle on the bed. “Take that home with you,” Jaheira insists. “You still have some time to decide.”

With a quick nod, Tav walks over to the bed and retrieves the bottle, tucking it into the front pocket of her trousers. “I don't know how to thank you,” admits Tav.

“Ah, don't mention it,” replies Jaheira with a wave of her hand. “Now, be on your way. I'm sure you've grown tired of spending time with an elder.”

Tav laughs as she picks her pack up off the floor, situating it upon her back. She exchanges parting pleasantries with the druid as they walk down the stairs, Jhessem and Tate running past them as they reach the door. Tav waves back as she descends onto the streets of the city, Jaheira yelling something unintelligible toward the rambunctious children as she closes the front door.

Taking a deep breath, Tav pulls the dark blue bottle from her pocket and gives it a quick glance over. She shakes it slightly, watching the liquid slosh to and fro within.

The sound of a bird squawking above draws her attention from the potion, and Tav looks up. On the roof of the home across from Jaheira, a black raven sits perched on the gutter. It cries again, twisting its head in various different directions before taking flight. Tav watches the bird fly off, disappearing from view. Strange, she thinks. Tucking the bottle back into her pocket, she begins the trek back home.

—------------------------------------ Atop the tower wall he stands, golden chalice adorned with rubies in hand. The sun is beginning to set over the city, a golden glow illuminating the many alleyways below. The man extends his opposite arm as a raven appears. The bird perches upon his offered ledge, hopping slightly closer to him as it chatters. “Hello, darling. What news of my damia do you bring?” he purrs to the bird. It squawks in response, the bird's head turning rapidly. Bringing the goblet of wine to his lips, Astarion takes a strong sip. “Is that so?” he responds. Licking his lips, he comments darkly, “How very, very interesting.”

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