#instead of half a year as it's always been before

[ceilidho]

fig. 3. heart in flames; baptism by fire | John Price x Reader

MASTERLIST · AO3

The universe hasn't seen fit to give Price a mate of his own. He'll have to take matters into his own hands.

or: the forced mating omegaverse au

tags: Size Difference, Size Kink, Omegaverse, Explicit Sexual Content, AFAB Reader, Stalking, Kidnapping, Heavy Noncon/Dubcon Elements

His appetite is an arsenal all on its own. 

It’s always been bigger than him, barrel-chested. All consuming. It’s the reason that John is where he is today, always chasing down something larger than himself. Greedy for what he can’t have. Ambitious to a fault. Promotions and titles and commendations and accolades; they’re all wrapped up in his psychology, into whatever it is about him that wants without end. Without satisfaction. 

It’s likely why he ends up being referred to an endocrinologist specializing in hormone disorders in alphas when an overproduction of androstenone turns his ruts violent. Over the years, they’ve been steadily getting worse, even with a partner to help see him through the worst of it, the overproduction of hormones making him a little too mindless, a little too frenzied. 

“It’s not especially common for men your age, if I can be frank,” the doctor tells him, flipping through his chart. “Not uncommon, but low enough that I want to send you for a couple tests just to be safe. You’re still unmated?”

John nods. “That’s right.”

It’s not that the option hasn’t ever presented itself, but the timing has never felt right. Even marriage hadn’t sweetened the deal, and maybe that’s why he’s just north of forty-five and already divorced. The fault lies with him alone; he’s man enough to admit that. Maybe if he’d been more attentive, less likely to disappear for months at a time; if he’d swallowed his reluctance and just bit his omega instead of dragging his feet through his marriage like a prisoner marching to his own doom—maybe things might be different. 

“Any plans to change that?”

“‘Fraid not.”

The truth of the matter is that, though he’s waited a lifetime for that special someone to cross his path, no one has ever come close to smelling right. Even his ex-wife had only come so close—good enough to turn his head, but not enough to keep him. Or maybe he hadn’t been enough to keep her. These days, it’s hard to say which feels more like the truth. 

Sometimes John thinks that it’s simply not in the cards for him. That for whatever reason, destiny or God or the universe or whatever force that decides the fate of all things, has deemed him unfit for the other half of his soul. 

It’s just that it’s been—

It’s been a long time without anyone to call his own.

The doctor scribbles something down in John’s chart. “Alright.”

With his rut coming up in just a few days, the timing couldn’t be better. It sizzles like a low grade fever under his skin. He works up a sweat more easily, even a couple flights of stairs leaving the pits of his shirt dark and damp. There’s a little extra padding around his midsection, a bit more bulk on his arms and thighs; his beard a little thicker than usual, forcing him to trim it twice a day to keep it from growing out of control. Even though it happens every year, it sneaks up on him, the added mass making him a bit lethargic in the weeks before his rut. 

“We won’t have the results in time for your next scheduled rut, but I’d recommend asking a trusted partner to help you out. And wear protection. We have extra mouth guards and other paraphernalia if you need anything.”

John holds up a hand when the doctor goes to open a drawer. “I’ve got plenty at home. Appreciate the advice though. Any medication I should be taking?”

“I don’t want to start you on anything this close to your rut, but maybe after. I’ll have the front desk set up a follow up appointment for you for two weeks from now.”

He nods, making a mental note. 

There are a couple girls he could call up on short notice, but the thought sits like a dull weight in his chest. The decades of casual heats and ruts have left him with little appetite for that sort of thing these days. What he wants—craves really, needs really—is something permanent, something meaningful. John’s been around the block enough to know that he’s looking for something more. 

He’s had good ruts and bad ruts. Ruts spent in the warm embrace of another, filling up a soft, wet hole again and again until his spend leaked down their thighs, lost in a daze of pheromones and heat-slick. Ruts spent entombed in his own frustrated lust, mindlessly rutting into a cum-filled fleshlight to slake a thirst that never ebbs, only flows and rushes over the guardrails, dragging him further under. 

This one might end up falling into the latter category.

“Right, well, thanks for stopping by, John. You have a good rest of your day, alright?”

“Same to you.”

His nostrils burn the second he walks back into the main corridor, which is teeming with activity, children climbing over their parents’ laps and people still waiting to see a doctor slumped over in their chairs. Two interns wheel a bed down the hall, forcing everyone to scoot to the side and cling to the wall to get out of the way. There’s always too many people in the hospital. Too many smells. 

This close to his rut, everything reeks. Congealed sweat and antiseptic; plastic chairs that smell simultaneously of sick and Lysol wipes, confusing his nose. Stale body odour from those in the waiting room on their sixth hour of waiting on loved ones or on an available doctor. It’s a bludgeon to the senses, particularly when they’re more sensitive than usual. 

An elevator takes him down to the first floor, which is even more chaotic than the one John was just on somehow. Patients and doctors spilling out of rooms, announcement after announcement blaring over the intercom, and always—always—the sharp scent of isopropyl, astringent against the inside of his nose. 

“I don’t understand—did she leave?” 

The voice catches him like a fish on a hook on his way towards the main entrance, beadhead soaring through the air and slipping under the surface of the water just as he’s angling to leave. 

When John turns around, you’re standing by the front desk with your chin tucked into your chest. You make a pitiful sight like that, with your lips pursed and your eyebrows pinched, and you hold yourself almost delicately, hands gripping the edge of the desk to stabilize yourself. 

He takes a deep inhale. Though admittedly he’s not close enough to get a good whiff, your scent is muted, likely dampened by the effects of several painkillers and the anesthetic still running through your system. The stench of pain is strong too, which accounts for the way you hold your body and move so gingerly, the brace on your arm a good indication. 

“I’m sorry, ma’am. If she’s not here, she must have left. You could try calling her?” the nurse at the front desk says, almost apologetic. “We can’t let you leave without an escort to take you home.”

“Okay, um…” you whisper, and now your scent is pungent with panic, acerbic. “Let me call her and ask her to come back.”

The sound of your voice is stronger now that it’s had time to travel. Again he feels it pinch him like coming out of a dream.

It’s so unremarkable that John nearly carries on down the hall towards the entrance, nothing about the interaction sticking out. 

Something keeps him rooted in place though. Intuition or a sixth sense or finely honed instincts. So instead of leaving, he turns around and walks right back to the front desk, stopping when he’s within arm’s length of you, eyes soaking up the sight of your tensed shoulders.

He doesn’t know the words are going to come out of his mouth until they do. “Lost your way home?” 

When you turn your eyes up to look at him, he feels the breath get knocked out of him. Prettier than anything he’s ever seen, the lure at the end of a fishing line drawing him in. 

And yet, for as pleasant as you smell, it’s nothing dissimilar to the countless omegas John has come across before. It evokes nothing primal—no deep-seated urge to sink his canines into a plump gland and bind you to him. 

You simply smell nice.

It’s difficult to articulate the devastation that courses through him. He’d hoped against hope that it would happen, that someday he would turn a corner and his fated mate would be there, looking at him like what took you so long? But how long can a man be expected to wait? How many years of disappointment can he be expected to weather by himself, his hopes dashed repeatedly? 

In less than a second, he makes a decision. 

One too many times, he’s hoped for fate to intervene and reward him for his patience. It never has. That responsibility must fall on him. 

There’s nothing new about trying to immanentize the eschaton, but John has faith in himself. If fate won’t do what must be done, then he will instead. 

“Excuse me?” you ask. So polite. 

“Heard you talking to the nurse about your ride home; sounds like you’re in a bit of a fix.”

“Yeah, I…um…” You seem torn on whether or not to keep up the conversation, likely finding his attention a bit intrusive, but gentility prevails in the end. Good. He was just starting to like you. “My friend was supposed to drive me home after surgery, but it looks like she might’ve bailed. She’s not answering my texts, but someone else said they saw her leave.”

“Sorry to hear that. Not fair, putting you in a spot like that.”

“I’m trying to give her the benefit of the doubt, but…uh…” You laugh, a touch derisively. “This is kind of screwing me over. I’m trying to get another friend to come pick me up, but it’s short notice and most people can’t just call out of work at the drop of a hat.”

There’s a vulnerable note in your voice almost masked by the touch of annoyance in your laugh but still plain for anyone attentive enough to hear. John is nothing but attentive.

“Don’t let her screw you over and get away with it,” he says, positioning himself on your side. “Short of someone dying, there’s no reason she should’ve left you on your own after an operation.”

“You’re probably right,” you murmur, too tired to put up a fight. “It just sucks. I wish she hadn’t told me yes in the first place—I could’ve asked someone else and given them more notice.”

“If you’re looking for a way home, I’d be happy to give you a lift.” John shrugs a shoulder when your lips open, the polite refusal already bubbling up your throat rebuffed by his next words. “I’m headed out now anyway. Just came to get some bloodwork done, nothing serious. Wouldn’t be an imposition at all.”

Your eyebrows pull together, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. 

“I’m not sure if I should be accepting rides from strangers.”

There’s a teasing lilt there, but also an undercurrent that he’s become familiar with over the years. A tempered kind of caution. One that says the words with a smile but prepares to sprint the other way. 

He smiles and holds out his hand. “I’m John.” When you take it, he knows he’s got you. “Not strangers anymore, are we?”

You answer that with a coy shake of your head, giving your name just as readily.

“So, how about it? Can I take you home?” John asks, repeating the invitation. His blood simmers when you take too long to answer.

“Ma’am,” the nurse suddenly interjects from the front desk, taking your attention away from him. It’s surprising how much that displeases him. “Have you gotten in touch with your friend yet or do we have to put you on the list for the drop-off service?”

John can see you warring with the options in your mind, eyes flitting between him and the nurse. 

“Actually, I found a ride home. Can I sign out?”

“Mind if I ask what you were in for?”

The drive to your house is mostly uneventful. He plugs your address into the GPS and hits save when something outside the window catches your attention. 

“It was just a little procedure.” His ensuing silence must make you nervous because you volunteer the reason for your stay after just a few short seconds. “Carpal tunnel release. My job involves a lot of typing, so I couldn’t keep putting it off; can’t wait to go back to living normally.”

He clocked the splint and the bandage around your hand and wrist when he approached you at the hospital, but it’s good to put a label on it. John makes a mental note to look up the post-op protocol for carpal tunnel surgery when the two of you get home. It’ll help him to better understand and address your needs in the coming days and weeks, and what he’ll need to watch out for when his rut finally sets in. 

He’ll clue you in on all of that later when he’s had a chance to explain himself. 

“Shame that your friend didn’t stick around to get you home. Probably still in a bit of pain, aren’t you?”

“Not yet. The painkillers they’ve got me on are really good.”

“Hm. I bet.”

You’re not that loopy despite being on painkillers though. More tired than anything. 

“I probably could’ve planned this better. I didn’t even get groceries before leaving for surgery.”

“You want me to stop and pick you up a couple things?”

He can see you turn to look at him from the corner of his eye. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve got time. Do you know what you need?”

You rattle off the couple items that you need and John merges into the left lane while listening, heading towards the nearest grocery store. 

He makes you stay in the car while he goes in to pick up a couple things, his number plugged into your phone in case you need him to rush back. The few items you rattle off aren’t sufficient enough for what you’ll need over the coming weeks, so John takes the liberty of purchasing a few extra things. Cured meats, fruit, a box of pastries for breakfast, and a couple frozen microwaveable meals. Baby wipes, lotion, and a multivitamin. All the essentials for a rut. 

There are things back at his place that he’ll need for his rut, but he’ll ask Simon to pick those up whenever he has a chance. It’s why John gave him a spare key after all. 

When he wheels the cart out of the store, he comes around by the back of the car, popping the trunk before you have a chance to see the sheer amount of bags in his cart. There will be a time later to talk you through what’s going to happen. 

“Sorry if my list was complicated,” you apologize when he gets back into the front seat, the cart in the corral. It doesn’t change where things were already heading, but it makes him look at you a bit differently. There’s a sweetness to you, one he hadn’t noticed before. 

He likes it though.

“Wasn’t complicated in the least,” John says, brushing off the apology. “Just took me a while to find everything. Didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

Your eyes crinkle when you smile. “I’m not in any hurry.”

John’s always liked docile things. Sweet, simpering things with nervous eyes and gentle demeanours. 

Moreover—

what isn’t already tamed is his to break. 

You’re a cagey thing as well though. At least, you get cagey when John gets out of the car and follows you up the front stairs on your porch instead of hovering a safe distance away. He keeps the subterfuge up by only carrying in the bags with the things you requested, leaving the rest in his car for now.

“I really appreciate all your help; I should be able to take it from here though,” you tell him at the door, the key still tucked in your hand. Your voice is infused with enough gratitude that a duller man might let it stroke their ego while you slipped inside and out of their grasp.

John smiles instead. “Wouldn’t be doing the right thing if I let you go without making sure you got to bed safe and sound. Open the door, sweetheart.”

He can see the hesitation on your face plain as day. Every instinct telling you not to let a man into your house, much less an alpha. 

But inevitably you let him in.

Good girl.

The house is saturated with your scent. He has to take a deep inhale right off the bat, committing your scent to memory. Without the overwhelming stench of antiseptic and sickness from the hospital, your scent is cleaner, richer. Preserved in amber. 

There’s something faint underlying your lived-in scent though. He can’t quite name it, but it sits on the tip of his tongue like a tune he’s heard before. 

“Mind if I put these away for you?” John asks, lifting the grocery bags in his hands. 

“Oh—yes, thank you. The kitchen’s that way.” You point towards the back of the house.

John carries the bags with just your groceries to the kitchen and unloads everything one by one into the fridge. The meager contents of your fridge speak to a frugal, solitary existence, and suddenly the faint smell permeating through your house has a name. Loneliness. 

A man hasn’t been in here in quite some time, if ever. Every single inch of the house has been scrubbed with your scent, not a trace of any former occupant remaining. No roommate or close friend or boyfriend. 

“Nice place you’ve got,” he comments when he walks back into the living room to find you fiddling around with the cushions on the couch, arranging them to make yourself a cozy spot to lie down.

You look up at the sound of his voice and smile, faintly flattered. “Thank you. I’ve only had it a year, but uh…I’ve been doing my best. Also—thanks again for driving me home. And stopping for groceries.” Your lips go round like you’ve remembered something. “I still have to pay you back by the way. Wait right here.”

“Let me go get the rest from the car first,” John says. 

“There’s more?” you ask, surprised. 

He nods. “I got you a couple extra things—on me. I hope that wasn’t too much of an overstep.”

You chew your lip but ultimately the uncertainty melts from your gaze the longer he stands there waiting for your approval. “…No, that’s…that’s fine. You didn’t have to, but thank you.”

His overstep is just a toe over the lip of the door, but it’s still a foot keeping the door from closing. 

On his way back out to the car, John happens to glance down while passing the table in the entryway and finds, much to his delight, your phone resting casually beside the vanity tray. It sits there like you purposefully left it for him to take. 

If not you, then fate. 

With deft fingers practiced at lifting, he pockets your phone, and then heads back to the car for the rest of the groceries, whistling the whole way there and back. 

You start to look at him a bit differently when he brings in the second round of groceries. The number of bags hanging from his forearms must strike you as odd, too many for what you asked him to pick up. John doesn’t bother making any excuses though. 

He can see your trust wavering, pulled out from the water and left belly up in the air, gasping for breath. It wouldn’t be hard to fix it. It wouldn’t be hard to go about this the right way—leave you with your groceries and pain meds, tuck you into bed before seeing himself out, and then waiting a couple days to ask you out for coffee. To leave now would mend your trust entirely. 

He considers it even, never one for turning down a potential strategy without considering its merit. But his alpha digs its heels in when he contemplates leaving, pushing every inch of its weight into rooting him in place. 

It doesn’t want him to leave; and truth be told, John can’t bear the thought either. 

The little trust you extended evaporates more and more as the minutes tick by and he shows no sign of leaving. You dance around it for a while, cautiously hopeful that he might be inadvertently overstaying his welcome, and John watches your descent into hopelessness from the corner of his eyes. 

It’s only when he helps himself to a snack from the fridge and turns the television on that you break, sweat beading on your upper lip. 

“John, I think maybe you s-should leave.”

The confidence you muster up to even just say that impresses him. It takes a lot out of you though, your body sagging when the words come out of your mouth, so much tension building up in your muscles that it literally weighs you down.

The hand with the remote drifts down to his side. “What do you mean, sweetheart?” John asks. 

“Well, I’ve—I’ve got it from here.” You switch to a more diplomatic tone, likely wary of worsening the situation you’ve gotten yourself into. Aware that you’ve invited him into your house, that your safe space now has another resident. “I don’t need any more help.” 

Though not as close to his rut as he will be in the coming days, the sentiment still makes him bristle. You don’t need any more help. Rich considering you let a strange alpha take you home not half an hour ago. 

He places the remote down and advances on you briskly, all of a sudden, quick enough that you only notice when he’s right in front of you, surprise overriding your fight or flight response. 

John cups the back of your neck with a big hand and tilts your head up until he can see the puffy, virgin mating gland sitting in the crook of your neck. Thumbs it too, ignoring the way your eyes go wide and horrified, and the way you try to wriggle out of his grasp until he tightens his hand around the nape of your neck. 

“Of course you do, sweetheart. Can't have you wandering around like this—wrong person might try to take advantage.”

Fear makes your pupils dilate. It stinks too, the stench wafting off you. A bit of initial unpleasantness is expected though, and understandable. It’ll be a lot to help work you through the worst of it, but it’s nothing he hadn’t already internally committed to. 

“You’re—you’re not going to leave?”

John shakes his head and smiles. 

Smart girl that you are, you don’t jump to screaming and shouting. Not that the urge isn’t there building in your chest, but you know the odds are stacked against you. You’ve already let him in. 

Your breathing picks up though, and your lip trembles. An anxious swallow follows, then another, throat too dry for you to speak. 

“Why?”

“C’mere, sweetheart.” John takes you by the hand, careful to avoid the bandaged one, and pulls you to the couch, where he takes a seat. “We can only have a frank conversation about this if you promise to be polite and wait your turn to speak. Clear?”

Your lips twitch with displeasure but you nod. 

“My rut’s coming up in a week.” He catches you before you spring back up to your feet, yanking you back down by your arm. “No, don’t try to run; this is happening, love. My rut’s coming up and I’m staying here for it, okay?”

“I can stay someplace else,” you offer weakly, voice breaking. 

His smile verges on pitying. “No, sweetheart. You’re staying here with me for it.”

Your scent goes sour. Ammonium sulfide and allicin. His nose would wrinkle if he’d been expecting anything less than your reaction, but you conform, as always, beautifully to his expectations. 

“You can’t…make me go through a rut with you.” Your throat constricts around the word rut. 

“Yes, I can,” he says simply because that’s what it is. Simple.

In a world of people riddled with guilt complexes and victim mentalities, he stands alone. He has no qualms about taking what’s owed to him, or with shaping the world according to the version of it that lives in his head. That’s how history is made. 

He can’t judge others for their nature the same way he can’t fault himself for his. 

“I thought you said you were in the army.”

“I did.”

“Isn’t this…—this is against the law then, isn’t it?”

“You’re thinking of American law, sweetheart.” He doesn’t bring up any similar protection against forced billeting enshrined in English law. Best to not get lost in the weeds. 

There’s a tick in your eyes that betrays you. John readies himself for a chase when your eyes glance over his shoulders towards the door, but you discard that plan as quickly as it entered your brain. Weighing the odds and finding them not in your favour. 

“I have friends,” you blurt out. “Family. People check up on me.”

“That’s fine, love. When they do, you’re gonna tell them that you’re taking a week off to rest and you don’t want anyone coming by in the meantime.” When you don’t respond, clearly thinking something different, irritation flickers in his chest. “Wanna know why you’re going to do that?”

“…Why?”

“‘Cause you know this could go one of two ways. We could either have a nice time together and I’ll be on my way afterwards…or I could bite that little mating gland of yours now and we can take that option off the table.”

There’s no point in telling you that he’s already made up his mind about that part. The allure of hope is too tempting; he has to give you something to latch onto. 

“Do we understand each other?” he asks. 

Your initial hesitation tells him all he needs to know. This won’t be an easy conquest or a city handed over to spare its citizens pain—you won’t hesitate to put up a fight. 

“Okay.” 

John makes himself at home like a fox laying claim to a rabbit’s burrow. 

Siege warfare. A lifetime in the military has made him well versed in poliorcetics. He knows of how the Romans once conquered the city of Fidene by launching false attacks from four different directions at four different times before breaching the city through a long tunnel that passed under its walls, and how Alexander captured the city of Tyre by building a kilometer-long causeway and besieging it for seven months.

Your phone was the first thing to go, confiscated lest you got any funny ideas about calling someone to rescue you. Not that you need rescuing; in the end, you’ll see that this was in your best interests too. The next thing to do is your laptop, tucked away out of reach until you’ve proved yourself to be trustworthy. 

He cuts off all trade routes and replaces them with his own, Simon showing up at the door the following morning with supplies. When you spot a man at the door, you must think saviour before foe, because you pound on the window facing the porch. At least John had the foresight to lock you out of the foyer before he opened the front door.

Simon cocks an eyebrow. “Noisy mouse, ain’t she?”

He shrugs. “She’ll learn. You got everything I asked for?”

“Check ‘n tell me if I missed anything. I ‘aven’t got time to get anything else today, but I can come back tomorrow.”

“Good man, Simon. Give me a minute, alright, lad?”

John gives the bag a cursory check, but just as he thought, Simon didn’t miss anything. He never does. 

Simon helps him install an electronic lock on the front door from the inside before heading off to work and John spends the next ten minutes programming it while you stare through the foyer door helplessly. The back door gets the same treatment later on, effectively rendering you a prisoner in your own house.

Then he takes stock of the property. 

You’ve made yourself a perfectly respectable home. It has all the charm of a simple family home, nothing like his ancestral estate on the Welsh border; there’s something real here, something designed with comfort in mind. You’ll have to live with summering there and wintering here in the city, but he won’t ask you to abandon the life you’ve made for yourself here. The stove’s at least thirty years old—one of those old brands made to last, likely passed down from a family member or bought secondhand. 

But John takes stock of the layout of the house because the longer he’s there, the more his instincts tingle. 

As well-decorated and maintained as your house is, it doesn’t feel ready for a rut. Too many hard edges and wide open spaces. Before humans became accustomed to single domiciles, instinct would’ve made them search far and wide for a burrow or cave comfortable enough to ride out their cycle. 

Like nest building for omegas, den making is inherent to alphas. It’s programmed in his DNA. Even out in the wild, he’d know how to make one—know what materials to look for in the absence of soft pillows and sheets—and feel that same urge to make a space suitable for his mate. 

Everything in its right place.

He starts by pulling the mattress off the bed frame and dragging it to the corner of the room. It makes your room feel like more of a den, a place to hunker down in, and that’s only reinforced when John pulls out every blanket and pillow from your linen closet and drapes them over the mattress. You don’t have blackout curtains, but he solves that by pinning a few sheets up on your blinds until barely any light passes through. 

Preparing for a rut is a little like preparing for a storm. One has to batten down the hatches to ready themselves for the worst of it. He installs locks on the cutlery drawers and stows the knife block away in the highest cabinet, locking that as well. He thinks of the worst case scenarios and plans accordingly. 

You don’t seem to appreciate his efforts though.

“Why are you—” you start and then abruptly stop, swallowing. “Please stop rearranging the furniture.” 

John pauses, putting the couch down gently so as not to damage the floorboards or upset you with any sudden noise. 

“Well, love, I’m not about to let you do all the backbreaking work, now am I?”

That response doesn’t seem to satisfy you, expression still twisted into a scowl. “Neither of us has to do any work. Why are you moving things around in the first place?”

“You really don’t get how these things are done, do you?”

Embarrassment makes you snappy. “No, and I don’t have to because it’s my fucking house either way. Stop moving my furniture.”

His eyes go half-lidded. Anger courses through his veins like floating down a lazy river. John has never liked being told what to do—it’s a personality quirk that’s been both a hindrance and a help to his career, but in his love life, he’s never allowed that sort of thing to fly. The dissolution of his first marriage speaks for itself. 

He lumbers around the couch towards you and you flinch, walking backwards in the opposite direction. He’s quick despite his size though, hand reaching up and cupping the back of your neck before you hit the wall behind you, and all you can do is stare up at him towering over you nervously. 

“Careful, sweetheart,” John murmurs, holding you firmly enough by the back of your neck that you whimper, only one hand able to press against his chest in an effort to push him away. The other you cradle limply against your chest. “Keep running your mouth like that and I might need to find a better way to put it to use. Ever had your mouth knotted?”

Nothing headier than the idea of pushing to the back of his omega’s throat and letting his knot expand until it’s trapped behind your teeth, keeping you locked on his cock until it’s softened enough to pull out. 

He stores the idea away for later. It wouldn’t do to knot your mouth for the first time during his rut when he doesn’t have the wherewithal to take it slow and keep you centred, but it’s an idea he’ll have to return to at a later date. When he has time to sit you on his lap and comfort you after something so intense instead of thinking only of his own urges. 

Rut isn’t a completely mindless state of being. Even in the thrall of his rut, John will still have enough cognizance to make somewhat informed decisions. It would be dangerous if alphas were susceptible to any influence during such a vulnerable period. Anyone could take advantage of someone in that state. 

There are some things that he doesn’t have complete control over. The closer John gets to the onset of his rut, the stronger the urge to scent his territory gets. 

It starts off relatively innocuous. He touches things more. Grips the doorframe when he enters a room and brushes against the wall when he turns a corner. Anything to leave a trace of his scent behind. But as the days progress and the urge to mark what’s his grows to monstrous proportions, the manner in which he chooses to do so shifts in kind. 

“Did you piss in the shower?” you seethe, fists clenched when you storm into the living room where John is seated at the couch watching Casablanca in black and white. 

He grunts. Nods. 

“You could’ve turned the water on to rinse it out,” you hiss. “Or used the toilet.”

“Not the point,” John says. 

“There was a point to pissing in my shower?”

“Never spent a rut with anyone, have you?” That pleases the lazy beast inside of him, but he’s not in any mood to explain himself. That’s what books are for. He prefers to teach through example. 

“What does it matter? That still doesn’t mean you can piss in my shower.” 

He takes a swig from the bottle in his hand. “Then you won’t wanna go around the side of the house.”

The screech gets all tangled up at the back of your throat, only the memory from the last time you sassed him staying your tongue. John can only smile to himself as you storm out of the room.

For all your resistance, he knows you’re not entirely immune to his presence, same as how he can’t shake the gnawing need to bury himself in you as deep as he can get. He’s a prime specimen of alpha—all thick muscle and dark tufts of hair, belly spilling over the top of his jeans and new notch on his belt from the mass he’s tacked on the weeks leading up to his rut. He’s been around the block enough to know his appeal. 

It’s why John doesn’t worry when you hiss and spit. Views the fuss you put up akin to foreplay, a little rough-housing before the situation gets serious. 

There are tells after all. It’s the way you look at him when you think he’s not paying attention. Furtive glances from the corners of your eyes. Shifting your hips in your chair when he sits across from you at meal times and spreads his legs wide, knocking his knees against yours. Eyes going hazy and lingering on the bulging muscles of his arms when you watch him move the furniture around in your house. 

He thinks sometimes about dragging you into bed early. Getting it out of the way now and getting you used to his touch before his rut sets in. It would be a kindness, in a way. 

But he relishes getting to see you squirm, the pseudo-heat sinking in day by day and making you more persuasive, less likely to bolt when your hand finally heals. Your instincts will do half the work for him. All he has to do is wait. 

Besides, the greater the effort, the sweeter the reward. 

Midway through the week, when his rut is close enough to be a thorn in his side but not close enough to have earned him the right to refuse to come in, Laswell has him come in for some inane reason. 

John still doesn’t trust you enough to leave you alone though, so he calls Simon and asks him to babysit you for a couple hours. Not a half hour later, the man’s on his doorstep, hands by his sides and expression deadpan. Even out of the service, he’s still a good soldier. 

It’s what makes Simon his favourite sometimes, though he’d never tell a soul. John knows it’s not right to play favourites with his men, but in the privacy of his own mind, he can face reality. 

“I won’t be gone long, sweetheart, but Simon’s gonna watch you while I’m out. You gonna be on your best behaviour for him?”

Your eyes cut to Simon and they look dangerous. Calculating. His lips almost twitch in amusement under his mustache. 

“Sure,” you say instead of arguing. It’s more of a red flag than if you had. 

The five hours he spends away from you are excruciating, and his temper suffers for it. These days, at his own insistence he’s been relegated to something of a desk job, but that still comes with its fair share of responsibility. There are certain strategic meetings that he can’t simply decline to attend, and though the hours pass by fast enough, he can still feel your presence like an itch at the back of his head that he can’t seem to scratch.

When he gets home, the itch finally dissipates.

“How was she?” John asks.

“Biter.” Simon holds up a forearm where your bite mark sits livid red against his pale skin. The imprint is deep, nearly piercing right through flesh near the canines. 

John whistles. “She did a number on you.”

Simon shrugs, unbothered. “Left the door unlocked and she tried to run. Fast on her feet.” Never did have his head on straight, that one. John feels no pity for the omega that’ll be his one day, but he has some sympathy.

He won’t discipline you just yet. That’ll be a project for another day—after you’re mated and hitched—and he can take his time training you. For now it’s enough that you’re still tucked away inside the den, not quick enough to outrun his lieutenant. 

Simon leaves with a few crisp bills folded in his back pocket and John claps his shoulder on the way out. 

The time is coming though. Every day pulls the sun thick off the horizon, the water dragging back from the shore. Soon, there will be a wave.

John knows his rut has started when he wakes up one morning as grumpy as a bear fresh out of hibernation. 

The first thing he hears is the sound of his stomach growling. Food. His first conscious thought. His stomach aches something fierce, like he hasn’t eaten in quite some time, even though John vaguely recalls eating supper the night before (though for the life of him he can’t remember what). 

His mind processes all of the information around him slowly and sluggishly, not in a hurry to make sense of anything. His vision still works perfectly fine, but his brain takes awhile to register what his eyes are seeing. Only base impulses make any sense. He sniffs the air to help guide him towards a food source. 

Something warm-smelling comes slinking out of the bathroom quietly. His head snaps in its direction and it freezes in its tracks. Prey. 

He sniffs again. No, not prey. Something different. 

Standing up feels strange, like he’s out of his body. It’s too big somehow. Heavier than he remembers it being. The thing trembling by the doorway doesn’t move as he lumbers over, smart enough to know not to run. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself from chasing it down if it tried to get away, prey or not. 

It flinches when he drops his head, the bridge of his nose brushing against its temple. His scent’s all over this one. He must have come or pissed on it at one point, marking it as his own. His scent clings to its skin, buried deeper than the epidermis. 

It shifts to one foot.

“Don’t…move…” he growls, tensing up. It tenses up too, breathing out short, shaky breaths. 

“J-John?” it says, voice like a bell in his head. It knows his name.

“Hungry,” he says instead of asking how it knows who he is. 

“I…I can make you breakfast.”

He herds it away from the bathroom door instead of answering, staring it down as it walks backwards down the hall and into the room that smells strongest of food. 

The house smells of him only vaguely. It smells mainly of the thing he herds into the kitchen, warm and spicy like cinnamon or cloves. There’s a faint trace of his scent though, as if he’s been here for enough time that it isn’t wholly foreign. His hackles raise at the thought of not being in his own territory though. 

But this must also be his. If you’re his, then your den must, in turn, belong to him. 

You scurry around the kitchen gathering all of the ingredients for breakfast while he stares from his chair, eyes tracking your every move. Part of him waits for you to try and bolt, on edge when you open the fridge and the sound makes his ears twitch. His muscles sit bunched under his skin, ready to pounce and chase. 

When you put the plate down in front of him, you make as if to take a step back, clearly meaning to give him some space. That won’t do. A firm hand on your forearm rectifies that; he pulls you down onto his lap before you’ve had a chance to register what’s happening. 

“Whoa,” you gasp, all turned around. 

The first piece of bacon he tries to pick up slips from his fingers. The next one he manages to pick up goes straight to your lips. “Eat.”

“I’m not—”

“Eat.”

Your cheeks bulge around the mouthful of bacon and eggs when he lifts another bite to your mouth. You chew quickly, swallowing before it’s fully chewed, nervous that his loose hold on his temper might slip. Only after you’ve had a couple filling bites does John allow himself to eat as well.

Some of his sense of self comes back with time. The pieces start coming back together. Your name, where he is, what you’re doing here. It comes back as his belly fills. 

His nature doesn’t allow him to feel pity, but you should at least know what’s ahead of you.

“It’s starting today,” he tells you, breaking the silence. You go stiff in his arms and then swallow the mouthful of food you’d been chewing.

“Today?” you repeat, your voice slightly hoarse. 

“Rut.” 

The word hangs in the air between him and you. John can almost hear your heart start to double in rhythm. 

You nod and whisper, “Okay.” 

The thing behind his eyes stares you down. It watches you chew and swallow your food until there’s nothing left on the plate, until your lips are tacky with grease and you have to suck your teeth to dislodge the trapped bits. 

With his belly full, other needs take precedence. 

It starts with him pressing his nose to the crown of your head, gliding it down to your temple and sucking in lungfuls of your scent the whole way, imbibing your scent. Spicy and musky; still pungent with sweat from the night before since you haven’t had a chance to shower yet, nothing to distract from your true scent. It makes his cock throb against his thigh. 

He drags his nose down your temple to your cheek, nuzzling against the side of your head. Rumbling when you go still, turning your head away from him when he tries to go for your lips, denying him again.

It agitates him. 

“Kiss me,” John growls. Demanding, not asking. 

He pinches your cheeks with his grip and twists your head towards him. The little resistance you offer flickers briefly before being snuffed out when he slots his lips against yours. 

What starts soft turns feverish in a matter of moments. Lips gliding and tongues twisting; the bridge of his nose pressed uncomfortably against yours, the whole kiss a mess of ache and teeth and hungry, greedy need. Spittle drips down your chin and you whine into his mouth when his beard scratches at the sensitive skin around your mouth. 

Need prickles at the base of his spine. For days now, he’s kept his hunger contained when all it wanted was to run rampant. He’s been so good to you—given you days to ready yourself for what was inevitably to come. He never tried to conceal the reason behind his presence in your house.  

And now it’s all coming to a head.

John slides you off his lap and down onto the floor under the table, planting his feet on the ground and lifting his hips to pull his sweats down, letting his cock flop out against his belly, heavy with blood. 

“John, do I have to…?” you whimper, trailing off like even saying it out loud might jinx you. 

“Want your mouth on my knot,” he says bluntly. 

Your eyes are sparkly with tears when he looks down, big and wide and helpless and it somehow just makes him even harder. When you sniffle, a bead of precum dribbles down his shaft. 

“Get it nice and wet,” John grunts, pushing your face into his dick. “It’s going inside you soon enough.”

“Please—” you whisper.

“It can go in dry too,” he warns. 

Your tongue pokes out of your mouth reluctantly, face all scrunched up and petulant, but eventually you do as you’re told. Shy, kittenish licks around the base of his cock, right over his knot. Lazy pleasure ripples up his spine, each drag of your tongue over his soft knot making his vision go blurry and his breath get heavier. Practically panting by the time you kiss a particularly sensitive spot on the underside of his knot.

“My hand’s getting tired, sweetheart—mind taking over?” 

He doesn’t wait for you to answer, letting go of his cock so that it droops, batting your nose on the way down. The affronted look on your face nearly makes him snort. 

Your fingers curl around his cock, lifting it up. It looks brutish in your hand, ruddy and thick, precum leaking from the flushed head and dripping onto your head. If he were a decent man, he’d peel your hand off his cock and replace it with his own, get himself off with a rough, dirty tug instead of leaving that responsibility to you. Spoil you instead with gentle love making, all sweet talk and slow thrusts, decadent, languid kisses pulling your attention away from where it hurts.

But John isn’t a decent man. Not even a good man. 

He lets you lick and kiss it all over until his knot is wet with spit. Every so often your teeth graze his knot, forcing a violent shudder up his spine, and he snarls down at you, teeth bared to get the message across. Don’t push too far. 

He’s indulgent to a point. 

“Suck it too,” he rasps. The hand on the back of your head tightens, angling your face until your lips are stretched around his rapidly filling knot and you have no choice but to gently suck the puffed skin of his knot, your nose pressed against the thatch of hair at the base of his cock. 

His cock aches the longer you kneel there mouthing at his knot. It’d be nice to paint your face with cum—your tongue to start and then your cheeks and chin. A little on your forehead too just to mark you as his. He’s close enough to the edge that it wouldn’t take more than a few well-placed sucks, but his knot is already big enough. Any more and he won’t be able to fit it in you at all, at least not for another hour or so.  

He clamps his hand around the back of your neck and pulls you off, a string of spit still connecting your lips to his knot. “That’s enough.”

You frown, bottom lip jutting out. “You didn’t like it?”

That soothes the tension in his shoulders a little, makes his lips twitch under his mustache. 

“‘Course I liked it, sweetheart.” The weeping tip of his cock is enough evidence of that. 

“Why—why’d you stop me then?”

“I’m gonna come soon, honey, and I’d like the first time to be inside you.”

Your eyes go wide. “Oh.”

It’s a challenge getting you onto your hands and knees after that, divesting you of your clothes too. He very nearly has to wrestle you down to the ground, but exerting even the slightest amount of force makes you instantly acquiesce, likely realizing that you won’t stand a chance fighting him. He shushes you when you choke back a sob, kissing the back of your neck soothingly. 

At least, he hopes it soothes you. 

John runs a hand over your rump and between your legs, finding your center damp and hot to the touch. 

“Well, that’s a bit more inviting,” he says approvingly. “Been wet this whole time, sweetheart?”

You shake your head desperately, shoulders hitching with your quiet sobs. When he dips two fingers into your hole though, it’s soaked. Squelches when he pulls his fingers out and thrusts them back in. 

If he didn’t have more pressing concerns, he’d be tempted to turn over onto his back and tug you down onto his face. That thought lingers for a moment and then takes root. 

“Hold on, love—gotta do this first.”

The mattress springs back when he drops down onto his back. Your back arches when John grabs you by the hips and drags you over his mouth, your knees planted on either side of his head, one higher up than the other from being dragged down the bed. 

“Wait, you never said—” 

The crack across your ass interrupts you. He flexes his hand and then palms that same ass cheek, rubbing over the hurt. If you swear at him, it doesn’t register because his eyes are locked on the slice of heaven between your thighs, transfixed by your dew-slicked lips parting for his gaze.  

“That’s better,” John murmurs, then digs his fingers into your hips and pulls you down onto his face. 

The smell of your sex is drugging, mind-numbing. Musky and warm and fragrant. The hood of your clit is drawn back to expose the swollen bud and it calls to his tongue, a call which he answers in kind, gliding the flat of his tongue over it and smiling to himself when it twitches. 

It satisfies every carnal urge breathing fire and brimstone in the back of his mind. His tongue saws up the seam of your cunt, parting the soft, delicate petals before drawing one into his mouth, humming around the mouthful. The vibrations must feel good because your whole body jolts in his arms. 

When he sucks your clit into his mouth, you nearly wrench yourself right off his face, hands clawing at the bedsheets. Firm hands dig into the flesh of your backside and pull you back down though. 

“Mm…you gonna cum, sweetheart?” he rumbles into your pussy, his words muffled. 

“I—I’m gonna—oh…oh…—” 

Music to his ears. He can tell it’s right around the corner when your breathing goes staccato and your thighs squeeze around his head, forcing him to move one of his hands to keep your legs spread. He can feel your hole clench around his tongue, hips jerking sharply. 

He loves watching a pretty girl come. Loves feeling it on his tongue even more. It doesn’t take much to work you up to it either, likely on a hair trigger since he bolted the doors to your house shut and made himself at home. 

Your upper body collapses onto the bed when you come, hips undulating over his tongue subconsciously, like you can’t help but chase your release. And who is he to deny you when you’ve been such a sweet girl? 

John scoots down the bed to slide out from under you and sits up, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing your juices from his mouth to his cheek, drops clinging to the bristles of his beard. Trapped there, he’ll smell it for days. 

Good. Better for him if he can. 

Taking his place behind you again, he reaches down between his legs and lines his cock up with one hand, the other holding your hip steady before pressing in one inch at a time, a smooth, slow glide to the halfway mark. You squeeze him like a vice, pussy all clenched up like a fist, too wound up and stressed to relax enough to take him to the root. Even coming has barely loosened you up. 

He topples over you until his chest is pressed to your back. The skin on your back is sticky with sweat, a tremor running through you and making you shake. 

“Easy, sweetheart,” John murmurs into the side of your head, planting a kiss there for good measure. The skin over your knuckles pulls tight when you fist the sheet beneath you. “Can you relax for me?”

“N-no?” It’s said like a question, like you’re looking to him for reassurance, like you need your alpha to help you relax, to loosen you up. 

It’s why he feels no guilt for the situation that you’re in. Trapped under your alpha, about to take his dick to the root. What would you have done if he hadn’t been around to take you home? Any matter of tragedy could have befallen you. 

“I’ve got you.” Talking both to you and himself. 

There’s nowhere for you to go but further up the bed when John forces the rest of his cock into you, gaining more ground with every thrust. That’s how soldiers make strides in new land, conquering new territory with every advance. Rigor and momentum. 

The flesh of your ass ripples with every thrust, hips clapping against your cheeks. He drives into you with a single minded intensity, grunting through each thrust. Reason falls to the wayside. All that matters is knotting and breeding the omega under him. 

Your cries echo through the bedroom in bright, clean bursts. 

He feels virile, potent; it’s his alpha running hot in his veins and his body thick with muscle and the way you all but disappear underneath him, just a sweet and soft omega for him to use and breed. Back arched just enough to let him sink in as deep as he can get. 

“John—” you wheeze. “T-too deep. It’s—unf, it’s, ah…it’s too deep.”

“Full, honey?” he grunts. 

“Y-yeah,” you respond, whimpering through the word. 

“I know, baby,” he says consolingly, contradicting his own sympathetic tone when his next stroke nudges against the seal of your womb. “Not very nice of me, is it?”

“Noooo,” you moan.

“Yeah, not very nice.” His laugh is breathless, mean. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

Coherency is a luxury that slips from his fingers as quickly as it came. Like a shroud falling over him, it cuts him off from everything but what he touches. Even your mating gland is forgotten in his fervour, its siren song going mute against the backdrop of the blood pounding in his ears. 

His knot pops quick. Half a dozen more thrusts in and he feels it thicken and swell until he suddenly can’t pull out. It punches the breath out of him, making him bear down on you, trapping you both on his knot and under his weight. 

“Oh—oh—oh—” you gasp, overwhelmed. 

He hooks his chin over your shoulder and plants his hands on top of yours, twining your fingers together, an intimacy so staggering that he can feel it thrum through your body, your frame trembling underneath him. 

Knot thoroughly plugged inside of you, he can only grind his hips forward, nudging that same tender spot over and over until your pussy draws up nice and tight around him, dragged unwillingly to another orgasm. He sees stars when your channel squeezes around his cock, milking him for all he’s worth. 

Overwhelmed, your heart rate spikes and your scent intensifies, permeating the room and lodging itself into the deepest recesses of his being. Your hands claw up the mattress, ripping the sheet off the left corner, and you yelp when you realize that you can’t pull off his knot, truly trapped.

John’s hindbrain interprets your squirming as trying to get away and he reacts instinctively, forcing you down to the mattress until your arms collapse under you and pinning you there with his body. 

“Where d’ya think you’re going?” he growls, mouth pressed to your ear. 

You shudder, walls tensing up around his knot and making him spurt another wad of cum into you. 

“Oh god,” you whisper, grunting softly when he forces more of his weight onto you, the mattress depressing under your combined weight. 

Sticky, tacky skin. Laboured breaths. Dark. Tunnel vision. Everything narrows to a single point. In the crook of your neck, your mating gland pulses. He presses his tongue to your neck and drags it through a trail of salty sweat. 

The vice grip around his knot has him swimming in and out of consciousness, vicious instincts clawing up his throat. It thins the barrier between him and his alpha, one no longer distinct from the other. 

“Are you—are you going to bite me?” you ask through panted breaths. 

His alpha considers it. That’s what he is now, at least. Its consciousness has usurped his, or moulded with his, or risen to the ranks of human. It tilts its head through him though, two beasts sharing a body and an appetite. 

It runs its tongue over its lips. He does the same.

“Not yet.”

Voracious. 

No matter how many times he cums or makes you cum, it’s never enough. 

He still has to rest though. Much to his consternation, the body demands it, so he falls asleep with you resting against his chest or under the crook of his arm with your fist curled over his belly, and wakes to the damp clutch of your centre pressed against his thigh from when you rolled over in the middle of the night. Then wakes you up by grinding your hips down against the hard line of his thigh, sweet talking you through an orgasm that leaves you thick-tongued and cross-eyed.  

Days pass that way. Blunt fingers; rake of tongue. Skimming his mouth over the valley of your tits and down the channel between your legs, gorging himself on the slick dripping from your pulsing hole. Scraped a bit raw from his beard, so he’s careful now; spreads your folds with his fingers before thrusting his tongue all the way in. 

He comes back to himself every now and then, some memories easier to recall than others:

Your cheek smushed against the shower wall, hands clawing at the tile while he drives into you from behind, rivulets of water running down your body. 

The feeling of your throat flexing around his shaft, your eyes watering when your nose nearly grazes his pubes. Pulling you off his cock to let you breathe and leaning down to press his forehead to yours. 

Pinching your cheeks to open your mouth after cumming in order to watch it melt on your tongue. 

Indulging in kisses messier than sex itself, lips going swollen and numb, eyes so masted that they’re barely even open. Each glide of your lips liquid and svelte. 

Always wanting more and more and more. 

Heavy footsteps following you into the kitchen as you scurry around looking for something to eat, wary glances thrown over your shoulder to keep track of him. Always keeping him in your line of sight. Smart girl; clever enough to know not to turn your back to a predator. 

Occasionally, he loses track of you as a person again, thinking of you like an extension of himself instead. Your name disappears into the recesses of his mind, replaced by concepts like omega, mine, pup—

You cover his mouth with your hands to muffle his words and he bites your fingers one by one until you pull them away. 

And it keeps—

going and going and going and going

—thoughts shaking loose from his head, one by one; hours disappearing into thin air, nothing real except the omega on the end of his knot. When it whimpers, his chest puffs out and his breathing goes laboured, his only concrete thought to fill it with more of his cum, make sure that it takes. 

It will, if John gets his way. 

And he always does.

Another season over, this one different from the rest. 

You’re still in bed when he surfaces from his rut, low back cracking and popping when he sits up. His muscles will ache for days after this, the aftermath of any good rut lingering in the body longer than the rut itself. 

John scrubs a hand down his face and cracks his jaw open for a good yawn, stretching everything out. When he looks down by his side, he finds you curled into yourself, cheek resting against the back of your hand, sleeping soundly.

You’re so tuckered out that your toes don’t twitch even when he drags his finger down the line of your back, stopping at your sacrum. The slope of your ass underneath the bed sheet is tempting, inviting him to part your legs and settle himself between them again, but he’s put you through enough over the past few days. 

Later, he’ll want to check between your legs and see how much of his cum is still painted between your thighs. Either way, he’ll have to run you a bath with Epsom salt for you to soak in. 

That’ll have to wait until after breakfast though.

Right on cue though, his stomach growls. No amount of preparation for a rut is ever enough—not once has he ever come out of one feeling refreshed. It’s always aching joints and empty stomachs and bruises where bruises usually shouldn’t be. His age only makes it all the more noticeable. 

His future ruts won’t always be this way. Not when his hormones are tempered by his omega’s corresponding heat. In the future, proximity and cohabitation will align your heat and his rut cycles, making the whole ordeal far more pleasant. One to stabilize the other. You’ll put in for leave at the same time and slip into it quietly, like slipping into a gentle, welcoming stream. 

That’s a thought for another time though. For now, John pulls himself out of bed and saunters towards the bathroom, intent on running a quick shower before fixing himself something to eat. 

He takes a brisk shower under cold water, scrubbing his chest and letting the soap run down his legs for no longer than ten minutes before shutting off the water. It’s a shame that it washes your scent off of him, but he’ll rectify that later when you’re up.  

The smell of bacon frying in the pan permeates the kitchen, the sound of it as emblematic of morning time as birds singing in the trees or the soft sound of the radio on in another room. A cool breeze spills in through the cracked open window. 

It’s nearly time, but not quite. 

He waited because he wanted this to be deliberate. Intentional, as everything he does always is. 

It wouldn’t have been as meaningful in the throes of his rut. Easily chalked up to instinct or error, rather than seen as intended from the very beginning. 

An hour or so later, you start to stir. Though his instincts aren’t as sharp as they were in the midst of his rut, he can still hear the bed creak in the other room. 

The bedroom is bathed in light when he returns. In the center of the bed, you’ve turned over onto your back, the light cascading over you making you look almost angelic. His heart throbs in his chest. 

One day, he might even love you. 

“You awake?” John asks, resting his knee against the edge of the bed and slowly climbing over you. When you blink a couple times and nod, he leans down to draw you into a slow, drugging kiss. 

The taste of your mouth is familiar now; he’s tasted it so many times over the past few days that it’s etched into his memory now. 

“Hm? Yeah,” you sigh, then meet his eyes. You must register something there because you pause, squinting up at him. “Are you… Is it over?”

John nods. It’s easier to just say yes than qualify that the rut hormones haven’t fully left his system yet, still present though in much smaller quantities. He’ll still be quick to anger for the next few days, in no shape to return to work just yet, but eventually his system will flush those lingering traces of rut and he’ll be back to his normal self. 

You smile, relieved. “Okay…that's uh, that’s good. Do you…do you mind if I rest a bit longer before I leave?”

“‘Course, sweetheart.”

He palms the side of your face, brushing the wispy baby hairs out of the way. All his life and he’s never seen something prettier than you. 

“In fact,” John murmurs, canines aching when he runs his tongue over them. “You can stay as long as you’d like.”

You must catch the double meaning in his words because your eyes go sharp. “Huh?”

His eyes flicker down to your neck and it hits you like a battering ram. 

It’s too late though. He gathers your wrists in his palm when you try to bat at his face, immediately going into struggle mode, and pins them down over your head with ease. With his other hand, he holds you by the neck and turns your head to one side, exposing the delicate skin of your neck. 

“John—wait, no, no—waitwaitwait, please—you said—”

Legs kicking out, back nearly arching off the bed, you put every last bit of your fight into trying to throw him off, only for him to force you back down, barely a grunt passing his lips. Then he ducks his head into the crook of your neck.

“John—John, please!”

John bites down. 

Under his teeth, your gland splits. 

The moment of connection is just as divine as he imagined. When your gland breaks under his teeth and your blood oxidizes in his mouth, his world reconfigures itself around this new reality, one where you flow through his veins like blood and swim through his mind like thought. 

He sees now what he missed before. All this time, he’s assumed that fate has railed against him, intent on him remaining alone. 

What he understands now is that—

(you whimper under him and arch up into his body, saliva gurgling in your throat)

—fate has always been on his side. 

After Ragnarok, the earth will once again bob out of the saltwater, dregs of ancestral seafoam lapping at the sides.

(he gnaws at the Yggdrasil’s roots)

In this life, nothing has ever been handed to him because he has needed to fight for it. Of course fate would have taken that into consideration when creating his mate. Baptism by fire. He never would’ve been satisfied with simply being handed his intended mate. He needed to leave the imprint of himself like chiselling into stone. Maker of his own fate.  

When he pulls back, teeth unlatching from your shoulder and blood leaking from the wound, you stare up at him through misty, filmy eyes, tears scorching hot lines down your cheeks. 

He can appreciate the shock this must come as. You thought you’d get off scot-free after all—just a few days of being fucked and knotted and then sent on your way—not kept like bounty from a sacked city. You are a prize though. His hard earned prize. 

His moral compass doesn’t allow him to see this as a pillaging. Not when his actions are led by his heart.

You raise a shaky hand to cover the wound on your shoulder, wincing when your fingers brush the raw skin there, coming back saturated in blood. “You—you bit me.” 

John hums. “It’s alright, sweetheart; it’s over now. Nothing to worry about anymore.”

“You said—you promised you wouldn’t,” you bleat. 

He shakes his head, voice still soft when he responds. “Never said I wouldn’t, sweetheart.”

“You said you’d leave. You promised you’d leave.”

“Aw, honey, you wouldn’t do that to an old man, would you?” He lies down beside you, pulling on your heartstrings like a marionette. Plenty have called him a decent soldier, but no one has ever called him a good person. “Why make me leave when you could have someone in your corner instead?”

Tears like diamonds on your cheeks. You’re the most beautiful creature that John has ever laid eyes on; there’s no wonder why he had to make you his. Had he turned around in that hospital and walked out that door after hearing your voice, life would have been less complicated but it would have been dull, colourless. He would have woken up today with his mind at ease, but his heart would have been empty. 

Now though—

“We’ll be good for each other,” John says, moving his hand over your throat, loose fingers simply resting there. Just enough to feel the thrum of your pulse under his palm. “I’ll prove it to you.”

He feels you swallow beneath his palm. It is easy to see why you might doubt his words.

But in the back of his mind, his alpha purrs, satisfied for once in its life, and when he tightens his fingers around your throat, you go still, all of your trust gathering there in the palm of his hand. He can live with that.

So long as he has you, he can live with anything.

[anto-pops]

Restraint - Sebastian Sallow x Female!Reader

Summary: Sebastian wasn’t sure whether or not he was grateful for your lack of attention. The clueless facade you maintained where he was concerned made him equal parts angry and confused. Didn’t you know he was a man? An eighteen year old man who catered to your every whim? A legal adult whose room you spent an unorthodox amount of time in? Anyone with eyes could see that Sebastian was into you, and yet you never gave him any sign that you were aware of his feelings for you. 

It was mind-boggling. It was frustrating. He was at the end of his rope.

Word Count: 7.7k

Warnings: 18+, aged up characters, masturbation, intense pining, possessive behavior, cunnilingus, oral fixation/oral smut, explicit sexual content

This random Monday oneshot is also on Ao3

Sebastian had never been one for subtlety. In Ominis’ own words, he wore his heart on his sleeve and let his emotions fuel his tone, but there was little he could do to remedy that fact. Tiptoeing around a subject or beating around the bush never failed to frustrate him. He preferred it when people said what they meant and meant what they said. Being straight up and getting to the point spared him a headache and prevented him from losing his temper, which was the best case scenario for everyone. 

Sebastian said what he wanted, did what he wanted, and never wasted his breath apologizing for his actions when he knew deep down that he wouldn’t mean it anyways. Placations were pointless. 

Unless, however, you were involved. 

Everything about you had driven Sebastian mad for the last three years. From the moment you had arrived at Hogwarts, he had been completely and utterly entranced by you. Then you’d gone and broken his dueling win streak in Defense Against the Dark Arts, and the infatuation had turned into obsession. You were the one person he wouldn’t– no, couldn’t be authentic with. How could he be? You made him stupid. He could barely think straight around you, his mind imbuing him with the sorts of thoughts that would land him in an asylum if he voiced them. If he didn’t filter himself around you, it wouldn’t end well. Not for him, and certainly not for you. 

He didn’t know if your obliviousness to his behavior was all for show or if it was completely genuine, but he didn’t want to risk finding out. 

“Sebastian?” Your voice made him go rigid, the tired rasp to your voice sending his body’s entire blood supply straight between his legs.  

“What?” 

“Do you want to work on that History of Magic report with me later? I fell asleep and missed half of the lecture.” 

He watched you over the rim of his cup, the steam from the hot chocolate wafting into the air and obscuring his view of you slightly. Of course he knew you’d fallen asleep– he had been watching your head bob up and down for twenty minutes in class before the fatigue had won out and you’d slumped over your desk. Professor Binns was always too preoccupied with floating listlessly around the chalkboard to take notice, which was why Sebastian hadn’t bothered to wake you up. If you were tired, you needed to rest. 

More to the point, Sebastian enjoyed watching you when you weren’t looking. What better opportunity was there to do so than while you slept? 

Your chin was daintily perched in your palm as you pushed around the food on your plate, waiting patiently for his answer. With your tired smile and half-lidded eyes, he was convinced you were on the verge of passing out again. How late had you stayed up last night? What had you been doing instead of sleeping? Had you gone out with your friends– or Merlin forbid– someone else?

He banished the train of thought from his mind, lest he piss himself off with the possible answers. “Sure. Library?” 

“Hm… can we go to your room? If I fall asleep again, at least it’ll be in an actual bed.” 

The mental image of you sprawled out on his bed did nothing to alleviate the growing bulge straining against his trousers. His jaw hardened as he breathed in deeply through his nose, then exhaled through his pursed lips. “Yeah, fine. I won’t do the work for you if you fall asleep, though.” 

Your tired expression lit up as you beamed at him, and his stomach churned violently. It was pathetic how smitten he was. He knew he would agree to come to class in a ballgown if it meant getting to glimpse that dazzling grin of yours. 

The smile he gave you was mildly strained, but you didn’t notice. Thankfully. 

Sebastian spent the rest of lunch holding his breath and thinking of anything that fit the criteria of gross and off-putting. He had to. It wasn’t like he could rub one out in the middle of the Great Hall to get rid of the half-mast hidden behind his zipper. He couldn’t even excuse himself to go back to his dorm to take care of it in private– he’d be showcasing the full extent of the problem between his legs to the entire student body if he did. You were none the wiser to his internal turmoil as you rambled on innocently about one thing or another, but he could barely hear you over the rush of blood in his ears. 

He checked the giant grandfather clock against the wall. Twenty more minutes for lunch. With any luck, it would prove to be enough time for his cock to calm the fuck down. 

—

You were always late. 

Sebastian had grown accustomed to your unyielding habit of showing up places behind schedule. In the beginning it had bothered him, if only because he was the exact opposite. He had to be early to everything on his agenda, otherwise he was panicky and on edge. But your reliable tendency to arrive after an agreed upon time was exactly what he needed right now, because if he didn’t kill the boner he’d been sporting since lunch, he was going to lose his fucking mind. 

The dorm was empty since all of his roommates were either in the Library or in Hogsmeade, but Sebastian still tried to stifle his noises. Choked moans of your name were bitten back and swallowed as his fist furiously worked the aching length of his cock. There was nothing sensual or graceful about how he moved his hand– it was all frantic. Berserk, even. His fingers were pressed roughly against his shaft, his wrist twisting rapidly over the head as he tried to practically yank his orgasm out. Any other day he would be ashamed of how pitiful he had to look, but not now. 

Right now, he was desperate. He had to stave off his cravings for you as a precaution before you showed up, otherwise he knew he’d be done for. 

A quick succession of three knocks sounded from the door, halting his movements. Then Sebastian’s blood ran cold when he heard your voice from the other side. “Sebastian? Are you here?” 

The stinging slap from his hand clamping over his mouth worked to snap his mind out of its lust-induced haze. Squeezing the base of his cock with bruising strength, Sebastian let his head fall back against the headboard of his bed as tears of frustration and pent-up pleasure filled his eyes. He blinked them back stubbornly, digging his teeth into his thumb as his entire body seized with agitation. 

Figures that this was the one time you were actually early. 

You started knocking again, your knuckles rapping against the wood of the door faster, your impatience permeating the air on your side of the wall until it was too much to bear. 

Sebastian snarled as he hastily stuffed himself back in his pants, at a complete loss for how to proceed. He was hardly in a state to be around you right now. All of this had been so he wouldn’t be a fraught mess around you, but now things were ten times worse. His legs were tense as he swung them over the side of the bed and made his way to the door, taking an extra moment to readjust his painfully hard cock in his pants before undoing the lock and wrenching the door open. 

“Finally,” you huffed angrily, your narrowed eyes widening when they took note of his flushed, sweaty face. “Merlin, what’s wrong with you? Are you sick?” 

“You’re early,” Sebastian replied flatly, ignoring your question completely. 

“Yeah, Garreth offered to help Poppy out at the stalls for me so I came over sooner. What’s the matter with you?” 

“I–” Shit, what did he say? His brain scrambled for an excuse, his red cheeks and disheveled clothing leaving little room for interpretation. Unless… “I was working out. Getting ready for Quidditch next week. I thought I’d have more time to finish up and shower, but now you’re here.” 

“Oh! I’m sorry, I forgot about Quidditch. Figures Imelda is making you prepare early,” you waved your hand over your shoulder in the general direction of the bathroom. “Go ahead, don’t stop on my account. I can start reviewing what notes I did manage to take today.” 

Sebastian wasn’t sure whether or not he was grateful for your lack of attention. The clueless facade you maintained where he was concerned made him equal parts angry and confused. Didn’t you know he was a man? An eighteen year old man who catered to your every whim? A legal adult whose room you spent an unorthodox amount of time in? Anyone with eyes could see that Sebastian was into you, and yet you never gave him any sign that you were aware of his feelings for you. 

It was mind-boggling. It was frustrating. He was at the end of his rope.

And he still needed to shower. 

“Give me ten minutes,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to you. You nodded and stepped inside his room, watching as he stiffly grabbed a change of clothes and a towel before striding past you without a second glance. 

If the universe held any affection for him at all, a cold shower would be enough to loosen the tight knot in the pit of his stomach. 

—

Unsurprisingly, Sebastian’s excursion to the bathroom was unsatisfying. The shower head ought to count itself lucky that it was still mounted to the wall and not lying in a broken, dented heap on the floor. The icy spray of water had eased the problem between his thighs, but it had also snapped him out of his stupor, sharpened his senses, and left him with the grating realization that nothing would help him quench his thirst for you. 

After donning a pair of pajama pants and an old Quidditch jersey that had definitely seen better days, Sebastian slowly– painfully– made his way back to you. He dimly towel dried his hair as he shuffled towards the door, giving himself as much time as possible to steel his nerves and barricade his lustful thoughts behind a mental, brick shield. A chill snaked its way up his spine as the cold air of the Slytherin dorms kissed his damp skin, but he barely paid it any mind. 

He would rather be cold than embarrassingly hard. 

When Sebastian pushed the door open, he found you laid out on his bed on your stomach, a textbook and a pile of notes situated before you. You’d shed your robes and were clad in your school uniform, the trousers you’d stubbornly kept since last year acting like a second skin. The passage of time was ultimately Sebastian’s greatest enemy, because with every month that went by, you changed. Physically changed. You were taller, curvier, and more womanly than ever. Instead of replacing your uniform with one that fit, you held on to ones from years past that had no business living in your drawers. 

That perky ass of yours was going to be his undoing. Why did that outdated pair of trousers have to hug your hips so nicely? 

He averted his gaze to the wall, curling his hands into tight fists that left violent red crescents on his palms. Get a grip, he thought to himself. 

“You certainly made yourself comfortable,” he finally managed to bite out, his voice strained and pitched higher than normal. Idiot. 

You glanced over at him with what he could only describe as a doe-eyed look. Those plush lips of yours were parted in mild surprise before they curled up into an easy smile, and your feet proceeded to kick up in the air playfully. “Your bed is much more comfortable than the one in my dorm.”

Deep breaths. Deep fucking breaths, Sebastian. 

“Is that why you’ve practically moved in here? Not sleeping well in your own room?” 

“Among other things,” you admitted around a sigh. “Don’t pretend like you don’t live for my company though. What else would you do if I wasn’t around to pester you?” 

“Relax, most likely.” He allowed himself a shit-eating smirk, and he was rewarded by the sound of your indignant gasp. Closing the distance between you both, Sebastian sat down on the edge of the bed, confidently moving so that he was situated against the headboard for the second time today. You shifted around to give him more space, then brazenly draped your legs over his before shoving your notes into his lap. 

His smirk vanished, and it took everything in him not to let out the choked groan that bubbled in his throat in response to the close proximity. “Whatever. You love me, and we both know it,” you huffed tauntingly, your downcast eyes keeping you from seeing the way his adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed thickly. “Now read over this and tell me if I got most of the important material. Then I can start drafting the paper.” 

History of Magic was the one class that never failed to make everyone sleepy, but presently? Working on an assignment like this with you in the wake of his shitty day? Sebastian had never been more awake, and it had everything to do with how pent-up he was. With excruciating restraint, he blocked out the feeling of your legs weighing down on his thighs and picked up the notes. 

It was going to be a long, long evening. 

—

It hadn’t been easy for Sebastian to maintain his composure for an hour straight, and there was even more truth to that fact now. You were still propped up against the bedpost with your notes scattered around you, your legs still tossed lazily over his, only you wouldn’t stop fidgeting. 

Seriously. Sitting still was a foreign concept to you and had been for the last twenty minutes, because your feet wouldn’t quit fucking rubbing together. That wasn’t the direct cause of Sebastian’s frayed composure. It was the fact that your incessant twitching was pulling on the fabric of his pants, drawing the material taught over his groin over and over and over. It wasn’t an unusual thing for you to get so restless after studying for so long without a break, but considering that his impromptu masturbation session had been cut short earlier, he was loads more anxious than usual.  

He didn’t mean to be so aggressive when he slapped his hands over your knees, stilling your absentminded writhing with a scowl. Later on he would apologize– and mean it– for being so harsh. But if he didn’t put a stop to your shifting, he was going to have bigger problems that superseded you being upset with him. 

“Hey!” Your head snapped up from your notes, your grip on your quill turning white knuckled as you openly glared at him. “That hurts. Let go–”

“Stop moving so much, you’re driving me insane!” He fired back defensively, hating how gruff his voice sounded. “Is it too much for you to sit still?” 

Your brows rose up your forehead in complete bewilderment, your expression warring between offended and shocked. “You could just ask next time instead of trying to dislocate my kneecaps. Merlin…” Sebastian didn’t know whether to be relieved or disgruntled when you attempted to withdraw your legs from his lap. Either way, he refused to let you move the limbs, and your loud sigh was laced with blatant vexation. “Let go, I’ll just move–” 

“No. I don’t want you to move, I just want you to relax.”

Your wary gaze pierced right through him, and if he wasn’t already coiled tighter than a fucking spring, he would stiffen at the way your lower lip jutted out into a pout. You obeyed, though, your legs staying mercifully still as you went back to reading over the notes he had added to, and Sebastian took the opportunity to watch you through his lashes while he pretended to look down at the papers in his own lap. 

Mussed strands of hair fell into your face, a byproduct of how frequently you’d run your fingers through them. Following summer break, you had returned to school with a light smattering of freckles dusting your nose. They couldn’t hold a candle to the ones that covered damn near every inch of him, but they were still pretty. Cute, even. The dark rings under your eyes would have looked sickly on anyone else, but in your case, they made the whites of your eyes all the more vibrant. You looked like a doll. 

A scrumptious, effortlessly beautiful doll. 

He watched as you sucked your bottom lip between your teeth, scratching out something you had written before hastily replacing the sentence with another. When the bit of skin was released, it was left red, swollen, and far more tempting than it had any right to be. 

He wanted to kiss you. He wanted to bite at your lips, your neck, your breasts, and leave imprints of his teeth all over you. He wanted to mark every inch of your body and lay his claim in some primal, unseemly way that went against every lick of gentlemanliness he had been taught. He wanted to toss his inhibitions to the wind and indulge in the taste of you– something he had wondered about for a long, long time. Were you as sweet as he imagined? Would your thighs work to crush his head if he found himself situated between them, lapping up your essence like a man starved? 

When your head popped up to glance at him again, Sebastian was unprepared for it. He was still staring– no, ogling you– with his eyes narrowed and his chest rising and falling rapidly. His fantasies had gotten the better of him and had left him a panting, lust-drunk mess. Another cold shower couldn’t even begin to lessen the painful throbbing of his cock. All of his hard work at keeping calm and in control had just flown out the fucking window, and he could only thank the stars in the sky that he had a pile of notes in his lap, concealing the evidence of his innermost thoughts. 

“Are you sure you’re not coming down with something?” You asked him, abandoning your quill against the mattress so you could sit forward and scan his very flushed, very tense face. 

“I’m fine,” he looked away, trying and failing to wave you off. 

Stubborn as ever, you didn’t back down. “You’re all red. Do you have a fever?” 

“Seriously– I’m fine. Don’t worry about it, just finish your report already.” 

The force of his heart hammering against his sternum left him worried that it was about to jump out of his ribcage. Your hand was suddenly closing in on him, concern etched across your features as you shifted your legs to move closer into his space. The tantalizing smell of your perfume oil invaded his senses, filling his nose and setting his blood alight in his veins. There was something to be said about how primal humans could be when it came to scents. Yours had always been incredibly intoxicating, and Sebastian was all too willing to breathe it in deeply as the back of your hand made contact with his forehead. 

He was so fucked. 

“You’re burning up. Maybe we should call it a night… you probably need to sleep it off.” 

“I don’t need sleep,” he insisted with a frown, reaching up to pry your hand away from his face. “I already told you; I feel fine. Just drop it.” 

That spark of rebellion you reserved for your most loathed enemies came to life behind your irises, burning brighter than the sun as you narrowed your eyes at him and tried to plant your hand against his forehead again. Sebastian held you back with little effort, your arm shaking with the force you exerted in your attempts. “You’ve been weird all day– if you’re sick, you need to be checked out. So either you tell me what’s wrong with you, or I’ll drag you to the Hospital Wing myself.” 

That dark, animalistic part of him that conjured up the most obscene of daydreams silently laughed at your threat. Drag him? You couldn’t move him if you tried. He was infinitely stronger than you– broader, faster, tougher. You were the prey his inner predator yearned to claim. It was your fault that he was so out of it today, and yet you had the gall to order him around? 

With the utmost difficulty, Sebastian checked himself in record time, reining in the bestial side of him as his grip on your wrist tightened. “For the last time, nothing is wrong. If you can’t accept that, then leave. There’s the door. You have your notes– go finish your report in your own room.” 

You scoffed and strained in his hold, realizing that your attempts at moving your hand forward were fruitless. Then, faster than Sebastian could process, you threw your other arm out– deciding that if he was going to hold back your left hand, your right could pick up where the other had left off. He instinctively jerked you sideways to throw you off balance, which sent you careening forward against his chest. A guttural, almost pained groan ripped from his throat when your palm pressed directly against the throbbing bulge in his pants, your efforts to catch yourself effectively giving him away. 

The jig was up. Your hand was right on his cock, the notes in his lap crinkling loudly as your fingers flexed in alarm. His eyes, which had squeezed shut in response to the abrupt contact, cracked open to find you blinking up at him blearily. “S-Sebastian?” 

“Stop. Just don’t,” he grit through his teeth, his molars clenching together so roughly that he was certain his jaw would lock. 

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t– I shouldn’t have–” you tried to backpedal away from him to remove yourself from his personal space, but you only succeeded in applying more pressure to his groin. A choked whimper escaped his lips, the sound forming too quickly for him to stifle it and too loudly for you to have missed it. 

Fuck. 

Sebastian blindly yanked you forward so the brunt of your weight was pressed against his chest. His arm wrapped around your waist to prevent you from escalating the situation further, and the sigh of relief that slipped through his teeth when you moved your hand away from his cock was pathetic. He was pathetic. 

He was glad that you couldn’t see his face when he desperately whispered, “Don’t– don’t fucking move. Please, just… give me a minute.” 

That was all he needed. A moment of reprieve. He needed sixty, uninterrupted seconds to focus on his breathing– to imagine a Dugbog in a swimsuit, or Madame Scribbner in lingerie. He needed to cycle through the things that never failed to kill his libido, and he could only do that if you let him. 

You didn’t. Fuck– you didn’t even give him five seconds to open his eyes. Before he knew what was happening, your hand was back on his cock, your fingers digging into the parchment that covered his lap as you fucking squeezed his pulsing length with intention. 

The effect was instantaneous, and the sounds that fell from Sebastian’s lips were ones that would be seared into your brain until the end of time. His brain, too. He had never made such a wretched noise in all his eighteen years of living. 

“Don’t make me throw you off this bed,” he growled slowly, but the high-pitched edge to his voice made it seem like despite his words, he was secretly pleading for it.

The image of himself climbing over you on the hardwood floor, pinning those damnable hands of yours above your head with one hand while the other was knuckle deep in your tight, fluttering cunt flooded his mind, and the brick wall of restraint he had constructed earlier crumbled into dust. He sucked down a shaky breath, his entire body vibrating with need as you gave him yet another testing squeeze, and that was what finally prompted him to seek out your eyes. 

They were glimmering with unrestrained curiosity, something strangely like wonder dancing behind your pupils. “What the hell are you doing?” 

“I don’t know,” you admitted breathlessly, the prettiest flush Sebastian had ever seen spreading across your cheeks as you glanced down to where you gripped him. “I just… is this why you’ve been so out of it today?” 

“You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into,” he rumbled, his mind urging him to shove you away while his body begged him to arch into your touch. “You better stop while you still have the chance.” 

“But…” you trailed off, squeezing him for the third time and jumping when he hissed loudly through his teeth. “This seems pretty bad. Painful, even.” 

If he wasn’t so wound up, he would have laughed. “You don’t even know the half of it.” 

Sebastian was convinced that he was the hardest he had ever been. The dual sensations of your hand on his cock and your shallow breaths fanning across his cheek had him dripping precum, the fluid swiftly soaking through the fabric of his pants and creating a stark wet patch that you noticed immediately. Almost testingly, you swiped your thumb over the spot, sending a bolt of arousal straight through him that left him gasping with need. 

His willpower was shot. It was going to take a fucking miracle to come back from this. You had effectively taken every last bit of Sebastian’s resolve and crushed it all beneath your heel, leaving him trembling and keening as every part of your being invaded his senses and held him hostage. 

“Fuck– please,” he moaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He couldn’t look at you right now– it would be the end of everything if he did. The end of this insanely euphoric moment, the end of his restraint, and maybe even the end of his friendship with you. This was… uncharted territory. He was scared to explore it, but gods, did he want to. “Please, I can’t– I can’t take it…” 

He heard you swallow, your hesitation evident in the way you paused before lifting your hand away from his groin. The wrist he had held apart from you slipped free, his fingers closing over nothing but air, and a wave of disappointment crashed over him. Every inch of skin you pried away left him emptier and emptier, his heart and his dignity deflating with each passing second. His chest felt tight, and he was fully prepared to sit there in agonizing silence while you gathered your things to leave as fast as your legs could take you. 

But then your hands were back– on either side of his face to tilt his head up to yours– and his sharp intake of breath was smothered by your soft, delectable lips pressing against his. 

Bloody hell. 

You weren’t leaving. 

A switch flipped. 

A carnal growl ripped from the back of his throat, and then he had you splayed out on your back with his knee wedged insistently between your thighs. He faintly heard the sound of your notes being scattered across the floor, but your startled gasp transforming into a hapless moan was more important. His lips crashed back into yours with zeal, the mask he had maintained this entire time dissipating like smoke in the wind, and his tongue bullied its way into your mouth, probing and tasting as though he didn’t have enough time to memorize every facet of information he unearthed. 

You tried to match his pace the best you could, nipping at his lips and breathing heavily into his mouth, but your attempts only annoyed Sebastian. He asserted dominance by grabbing your chin between his index finger and thumb, then pried your lips apart with his tongue and conquered your mouth wholly and without subtlety. 

“I need you,” he panted against your face, his fingers digging sharply into your hips. “I need you so bad, darling.”

You could only moan shakily when Sebastian dove back in to latch his lips over your pulse, peppering your neck with wet, sloppy kisses and decorating it with an assortment of love-bites. His teeth left a trail of imprints that his tongue worked to soothe, comforting you like he always had while hopelessly committing the taste of your salty skin to memory. 

Sebastian felt you shudder as he worked his way up the column of your neck to the sensitive area below your ear. He nipped at the warm flesh waiting for him there, and when you whined and shamelessly bared more of yourself to him, he couldn’t stop himself from grinding his clothed cock against your hip. “Please, fuck– let me taste you. I’ll do anything you ask, just spread your legs and let me make you feel good.”

Your breathing hitched, and you tried to turn your head towards him, but he was too busy panting against your neck to meet your flustered stare. “S-Sebastian–” 

“Please, darling. I’m fucking begging here. Let me in. Let me do this.” 

Sebastian sounded drunk, his mind positively swimming with lust. The prospect of getting to see you like this, of getting to touch you, was driving him absolutely insane. His voice was airy and reedy– almost choked as though he couldn’t get the words out fast enough. 

“I– I’ve never done this before,” you stammered softly, your cheeks flushing with humiliation at the revelation. 

Sebastian’s head snapped up, a fire burning behind his eyes as he stared down at you with newfound hunger, and he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he had to look deranged. “You– no one has ever touched you like this? Never?” 

“I mean, I’ve been kissed before, but not…” you trailed off, suddenly bashful in the face of your inexperience. “I don’t know what I’m doing.” 

Something buried deep inside of him broke free at that moment– a wild, untamable piece of himself that salivated at the fact that you were a virgin. No one had ever laid with you before. No one had ever glimpsed the intimate, private parts of yourself that were always hidden beneath that damn uniform. He would be the first– he would be your first. It should have been impossible, but the thought alone made him harder, his cock straining and leaking so much precum that he wouldn’t be surprised if it was dripping through the fabric of his pants. 

Rational thinking returned to him then, and he was able to blink back the fog that shrouded his morals. “We can stop,” he croaked, not meaning a fucking word of it. “Fuck– tell me to stop and I’ll leave you alone. We can’t come back from this. Tell me to back off and I will.” 

“I…” uncertainty washed over your pretty features, and much like before, Sebastian’s heart sank into the pit of his stomach. He was so selfish. He was such a self-serving bastard– he didn’t want you to call him off. He wasn’t the religious type in the slightest, but for the first time in his entire life, Sebastian started honest to God praying that you wanted this. That you wanted him. 

He was going to have to make a point to pray more, because after a few tense beats of silence, he heard you shyly murmur, “I don’t want you to stop.” 

Fuck. Thank Merlin. 

There would be time later to be embarrassed about how his body sagged with relief. He was too busy kissing you again to bother with such a trivial emotion right now. Savoring your taste with a deep groan, Sebastian allowed himself a minute to grind against your hip, then moved back so he could begin the laborious process of stripping your too-tight trousers from your legs. It took longer than he would have liked, but once the attire reached the base of your ankles, he was able to rip them off and discard them haphazardly over his shoulder. 

“Need to burn those,” he growled. “They drive me crazy.” 

A brief huff of amusement came from you, and you squeezed your knees together in some feeble attempt to hide yourself from him. “They’re just pants.”

He didn’t have the mental capacity to get into why he had such a potent love-hate relationship with the clothing. Instead of explaining himself, he reached out to pry your legs apart, taking immense satisfaction in the way you squeaked and your entire face turned red. “Let me taste you. I’ve been wanting to for so fucking long– I swear I’ll make you feel good, love.” 

Sebastian was sure that if he opened a dictionary to look up the word ‘disoriented’, there would be a photo of your face printed right next to it. You had never looked at him like that before; flushed, wide-eyed, and with traces of both confusion and arousal shadowing your tight features. Your expression had no right to rile him up the way it did, but he wasn’t interested in hiding his thirst for you. Not anymore. 

“Are you sure?” You asked him, voice quivering. “That– I mean, if it’s gross or anything, don’t feel like you have to.” 

Sebastian scoffed. You had no clue how extensive his fantasies were. As if he could ever be grossed out by you. 

The level of innocence you displayed only spurred him on faster, and he eagerly sat forward to cover your mouth with his again, his fingers deftly undoing the buttons of your blouse so he could wrench it over your shoulders. Even though he was vibrating with barely contained need, he had to allow himself a moment to take in the sight of you completely bare, the staps of your brassiere hanging seductively over the sides of your arms and tightening the knot in the pit of his stomach. Your undergarments had to be as outdated as your trousers, because they were snug, short, and way too sheer to qualify as new. 

He needed to burn those, too. 

Sebastian watched you with predatory intent as he slipped his fingers under the waistband of your unmentionables, letting his nails scratch against your thighs when he began to drag the clothing down your legs. Without your blouse in the way, he was able to see the full extent of your reddening skin, the color more vibrant than the Gryffindor banners that hung in the Great Hall. Your chest rose and fell rapidly, then stilled when the underwear was fully removed. Save for your brassiere, you were completely bare before him, and Sebastian audibly moaned when he looked down to find your folds glistening with moisture already. 

“I’m going to drink up everything you have to give me until there’s nothing left,” he braced his hands on either side of your hips to lower himself onto his stomach, taking care to plant soft, revering kisses against your hip bones. “I know you taste so fucking good. I just know it…” 

Your entire body tensed when you felt Sebastian exhale against your damp center, his eyes fluttering shut as he inhaled your intoxicating scent. Then before you could collect your bearings, he was licking a broad, flat stripe up your slit, collecting as much of your wetness as he possibly could, and the sensation made you jolt. “S-Sebastian–” you gasped, digging your fingers into the rumpled sheets of the bed in a bid to ground yourself. 

“Yeah, say my name,” he urged roughly, his chest swelling with male pride. The sound of his name on your lips had the same effect as a bolt of lightning; it sliced through him to his very core, electric and unbelievably erotic, and he brazenly covered the entirety of your cunt with his mouth, licking and sucking at whatever parts of you he could reach. 

The wetness that covered you was so extensive, it was hard to tell whether it was your own arousal or Sebastian’s saliva to blame. A cacophony of moans and whines tumbled from your throat without restraint, prompting him to dig his nails into your sides as he hauled you closer. He fucked his tongue into you with inhuman vigor, his jaw aching in protest, but he ignored the discomfort and continued to devour every drop of your essence like he would die if he didn’t. 

It was so messy, too. Sebastian could feel the moisture dripping down his chin, but that only inspired him to work harder– his grip on your waist turning so severe that he knew he would find finger shaped bruises there later. Another mark left by him. Another brand proving that you were his. 

“I knew it,” he panted hoarsely, his voice strained and deep as though he’d been screaming before now. “You taste so good, darling– so fucking sweet.”

“I– Sebastian, I–” you covered your face with your hands, the appendages shaking in earnest as your muscles began to tense. “Fuck, I think I–”

He sucked your clit between his lips then, laving his tongue over the swollen bud with so much pressure that your hips bucked against his face. The chuckle he let loose was guttural and dark, and he broke his unwavering concentration to glance up at you. “Are you close? You want to come for me, huh?” 

Sebastian knew you had to be embarrassed, because you were still hiding behind your hands, the heels of your palms digging into your sockets. He could faintly see the row of teeth-shaped marks that lined your neck, but the majority of his hard work from earlier was concealed by your forearms. That wouldn’t do. He reached up and wrenched one of your arms away to reveal your watery stare, the glassy sheen covering your eyes telling him everything he needed to know about how close to the edge you were. 

“Don’t hide from me. I want to see your face when you fall apart on my tongue.” 

“It’s embarrassing,” your voice shook, as did the hand Sebastian held in his own. “I can’t– it feels hot. Like I’m on fire. I can’t even think–” 

“Then don’t,” he interjected immediately, tenderly kissing the insides of your thighs in a way that made your stomach churn. “Don’t think. Just feel. Let me do all the work, and you just sit there and enjoy every second of it.” 

It was a simple enough concept, but you still yelped when he dove back in, the singular hand he kept on your waist pulling you down so he was smothered by your wet, pulsing cunt. Sebastian didn’t waste any time picking up where he’d left off, his eyes burning as your potent scent drove him into a frenzy. He inhaled sharply as his tongue poked and prodded incessantly, its only goal to collect as much of your slick as possible, the ferocity of his movements making you tremble. Your nerves were totally scorched as the heat within your body reached new levels, the pleasure building in your gut nearing a peak that you were almost afraid to fall over. 

“S-Sebastian, I can’t– ah!” Your words transformed into a keening moan when Sebastian sucked your puffy nub into his mouth again. The bedframe shook in time with your own vibrating, your eyes crossing as the symphony of ecstasy he gave to you climbed to its crescendo. Sebastian’s lungs burned from the lack of oxygen he sucked down, but he didn’t care. If he suffocated to death while fused to your sopping wet cunt, he would die a happy man. 

Breaking away from your clit for a brief moment, he hastily murmured, “Come on, love, let go. Use me and let go.” 

He released your arm and tucked his hand somewhere under his chest, your confusion lasting for all of two seconds before you felt his fingers snaking their way inside of you. There was no resistance thanks to the slick gushing from your hole, the wetness saturating his hand and making him groan with desire. Sebastian’s tongue continued to flick and press against your bundle of nerves with reckless abandon, his fingers pumping and curling in and out of you as you deliriously cried out his name. Your walls tightened around his digits, sucking them deeper at the same time your brows furrowed in alarm, and Sebastian knew he had you right where he wanted you. 

“Sebastian– wait, I can’t– I’m going to–” 

His eyes strained as he fixed them on your face, his lips barely parting from your clit as he encouraged you. “Come on, darling, come on my face. Be a good girl and let go– just let go.” 

The praise drove you clean over the edge, the coil in the pit of your stomach finally snapping as his voice and his fingers and his tongue reduced you to a quaking, moaning mess. Sebastian’s desperation for you consumed you, pure rapture washing over your limbs before they fell boneless against the mattress. Stars danced in the corners of your vision, and you heard and felt Sebastian groan against you before his unrelenting grip on your waist went slack. 

You hardly registered him slipping his fingers free from your cunt and climbing over you until his face was right in front of yours. Sebastian took a flurry of mental snapshots of you, tucking each one into the far reaches of his mind and vowing to himself that he would never forget the fucked-out expression you bore. He made a point to suck the remnants of your pleasure from his digits while maintaining eye contact, and you whimpered breathlessly at the sight. 

“You were so good for me,” Sebastian cooed as he gathered you up in his arms. He moved so his back was nestled against the pillows before repositioning you so your head was tucked against his shoulder. Soothingly, he carded his fingers through your hair as he asked, “Are you okay?” 

“Y-Yeah, I’m fine,” you managed between deep, shuddering breaths. “What about you?” 

“More than okay. Don’t you worry about me.” 

“But…” your eyes flicked down at the same time he tried to cover the blossoming wet patch on his pajama pants. “I thought you didn’t–”

Almost sheepishly, he admitted, “I did. Trust me, that did more for me than you could possibly imagine. I’m sorry for being so aggressive. And for being such a prick today. I just… it’s been hard to rein it in around you recently.” 

He felt your chin dig into the side of his pec as you glanced up at him, the virtuous, doe-eyed look you fixed him with threatening to undo him all over again. “Rein what in?” 

“You can’t honestly tell me you don’t realize the effect you have on me, right?” He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, squeezing his eyes shut as he dredged up the very thoughts that had been hounding him for years. “I’m hopeless where you’re concerned. I get stupid. I act like a daft, brainless idiot, and you just strut about without a clue. I thought I’d finally gotten the hang of keeping that under control, but…” 

“Apparently not,” you helpfully supplied, and Sebastian grunted confirmingly. Those blasted trousers of yours had nullified the remnants of his restraint. So had your eyes. And your hands and your voice. All of you was to blame, really. Like he’d said from the very beginning; he was hopeless where you were concerned. 

“Anyway, thank you for… well, that.” 

“Please don’t thank me,” your face pinched, your body going rigid. “Then it will feel transactional, and I don’t want that.” 

Fair point. “What do you want, then?” 

That rosy flush reappeared against your cheeks, and Sebastian had to beat back the smile that threatened to split his face in the wake of your obvious shyness. “I– well… is there anything I can do for you?” 

Yes. No. Maybe? Sebastian’s laugh was humorless, mostly because there wasn’t anything funny about how his cock twitched in interest at the offer. “I don’t think we need to venture down that path right now. Especially since you’ve already given up so much tonight. I honestly feel kind of bad that your first experience was me jumping your bones…” 

“But what if that’s what I want?” His heart leapt up into his throat so fast that he nearly choked. The kind of uncertainty that went hand in hand with inexperience was written all over your face, but the stubborn set to your jaw told Sebastian that you were serious. Was he dreaming? Maybe he had passed out in the bathroom and this was all a very lovely, very cruel figment of his imagination. You pressed on, “Maybe I want to walk down that path with you. There’s no one else I trust as much as you, so… what would be the harm?” 

This time, Sebastian’s chuckle was genuine. He blinked rapidly, sucking in a deep breath in the hopes that it would settle his nerves and calm his racing blood. It didn’t work. “In that case, there’s plenty you could do for me, darling. I still think we should save it for next time, though.” 

You appeared to chew the inside of your cheek, your brows furrowing as you contemplated something that interested Sebastian to no end. Then, before he could process what you were doing, the hand that had been splayed against his chest inched down tauntingly, your nails dragging lightly across his skin. His breathing hitched, and then it stopped entirely when you gripped him through his pants. Much like he’d expected, the conversation had roused his cock back to life, and he was achingly hard in your hand. 

“I want ‘next time’ to be right now,” you declared stubbornly, pulling a hiss from him when your fingers rubbed over the sensitive head of his length. “I’m a little curious about this. You recovered pretty fast, but if you’re too tired…”

The wicked gleam in your eyes conveyed quite clearly that you knew exactly what you were doing. Where had the bashful innocence gone? Sebastian had blinked and suddenly it was like he was staring at a different woman, the challenge in your voice leaving him with one daunting realization. 

Either he had created a monster, or there had always been one lurking beneath the surface. 

His cock twitched again, and Sebastian knew that he was so, so fucked. 

[leftcosine]

I give it 2-3 years before all the critiques of ai are subsumed into capital. Media conglomerates making the pivot after their attempts to switch to ai-only is falls apart as whatever model they're using runs out of investment capital and enshittifies. Now they're a "human-first" company who pays 20% lower wages to "compete with AI" for the privilege of "making real art made by skilled human hands" (nevermind the fact they've been outsourcing half their work to animation sweatshops in the global south since it turns out that's always been the cheapest option). The ai scheme was successful because it was always a way to launder investment funds, drive down labor costs, and trick labor into shadowboxing a mindless machine instead of their greedy and soulless bosses.

to put it very simply -- if you are any type of socialist at all you should find the defense of labour rights in the face of generative AI vital and the defense of property rights in the face of generative AI laughable. conflating the two is the indicator of an incoherent politics of Vibes

[ldydeath]

I Belong To You | Kwon Ji-yong (G-Dragon)

BIGBANG APRIL CHALLENGE - APRIL 30TH

Summary: You've been keeping a secret from your husband and decide to surprise him on the encore night of his Korean concert. Word Count: 2.8k Warnings: 18+, MDNI, unprotected p in v, mentions of pregnancy, established relationship, lots of fluff Author's Note: I can't believe today is the last day of the challenge. I am crying as I post this. Thank you to everyone who particpated in this challenge, I love you all so much. Hope you guys enjoy this, I decided to give my boy the fairytale ending he deserves to closeout the challenge. This is also kind of a part two to My Heaven but waaaaaaaaaaay in the future. You can check that fic out here. You don't need to read that one to understand this one.

“Are you sure you’re ok by yourself?” Jiyong pouted from your shared bed. 

You’d been sick for a couple weeks now, which was horrible timing. Jiyong had always loved having you attend rehearsals, video shoots, filmings, and concerts over the years. You’d become his life line when it all got to be too much. You’d missed the majority of the rehearsals, due to your illness but you’d sucked it up for night one of his tour. You’d both agreed after you’d gotten home and he’d tucked you into bed that you shouldn’t go tonight. It was unseasonably cold, the show being delayed due to the snow and Jiyong had had half a mind to send you home during the delay last night but you had insisted and he wanted you there.

“Yeah, I can always call someone if I get worse. Go. Have fun. Daesung’s already promised to FaceTime me so I don’t miss a thing.” 

Jiyong let out a sigh and leaned down to kiss your forehead, not wanting to catch whatever you had. He hated leaving you like this. He knew that no matter what you said, he would worry about you regardless. You were his entire world and any little small thing that bothered you bothered him too.

“I love you, get some rest.” 

“I love you too. I won’t move from this spot, I promise.” He chuckled at you before climbing out of bed. He paused at the door and frowned. “You’re going to be late, Ji.” He sighed as he turned, exiting the room. 

Once you were sure he was gone, you slid out of bed and practically ran to the bathroom. You only had about an hour to get ready and get to the venue. What Jiyong didn’t know was that you weren’t sick - not really, anyway. Sure you were throwing up every five minutes and food was against you, but it was because you were pregnant. Jiyong was finally going to have his dreams come true and you couldn’t wait to tell him. 

You’d had this planned for weeks now, missing rehearsals to coordinate with Youngbae and Daesung on how exactly you’d be surprising him. It was going to be cute, it was going to be flashy, it was going to be very Jiyong. You just needed to get there and sneak backstage without being noticed by your ever observant husband. 

You got out of the shower and pulled up your phone, a missed FaceTime already and a text. 

You must be sleeping. I’m at sound check and wanted you to see the set up so I could see the crowd better. I’ll send you the video in a few. I love you.

As you finished reading a new text popped up, a text from Jiyong with a video. You clicked play, watching him on a scooter as he zoomed around the stadium. He would. You let out a giggle, shaking your head. 

You’re crazy, Dragon. I love you more. 🖤

You got ready quickly, Jiyong’s glam team would be doing your hair and makeup once you arrived since you’d be on camera. You just needed your outfit. An easy choice, since everyone would be in “I love GD” shirts. You’d had yours modified to say the same but instead of GD it said GDBD.

The car was waiting once you entered the garage of the apartment complex and you slid in. You knew Jiyong would be finishing up his outfit and you prayed he didn’t try to FaceTime you before the show. Thankfully, he didn’t. Steve, your personal security detail was waiting when you pulled up and escorted you into the stadium. The sound of your husband's voice filled the cool night air and you smiled as you made your way to the warmth of his suite.  

Thankfully his evening would be filled with quick changes and he wouldn’t be back in here until the show was over. You opened the door, your friends waiting on the other side and you smiled as you saw Youngbae and Daesung. It was weird that they knew you were pregnant when Jiyong didn’t, but it was all part of the master plan. 

“Hi Y/N” Daesung greeted, pulling you into a hug. Youngbae followed suit. 

“The video is ready?” You moved further in the room, setting your back down before taking a seat. 

“Yes. We’re gonna do a couple songs and then when Jiyong asks what we should do next that’s your cue. The video will play and then you’ll take the stage.” Youngbae confirmed. 

“Perfect. I really appreciate you guys being a part of it.” 

“Hey, you’re family. Have been for a long time.”

You nodded, the glam team getting to work on your makeup. You’d met all three guys when they’d first started out in the industry, covering their first interview as a group . You and Jiyong fell for each other that day, you’d been inseparable ever since. When he’d proposed to you all those years ago nobody had been shocked. 

You’d somehow found time to get married between his solo tour and military services and now that you were pregnant it was like the final piece of the puzzle was finally complete. 

An hour later it was show time, the guys kissed your cheek as they headed out and you waited until Home Sweet Home was in its final verse before heading to your spot. There had been too much planning for it to be ruined by an accidental spotting. 

“What should we play next?” Jiyong teased as the crowd cheered.  Daesung and Youngbae looked at each other with a hint of mischief in their eyes. 

“What about Yeorobun?” Daesung sang with a tease. Jiyong laughed and just before Youngbae could retaliate the video started playing. 

Jiyong looked on confused as he saw a video montage of him and you with a cut to a sonogram phone and the words coming soon. The crowd began cheering like crazy and that’s when he saw you. You were here. He should’ve known you’d be here no matter what. The confusion on his face turning to a grin as he ran over to you. 

“You’re pregnant?” He whispered. You nodded.

The tears Jiyong had been fighting to hold back all night leaked from his eyes as he pulled you in for a hug. His arms wrapped around you tightly as he picked you off the ground, spinning you around. 

“I’m going to be a dad!” He yelled into the microphone as he placed you back down on the ground, his arm staying firmly wrapped around you. 

The crowd cheered around you both and you let out a laugh, turning to wipe the tears off Jiyong’s face. He took his hat off, hiding his face as he let the emotions consume him, his hand squeezing into your arm. He’d wanted this for so long and was finally happening. All he’d ever wanted was you, to spend the rest of his life with you, and to have a family with you. All of his dream were coming true. 

“Congratulations Hyung!” Daesung’s voice boomed from the mic as him and Youngbae crossed the stage. 

Jiyong laughed, removing his hat and shaking his head at his friends. Both men wrapped their friend in a tight group hug before pulling you in for a hug, Jiyong watched on with a grin on his face. 

“How are you feeling, Mrs. Dragon?” Youngbae asked as he pulled back from the hug. 

“Excited, nervous? Tired.” You joked. 

Jiyong smirked as he pulled you into his side, his lips brushing against the top of your head. 

“We have a couple more songs, are you staying out?” You shook your head at your husband. “Say bye to Mrs. Dragon everyone!” 

The crowd cheered as you left the stage and you were met backstage by hugs from the crew, Chaerin, and Jiyong’s parents. You all watched together as the guys played some old classics, a small smile on your face, wishing another member had been able to make it out. 

Once the show was over Jiyong practically ran of the stage only to be stopped by the crew to congratulate you, his eyes frantically searching for you and he grinned when he found you. Your back was to him, talking animatedly to his mother. Jiyong could only imagine what you were talking about. He excused himself from his crew and came up behind you, arms wrapping protectively around you. He smiled to his mom before leading you away from the crowd. 

There were so many things he wanted to say to you, so many things he wanted to do to you, but there was still so much he had to do. Between the group photos and meet and greets he found himself getting antsy to go. Even if going was to an after party he wanted to skip all together. You refused when he whispered the idea to you between photos. This was his return to the stage after 8 years there was no way he was missing his after party.

That’s how you found yourself sandwiched between him and Youngbae as a cake was presented. Jiyong was taking it easier than he usually would at a party like this, your mind flashing back to his album release - he’d drank for you both, you’d just found out that morning you were pregnant and had fed him some line about being too full to drink. You’d only kept it a secret for so long because of how badly he wanted to be a dad. You knew first trimester miscarriages were common and didn’t want to get his hopes up. Tonight has been perfect though, you were almost out of the woods and now he knew and was doing his best to not drink. 

Jiyong did his best to make his rounds and thank everyone for their support but all he wanted was you and to celebrate the only thing that really mattered. 

“Let’s go home?” He was hopeful, his eyes big and wide as he practically begged you to leave, causing you to laugh. 

“Alright, let’s go.” His hand slid into yours as he led you out of the party and into the awaiting car. 

The ride home was silent, Jiyong still so overcome with emotions his mind was swirling. He’d already planned out the penthouse remodel in his mind, counted every space that needed to be baby proofed, knew exactly what type of mural he wanted to put in the nursery by the time the car was parked in the garage. The good thing was, you were already going on tour with him so the remodal would be done with minimal disruption to your everyday life. He couldn’t wait to tell you all the ideas he’d come up with.

His arms wound their way around your body as you entered your home and you smiled as you leaned into him. It felt like a weight had been lifted now that Jiyong knew you were pregnant. He led you through the house and towards your shared bedroom, guiding you onto the bed. He unwound himself from you as he slid out of his jacket. He hovered over you, his lips on yours in a passionate kiss. 

Your arms wound around his neck, pulling him closer. You needed him and Jiyong was happy to give you all of himself. His hands trailed down your side, stopping at the hem of your shirt and slowly lifted it up and over your head. You followed suit, removing his shirt and took a second to take in his appearance. 

He’d been slowly getting back into concert shape as he called it, his muscles more prominent now than they had been a few months ago, his tattoos popping in the light. Jiyong smirked as he noticed your stare.

“Like what you see?” 

“Shut up.” You rolled your eyes, pulling him back to you. 

Jiyong’s lips were back on yours, his tongue darting out, begging for entrance. Your lips parted, your tongues meeting in a dance. His hands slid down your body to your waist once again and he carefully removed your pants, his fingers toying with the fabric of your panties. You moaned into his mouth and he smirked as his lips moved from yours to your neck.

He sucked your neck gently, not enough to leave a mark, just enough to taste your skin as his lips glided across your skin and down your body before trailing back up to your lips. He slid your panties off, his finger sliding past your slick folds. He swallowed another moan and your hands moved hungrily to his jeans, undoing his button and fly as you pushed his pants down. 

He inserted another finger as he pumped inside you, and you moaned at how hard he already was as you cupped him through his boxers. You pushed his boxers down, his cock springing free as you wrapped your hand around him giving him a couple pumps. 

“Ji, please. I need you.” You begged against his mouth. 

Jiyong, always eager to please you, positioned himself between your legs, he entered you slowly, inch by inch and moaned as your walls tightened around him. He removed himself completely, his tip hovering just outside your entrance before he entered you again just as slowly as before.

Jiyong thrusted in and out of you slowly, your back arching to meet his thrusts. His lips stayed connected with yours, his arms propping him up. His movements were slow, deliberate, and filled with so much love. Your fingers clawed at his back, urging him to move faster and he did. His hand slipping between your bodies, his finger rubbing small circles around your clit. 

You swallowed each other's moans and he brought you closer to the edge. You weren’t sure how much longer you could hold on, not when everything felt so good. Your fingers clutching to his skin like he was your life line as his hips bucked against yours faster.

“Come for me, Aein.” He mumbled against your lips.

That was all it took for you to come undone, your walls clenching against him as your orgasm finally hit in beautiful waves. His finger continued to rub circles around your clit as you road it out, his thrusts getting faster. He removed his hand as you collapsed onto the bed and with one final thrust he came inside you. 

He collapsed on top of you, his head buried in the crock of your neck and he left a trail of sloppy kisses on your skin. 

“I love you.” He whispered against your skin, “I love you so fucking much.” He carefully pulled out of you, coming to rest at your side.

“I love you too, Ji.” You rolled onto your side to face him. His arms wrapping around you to pull you closer to him. 

“I can’t believe we’re going to be a family!” He could feel the tears welling up in his eyes at the thought of his dreams coming true. 

You reached up, wiping the stray tear from his cheek and gave him a gentle kiss. This was everything you’d ever wanted. Seeing Jiyong so happy made you happy. You knew he was going to be the best father, he was already the best husband. You’d really hit the jackpot with him.

“You’re going to be such an amazing father, Jiyong. Our kids are going to be so lucky and so loved.”

“I’m going to quit smoking…and drinking. I want to be here for you every step of the way. I know it’ll be hard with the tour, but I’m not missing anything.” You chuckled and kissed him again before sliding out of his arms and out of the bed.

Reaching for your robe, you slid it on and walked over to the closet, pulling down a box. It contained the sonogram photo and a bracelet that you’d gotten Jiyong when you found out. Handing it to him he raised a brow at you before opening it up. His eyes filled with tears as he looked at the photo. That was his baby. 

“That’s our baby dragon.” He whispered. 

You nodded as you moved to sit beside him, taking the bracelet out and handing it to him. It was a cheesy little “World’s Greatest Dad” bracelet but to Jiyong it was everything. He took it from you and slid it onto his arm, the same one that had his red string. 

“I’m going to live up to this bracelet, I promise.” 

"You already have."

He pulled you back to his side, his hand still holding the photo as he wrapped his arm around you. You two were his whole world and he was going to do whatever it took to keep you both safe and to make sure you only knew peace and love for the rest of your lives. Jiyong hadn’t always been dealt the best hand in this life, but you’d always found a way to pull him out of the darkness. Now was his turn to show you just how much you meant to him, forever. You were giving him the greatest gift - the gift of life. A gift he’d thank you for for the rest of his life.

tag list: @wcnderlnds @infinetlyforgotten @loveesiren @gdinthehouseee @tulentiy @petersasteria @alosss-blog @sooyasya @dprvivi @mirahyun @breakmeoff @1950schick @flymetothexmoon @sherrayyyyy

Writing challenge taglist: @bluesunss @berfgrimm @emmiesoverthemoon @sevendaysummer @currentloser @makeitworse @aizshallnotbefound @sherxoo @keiraryan @steponupbabe

[cheolieji]

when you’re the 14th girl member of svt but you’re especially close with scoups and you’ve liked him forever but you didn’t do anything about it but he found out (by overhearing you talk to one of the members about it) but then u guys got into a huge fight one day and the members try to comfort u and scoups feels super bad cuz he said a lot of hurtful things and he’s trynna apologize and get with you to tell you how he truly feels but u ignore him PLS WAH also please add lots of angst PLEASE (you can add smut or whatever as you please)

unspoken pt 1 - choi seungcheol

wc: 2,257

Idol au

14th member fic

angstttt

guide for requesting on my page [17] check it out before requesting please

I will make a part 2 but lmk how you guys want it to be like!!

You’ve been in this group for years, and Seungcheol has always been the person you felt closest to. Not just because he’s the leader, not just because he’s good at holding the team together, but because he sees people. He saw you when you were struggling during pre-debut. When you thought you didn’t belong. When you thought no one noticed how hard you were trying. He always noticed.

And of course you fell for him. Slowly at first, then all at once. But you never said a word. You told yourself it wasn’t worth ruining everything over a stupid crush. Told yourself you could live with just being close to him. You learned to ignore the way your heart clenched when he smiled at you. You learned to bury it.

Until yesterday.

You didn’t even mean to say it. You and Jeonghan were up on the rooftop after practice, your head full of exhaustion and your heart heavier than usual.

“I’ve liked him for years,” you admitted, voice so low you were barely sure it even counted as speaking. “I’ve tried to stop. I’ve tried so hard. But I can’t. And it doesn’t matter anyway. He’d never feel the same.”

Jeonghan just looked at you with that sad kind of knowing in his eyes. He didn’t try to argue. He just let you feel it.

Neither of you realized Seungcheol had followed you up there. He turned around and left before you could say anything.

The next day, you expected him to say something. Anything. But he didn’t even look at you. He was cold. Distant. And tense during practice.

It started when you missed a move. Small mistake. You were distracted. Tired.

“Again,” Seungcheol said. “From the top.”

You reset your position without arguing. But the second time, you hesitated for half a beat.

“For god’s sake, can you just focus?” he snapped.

Your head shot up. “What?”

“You heard me.”

You felt everyone’s eyes on you.

“I made a mistake,” you said, forcing your voice to stay calm. “You don’t have to bite my head off.”

“Maybe if you actually tried instead of moping around like a kicked puppy, we wouldn’t be wasting time.”

You blinked, stunned. You felt the words hit harder than they should have.

Jeonghan stepped in. “Come on, that’s enough.”

Seungcheol turned on him. “Don’t start.”

“You’re overreacting,” Joshua said from the side, voice low but steady. “You know you are.”

“I’m the leader,” Seungcheol shot back. “I’m allowed to be frustrated when people stop pulling their weight.”

That was when you laughed. Just once. Quiet and bitter.

“Pulling my weight?” you said. “I’ve done nothing but try. I’ve been here just as long as you have. I’ve bled for this group too.”

“You’re always making everything about you,” he snapped. “You think we don’t see it? You think we don’t notice how you sulk every time something doesn’t go your way?”

“Stop it,” Jihoon said, stepping forward.

“No,” Seungcheol said. “I’m sick of pretending this isn’t a problem. We’re walking on eggshells around someone who clearly doesn’t care anymore.”

Your stomach turned. “You think I don’t care? Are you serious?”

“You’re selfish.”

No one spoke after that.

You grabbed your bag and walked out.

No one stopped you.

You spent the whole day locked in your room. You didn’t answer your phone. You didn’t respond when Seungkwan knocked softly and asked if you were okay. You didn’t open the door when Jeonghan came back later and whispered your name like he was afraid you'd break just from hearing it.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t let yourself. But your chest felt hollow.

When night came, the dorm was quiet. Everyone tiptoed around the tension in the air. No one played games. No one turned on the TV. No one dared to speak too loud. Like they were scared something fragile was already hanging by a thread.

And then Seungcheol knocked once before pushing your door open.

You didn’t look at him.

He stepped inside, closing the door gently behind him like that would soften anything. It didn’t.

“I know you probably don’t want to see me,” he said. His voice was low. Unsteady. “But please. Just let me talk.”

You sat on the edge of your bed, facing the window. Completely still.

He took a breath. Then another. And then he started talking.

“I messed everything up. I know that. I know what I said today was... it was unforgivable. I was angry. I was confused. And I took it all out on you because I didn’t know what else to do. I thought if I made you hate me, maybe it’d be easier. For you. For me. For everyone.”

You didn’t move.

“I heard you yesterday,” he said. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t follow you on purpose. I just... I was going to ask you something. I don’t even remember what now. But I heard what you said to Jeonghan. About me. About how long you’ve felt this way.”

His voice cracked then, and he swallowed hard.

“I wanted to say something. I should’ve said something. But I froze. Because the truth is I’ve been trying to pretend I don’t feel the same. I’ve spent so long trying to lead this group the right way, trying to keep everything balanced. And I told myself it was safer if I stayed away from anything that could shake that.”

He stepped closer, slowly, like you were something fragile. Like he was scared to breathe wrong and shatter you completely.

“But I like you. God, I like you so much it makes me feel like I’m standing on the edge of something I can’t control. And that scared me. Because you matter to me. Not just as a member. Not just as a friend. You matter in a way I don’t even know how to explain.”

Still, you didn’t turn around.

“I never thought I’d be the one to hurt you like this,” he said. “I hate myself for what I said. I keep hearing it play over in my head, the way your face looked when I said you were selfish. You’re the least selfish person I know. You’ve carried so much on your own, and I saw it. I’ve always seen it. And I still tore you apart.”

He crouched down in front of you now, trying to meet your eyes. His voice dropped even lower.

“I’ll do anything to fix this. I’ll wait as long as you want. I’ll say sorry every day until you believe me. Until you can look at me again and not feel disgusted. I’ll earn your forgiveness even if it takes the rest of my life.”

You blinked, but still didn’t look at him. The ache in your chest was too loud. His voice couldn’t reach through it.

“I know I don’t deserve you,” he whispered. “But I want you. I want to try. Not just to fix what I broke. I want to be by your side. I want to hold your hand and not have to hide it. I want you to know that I’ve been yours longer than I ever realized.”

He waited.

You gave him nothing.

Not a word. Not a glance. Not even a breath that told him you’d listened.

So he stood. Slowly. Like gravity was heavier around him now.

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” he said. “And the next day. And the next. Until you don’t flinch when I say your name. Until you believe that I mean every word.”

Then he left.

And you let him.

Again.

[ay0nha]

Please Forgive Me | Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch

GIF by crushribbons

SUMMARY: You needed to let go of the illusion that it could have been any different. You were both slowly losing yourselves and your patience. Instead, resented for being weathered and callous. But the pain and hurt were still there; nobody acknowledged how it had gone so long ignored.

Where Robby says, "Please forgive me." The first step in Ho'oponopono.

PAIRING: Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x f!attending!reader

WORD COUNT: 3.6K

WARNINGS: Canon-typical things, mentions of rats, vaccines (anti-vaxxer fuck off), needles, pining, angst, Myrna, incorrect medical things, plot driven by movie magic, flashbacks, arguments, some fluff, me projecting my competency kink, smoking, scrub sharing, word vomit, etc.

Inspired by @skulandcrossbones's post, @xxdrixx's post and @sunkissedburns' post.

A/N: Not quite what I had in mind, but I'm not going to be too hard on myself. This first bit was entirely self-indulgent. Comments are HEAVILY encouraged, they truly keep my going and motivated to write. Many thanks to @hummusforthewin for helping me out again. Enjoy.

prologue

“I could fake a seizure.” 

“Too ‘boy who cried wolf’…” You shook your head. The strike of your lighter was motivated by agitation. On the first exhale of your newly-lit cigarette, you said, “It has to be a…casual—believable lie.”

“All this for what? Love?” Myrna gestured at the air with mocking disgust. “I know a thing or two about a crime of passion.”

Something swirled in your chest, but you brought the cigarette to your lips to suffocate it. 

“Robby’s allergic.” To love. You wouldn’t say the word out loud, afraid you’d catch fire by some divine fury.

“Oh, honey, I knew you were stupid, but not that stupid.” Myrna cracked with humor. Her insults made you feel electric. Normal. They humbled every egotistical vein in your body. “I’d bend him over my knee for what he did to you.” 

Your eyes sparkled with the image. You’d pay good money to see Robby’s face painted with discomfort. His self-control irked you, got under your skin without even trying. It used to drive a competitive friction between you both, one that was light, teasing, even. But it festered to the point it controlled you; you relied on proving a point. 

“Breach of duty, my ass.” She continued. “So you were a drug dealer, so what! God forbid you did something about healthcare in this country.”

“Myrna,” You warned. You wish you were just a ‘drug dealer.’ Instead, you became the judge, jury, and executioner.  “It’s just temporary.”

You said more to remind yourself. It hadn’t quite stuck as a mantra, but it was enough to get you through a shift. It took many years of vomiting up all the filth you’d been taught about yourself, and half believed, before you were able to walk on the earth as though you had a right to be there. You’d be damned to forget that because of him.

“You won’t even spit in his coffee!” Myrna snapped playfully, not letting your eyes glaze over for too long. “You asked me how to get him off your back: seizure.”

“That’ll just give him more reason to bother me.” You filtered smoke through your nose, half-lidded eyes remaining ahead. The thought caused your lips to tingle with indifference. Deep down, you knew nothing would change.

“Listen, girlie…” Myrna gave you the least offensive nickname in the ED. It was why you passed the dwindling cigarette to her; you always played favorites. “...whatever you do, don’t bet on a losing dog.”

—

The ED was slow. 

No one acknowledged it; everyone was too superstitious to acknowledge it. The weather consisted of sleet that kept everyone off the streets. All that could be done was to wait idly for those who were brave enough to come in and those who had no choice but to succumb to the danger of it all. Slow days brought the worst cases.

The quiet no longer felt like rest. It starts feeling like a missing tooth. You keep tonguing at the space, even when it hurts. 

The snow fueled your smoke break; it was a subconscious way to find warmth and stave off subconscious anxiety. Neither was remedied. Your fingers were stiff from the cold, and there was no relief from how the pit in your stomach grew. 

“You alright?” Dr. Robby perked from the desktop, cautious enough not the call too much attention but aware enough to know you weren’t. 

Robby imagined the way your fingers deftly played with the lighter. The way your side profile was traced as you exhaled the smoke. He resisted the urge to follow you out. But you didn’t smoke often, so he knew nerves formed the habit. 

 His attentiveness made you nauseous. 

“Peachy.” Your sigh was heavy. Your day was not ruined. Your world was not over. Take a deep breath. It’s just temporary. 

“Nicotine lowers the seizure threshold...” He hummed. You focused on Robby carefully, watching how his glasses reflected the screen in front of him. “...but there’s no way Myrna can smoke with those handcuffs, right?” 

Ignoring him no longer led to guilt. You viewed it as self-preservation. It was the only selfish act you could take in your condition. You’d be stupid not to exercise your only right. Robby continued to push lightly. His attempts at your vulnerability were in vain. It had been weeks, and you’d yet to budge. 

You don’t know why, but you were all heart today. Maybe it was what Myrna had said to you. Maybe it was the cold that weighed your limbs down. Maybe it was Robby’s question, an unorthodox olive branch, saying: everyone deserves a break. 

You waited for him to interject, to ask some clarifying question or comment, but he doesn’t. The meaning of his words was not lost on you. It allowed something warm to creep through your chest, so you gave him a nod. One that held forgotten gratitude. 

It shocked you, how gentle a tug it took to unravel everything that you built up. 

Had his eyes ever seemed so wide, so earnest? 

To distract yourself from such dangerous thoughts, you picked up any task you could. When things were busier, the trivial things vanished behind the rush, but it was too slow a day to hide behind it all.

“You hear me?”

You hummed, unaware that the way your ears rang consumed your space. You focused back in on Robby, leaned back in his chair, arms tight across his chest. Although in a relaxed posture, Robby looked protective, as if it took a lot of courage to reach out to you again. 

“Your scrubs.” Robby’s eyes crinkled, toying with suppressed charm. It made you shy, like you’d done something wrong, gone too far, and lost your defensive bravado.  “If you’re going for the tie-dye look, you’ll fit in better with Peds.” 

There were splotches across your chest. It looked like dried blood, deep in color that led down to your pants. The droplets looked unprofessional, and you had meant to change, but the few patients that came in commanded your attention instead. 

 “Oh.” You said.  You mumbled as the memory came back to you.  “...had to snatch the povidone-iodine from a patient, they saw it had 70% isopropyl alcohol…tried drinking it…”

You’d volunteered for the busy work of stitches, as it was the only thing that you didn’t need to be monitored for. You were already counting down the days until the patient would return so you could remove them; another moment where you’d be able to come up for air. 

However, it was the ED, you couldn’t turn your back for a moment because even stitches became overly complicated. 

“Excuse me, doctor…” 

The voice behind you is so timid, you don’t hear it right away. 

“Uh, the scrubEx machine is, uh, broken—” Dr. Whitaker sheepishly interjected, catching the conversation in passing. You eyed him, seeing he wore morgue scrubs too big for him. “I mean–I-I didn’t break it…I think it’s old or it needs maintenance or something…”

You frowned. You were already in your spare. 

“Check my locker, I should have extra…” Robby threw the comment passively, not bothering to look away from what he was doing. “504-985.”

Everything stilled for a breath. Nurses who were casually eavesdropping were locked in. Dana’s eyebrows even raised hearing Robby’s code roll off like second nature. Dr. Whitaker blushed on your behalf. You knew his code by heart from years ago: the area codes of New Orleans. He couldn’t let go of the numbers; they followed him everywhere. 

The coldness in your limbs vanished. A prickly heat traveled through your fingertips, representing something close to mortification, but ultimately led to confusion. Then, quickly smothered with irritation. 

You wanted to be suspicious, to think this was just another test, but that wasn’t in Robby’s motive. He covered himself in sarcastic exasperation, but beneath all the stress and trauma, warmth and wit were his nature. This was genuine, this was not Dr. Robinavitch or Dr. Robby, Michael had offered the clothes off his back to you. 

You were like a rabbit frozen in tall grass. Ears perked, heart running, eyes blank and wide. But you didn’t move yet. 

“Go on,” Dana jerked her head in the direction of the locker room. “We’ve got a GSW coming in hot.” 

—

You didn't have it in you anymore to struggle and fight and suffer; you wanted to be quiet and happy.

The lockeroom wasn’t even a room. It was just lockers tucked away at the end of the hall. The so-called privacy was a small sign that said: staff only. It was between the hallway and the bathrooms, forgotten and small. 

Punching in Robby’s code, you were praying for it to be wrong. 

It was minimal. There was an unopened water bottle, neatly folded scrubs, and a pen that had been there since before Robby. Everything he needed was in his backpack. It was functional, tactical, his. It was all he ever needed and was there if he ever needed to run. 

You felt like you were intruding, like you were moments away from being caught. For what? You didn’t want to know. 

You tried to rip it off like a band-aid, grab the scrubs, and go. Something made you jerk. The fabric was scrunched into your fist like it would get away if you let up. The longer you held onto it, the more it tethered you. It was standard scrubs. Unisex and black.  You went through the details, trying to be clinical. Professional. They would be big on you, but they would be functional. 

You drew the fabric closer, holding the top as if it were going to vanish like a bad prank pulled. You ignored the fact that the action resembled something primal. Brushing it against your nose, you knew these were Robby’s by the faint smell of mint. It lingered from the pocket where he stored his nicotine gum.  

“Thought you got lost…”

You paused. 

Not out of interest. More like the way a dog pauses before crossing a fence line—aware. 

“Checking to see if they’re clean.” You don’t miss a beat with the latent insult. “I know better than to trust you these days.”

There it was, that festering anger that was built on resentment. Your heart had frozen over again. You forced the air colder. It was unrelentless with no room for kindness to settle, it was not the kind of cold that came from a breeze or shade, but from stillness, from the absence of sun and time. 

You comment on trust was spat as if the idea itself was revolting. It created a hush so thick it felt like you were walking underwater. Robby said your name. 

“Dr. Robinavitch, I appreciate the…” You couldn’t even thank Robby properly. You’ve stood your ground this long, there was no retreating.

You shrugged off your scrub top, your thermal the only layer left. You moved swiftly, the GSW would be here in moments and you already took enough time for yourself. Tugging Robby’s shirt over your head it fit as expected; baggy in areas that didn’t matter and stitched with reliability of the owner. 

The smell enveloped you fully. If you let your thoughts linger you’re sure you could figure out Robby’s detergent and what aftershave he used when it was time to trim his neck. You adjusted the collar like it was tight, a nervous tick to reprimand yourself for thinking about how Robby’s chain would hang just where you touched. 

Your fingertips tingled with buried emotion. You projected a longing for when things were in a different rhythm, for when Robby was there for you outside of stipulations. 

Communicate. Ask for help if you need it. Trust your attendings. We will get through this together. 

The words came to you so suddenly, it felt like you’d lost your breath. They wrapped around you like a boa. You heard them when you slept and they loitered until you rubbed the exhaustion from your eyes. It had never cracked down on you like this. 

Together was a false-bottomed hope. Together didn’t exist—couldn’t. Your eyes drifted, not unfocused—just distant. Remembering.

The office felt awfully small.

Robby stood far away from you, leaning against the opposing wall stiffly with hands in his pockets. His hair was a mess, a clear indication of the utter frustration he was in. 

Despite the distance, the tension between the two of you was palpable. He was absolutely livid.

Deservedly so. You should have listened to him and stayed out of it, but you didn’t—couldn’t. Now you had to simply stand and take whatever he was about to throw at you.

You swallowed the knot in your throat, preparing for a half-hearted apology. “I’m so—”

“You—” He straightened himself, finger pointed out in accusation, “—had one job. I asked you to stay out of it— no, I ordered you to stay out of it. And what the hell do you do? The absolute fucking opposite. The actual fuck were you doing?”

Robby’s eyes narrowed deeper, the sharpness of the glare hitting you right in the chest. You flinch. “What makes you think you can ignore the rules? Have you forgotten that I’m your attending? I—”

“Do not pull rank with me.” You snapped. So much for just standing there and taking it. “You know damn well I am just as competent as you are.”

“Competent doesn’t mean that you’re—” Robby paused taking in a tight breath. His voice stayed level, refusing to let his anger get the best of him. “You were reckless. Out of line. I have to pull rank if you choose to act like one of the students.  What is not clear here?”

 You can’t help the bitter laugh that burst from your lips. 

“You can pretend to be Adamson all you want, but this morning, you froze.” Low blow. But the ripple of emotion in Robby’s face was satisfying.“ So, sure, I’m fucking sorry for taking things into my own hands when you couldn’t.”

“This was not your patient, and you are too stubborn to understand that. Now he’s dead.” Robby kept going, cementing your fate. “Gloria is expecting you this afternoon. You will listen to her if you want to stay here. Don’t fuck up again.”

You tried opening your mouth, but nothing came out; your face was too hot, too hurt, too full of rage. 

“What the fuck is that?” 

You hadn’t realized your wrist had been caught until you were met with resistance.

You pulled back instinctively. “What are you—

A dull pain scratched at your wrist, and Robby was afraid he’d caused it. But he knew what he saw, identifying it immediately. 

Robby held onto you steadily.  “Did something bite you?”  

“What?” Getting your wrist back, you finally looked at it. The bandage was haphazardly put on, now snagging on your sleeve, exposing two pinpricks.  “You heard Whitaker, the patient tested positive for rats...” 

You cringed, trailing off. It was a cheap joke that landed flatly. A few bubonic plague jokes came to mind, but you swallowed them. 

“I’m fine.” You went to push past Robby, but his arm landed against the wall blocking you. His frame didn’t intimidate you, but it made you hesitate with your response. “...I’ll be fine.” 

“You need antibiotics, a tetanus shot…” Robby rubbed his hands over his face, rougher than he should have, but it helped restrain his agitation. “Streptobacillosis can happen, rabies—

“Seriously, rat bite fever? I have a better chance of winning the lottery than getting that.” You actually laughed, but it wasn’t appreciated. “We have a GSW incoming.” 

“The students need non-cadaver experience.” Robby attempted to be lighthearted, but there was an edge of authority to his voice. “They’ve got plenty of good hands to learn from out there.”

“Don’t be—

“You understand that’s my polite way of saying you will not touch a patient until I clear you, right?”

The words landed like a stone in still water. 

They silenced you, but you didn’t shrink. They cut deeper than it was meant to. It seemed to always happen that way, where once the pleasantries passed, what weighed heavily between you only grew in pressure. The guilt was mocking you again. 

Robby moved, knowing you’d follow. As he traced the hallway, you recognized what he grabbed: needles, medication, gauze, gloves, and confidence. You could have administered it all yourself, but this was a test of faith, one you were too curious about to challenge. 

 —

Anytime you went to the doctor, you felt like a child. Like you’d still get a lollipop and a sticker for being brave. It was why you avoided them if you could. You felt pathetic with your eyes wide and naive as Robby pulled the curtain around the two of you.

The irony didn’t go over your head. 

His gloves were pulled on with dexterity. Robby mumbled what he would have to a patient, it was a reflex you were familiar with. You just stood there, anxious that you were in too vulnerable a position. 

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of needles.”  Prepping the syringe, Robby looked you dead in the eyes, working without the need to look. You wanted to indulge in the charm, but you stayed quiet. “Ready?”

You nodded. There was nothing but everything to be afraid of. Doctors never got used to being a patient. It felt like going against the natural order of things. Especially when Robby looked at you so expectantly. 

“Don’t think I can get through to your arm…” Robby was waiting for you to catch on. Out of habit you pulled at your long sleeve, as if covering the bite itself would disappear. 

Eyeing the needle, you knew it would be intramuscular. It needed to be deep enough to be effective. It was calming to go through the facts you knew, waiting for it all to be over. The muscles had good vascularity. The injected drug would quickly reach the systemic circulation, bypassing the first-pass metabolism.

Robby repeated your name, prompting you to understand so he wouldn’t have to say it. He’d been through the worst imaginable, the grossest, the strangest things. That was life in the ED.  But this was new territory. 

“If you could…” He instructed you in a low tone, clearing his throat. “Turn around.”

Oh. 

You had become so warm, you forgot you intentionally layered for the weather. Your arms were covered. Your legs were covered. The easiest muscle to access caused you to lean against the examination table. The paper crinkled from the slight force as turned your back to Robby. 

He couldn’t seem to clear his throat enough. “If you could…” 

“Right.” You snapped out of your slight stupor. If you had any conviction left, you’d have scolded him. Instead, you hooked your thumb in your waistband. Pulling the fabric down, you barely gave Robby enough surface to administer the shot. 

You could almost sense the way he is actively preventing himself from letting his gaze wander further down than it had to—how he was tentative to pull at your pliant skin to find the muscle. It didn’t matter how hesitant he was because even through the gloves, his hands were unbelievably warm on your bottom. 

“First one…slight pinch…” Robby’s voice was muffled by the needle cap in his mouth. “Alright, one more. Deep breath.” 

The cold was catching up to you. So was the exhaustion. It weakened your senses and put your emotions at the forefront. You wanted to be held, to be cared for in ways you couldn’t provide alone. Robby was familiar with the feeling, but was better at hiding the ache. 

Instead, Robby, in his own way, cared so deeply for others. His care was written in small things, never said, but done. He’d say he didn’t have any friends, but the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb—always. Yet, he never carved out space for himself to be minded. 

“Not too bad, right?” His smile was awkward, but soft. Genuine. Concerned. 

“Ouch.” You mumbled, a playful frown pulled at your lips. “I’ll live.”

“Good.” The snap of removing his gloves invited reality back. “This can’t be done without you.”

You were both stalling, not used to being so close for so long. The curtain’s fabric was a safety net in the chaos. He was slow to rub the hand sanitizer on. You both desired one last deep breath, but the air was running out. You both didn’t know how to exist so softly. 

“Thanks for—

—I’ve been thinking…” Robby cut you off before you could slip away, hands pulling at the ends of his stethoscope to stop fidgeting. 

You paused, letting it sit for a minute.  “Dangerous thing.” 

You’d been thinking too, but now wasn’t the time to crush the hope in his eyes. The risks outweighed the benefits.

You knew he’d been trying to catch you for days. Weeks. But his irritability got in the way. Impatience for Gloria got in the way. He had trouble sleeping, and when he was awake, he was vigilant. Then, when you didn’t see him, you knew he carried his sadness to the roof.  

Even now wasn’t how he’d wanted to approach you.

“Look—I don’t know.” Robby chewed on his cheek. “I just—fuck.” He looked at you with a childlike regret. As if he’d gotten too excited and played too hard. “We can’t keep going like this...I don’t blame you… and I don’t know…”

You knew what he meant: I’m sorry—please forgive me. 

You needed to let go of the illusion that it could have been any different. You were both slowly losing yourselves and your patience. Instead, resented for being weathered and callous. But the pain and hurt were still there; nobody acknowledged how it had gone so long ignored.

“I know.” That smile that you wore—it didn’t shine. Soft and a little sorry. It settled over your guilt for now.

[seiwas]

Of course I forgot to send in the cute birthday celebration challenge forgive meee 😭 (but omg no pressure to answer if the birthday girl isn’t feeling up for it!!)

But let’s try…

Sun + Moon for our blasty boy Bakugo 👀

you catch katsuki in the in-betweens.

he’s grown suspicious of it—you know he out of all people would notice; but you neither confirm nor deny that it’s intentional.

there’s something about katsuki in that sliver of space and time right before sunrise and sunset—right before the shift into something new.

“someone’s excited,” you sneak up behind him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders as you kiss his cheek.

he grumbles before giving you a side-eye, cheeks turning a shade darker under the twilight. his lips part slightly as if he’s about to say something, but he tuts instead, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth—no sharpness, no bite.

you look at him curiously, hanging on to the stillness of the hour.

today is supposed to be a busy day—the start of a long trip for you and katsuki; the start of his first ever long trip, actually.

“somethin’ on my face or some shit?”

you snap out of staring, gaze falling straight into his—vermillion red softened into a deep mauve amidst the blue light.

this is why you do it—

the perpetual frown on his face is gone, the tightness of his jaw loosened. there’s a look in his eyes that tells you there’s been something on his mind for a long, long while.

—this is why you catch katsuki in the in-betweens.

you give him a small smile, a little mischievous as you lean in and peck him on the nose.

“now you do,” you giggle as you inch closer on the wooden step.

he rubs his nose immediately, checking for smudges of lipstick, “fuckin—“

“just all my lovin’,” you tease.

you’re half expecting him to get back at you for it—to tickle you or smother you in kisses of his own; katsuki can be aggressive in love, a fact you’ve come to know well over the years.

but he doesn’t.

instead, he stares. a few paused seconds that feel slowed down to eternity. there’s the look again, like something’s been on his mind, combined with the look people say he only has for you.

suddenly, you feel nervous—for what, you don’t know, but your hand searches for his out of instinct. it’s damp when your palm sticks against his, his fingers intertwining with yours like a habit of his own.

he turns your clasped hands over, catching view of the back of yours.

it stays quiet for a few moments—a side of him you only see in times like this. you know there’s a war waging on in his head, a decision he’s been mulling over just waiting to be spilled out.

you know because katsuki only ever sits out before sunrise when he has a lot on his mind.

“you okay?” you whisper.

he hums, rubbing the back of your hand with his thumb, “just thinkin’.”

“you can tell me…” you nudge, “…if you want,” the butterflies in your stomach flapping harder.

you hold your breath.

he chuckles, that damn attractive half-sigh, “don’t know how yet.”

and you think you know what it is—a conversation you have every now and then, always with open-ended conclusions. katsuki has his issues, and so do you—

“just say it how it is,”

you never pressed him for answers, fully content to live at the pace he wanted because you loved him and that was enough.

—but when katsuki looks at you like this, like you’re everything gone right in his life, it’s hard not to think about the possibilities of more.

tears begin to collect along your waterline as he leads your hand into his pocket, your fingertips grazing a small velvet box.

you choke up, tears falling as you pout.

“woke up in the middle of the night with a fuckin’ god awful migraine,” he starts, wiping your tears with his thumb, “so i thought i’d go for a run, y’know, sweat it out and shit.”

you nod, listening.

“but when i got out of bed, you started mumblin’ my name,” he takes a deep breath, “thought you were awake, honestly, but you didn’t say anythin’ when i asked what you needed.”

“looked like you had a nightmare, so i went back to bed, and—” he pauses, collecting his words as he breathes out, “—you hugged me n’—”

his eyes gloss over as he tucks you into his side.

“—you told me you loved me.”

it’s not anything new—you both know that; you tell him you love him all the time. but—

“fuck, i’m ramblin’,” he half chuckles again.

“i love that about you too,” you sniffle, half-giggling as you nudge his chin with your nose.

you intentionally catch katsuki in the in-between’s because you love the side of him that comes out when he’s a little loose-lipped; a little less tense from all the day’s worries. you love the way he rambles, how he goes off on a tangent when he’s especially passionate about something.

he gives you a look so soft, your heart swells.

a small smile makes its way to katsuki’s face as he grips your hand tighter.

“couldn’t go back to sleep ‘cause all i was thinkin’ about was how to keep it this way forever.”

you’ve pictured this moment a few times before, all in different scenarios, situations, locations—always with the note that even if it didn’t happen, you’d be okay.

but now you have this: you and katsuki, on the wooden steps right by your garden bathed in twilight.

“decided on it for a while, just didn’t know when would be right,” he fishes the box out of his pocket, fiddling with it as he takes your hand in his other one.

“i know you said that lovin’ me was enough, but forever’s a fuckin’ long time,” he half-chuckles again, a little choked up, “you didn’t think i’d let you waste that on some loser who won’t even ask you to marry him, did you?”

you don’t think you’re coherent when you respond, a mess of tears and all the love you can pour out. katsuki doesn’t even get to show you the ring before you tackle him, nodding into his chest.

it doesn’t matter, anyway—

it was more than enough that he even asked.

n/a: thank u for sending this prompt erika!!! i am so rusty but i am writing this with all the katsuki feelings in me, my heart could burst!!!! sun & moon = twilight just because of the presence of both during that hour; i also just think it’s such a delicate balance to have—which i think also describes their relationship! katsuki has commitment issues 🥲 sorry, i love writing him in the process of healing ajkdndkd also !!! i also think katsuki can be romantic in his own way like wdym he reads all those shoujo mangas … there is stored romance in that boy . maybe not the smooooothest but yk. it works. and also, he wasn't rlly planning on proposing at this moment (more during the trip) but !! just felt right yk?

[morikosa]

hiii i hope u are doing great i have a request can u write a ff where reader is a massive crush on gojo for 2 years and he rejects her really harshly and she decides to move on from him and she gets a guy who really love her like love in first sight of thing and later gojo regrets and realizes what he lost you can end it however u like

IT'S TOO LATE

You had always known, deep down, that the kind of love you felt for Gojo Satoru was one-sided. It wasn’t something he’d ever say out loud, but you saw it in the way his eyes flicked over to you just before he would laugh with his other friends, how his attention always wandered, and how he dismissed your feelings in that way that only someone with too much power could.

For two years, you had quietly fallen for him. It wasn’t a glamorous or fast-paced love. It wasn’t like the stories or dramas that flooded your mind in moments of loneliness. No, your love for him was the quiet kind, nurtured by little moments over time.

You couldn’t even say exactly when it had started, this crush that would turn into something much heavier than you had anticipated. Perhaps it was during those long nights in the library, the way his laughter echoed through the halls after missions, or maybe it was when you found yourself alone in the same room, and you realized just how much he pulled at your heartstrings with every casual smile. But you were patient.

You were waiting for a moment when he would see you—not as the second-strongest sorcerer, not as his teammate, not as the girl who was too shy to speak up—but as someone he could love. And that moment came, one fateful afternoon.

You had decided, finally, to confess. It was a quiet day at Jujutsu High, no missions, no curses lurking in the corners. Just the two of you in the garden, under the canopy of trees. Gojo was lounging lazily on the grass, his sunglasses perched on his head, eyes closed as he half-listened to you babble about something you didn’t even care to remember.

But you cared about him.

So, gathering your courage, you whispered, “Gojo, I… I need to tell you something.”

His eyes fluttered open lazily, and for once, he wasn’t smiling. It was just you and him. The kind of moment that, in hindsight, should’ve felt perfect, but instead, felt like it was setting you up for something worse than you could have ever imagined.

He sat up, brushing a lock of hair from his face, clearly waiting for whatever confession you had in mind. “What’s up?”

“I like you,” you said, heart racing. “I have for a while. I... think I’ve loved you.”

For a moment, there was nothing but silence between the two of you. The world seemed to hold its breath. You waited, your fingers twisting nervously in front of you, hoping, praying for him to say something kind, something that would make you feel like the decision you had made was the right one.

But instead, Gojo burst out laughing. Not the easy, carefree laugh you were used to, but something harsh, something detached. “What?” He wiped his eyes as if your confession were the funniest thing he had ever heard.

“No. No way, don’t be ridiculous.”

You froze, that familiar ache starting to grow in your chest. He stood up, pacing slightly, still laughing in disbelief, and then turned to face you, eyes glinting behind his sunglasses.

“You and me? That’s a joke, right? You’re like a little sister to me, don’t make this awkward. Besides, I’ve got too much on my plate with being me to entertain something like that.”

The words cut deeper than any curse he could have thrown at you. A little sister. You had always been more than that to him, hadn’t you? He brushed it off, acting as though it didn’t matter. But it mattered. It mattered more than anything else in that moment.

Your heart shattered into a thousand pieces, but you kept your composure. No tears, no visible crack in your voice. You stood, nodding slowly, feeling a coldness descend upon your skin.

“Yeah, I get it,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry for bothering you.”

With that, you turned and walked away, leaving Gojo to his comfortable oblivion.

You could have stayed. You could have let your heart linger in the space where Gojo’s rejection had made its mark. You could have waited for him to come around, to realize how wrong he was, to apologize and see the way you had always seen him. But you knew better than that. You knew you had to move on. You couldn’t keep hoping for someone who didn’t see you.

It was time to stop being his shadow. It was time to become something more.

Months passed, and life at Jujutsu High went on. You became more focused on your training, your missions, and your own personal growth. No longer did you wake up hoping to catch a glimpse of Gojo. No longer did you wait for a random moment where he might look at you the way you had always wanted.

And then, one evening, you met him.

Kaito.

He was a civilian—a regular person, completely unaware of the cursed world that surrounded him. It was a chance encounter. He had gotten lost while traveling, and you had helped him find his way. You didn’t think much of it at first. He was kind, funny, with a quiet intensity that seemed to balance you out. But then, as days turned into weeks, you realized that he saw you. Really saw you.

He wasn’t intimidated by your strength or your connection to the world of jujutsu sorcery. He didn’t fear you. He didn’t put you on a pedestal.

He simply loved you.

Kaito fell in love with you easily—like something destined to happen, like fate’s gentle hand guiding him toward you. It wasn’t an overwhelming love that hit you in a rush. No, it was slow, steady, building in the space where Gojo’s rejection had left you empty. And you allowed yourself to love him back.

It wasn’t instant. It took time. But with every smile, every shared moment, you saw him. You saw Kaito—the man who was everything you had needed but never thought you could have.

Gojo noticed it first in the smallest of ways.

You didn’t greet him with your usual soft smile in the mornings. You used to light up when you saw him, a subtle wave or quiet

“Good morning, Satoru.” Now, you barely glanced at him in the halls. If you spoke, it was out of duty—curt, professional.

He chalked it up to awkwardness at first. Maybe you were embarrassed about your confession. Maybe you needed space. But weeks passed. Then months.

And your silence didn’t fade—it hardened.

Gojo had always been surrounded by attention. Admiration followed him like the sun, unyielding and predictable. People wanted his power, his charm, his approval. He’d gotten used to it. Complacent. But you?

You’d always been different.

You were soft-spoken, warm in ways the world wasn’t, but you never asked for anything from him. You offered kindness freely—never expecting, never demanding.

And he—he had destroyed that.

At first, he convinced himself he’d done the right thing. He wasn’t boyfriend material. He was too dangerous, too complicated. Getting close to him would only get you hurt. It was better to crush your feelings early than to let you suffer later.

That’s what he told himself.

But now? He wasn’t so sure.

Because the version of you that existed now—quiet, distant, unreadable—was a stranger.

He missed your voice. He missed your dumb little jokes, your way of bringing tea to the library when he was passed out on the desk, the softness in your gaze that no longer belonged to him.

He realized he hadn’t just lost a confession. He had lost you. And that realization came with a bitter twist when he saw you in town, laughing—really laughing—with someone else.

Gojo had just finished a solo mission and was grabbing some sweet from a bakery when he caught a glimpse of you near the bookstore across the road.

You were with a man.

Not a sorcerer. Just… someone ordinary.

But the way he held your hand, the way you leaned into him, the way your eyes sparkled—

It gutted him.

[spidermiguell]

Always.— Finnick Odair

— fem!reader x finnick odair (wc; 3.6k!)

— synopsis: District 4 has always been your safe space. Surrounding yourself with the calm waves of the ocean and smell of the sea never failed to distract you from the other issues that consumed your life. Though, you weren’t actually from district 4, you had just found a way to sneak in. Thanks to your district, 5, being a neighbour to 4, you had made a path on your own to avoid peacekeepers. Until now, the cove you visited was for you, and you only. Until you came across him.

—warnings: slight angst! just a whole lot of fluff and a warm connection between reader and finnick! was feeling really emotional today so just something short <3 (not proof read)

—song recs while reading: medicine — daughter + run — daughter

The sea was quieter today. The usual crash of the tide had softened to a gentle hush, like it was trying not to wake the world. You sat at the edge of the cove, bare feet sinking into the damp sand, breathing in the salt-heavy air that always managed to clear your head. This place, hidden behind overgrown cliffs and forgotten by the maps, had been yours for years—untouched, unseen, secret.

You’d carved your way to District 4 from District 5, slipping past watchtowers and patrols, building a silent rebellion with every visit. But today, something was different. A shadow moved near the rocks, too steady to be a gull, too large to be the wind. That’s when you saw him—and your solitude shattered.

He was waist-deep in the water, muscles tense as he cast a trident into the surf with practiced ease. You froze, half-hidden behind a jagged boulder, heart thudding too loudly in your chest. The Capitol broadcasted his face enough that you’d recognize him anywhere.

Finnick Odair. Victor. Golden boy of District 4.

Untouchable. He moved like he belonged to the ocean, like it rose and fell for him, answering to every subtle command of his body. You hadn’t meant to stare, but something about him made it impossible to look away. He was supposed to be a symbol—another one of Snow’s pretty trophies—but here, alone, there was no audience, no cameras. Just him. And now he was turning around.

His eyes met yours.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The waves filled the silence between you, lapping at the shore like they, too, were holding their breath. You thought about running, about disappearing into the cliffs like you always had…but something in his gaze rooted you in place. It wasn’t shock. Or fear. It was curiosity, sharp and glittering like the sun off the sea.

Then he spoke.

“You're not supposed to be here,” he said, voice low and calm, like he already knew exactly who you were.

It wasn’t a threat. It was a statement. A quiet observation that peeled back your walls faster than you’d ever let anyone do. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes lingered, making their way up and down your body.

Your breath caught in your throat.

He hadn't moved toward you, but his presence felt impossibly close. The way he said it—you’re not supposed to be here—it was too sure, too calm. Like he’d been waiting for something, or someone. You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Your instinct screamed at you to turn back, vanish into the trees and disappear down the carved path you knew better than your own hands. But your legs wouldn’t move. Instead, you stared back at him, pretending your pulse wasn’t racing.

He didn’t call for a Peacekeeper. He didn’t ask your name.

“You come here often?” he asked, trying to ease the tension that had somehow found a way into between you both.

His tone was teasing, but there was an edge to it—like he wasn’t just talking about the cove. Like he was testing you.

You nodded, just barely.

Finnick tilted his head slightly, his eyes scanning you as if he could see more than you were showing. “Funny,” he murmured, “I thought this place was mine.”

Your lips parted before you could stop yourself.

“I could say the same to you,” you said quietly, the words barely above a whisper.

You didn’t know what made you say it—maybe the way he looked at you like he already knew everything about you, or maybe the strange calm that settled over you the moment you realized he wasn’t going to shout, or chase, or turn you in.

You held his gaze, forcing your voice to stay steady even as your insides twisted.

Finnick’s lips curved, just slightly. Not quite a smile. Not quite a smirk. “Territorial, are we?”

You shrugged, trying not to let your guard slip. “Only when I’ve had something to myself for this long.”

He stepped closer then, joining you near the edge of the cove—just enough that the breeze carried the scent of salt and sea from his skin. His expression darkened, but not in a cruel way. More like he was searching for something in your face, something he couldn’t name.

“How long have you been coming here?” he asked, voice quieter now.

You hesitated, eyes drifting toward the horizon where the sky melted into the sea.

“A while,” you said. “Since I figured out how to get past the patrols.”

Finnick raised an eyebrow smiling to himself, “So I guessed correctly when I said you weren’t supposed to be here, hey?”

You shook your head “I guess”

He didn’t react the way you expected. No suspicion. No sharp intake of breath. Just a thoughtful silence, like he understood more than he was letting on.

“I hate it in 5,” you admitted, surprising even yourself with the honesty. “The machines. The endless hum of wires and circuits. It all feels so… lifeless. Like I’m supposed to become just another part of the system. The ocean—it doesn’t ask anything of me. It lets me breathe.”

You glanced back at him, waiting for judgment, maybe even mockery. But Finnick only watched you, eyes softening in a way that made your chest tighten.

“So you run away,” he said, almost to himself. “To feel alive again.”

You nodded. “To remember there’s more than just the Capitol’s design.”

His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, unreadable, before he looked back out at the waves. “You’re braver than most people I know.”

You blinked at his words.

Braver than most people I know. It sounded almost sincere, too sincere, and that caught you off guard. You huffed a breath, shaking your head.

“Of course I’m braver,” you said, almost without thinking. “The people you know… they live in the Capitol. What do they have to be brave about? They have everything handed to them. They don’t have anything to rebel against.”

Your words lingered in the air, heavier than you expected. Finnick’s face didn’t change immediately, but the stillness that settled over him felt different. Stiffer. Like a thread had been pulled too tight.

When he finally spoke, his voice was calm—but stripped of the warmth it held just moments ago.

“You think I’m one of them.”

It wasn’t a question.

You opened your mouth, faltered. “Well… you’re a Victor. You live there, don’t you? You have—”

“Everything?” he cut in, his gaze suddenly sharp, not unkind but cold enough to make your stomach dip. “You think I chose that?”

You flinched at the way he said it. Not angry, just… exhausted. Like he’d had this conversation before, too many times, with people who never listened.

“I didn’t mean—” you started, but he shook his head.

“No. You meant it. You see the Capitol lights and think anyone standing under them belongs there.”

You stepped closer without realizing it, your voice quieter now. “I just thought… you looked like someone who had what everyone else wanted.”

He met your eyes, and the bitterness in his stare made your chest ache.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s exactly what they want you to think.”

You stood there for a moment longer, watching him—this boy who was supposed to be the Capitol’s darling, the golden Victor, someone who had everything. And yet there was something in the way his shoulders hunched slightly, the way his voice had cracked when he spoke, that made you feel like you were looking at something else entirely.

Without thinking much about it, you stepped back toward the grassy edge of the cove and dropped down onto the cool earth, crossing your legs. You glanced up at him.

"Come sit," you said quietly.

Finnick hesitated for a second, like he wasn’t sure if he should, but then he moved, lowering himself down beside you with a quiet sigh.

The space between you was careful, deliberate, but not uncomfortable. You picked at the grass absently, letting the ocean’s steady breath fill the silence.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, without looking at you, Finnick said, his voice low, "I understand you, though. You thinking I’m like them."

You froze. Your fingers stilled against the grass.

He let out a breath through his nose. "The Capitol loves making people think that I’m just another spoiled Victor, rich, gloriously happy."

You stayed silent, unsure if denying it would even matter now.

“But you don’t know what it cost me."

You turned your head slightly to look at him. His jaw was tight, his eyes pinned to the horizon like he could will himself back into the waves if he stared hard enough.

"I don’t want to be like them," he said, softer now. "I hate everything they stand for. I hate that they use me. I hate that no matter what I do, I’m still theirs."

You opened your mouth, hesitated, then said, "If you hate it so much... why stay?"

His laugh was hollow, bitter. "You think I have a choice?" he said, turning to face you properly for the first time.

“I’m only here now because they’re letting me be. For a little while. Before they call me back to the Capitol to train a tribute for the Quarter Quell. Another kid I'm supposed to prepare for slaughter."

The way he said it—like he could taste the poison of it—made your stomach turn.

"You don’t have to go," you said, though you knew how childish it sounded the moment it left your mouth.

He gave you a sad smile. "I do. I don’t get to stay here. No matter how much I want to. No matter how much I—" He broke off, shaking his head slightly. "This cove, this ocean... District 4…It’s the only place I ever felt free. Before the Games. Before they took me."

You watched him closely now, seeing more than just the famous Victor. Seeing the boy he might have been, once.

"I used to swim here for hours," he said quietly. "When I was a kid. The salt on my skin, the pull of the current... It was mine. It didn’t ask anything from me. It didn’t own me.”

He raked a hand through his hair, frustrated. "Now even that feels stolen. Even when I’m back, it’s like I’m not really here anymore. I belong to them. No matter how far I run."

The ocean roared softly behind you, and for once, it sounded less like an escape and more like a mourning song.

You wanted to say something—to tell him he wasn’t alone in hating them, in wanting something more, but the words felt too small compared to everything he carried.

So instead, you just sat there with him, side by side, both pretending, for a little while longer, that this place still belonged to you.

"You’re not the only one," you said quietly, your fingers picking at the grass again.

"Feeling like you don’t belong anywhere."

Finnick turned his head slightly toward you, but didn’t interrupt.

You drew in a slow breath. It felt strange, telling someone else, but maybe that was why it was so easy—because it was Finnick, and he already seemed to understand the feeling of being trapped.

“Every year, my family barely scrapes by. Work in the factories doesn’t pay enough to keep us fed, not really. So every year... I take the tesserae."

You swallowed, feeling your throat tighten. Tesserae meant survival, but it also meant stacking more and more entries with your name in the reaping bowl. Every year, the odds grew worse.

"And when the Reaping gets close, when it feels like I can barely breathe... I sneak over here. To the ocean."

Your voice faltered, but you pushed through it. "It’s the only place that makes it feel smaller. Like I can remember what it feels like to choose something, even if it’s just where I’m standing."

You didn’t dare look at him at first. You stared straight ahead at the endless blue, feeling your shame and pride knotting together.

But when you finally glanced at Finnick, he wasn’t looking at you like you were weak.


He was looking at you like he understood exactly what it meant to carry something invisible on your back.

"You’re surviving the only way you know how," Finnick said, his voice steady, almost rough. "There’s nothing shameful about that."

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your shoulders easing slightly.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You just sat together in the hush of the cove, the salt air thick around you.

Then, without warning, Finnick pushed himself up off the ground.

"Come on," he said, extending a hand to you.

You blinked up at him. "What?"

He gave you a small, real smile — not the Capitol kind, but something warmer, more private. "You said the ocean calms you. If you’re going to keep sneaking into Four, you might as well know how to fish.”

You hesitated, staring at his outstretched hand.

He wiggled his fingers at you, impatient. "It’s practically the law around here."

Reluctantly, you reached out and let him pull you up. His hand was calloused, rough with the kind of work the Capitol had probably forgotten he once did.

"I’m terrible at it," you warned.

Finnick gave a soft, real laugh. "Then you’re already better than half the kids in District 4 their first year."

He led the way, deeper towards the edge of the cove where the shallows lapped lazily at the shore, the late afternoon light painting the water gold.

"Come on, girl from Five," he said, glancing back at you with a grin that was more boy than Victor. "Let’s see if the ocean's on your side today."

And despite the weight of everything waiting for both of you beyond this cove — the Reapings, the Quarter Quell, the Capitol’s ever-hungry reach — you found yourself smiling back, your footsteps lightening as you followed him toward the water.

The water was cold against your ankles as you waded in behind him, your toes curling instinctively against the smooth rocks beneath the surface. Finnick moved with the ease of someone who had been born from the sea itself, his steps confident even when the water deepened around him.

He stopped a few feet ahead, letting the gentle waves lap against his calves, and turned to you with a glint of mischief in his eyes.

"Alright," he said, voice light. "First rule of fishing: patience. If you’re the type who gets frustrated easily..." He trailed off, raising an eyebrow in playful challenge.

You crossed your arms, pretending to be affronted. "I can be patient," you insisted.

Finnick laughed, the sound like something carried by the wind — natural, unforced, something rare and precious. "We'll see."

He crouched down, his hand dipping into the water with slow, deliberate movements. "You want to move like the water," he explained. "Not against it. Pretend you’re part of it. No sudden jerks, no hard steps. You have to make it trust you."

You watched carefully as he demonstrated, his fingers skimming beneath the surface in long, graceful arcs.

"And when you see the shadow of a fish," he continued, "you have to be faster than it thinks you can be."

You nodded, determined, and knelt down beside him. The chill of the water bit at your skin, but you pushed through it, trying to mimic the way he moved — gentle, fluid, barely disturbing the current.

Finnick glanced sideways at you, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. "Not bad," he said, his voice low. "catching up to my ability from when I was 6." he snickered

You smiled despite yourself, feeling a strange warmth build in your chest that had nothing to do with the sun.

Minutes passed like that, the two of you side by side, both chasing fleeting glimpses of silver beneath the surface. It didn’t matter that you missed every time you reached out — it didn’t matter that you both ended up soaked up to your knees from splashing and slipping and laughing.

It didn’t even feel like a lesson anymore. It felt like something else — something lighter.

At one point, you lunged too eagerly for a fish and ended up losing your balance completely, falling backward into the shallow water with a loud splash.

Finnick doubled over laughing, the sound echoing across the cove. You sat there, dripping and sputtering, before you started laughing too — real, aching laughter that you hadn’t felt in what seemed like years.

When you finally caught your breath, you looked over at him, seeing not the Victor, not the Capitol’s precious boy — but someone closer to yourself. Someone who carried invisible bruises and was trying, somehow, to remember what it felt like to simply be young.

"You’re hopeless," Finnick teased, offering you his hand again.

You took it, and he pulled you easily to your feet. But this time, he didn’t let go right away.


You stood there, chest heaving from laughter, water dripping from your hair, and for a moment, the world around you fell completely silent.

It was just the two of you, the salt in the air, the sting of the sea against your skin, and the wild, incredible feeling that maybe — just maybe — you weren’t as broken as you thought.

Finnick finally let your hand slip from his, but not before giving it a small squeeze, like he understood without you having to say a word.

"Next time," he said, grinning, "we'll catch something. I promise."

You smiled up at him, feeling the ocean breeze lift your hair around your face, and nodded.

For the first time in a long while, you believed it.

Maybe neither of you could outrun what was coming. Maybe the Capitol would always try to own you, bend you, break you.
But here, in this tiny stolen corner of the world, you had carved out a different truth. A moment of freedom.

Neither of you knew if there would be a next time, but these few moments were enough to heal something in you that you didn’t know needed healing.

You stood there together in the fading light, knowing this moment was coming closer and closer to end.

Neither of you spoke.


There was nothing left to say that words could fix.

Finnick looked out at the horizon, as if trying to memorize it, to stitch it into his bones before he had to leave it behind again.

"I would’ve stayed here forever," he said finally, voice almost lost to the wind. "If they had let me."

You could hear everything he didn’t say.
About the Capitol. About the Games. About the life that had been stolen from him before he ever had the chance to live it.

And something inside you cracked wide open.

Before you could stop yourself, you reached for him.

Finnick met you halfway.

The kiss was soft, almost uncertain, like a secret neither of you were supposed to know how to share. His hands were gentle against your face, holding you as if you were something rare, something

he wasn’t sure he deserved to touch.
You kissed him back, pouring every word you hadn’t dared to say into it — I'm sorry. I'm proud. I wish it had been different. I wish you could stay.

When you finally pulled apart, the sky was bleeding darker into the sea.

Finnick rested his forehead against yours, his breathing uneven, his fingers lingering at your jaw like he wasn’t ready to let go.

"You should go," he said quietly. Regret laced every word. "It’s safer for you."

You nodded, swallowing the ache in your chest, and stepped back — even though it felt like tearing something vital from your skin.

Neither of you said goodbye.

It would have made it too final…too real…and neither of you were ready to admit what this was: an ending you hadn't agreed to, but were powerless to stop.

You turned first, your chest tight and burning, and forced yourself up the rocky path, every step heavier than the last. The wind tore at your clothes, stinging your eyes, but you didn’t let yourself look back.


You knew if you did, you wouldn't survive it.

Halfway up the ridge, his voice shattered the air behind you, 
raw, broken, desperate:

"Don't forget me!”

You stumbled to a stop, the words sinking sharp and deep into your ribs.


For a moment, you could only stand there, your whole body trembling with the effort not to fall apart.

Slowly, as if moving through a dream, you turned back.

Finnick stood in the rising tide, looking so heartbreakingly young and lost, it made your chest ache. His fists were clenched at his sides, his jaw tight like he was holding back everything else he wanted to say.

You could have left it.


It would have been easier.


Safer.

But love had never been safe.

So you cupped your hands around your mouth, and with the last strength you had, you called back to him:

"I couldn’t forget you if I tried!"

The wind ripped the words away, but you knew he heard them — you saw it in the way he staggered a half-step forward, as if he might chase after you.

You pressed a hand to your heart, willing him to feel it — the truth of it, the certainty.
That he wasn't alone.


That someone, somewhere, loved the boy who belonged to the sea, not the Capitol.

Finnick didn't move again.
He just stood there, soaking in your words like sunlight, like salvation.

And when you finally turned away for good, you carried him with you — tucked into the deepest, safest place inside yourself — where the Capitol could never touch him.

Where he would stay.

Always.

please remember, requests are always open! and feel free to reblog and like as its highly appreciated! <3

[acute-crashout-jeyuso]

National Anthem…

Jey Uso x Reader

“And I remember when I met him, it was so clear that he was only one for me. We both knew it, right away. And as the years went on, things got more difficult -- we were faced with more challenges. I begged him to stay. Try to remember what we had at the beginning. He was charismatic, magnetic, electric and everybody knew it. When he walked in every woman’s head turned, everyone stood up to talk to him. He was like this hybrid, this mix of a man who couldn’t contain himself.

I always got the sense that he became torn between being a good person and missing out on all of the opportunities that life could offer a man as magnificent as him. And in that way I understood him and I loved him. I loved him, I loved him, I loved him. And I still love him. I love him…”

Warnings:

Explicit sexual content, emotional intensity, past divorce, language, wet/underwater sex setting (consensual), soft angst, reunion trope, emotional vulnerability, steamy but tender intimacy.

dedicated to @maineventabbey

bffls: @spiicii @cheappop @love4brutality @acknowledge-reigns @isabella-2025

You sipped from your drink — something too fruity, too sweet — half-listening to your friends laugh across the poolside bar at the resort. Hawaii smelled like sea salt and sunscreen, the night air still sticky and warm even this late.

The sky was navy blue. The stars bruised the horizon.

You were laughing too, or maybe just pretending. Pretending you hadn’t just been thinking about him. Pretending he wasn’t still there, stitched into every part of you like a scar that never quite closed.

And then—

The world stopped.

He stepped into view like he’d never left, like six years hadn’t passed. Like time bent around him.

Jey.

White muscle tee clinging to arms you remembered better than your own reflection. Black joggers sitting low on his hips. White Air Force Ones clean as new paper. Two thick gold chains glinting against his chest. A heavy Cuban link bracelet wrapped around his wrist. Grill flashing when he spoke low to someone beside him, even though you couldn’t hear a word.

You didn’t have to.

Your body knew.

He turned —

And those dark eyes found you.

Like he felt you before he saw you.

God, it had been six years.

Six years since you left, when love wasn’t enough to patch over the bruises ambition left behind.

Six years since you begged him to stay, to remember what you had when it was just the two of you, so young, so stupid, so sure the world would never break you.

Your breath caught when he started walking — slow, steady — toward you.

Every cell in your body screamed to run.

But your heart… your heart said stay.

And as he came closer, closer, the memories rose up like smoke:

His hand on your lower back, guiding you through crowds when you belonged to him.

The way he used to whisper “I love you..” against your neck when you woke up tangled together.

The way his cologne — ambery cedar and fresh citrus — made your knees buckle when you were still young enough to believe forever meant something.

You watched him, chest tight, as he came to a stop just a few feet away.

Neither of you said anything.

The world, the music, your friends — all faded into the background.

It was just you.

And him.

Still tethered.

Still burning.

Still him.

Finally, his mouth curled into a small, slow smile.

That smile you swore you’d forgotten.

That smile that broke you and rebuilt you all at once.

“Been a long time, mama,” he said, voice deep and a little rough, like he hadn’t used it in too long.

You nodded, throat too tight to speak.

Six years, you wanted to say.

“Six years and you’re still the only one.”

But instead, you just looked at him — the man you left behind, the man you never stopped loving.

And he looked at you like he already knew.

However.. when it came down to it, you didn’t say a word.

You just set your drink down — barely hearing it clink — and turned.

Walked away.

Walked fast, heart hammering against your ribs.

Maybe you thought he’d let you go.

Maybe you prayed he wouldn’t.

Footsteps pounded after you, quick and very certain.

“Babygirl!”

Jey’s voice — rougher now, more desperate.

But you didn’t stop.

Not until the resort lights faded behind you, the path turning to packed dirt under your sandals.

Not until you stumbled into the forest — palm trees and tropical air wrapping around you like a second skin.

And there —

In a clearing just beyond a crag of lava rock —

A waterfall crashed down into a glittering pool, silver under the moonlight.

It was stupidly beautiful, so stupidly Hawaiian it made your teeth ache.

You spun around, fists clenching.

He was right there.

Closer than you expected.

Chest heaving.

Eyes dark.

Mouth parted like he wanted to speak but didn’t know how.

You cracked first.

You slammed your fists against his chest — once, twice — not hard enough to hurt him, just hard enough to make your arms shake.

“Why?!” you shouted, voice breaking. “Why did you choose work over me?!”

Jey caught your wrists without thinking, holding you steady, but he didn’t pull you close.

Not yet.

“I ain’t doing this,” he muttered, low and dangerous. “I ain’t fighting with you over old shit.”

“Old shit?” you snapped, yanking free. “It’s not old to me, Jey. You— you chose everything over me! The travel, the tours, the spotlight— you always came first!”

His eyes sharpened — a flash of the Jey you once knew, the one who could command a room with a glance.

But he didn’t shout.

“No,” he said, voice a low tone. “You always came first.”

You let out a bitter laugh, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand.

“Yeah?” you choked. “Is that why I used to fall asleep alone five nights a week? Is that why I woke up on my birthday and you were already gone for another show?”

His jaw tightened.

You saw the war inside him — pride battling regret, stubbornness cracking under guilt.

“I was tryna build something for us,” he said finally, almost pleading. “I was tryna make it so you ain’t never have to worry about shit again.”

“I didn’t want all that,” you whispered, breaking apart like waves against the rocks. “I just wanted you.”

The wind howled past you both, whipping your hair around your face.

And there — in that moment —

You realized it had never been about who left who.

You had been pulling away even as he had been reaching for something bigger, something he thought would keep you safe.

You just wanted him.

He just wanted to give you the world.

Neither of you could win.

Neither of you ever stopped loving the other.

He stared at you under the moonlight, chest rising and falling, water from the mist of the falls dusting his arms and face like silver.

And then — slow, cautious —

He leaned in.

You felt it before it happened.

The heat of him, the pull that had never really broken.

But when you took a step back —

Too quick, too clumsy —

Your foot slipped on the wet rock.

And before either of you could catch yourselves —

You both tumbled straight into the pool beneath the waterfall.

The water crashed around you, icy and shocking.

You surfaced first, sputtering and laughing, hair slicked to your forehead.

Jey rose up a second later, gold chains glinting even underwater, grill flashing as he grinned wide and shook his head like a dog.

For a moment — for the first time in six years —

You both laughed.

Really laughed.

“I hope you didn’t have your phone,” you gasped, wiping water from your eyes.

He snorted, paddling closer to you through the waist-high water.

“Nah. You?”

You shook your head, heart beating so loud it almost drowned out the waterfall.

“No,” you said, voice soft.

You floated there, barely a foot apart.

The spray of the falls soaking you both, washing away the fight, the years, the loneliness.

And before you could overthink it —

Before your heart could run scared again —

You reached out, grabbed his soaked shirt, and pulled him down to you.

You kissed him.

Hard.

Wet.

Breathless.

His mouth moved against yours like he was starving.

Like he had waited lifetimes for this.

But then —

Slowly —

Jey pulled back.

Panting.

Forehead resting against yours.

His hand came up, cupping your jaw with a tenderness that shattered you.

“Say it,” he rasped. “Say you wanna be mine again.”

He searched your eyes like his whole world depended on what you’d say next.

“Say it, mama,” he whispered, thumb brushing your cheek. “Say you still love me.”

You didn’t say it with words at first.

You said it when you leaned in again, kissing him deeper, drowning in him.

But he needed to hear it.

“I still love you,” you whispered against his mouth.

“I always have.”

Something inside Jey broke.

Without a word, he surged forward, kissing you harder, backing you up until the waterfall was crashing directly onto both of you — cold, wild, relentless.

You gasped, clutching at his soaked shirt.

He laughed against your mouth — deep, rough — and pushed you playfully but firmly right under the falling water.

You squealed, water beating down on you, and when you peeked through the spray, he was grinning — really grinning — like the man you met all those years ago.

Then, with careful strength, Jey slipped his arms under your thighs and lifted you up — muscles flexing under your palms as he set you down on a smooth rock ledge right under the waterfall’s curtain.

The rock was slick but solid, water rushing around you like a living thing.

You were caged in by the elements — the roar of the falls, the mist, his body.

He leaned in close, his forehead brushing yours, his hands steadying you.

“You comfortable, mama?” he asked.

You nodded, smiling through the mist.

“Yeah,” you breathed.

He held your eyes as he reached for the hem of his soaked white muscle tee, peeled it up over his head, and tossed it onto a nearby rock.

The sight of him — broad chest, gold chains sticking to his skin, tattoos gleaming wet — stole every bit of air from your lungs.

He lowered himself slowly between your legs, dragging it out, savoring it.

Positioning himself betwixt your thighs with a purpose that made your whole body tremble.

Jey tilted his head, studying you.

Checking, waiting, needing your permission even now.

You licked your lips and whispered, “Please.”

That was all he needed.

He ducked his head, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder, as if rediscovering you inch by inch.

And when he rocked his hips forward, grinding against you with slow, aching precision, it wasn’t just need anymore.

It was home.

“Mine,” Jey groaned against your skin. “You hear me? Always been mine.”

You moaned, threading your fingers through his wet hair, pulling him closer.

“Yours,” you gasped. “Always yours.”

The waterfall roared behind you, drowning out everything else — the past, the pain, the years you spent apart.

Jey kissed you again — slower this time, deeper. Like he wanted to memorize you all over again.

Like he needed to.

His hands slid along your waist, over your thighs, bunching the wet fabric of your dress up higher and higher.

You shivered but it wasn’t from the cold.

It was him.

It was the way he looked at you — like he was seeing something sacred.

Like you were still his whole world.

You were are still his whole world.

“I missed you so bad, baby,” he whispered, kissing the soft spot beneath your ear. “Every damn day.”

You couldn’t speak.

You could only nod, mouth parted, breath quick.

And then he sank.

Jey scooted down and pulled your legs over his broad shoulders, hands anchoring your hips, thumbs brushing lazy circles into your thighs.

His breath was hot against your center before his mouth met your pussy in a kiss that made your soul crack open.

You cried out softly, fingers flying into his wet hair, and he groaned in response.

His tongue moved with the kind of skill only someone who knows your body could offer.

He didn’t rush.

He didn’t tease.

He worshipped.

And while his mouth devoured you, his hands slid up, cupping your breasts beneath your soaked dress, thumbs brushing over your nipples until you arched like you were offering yourself to the Samoan gods.

“Jey…” you whimpered, voice high and broken.

He didn’t stop.

The waterfall crashed behind you, the moonlight breaking through the spray and landing on your skin like scattered stars.

It caught in the curve of his back, the gold of his chains, the tremble of your thighs wrapped around his neck.

Together again.

No longer separate.

No longer yearning..

When your release hit you, it was quiet — no screaming, no chaos.

Just a whisper of his name, tears in your eyes, and his arms holding you tight as your body shook.

He rose again slowly, kissing the inside of your knee, your belly, your heart.

Jey pressed his forehead to yours, chest heaving.

“You feel that?” he whispered, voice hoarse. “You still mine, mama. You always been.”

You nodded, tear slipping free, and he kissed it before it could fall.

Slowly, still holding your gaze like he was scared you might disappear, Jey reached down and pushed his black joggers down just enough — just low enough to free himself.

You caught the movement through the waterfall’s mist, your breath hitching at the sight of him — girthy, hard, glistening with water and anticipation.

He let his hand wrap gently around himself, as if even that moment was something private, something just for you to see.

He pressed closer, the body weight of him heavy between your thighs, and paused.

“Baby…” he said, voice breaking slightly.

“You ready?”

You nodded without hesitation, your fingers curling into his broad shoulders.

“Yeah,” you whispered, voice trembling. “I’m ready.”

He kissed you again — slow and deep — while his hand slid down to guide himself to your entrance.

The first press of him made you gasp against his mouth.

Stretching you in a way that made your chest ache and your thighs shake.

That all too familiar stretch..

Jey grunted softly, squeezing his eyes shut as he pushed in slowly, taking his time, sinking inch by inch into you like he was terrified of hurting you.

Like he was savoring every second.

You clung to him, arms wrapped around his neck, legs trembling around his waist as he buried himself deeper — your bodies fitting together with the same devastating familiarity they always had.

When he was finally fully inside you, he stayed still — forehead resting against yours, bodies trembling, hearts racing.

Neither of you moved.

Not yet.

You could feel the rapid thrum of his pulse against your chest.

The tremble of his hands where they held your hips, grounding himself.

He was breathing hard, fighting to stay in control.

“You feel so good, mama,” he murmured against your cheek, “So fuckin’ good.”

You whispered his name like a promise, threading your fingers through his wet hair, holding him close.

He rocked his hips — just barely — the smallest movement, and it sent a wave of shivers through both of you.

Your eyes fluttered closed, overwhelmed by the intimacy of it — the way he filled you, the way you stretched around him, the way he fit inside you like you were carved out for him.

And the way he waited.

Waited for you to move first.

Waited for you to say it was okay.

You shifted your hips slightly, and he groaned deep in his chest, pressing a kiss to your temple.

He moved again — just a little more, slow and careful — and your back arched instinctively, your body clinging to him.

Jey kissed you — everywhere — your cheeks, your mouth, your throat — whispering soft, half-formed words you could barely hear.

“My girl,” he breathed. “Always my girl.”

You didn’t rush.

You couldn’t.

There was too much..

Too much history.

Too much love.

The rhythm stayed slow, bodies doused with water and sweat and memory, neither of you rushing toward the edge.

Just feeling.

Just being.

Jey’s hands trembled slightly as they slid up your thighs, holding you steady as he rocked his hips into you — still slow, still deep — like he couldn’t bear to break the fragile thread of connection between you.

It wasn’t rough.

It wasn’t frantic.

It was devastatingly tender — an ache in your chest that only he could soothe.

Jey’s movements grew a little faster, a little less controlled.

Like he needed you the way he needed air.

He pulled back just enough to look at you — his forehead still brushing yours — his eyes shining under the fractured moonlight, wet with more than just water.

“Baby…” he whispered, voice cracking, “I’m not gonna last.”

You shook your head, chest heaving, pressing your forehead harder against his.

“I don’t care,” you moaned out. “Jey, just— just stay with me.”

A broken sound left his throat — half a sob, half a groan — and he wrapped his arms around you, holding you so tightly it almost hurt.

And then he moved —

Harder, faster — but still with that desperate kind of worship in every thrust.

The world blurred around you — the roar of the waterfall, the glint of the stars, the wet rock beneath your spine — and there was only him.

Only this.

Your release crept up slow but meaningful, pulling at your spine, making your thighs quake around his waist.

You felt his rhythm stutter, the man inside him fighting to stay in control, but he held on — held on for you — until you both shattered together.

You cried out, arching into him, every nerve-ending lighting up at once.

Jey groaned deep in his chest, voice breaking against your mouth as he followed you over the edge, burying himself as deep as he could go.

It wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t wild.

It was achingly beautiful — the quiet kind of destruction.

The kind that left you reborn.

For a long moment afterward, neither of you moved.

You stayed locked together, breathing each other in, your chests heaving in sync.

He pressed his forehead into the crook of your neck, arms still wrapped tightly around you like he was afraid to let go.

“You’re mine,” he whispered against your skin.

“You’ve always been mine.”

You closed your eyes, tears slipping free.

“Always..”

[bookishswordfish]

Darry Curtis Headcanons

Darry is a reader at a level to rival Ponyboy

He reads all sorts of books, and is an avid enjoyer of romance (but you could not waterboard that information out of him)

Darry absolutely HATES history with a burning passion

In a modern day high school au, you would regularly see him crashing out over APUSH tests

When he was real little, from the time after Soda was born until he and Darry could actually talk to each other, Darry wanted a parrot because he wanted somebody to talk to that wasn’t his parents

This also happened to coincide with his pirate phase

y’know, kill two birds with one stone

He still thinks birds that can talk are pretty neat, especially crows

He absolutely loves baseball

Darry played all through his school years before quitting after his freshman year to focus on football (if he hadn’t played football, he would have 100% played baseball)

That man is MOISTURIZED. If he does not put lotion on after every single shower, his skin literally hurts

He and Ponyboy share that in common

Darry also cannot draw for shit

He loves playing cards, and he has a great poker face

He eats his s’mores with a Reese’s instead of Hershey’s

Darry would sleep ridiculously late on the weekends in high school, unless he had plans

He has always been a ridiculously deep sleeper. There could be a tornado actively blowing the house apart and he still would not wake up

But he only needs one alarm in the morning

HOWEVER. If anybody speaks to him in the half an hour after he has woken up, he will not respond and will look at them with murder eyes

Has really neat penmanship, but in the way that a lot of men do, where lowercase letters look like uppercase letters, just smaller

In later years, he is a really big fan of Billy Joel, Jim Croce, and the Eagles

Darry is absolutely petrified of heights

He has a really nice singing voice, and he often sings along with the radio or record player

[kakashisacademia]

pairing: satoru x you | warnings: none

summary; after leaving the jujutsu high three years ago you’re finally back and Satoru struggles with the feelings he develops for you

a/n: the whole fanfiction is written from Satoru’s POV

Chapter 2: the distance between us only grows smaller

Satoru should have said no to the mission.

The second Yaga handed him the file, the second he said, “you and her will handle it”, Satoru should have thrown up every wall he had.

Instead he smiled. Made some stupid joke about being the ‘dream team‘. Pretended his pulse hadn’t spiked like a curse was already sinking its teeth into him.

Now here they were, two hours into a silent car ride, rain hammering the windows, her curled in the passenger seat, tapping her fingers absently against her thigh.

Every movement, every breath she took, it scraped against his nerves raw and bloody.

Satoru kept his eyes on the road. White-knuckled the steering wheel like it would stop his hands from shaking.

Say something, idiot. Make a joke. Make her laugh.

But he couldn’t.

Because every time he looked at her, the curve of her jaw in the shifting gray light, the way her hair kept falling into her eyes, all he could think about was how goddamn grown she was.

And how fucking wrong it was to notice it.

“You’re quiet,” she said finally, voice soft, pulling him back from the cliff edge he didn’t realize he was standing on.

He risked a glance sideways.

She was smiling, small and tentative, like she wasn’t sure if it was still allowed.

“I’m always quiet,” Satoru lied.

She laughed under her breath. “Since when?”

The sound of it cracked something open inside him. He gripped the wheel tighter.

“If I start talking, you might realize I got even more annoying with age,” Satoru said, forcing a smirk.

“You could never,” she said, like it was obvious, like it was true, and turned back to the window before he could see whatever emotion flickered across her face.

He stared at her a second longer than he should have. Long enough to memorize the way the light traced the line of her nose, the soft curve of her mouth. Long enough to imagine, just for a second, reaching across the console and tucking that stray strand of hair behind her ear.

His throat tightened.

He turned the radio on - static, the only thing loud enough to drown out the thoughts clawing through his skull.

They made it to the town just before sunset.

The mission itself was easy. Too easy. Small curse infestation at an abandoned building. Basic clean-up job.

He should have been grateful.

Instead he hated it. Hated how it put her in danger at all.

Even if she fought like hell. Even if she was stronger than he remembered, every flicker of cursed energy near her made his heart stop in his chest.

When it was done, she wiped her blade clean on the hem of her shirt, cheeks flushed from exertion, hair sticking to her temples.

She caught him staring. Raised an eyebrow.

“What?” she asked, breathless.

Satoru shook his head, too quickly. “Nothing. Good job, rookie.”

She rolled her eyes, but smiled. And he felt that stupid, dangerous heat bloom in his chest again.

They headed back toward the main road, rain starting up again, heavier this time.

The inn Yaga had booked for them was tiny. A half-forgotten place on the edge of town.

Warm yellow lights, creaking floors, the smell of old wood and rain soaked into the walls.

The old woman behind the counter smiled at them with a few missing teeth and said the words that would haunt him for the rest of the night.

“Only one room left.”

Satoru opened my mouth, ready to protest, to demand a second room, a closet, a damn tent. But she was already handing over the key, chatting about how lucky they were to get a place at all during the festival weekend.

Satoru glanced at her.

She shrugged, like it didn’t bother her.

Like it wasn’t killing him on the inside.

They made their way upstairs, ancient wooden steps creaking under our feet, and found the room at the end of the hall. The door stuck when he tried to open it. Because of course it did.

She laughed softly behind him, and it hit him like a fucking bullet how good it felt to hear her laugh, even if he was falling apart inside.

Inside, the room was small. One bed. Faded curtains.An old desk shoved against the wall. A radiator rattling in the corner.

She set her bag down by the chair, stretching her arms over her head.

The hem of her shirt lifted, just a sliver, just enough to show the soft skin of her stomach.

Just enough to ruin him.

Satoru turned away so fast he almost tripped over the chair.

“I’ll take the floor,” he said too quickly, voice rough.

She paused. He felt her eyes on my back, warm, questioning, burning through him.

“Satoru,” she said. And god, hearing her say his name like that, soft and familiar and nothing like the way the students said it, made his knees weak. “Satoru, it’s fine. The bed’s big enough.”

He laughed, sharp and brittle, the sound of a man coming apart at the seams.

“Trust me,” he said. “It’s not about space.”

Silence stretched between them.

He heard her sigh, soft and tired and full of something he couldn’t name, and when he finally found the courage to turn around, she was already pulling the comforter and a spare pillow off the bed and tossing them at him.

“Suit yourself,” she said, trying for casual.

But he saw it, the hurt flickering behind her eyes.

And it broke him.

He slept on the floor. Or at least he tried to.

The wood was hard, the radiator clanked all night, and every time she shifted in the bed above him, his heart jumped like a curse was breathing down his neck.

At some point, near dawn, he heard her whimper in her sleep.

Small. Pained.

Satoru sat up so fast his vision blurred.

She twisted under the blanket, mumbling and breathing too fast.

A nightmare.

Without thinking, he was on his knees beside the bed, reaching out, hand hovering above her shoulder, not sure if he should wake her, not sure if he could touch her without breaking everything.

But she turned her face toward him. Even half-asleep, even trapped in some dream and whispered, “Don’t go.”

And that was it.

That was the moment.

He slid onto the edge of the bed, slow, careful, like any sudden move might shatter the whole fragile world between them.

He brushed the hair from her forehead, light as a breath, and she leaned into the touch without waking.

His hand trembled.

God, Satoru wanted…

He wanted everything.

He wanted to press his mouth to her temple.

He wanted to pull her into his arms and never let her go.

He wanted to give her every piece of him he had kept locked away all these years.

She blinked up at him, groggy, confused, and for one terrifying, beautiful moment, their eyes met.

Her hand found his and curled around it. Slow, tentative.

He should have pulled away. He should have run.

Instead he leaned in, helpless and aching, until their faces were inches apart. Her breath ghosted over his lips soft, warm and so real.

He saw it then in her eyes the same longing. The same fear. The same desperation to not be the only one breaking.

Her fingers tightened around his like a question.

And before he could stop myself, before he could think about consequences or guilt or the years that separated them, he started to close the distance.

Inches. Breaths.

Close enough that he could taste the salt of her skin. Close enough that he could feel her heartbeat hammering against his. Close enough to lose everything.

And just as our lips brushed, just as the world tilted toward something unstoppable-

A knock slammed against the door.

They jerked apart like they had been burned. Breathing hard, shattered.

“Mission update!” someone called from the hallway. “Emergency meeting downstairs!”

Satoru stared at her, wide-eyed, wrecked. And she stared back, cheeks flushed, hand still tangled in Satoru’s.

Neither of them moved. Neither of them could.

[berryispunk]

Meet The Characters

*drumroll* Now that Rain Down on Me has wrapped, it’s time for a new challenge—and a new pairing. Starting in May, I’ll be joining @thedrabblecollective’s drabble challenge (again). But instead of keeping it simple with a cohesive story, I went full chaos and built an entirely new AU to set these in.

Today, you’ll meet the female OC and the AU version of Frankie. Tomorrow—before the challenge officially kicks off—I’ll post the intro story for the Like A Song Stuck In My Head universe.

Drabbles start after that, and then we’ll keep their story going. I’m so excited. Join me?

Okay... let's start

Firefly (Elena Quinn, 27)

Elena grew up in a small town on the East Coast. Her mother worked two jobs, her father wasn’t around, and she was raised in the back corners of bookstores and the cramped quiet of the public library. She fell in love with words before she ever believed in people. She got a scholarship—barely—made it out and into a university. Studied literature like it could save her. It almost did. But when her mom got sick, everything changed. Bills, part-time jobs, a sudden drop in grades. She left school, just for a semester. The semester became a year. Then forever. She drifted for a while. Waitressing, bartending, couch surfing. Ended up in a city she never meant to stay in, thinking it’d be a stopover. It wasn’t. She found The Shack by accident—needed a job, and they needed someone who could throw a bottle at a drunk without flinching. She stayed. Against all odds, she found something like home in the noise and neon. She’s sharp-edged and world-weary, but loyal as hell. Still reads poetry on her breaks. Keeps a notebook under the bar, filled with half-finished stories and old quotes that remind her who she used to be. She has poetry tattoos, too—like “no rain, no flowers” inked gently along her collarbone. Her hair’s been dyed red for years, and despite the sticky Florida heat, her favorite weather is rain. Autumn is her season. Always has been. She’s a hopeless romantic who pretends not to be. Keeps everyone at arm’s length—everyone except Donna, the owner of The Shack, who stepped in like a second mom when her own passed. She’s a free spirit through and through, with a soft spot for strays—people, pets, all of them. That’s why she volunteers at the local shelter, no questions asked. She doesn’t tell many people her real name. Most just call her Firefly. Maybe because she glows a little, even when she doesn’t mean to.

Francisco Morales "Fish" (36) and Thorns of August

Band Members

Francisco "Fish" Morales – lead guitarist

Santiago “Pope” Garcia – vocals / rhythm guitar

Benny Miller – drums

Will “Ironhead” Miller – bass

They didn’t start as a band. They started as soldiers. Brothers. The kind who bled for each other—and for things they still don’t speak about. Frankie had always had music. His dad taught him guitar when he was a kid, and it followed him—into war, into addiction, into every broken piece of his life. After getting kicked out of the army for coke and smashing his last guitar in a rage, he thought it was over. Until the mission with Santi went south. The drugs stopped working. The music came back. Pope gave him a guitar, and they started jamming in his garage. No plan. Just grief, noise, and the hope something might stick. They named themselves Thorns of August, after Tom—their brother, their glue. His death haunted everything. So they played. The Shack was the first real stage. The crowd was small, but it felt like something. That’s where Frankie saw her—Firefly. All red hair and poetry tattoos, sharp tongue and soft eyes. She didn’t care about the music or the band or his damage. She cared about who he was when the noise stopped. And that terrified him. He was high most nights, drowning in the abundance of nothing fame offered. But he still showed up—for her, mostly. Until he didn’t. One fight, one broken night, and they were banned from The Shack. He lost her and never said what he meant to. Now their songs climb charts. They’re on movie soundtracks. But Frankie still mourns the girl behind the bar—and every song he writes is about her, even if no one knows.

main masterlist

tags: @speaktothehandpeasants @kakiki3 @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @capuccinodoll @almostfoxglove @jolapeno @whirlwindrider29 @sheepdogchick3 @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @brittmb115 @greenwitchfromthewoods @diabaroxa @glycerinrivers @biapascal @copperhalfcent @beaniebailey @thepilatesprincess @axshadows @kirsteng42 @joelsgoodgirl @ellenmunn @matchalov3 @canadianfangirl-95 @picketniffler @hotforpedro @tuquoquebrute @noovaarq @warmdragonfly @theanothersherlockian @littleluc @76bookworm76 @inept-the-magnificent @confusedpuffin @wheatmaze @rav3n-pascal22 @picketniffler @lostinmyownmaze

[glitchy-npc]

hai… 41 or 47 for whoever you want <3

41 sitting close and knees touching - chentega, pre hb. prompts here.

It's fine Wei tells himself for probably the hundredth time.

It's fine that Ricardo's knee is pressed warmly against his own. The booths at Hoots aren't very big and they both have long legs so it was practically inevitable. Besides, Ricardo always likes to take up space and has never been shy about touch.

That has always been part of the problem. Warm handshakes that never shied from the mechanical nature of Wei's, a clasp on the shoulder that lingers too long, unapologetic two armed hugs with an extra squeeze before release. Ricardo is a lot and even years later Wei is still getting used to it. If he'll get used to it, instead of zeroing in on every little detail every time it happens.

Never fall for strait guys had always been the rule but having a crush on your best friend is fine, right? Normal. Besides, that's the best thing about a crush, Wei can simply keep it to himself. No one has to know, certainly not Ricardo — its not like someone could crack open his mind and learn all his secrets.

Well, one person could, potentially, and they are sitting across from Ricardo pretending to listen to his story but Wei can see how often their eyes dart towards potential exits. He does it too, out of habit. One more mystery. One more reason to keep his shields up.

Ricardo starts bouncing his leg like he always does when talking animatedly, especially when he's half way to drunk. Wei doesn't even think about it, no plan, just a reflex, as he places his hand on Ricardo's knee. The bouncing stops even if the stream of words do not. Wei lets his hand linger there and if Ricardo notices he doesn't say anything, doesn't draw attention to it.

Wei catches Sidestep's eyes dart briefly to him before back down at their beer and he removes his hand from Ricardo's knee. No need for anyone to get any ideas. Wei can keep his hands and thoughts to himself. He's good at that. It was just a touch to keep Ricardo from shaking the table. That's all.

It's perfectly fine.

[crazydestinymilkshake]

Caitlin Clark x Kate Martin Ch 19

Disclaimer: This is my first time writing a fic! Any feedback is welcome. Friends -> lovers, Caitlin's gay-awakening. I obviously don't own any of the rights to these characters etc.

NSFW: Wlw, fxf etc, smut, all that good stuff.

March Madness P2 Freshman Year

The hotel smelled like burnt coffee, stale air, and bleach that couldn’t quite cover the mildew.

Caitlin sat hunched at a corner table in the lobby breakfast room, sleeves swallowed over her hands, hood pulled up like armor.

She stirred her oatmeal like it had wronged her personally. Slow. Sharp. Over and over.

Kate watched from three tables away, her paper cup of coffee cooling untouched in her hands.

The whole team moved quieter that morning. Not scared, exactly. Not defeated.

Just... braced.

Like they could feel something building, low and electric, just beneath the surface — and none of them were brave enough to name it.

Kate caught Gabby’s eye once — a shrug, a half-smile — but neither of them could fake it.

The TV in the corner blared muted headlines no one cared about. A fluorescent light above the cereal bar buzzed and flickered.

Across the room, Caitlin tapped her spoon against the edge of her bowl. Once. Twice. Three times.

Kate counted.

Counted the way she always did when she didn’t know how to reach her. Counted because it gave her something to hold onto when everything else felt like it was slipping.

They’d been here before — big games, big stakes, big fear.

But this — this was different.

The air was heavier. Sharper. Like it was choosing sides, and it wasn’t choosing them.

Kate stood, finally. Moved across the room.

Her chair scraped too loud against the cheap tile when she sat down across from Caitlin.

Caitlin didn’t look up. Just kept digging her spoon into the same cold oatmeal, over and over, like she could find an answer in the mush.

Kate wanted to say a hundred things. Wanted to reach across the table, grab her wrists, and say — "You don’t have to be perfect for me to love you."

Instead, she said, soft and steady, “Eat something.”

Caitlin’s mouth twisted. A flicker of anger, or shame, or something messier that didn’t have a name.

“Not hungry,” she muttered, barely above a whisper.

Kate leaned in — elbows on the scratched laminate. Close enough that Caitlin couldn’t pretend she was alone.

"Okay," Kate said. "Then just sit with me."

Caitlin dropped her spoon. The clatter was too loud in the quiet room. She pressed her fists into the sleeves of her hoodie, like she could disappear inside herself if she just tried hard enough.

Kate’s heart cracked.

She reached out — slow, careful — and brushed her knuckles over Caitlin’s.

Barely a touch.

A whisper of contact.

But Caitlin’s shoulders eased, just a fraction. A fraction was enough.

"Big day," Kate said. Voice low. Even. Like she was offering a hand in the dark.

Caitlin nodded, jerky and fast. Blinking like it might hold her together.

Kate stroked her knuckles again. Not asking. Not fixing. Just staying.

"I’ve got you," she said, so quietly it barely made it across the table.

Caitlin squeezed her eyes shut for a second.

When she opened them again, her face was still raw, but there was something steadier underneath the wreckage.

Kate smiled — small, wrecked, real.

"Let’s go win it," she said.

Caitlin smiled back — cracked and crooked — but it was a smile.

The last real one of the day.

They stood together.

Moved together.

Shoulder to shoulder into the storm. Hands brushing once — quick, electric — before they let the world catch up to them.

And neither of them looked back.

——

The game didn’t start badly.

It just didn’t start right.

Caitlin’s first shot rimmed out.

Her second clanged off the back iron.

Her third — a step-back she could normally hit in her sleep — barely grazed the rim.

She clenched her jaw so tight her temples ached.

She sprinted harder.

Passed sharper.

Yelled louder.

Kate played hard too — charges, rebounds, all the little things no one remembered except the ones who mattered.

She kept looking for Caitlin.

Kept hoping she’d catch.

She didn’t.

The crowd roared for UConn.

Every loose ball bounced the wrong way.

Every fifty-fifty call tilted against them.

Caitlin stopped smiling sometime in the second quarter.

Stopped looking at the bench.

Stopped looking at Kate.

By halftime, they were down nine.

In the locker room, Coach talked about heart.

About belief.

Caitlin stared at the whiteboard like it was written in a language she didn’t understand anymore.

Kate sat one bench over.

Close enough to feel her shaking.

Too far to touch.

When they jogged back out, Caitlin didn’t brush Kate’s hand like she usually did.

She kept her fists clenched at her sides.

Kate told herself it was okay.

It wasn’t.

 wasn’t a knife fight.

It wasn’t a heartbreaker.

It was a slow, merciless unraveling.

From the opening tip, UConn ran harder.

Cut sharper.

Hit shots Iowa couldn’t even get off.

Caitlin missed her first two threes after half.

Got bodied at the rim.

Screamed at the ref until Kate had to tug her back by the jersey.

Caitlin didn’t look at her.

She couldn’t.

Third quarter was a death march.

Every pass an interception.

Every loose ball bouncing UConn’s way. 

The lead ballooned.

Fifteen.

Seventeen.

Nineteen.

The crowd roared every time UConn hit another three.

Every time Caitlin missed another wild step-back.

By the start of the fourth quarter, the air was gone.

The fight was gone.

The hope was gone.

They weren’t going to win.

They weren’t even going to make it close.

Kate kept playing — diving for balls, taking charges, yanking rebounds away from taller, faster girls — but it was like bailing out a sinking ship with a thimble.

Final buzzer.

92–72.

Twenty points.

A blowout.

A beating.

Caitlin stood at midcourt, hands on her hips, jersey soaked through with sweat and humiliation.

Kate found her.

Didn’t touch her.

Didn’t speak.

Just stood near enough to catch her if she fell.

The handshake line was a blur.

The walk to the tunnel was worse.

Inside the locker room, nobody spoke.

Not even Coach.

Just the sound of sneakers squeaking on tile and Caitlin’s own heartbeat crashing in her ears.

Kate dropped onto the bench nearest her.

Silent. Solid. Safe.

But Caitlin didn’t reach for her.

Didn’t let herself.

Not here.

Not now.

Not when the whole season had slipped through her fingers like smoke.

When they finally trudged onto the bus back to the hotel, it was after midnight.

No one said anything.

Kate sat alone.

Back pressed to the window.

Watching Caitlin two rows ahead — stiff-backed, hollow-eyed, gripping the edge of the seat like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

Kate didn’t reach for her then either.

She let her hurt.

Because sometimes love meant not patching it too fast.

Sometimes it meant just staying close enough.

In case the fall was too far.

—-----

The world didn’t end after the UConn game. It just... got quieter.

No practices. No flights. No scouting reports taped to locker doors.

The first few mornings, Caitlin woke before her alarm — heart racing, mind buzzing — only to realize there was nowhere to be. Nothing to fight for. Nothing to win. Just classes. Just waiting. Just breathing.

She hated it. And she didn’t know how to say that without sounding stupid.

Kate didn’t push. She showed up with coffee most mornings. Sat at the kitchen table while Caitlin stared down her laptop, faked her way through discussion posts, picked at the strings of her hoodie until her fingers ached. Sometimes they didn’t talk at all. Sometimes Kate just kicked her foot under the table — gentle, anchoring — when the silence got too heavy.

It was the first time a season had ended and Caitlin hadn't felt like she was falling alone. She didn’t know how to explain it. Didn’t know how to thank her.

Classes started to come through in waves — grades posted, emails answered. Deadlines stopped looming like guillotines.

The ice on the sidewalks melted. The snow turned to cold rain. April curled into the corners of Iowa City without anyone asking.

The sky stayed gray for a week.

Rain dripped from the gutters. Puddles grew fat and heavy at the corners of sidewalks. Ice turned to water, and still, Caitlin didn't say much.

Kate didn’t push. She just stayed close enough.

And then, one Thursday afternoon, Caitlin knocked on her door — without warning, without a text — arms full of grocery bags.

Kate blinked at her. "Uh. Hi?"

Caitlin shoved past her, soaking wet from the rain, drops trailing from her hoodie. She dropped the bags onto the counter with a loud thunk.

"Baking," Caitlin said shortly.

Kate blinked again. "Baking?"

Caitlin shrugged, already yanking out bags of flour and sugar. "Gotta do something."

Kate closed the door. Locked it quietly. Leaned her back against it, watching Caitlin tear around the tiny kitchen like it had personally wronged her.

"You any good at it?" Kate asked after a beat.

Caitlin shot her a look — half-murderous, half-hysterical — that said, you want to find out?

Kate lifted her hands in surrender. "Far be it from me to question greatness."

Caitlin muttered something that sounded suspiciously like damn right, and turned back to the counter.

She moved with a kind of furious energy — not quite graceful, not quite clumsy. Like she was trying to outrun her own brain.

Kate didn’t interrupt. Just watched her measuring flour with wild, messy shakes of the bag. Watched her crack eggs too hard, swearing under her breath when the shell shattered.

"You’re getting it everywhere," Kate said fondly, after a while.

"Good," Caitlin muttered. "The kitchen deserves it."

Kate snorted. Came closer. Rested her hip against the counter.

"You know," she said, voice low, "you’ve got flour on your nose."

Caitlin froze mid-stir.

Crossed her eyes trying to see.

Kate grinned.

Caitlin wiped at her face with the sleeve of her hoodie — only succeeding in smearing it worse. Kate laughed. Caitlin scowled.

"You're enjoying this too much," Caitlin said darkly.

"Maybe," Kate admitted.

"You wanna help, or you wanna stand there looking pretty?"

Kate’s heart twisted so hard she almost had to lean on the counter.

"I’ll help," she said, somehow steady.

Caitlin shoved a bowl at her — fingers brushing, clumsy and warm — and said, "Mix."

So Kate mixed.

And Caitlin measured.

And the kitchen filled up — not with noise, not with conversation — but with something sweeter. Softer.

Caitlin dusted sugar across the counter like it was war paint. She cursed when the batter stuck to the spoon. She beamed — really, actually beamed — when the cookies started to smell good.

Kate stood there, elbow-deep in dishes, feeling like the world might be breaking open into something she didn’t have a name for yet.

And when the first batch came out — too big, too lumpy, definitely overbaked — Caitlin just plopped onto the floor with a cookie in her hand and said, mouth full:

"Still better than losing to UConn."

Kate slid down beside her.

Took a cookie.

Bumped their shoulders together.

And when Caitlin laughed — real and full and a little broken — Kate laughed too.

Not because everything was fixed.

It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t clean. Caitlin still had days when she curled into herself. Still had mornings when her chest ached from the sheer weight of wanting more and being terrified she didn’t deserve it.

But it wasn’t lonely. Not anymore.

The world didn’t end after the UConn game. It just... kept going. And somehow, somehow — with Kate’s hand in hers — Caitlin did too.

—---

They grabbed dinner at their usual place — the one across from campus with the shitty lighting and the worn booths and the milkshakes that came in metal cups bigger than Caitlin’s head.

Caitlin barely touched her burger.

Kate noticed. Of course she noticed. “You okay, superstar?”

Caitlin shrugged, poked at her fries. “Fine.”

Kate didn’t push. Just let her foot nudge Caitlin’s under the table. Let it stay there. Warm. Solid.

They talked about summer plans. Workouts. Volunteer shifts. Vacations teammates were planning.

Kate talked about Chicago — about her PT internship, about the city, about how McKenna had already found them a place. Caitlin nodded, smiled, laughed when she was supposed to.

But her chest ached.

She didn’t want to go home.

Didn’t want to sleep under her childhood posters.

Didn’t want to miss Kate.

The idea of weeks without seeing her in the gym, without sneaking looks in the weight room, without hearing her call her superstar under her breath—

It was stupid.

It was clingy.

It was real.

Her hand shook when she reached for her water glass and nearly dropped it.

“You don’t wanna go home,” Kate said softly.

Caitlin’s throat moved like she was swallowing glass. “No,” she whispered. “Not really.”

Kate squeezed her hand. “Talk to me.”

Caitlin let out a short laugh. “It’s not that it’s bad. It’s just…” She shook her head. “When I’m there, it’s like none of this happened. Like I’m still supposed to be the same person. The good kid. The easy one.

Kate nodded, slow and deliberate. “You’re not easy,” she said. “You never were.”

A small, tired smile flickered across Caitlin’s face. “I don’t wanna go back to pretending,” she said. Voice raw. “I don’t want to unlive all of this.”

Kate’s thumb brushed over her knuckles. “Then don’t.”

And without hesitation — like it was nothing, like it was just breathing — Kate reached across the sticky table and took Caitlin’s hand.

Held it. Anchored it.

The silence swelled between them, heavy but not hostile.

Then Kate said it — a blurt, a jolt, like it burst out of her chest before she could stop it.

“Come to Chicago with me.”

Caitlin blinked. Slow. Stunned. “What?”

Kate flushed, hands fisting in her lap.

Silence, stunned but not panicked. Like the air had shifted.

“I mean,” Kate stammered, “if you want. You could come too. To Chicago.” Her breath caught. “With me. Move in.”

The words dropped like a match. No taking them back.

Caitlin stared at her — open, wrecked, wide-eyed.

Kate rushed to explain. “I mean it. Not just visiting. Not temporary. I want you there. I want to wake up next to you. I want to walk in and see your shoes in the doorway. I want to love you unabashedly. And I want our friends to love us the way I love you.”

The words tumbled out — raw, bright, terrifying.

Caitlin’s fork clattered onto the plate.

Kate froze. “I’m not scaring you off, am I?”

“No,” Caitlin said quickly. “No, Katie.”

Kate held her breath.

“You’re asking me to… live with you?” Caitlin said, dazed.

Kate shrugged, half-smiling, half-terrified. “Kinda. Yeah.”

“And McKenna.”

“And McKenna,” Kate repeated, wincing. “Which… would mean kinda telling her.” “I mean—only if you want to. You don’t have to. Obviously. I just thought — it’s a two-bedroom, and McKenna already signed the lease, and—”

“Kate,” Caitlin interrupted — voice shaking. “Do you know what you’re asking me?”

Kate nodded. Fierce. Steady. Even as her mouth trembled.

“You’re the one who said it first,” she said quietly. “You said… maybe someday you’d tell Gabby. McKenna.”

Caitlin’s chest tightened. She remembered. God, she remembered.

“I’m not asking you to rush,” Kate said, voice steady but fraying at the edges. “I’m just... reminding you. Inviting you back to it.”

A beat. A breath. A whisper.

“If you still want it. If you want it with me.”

Caitlin looked down at her hands. Her whole body ached.

For home. For safety. For Kate.

“You want me to come?” she asked, soft. No flippancy. No armor. Just need.

“I want to live with you,” Kate said. Voice shaking now. “Not just in secret. Not just in hotel rooms and locker room corners. I want to come home to you. I want to make coffee with you. I want to fight over the thermostat and steal your sweatshirts and wake up to you stealing all the blankets.”

Caitlin’s eyes filled — wild, wet, terrified.

“You’re asking me to stop hiding,” she said. Like she couldn’t quite believe it.

“From the people who love us. From the people who matter.”

Caitlin pulled her hand free — just long enough to reach across the table and cradle Kate’s jaw.

“I’m scared,” she whispered. “It’s not you. It’s me. It’s… everything.”

Kate nodded, sure as stone. “I’m asking you to let me love you out loud.”

Caitlin’s throat locked.

“You want—” her voice cracked, “you want me… out loud.”

Kate nodded again, harder. “I want you everywhere. In the mornings. At night. On the days where nothing happens and it’s just us and the city. I want to walk in and find your shoes by the door. I want to fight about takeout. I want to wake up with your hair in my face.”

She stopped.

Because Caitlin was crying. Quiet, shaking. No sobs. No drama. Just tears slipping down her cheeks like gravity.

Kate reached out — hands trembling — and took her wrist.

“You don’t have to say yes,” she said fiercely. “You don’t have to say anything.”

“And you’re sure?” Caitlin rasped. “You’re sure you want me?”

Kate’s voice cracked.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

Caitlin looked down at their hands. At Kate’s thumb tracing frantic little circles on her skin, like she could memorize her by touch alone.

“I’m scared,” Caitlin whispered. “I’m so scared, Kate.”

Kate squeezed her hand tight. “Then we’ll handle it together,” she said. “I’m not scared of you falling. I’m scared of not trying.”

The lump in Caitlin’s throat cracked wide open.

“You don’t have to decide right now,” Kate rushed. “Or even say yes. It’s just—fuck, Cait, I—” She dragged a hand through her hair, eyes darting away. “I don’t want to do this without you.”

“I want to be where you are,” Caitlin whispered. “I just… I need to figure out how to be seen and not fall apart.” She swallowed hard. “I need time.”

Kate nodded. Grounded. Steady.

“I’ll wait,” she said. “As long as you need. I’ll wait.”

The waitress dropped the check.

Neither of them moved.

Caitlin stared down at their hands.

At the terrifying, holy, breathtaking possibility sitting between them.

A life.Not a secret. Not a season. Not a series of stolen hours.

A life.

Caitlin laughed — broken, breathless. “I love you so much it scares me.”

Kate’s thumb brushed the inside of her wrist. “Good,” she said. “Means we’re doing it right.”

Wild. Open. Theirs.

“I’ll think about it,” Caitlin whispered.

Kate smiled — small, trembling, sure.

“I’ll be here,” she said. “Whenever you’re ready.”

And Caitlin, for the first time, let herself believe it.

—-----

Caitlin sat low in the chair, arms crossed tight over her chest, hoodie pulled up around her neck like armor.

She didn’t look at Grayson. Couldn’t. The words in her throat felt sharp enough to cut.

“So,” Grayson said, voice low, steady, “last one for a while.”

Caitlin shrugged. The kind of shrug that felt more like a flinch.

“You're not saying much,” Grayson observed.

Caitlin kicked the leg of the chair. Picked at a loose string on her sleeve until it unraveled halfway to her palm.

“I don’t know what to say,” she muttered.

“Try.”

Silence stretched thin between them. Caitlin could feel it pressing against her ribs.

Finally she breathed out — rough, uneven.

“I’m moving to Chicago.”

She hated how her voice cracked halfway through it. Hated how it made her sound — like she was twelve again, asking to sleep over at a friend’s house. Like she was still waiting for someone to say no.

Grayson didn’t react right away. Just watched her. That same stillness. Not approval. Not judgment. Just presence.

"With Kate," Caitlin added. Because if she didn’t say it out loud, it would feel like lying. Like hiding. Like failing.

The air felt tighter suddenly — like the room had shrunk around her. Her chest ached. Something pinched sharp behind her ribs. Like a hand reaching in and twisting.

"And that feels—?" Grayson prompted, gently.

Caitlin’s eyes dropped to her lap. She shook her head.

“Wrong,” she whispered. “And right. And like... I’m making a mistake I’m already too deep into."

Grayson didn’t argue. Didn’t try to clean it up. She just let the silence stretch wide, giving Caitlin space to step into it — or run from it.

Caitlin pressed her palms into her thighs. Hard enough to hurt.

“It’s supposed to be a good thing,” she said, voice cracking again. “It’s supposed to be brave. Right? Moving in with the person you love.” She let out a breathless laugh — sharp and ugly and too loud in the quiet room. “It doesn’t feel brave,” she said. “It feels fucking impossible.”

Her nails dug into the fabric of her sleeves. She hated how hot her face felt, how tight her throat was.

"I keep thinking about... about all the versions of me I have to kill off to do it," she said. Voice quieter now. More dangerous. “The good daughter. The straight-A student. The easy one. The polite one. The one who never made anyone uncomfortable.” Each word came out like glass breaking inside her. "The one who never said no. Never raised her voice. Never asked for more than what she was handed." She swallowed hard. "The one who earned love by disappearing."

Her hands were shaking now. She tucked them under her legs to make them stop.

"If I do this," Caitlin whispered, "if I go... then I’m not her anymore. I’m not the version they know. I’m not the safe one."

She looked up at Grayson then — eyes red, mouth tight, heart wide open and terrified.

"And I don’t know if what’s left is lovable."

Silence. Not the kind that avoids. The kind that sees.

"She looked so damn hopeful when she asked. Like she already saw it — us, the apartment, the morning coffee. What if I ruin it before it even starts?"

Grayson stayed quiet. Held the space. Let the weight settle instead of rushing to lift it.

Caitlin’s voice dropped even further, like it was only meant for the walls.

"I want her," she said. "I want this life. I want to wake up in a room with her and drink coffee we made too strong and fight about dishes and let it all be real."

She looked down again. Pressed her teeth into the inside of her cheek.

“But I have to come out.”

There it was. Thrown into the middle of the room like something bloody and trembling.

Grayson stayed quiet. She knew better than to fill the space too soon.

Caitlin pressed her fists into her thighs.

"To McKenna. To Gabby.”

The room felt too small for what Caitlin needed to say.

She picked at the seam of her sweatshirt until a hole opened up under her thumbnail.

Grayson waited. Not impatient. Just steady. Like she could wait forever if Caitlin needed her to.

Caitlin swallowed.

Twice.

Finally, her voice broke out — rough and fast: "I don’t know how to tell them." She dug her nails into her palms, like she could hold herself together if she just held tight enough. "I don’t know how to say it," Caitlin whispered. "Without — without making it worse. Without making it a thing."

Grayson nodded once. "Okay," she said. Calm. Matter-of-fact. "Let’s talk about it." Caitlin blinked at her. She hadn't expected that. She hadn't even realized she was asking for help until Grayson gave it. "What are you most afraid of?" Grayson asked.

"I can picture it. We’re sitting in McKenna’s living room. Gabby’s on the floor, probably eating Hot Cheetos, and I’m just… there. Frozen. Trying to make my mouth work." 

"And what if it does?" Grayson asked, gentle but relentless.

Caitlin flinched. "I don't want to be a project," she said. "Or — or a cause. Or a fucking mascot." The words ripped out of her, raw and furious. "I just want to be me," Caitlin said. "And have them still — still want me around."

Grayson’s voice stayed steady. "And if they do?"

"Then... then maybe it’s real." Grayson leaned forward slightly.

"You’re not asking them to change who you are," she said. "You’re letting them see who you’ve always been."

Caitlin squeezed her eyes shut. "It doesn’t feel that simple."

"It’s not," Grayson said. "But it’s true."

Caitlin stayed quiet for a long minute. Then: "I don’t even know what words to use," she said. She sounded desperate. Small. "I don’t even know how to start."

Grayson smiled — soft, not pitying. "Then let's figure it out." She uncapped her pen… Turned over a blank page. "Start from what you want them to know."

Caitlin breathed out, ragged.

"I’m in love with Kate," she said. "I’m happy. I’m scared, but — but I’m happy."

"Good," Grayson said, jotting it down.

"And it’s not new," Caitlin added. "It’s not some — some phase. It’s real."

"Keep going."

"I’m still me," Caitlin said. Voice shaking now. "I’m still — still the person they trusted before."

Grayson nodded. "You’re doing great," she said. "Keep going."

Caitlin pressed her fist to her mouth. "And if they can’t... can’t be okay with that," she said, "then maybe they didn’t know me at all."

The words stunned her as they left her mouth. Like they’d been living inside her ribs, waiting for her to set them loose.

Grayson’s smile deepened. "You don’t owe them comfort," she said. "You owe yourself the truth."

Caitlin wiped her face on her sleeve. "Can we —" She stopped. Bit her lip. "Can we practice?"

Grayson didn’t blink. "Of course."

Caitlin took a deep, shaky breath. Imagined McKenna’s confused face. Gabby’s bright, too-fast smile. The way silence might fall heavy and hard across the table.

Her heart hammered against her ribs.

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again.

"I’m with Kate," she said. "And... I love her. And I want you to know that because I trust you. Because I want you to see me. All of me." Her voice wobbled on the last words.

Grayson smiled — proud. Fierce. "Again," she said.

Caitlin closed her eyes.

Said it again.

Stronger this time.

Less apology.

More truth.

"I’m with her," Caitlin said. "And it’s not a secret. And it’s not wrong."

Her chest ached. But it was a good ache. A growing ache. 

Grayson nodded once. "You don't have to explain," she said. "You just have to be."

Caitlin laughed — broken and beautiful. "I’m terrified," she said.

"I know," Grayson said. "And you're ready."

Caitlin sat back in the chair, breathing like she’d just run miles. "I don’t want to hide anymore," she whispered.

"Then don't," Grayson said. "As messy as it is. As scary as it feels. Don't."

Caitlin wiped her face again. "I’m gonna tell them," she said.

Her hands still shook. Her mouth still tasted like fear. But her spine stayed straight.

"I’m gonna tell them," she said again. "And I’m gonna go to Chicago… And I’m gonna build a life."

Grayson smiled — sad, proud, sure. "You already are."

Caitlin stood.

Crossed the room.

She hugged Grayson — hard, fast, real.

And when she pulled away, she was already halfway out the door.

Already stepping into the life she was brave enough to claim.

—----

The booth was too tight. Four bodies wedged in worn leather, fry baskets sweating grease onto napkins, Gabby mid-story about crashing her sister’s bridal shower with a fake ID.

Kate laughed into her soda. McKenna slouched, smiling.

Caitlin hadn’t said much.

She sat pressed against the wall, tracing the condensation down her glass, knee brushing Kate’s under the table.

The conversation turned to summer.

Gabby teased McKenna about moving couches again. Kate opened her mouth to say something about internships.

And Caitlin said it before she lost her nerve. “I’m moving to Chicago.”

The table went quiet — not frozen, not weird. Just… listening.

Kate glanced at her — quick, sharp, but steady. Didn’t interrupt.

Caitlin forced herself to meet their eyes — McKenna first, then Gabby.

“With Kate," she said. "We’re moving in together.”

Kate didn’t shift. Didn’t tense. Just waited.

Caitlin swallowed. Felt her whole body bracing for impact.

“We’re dating,” she said. Voice thin. Barely above the diner noise. “We’ve been in love for a while.”

She could’ve stopped there. Should’ve, maybe.

But she didn’t.

"I’m in love with her."

Soft. Raw. Final.

Like dropping a stone into deep water and waiting to hear if it ever hit the bottom.

The words sat there. Real. Unapologetic. Bigger than the space between them.

Gabby’s mouth opened slightly. McKenna blinked. No one spoke. No one laughed.

Caitlin kept going because she had to.

“I didn’t want to hide it anymore,” she said. “Not from you. Not from anyone who matters.”

Her heart hammered behind her ribs. She could feel herself trembling.

She hated it. She loved it. She needed it.

Caitlin swallowed hard. Felt the words building, shaking loose from the place she'd kept them buried for years.

“It’s not just about us," she said, voice rough. "It’s... this is the first time I’ve ever said it out loud. That I’m gay.” She didn’t look at them. Couldn't. She picked at the edge of her paper napkin until it tore apart in her hands.

"I spent my whole life... surviving it," she said. "Before I even knew what it was." She laughed — short and somber. "I learned how to smile right. How to say the right things. How to nod when my teammates joked about girls ‘turning gay’ if the locker rooms weren’t policed enough. How to laugh when a coach told us no one would recruit a girl who 'looked too butch' in her media photos."

Her throat ached. Her whole body did. "I learned that being perfect was protection," she said. "Perfect daughter. Perfect player. Perfect girl who never made anyone... uncomfortable." The fry basket blurred in front of her. "And when I started feeling it — when I started looking at girls the way I wasn’t supposed to — I didn’t even let myself want it. Because wanting it meant risking it. Basketball. Scholarships. Home."

She wiped at her face, furious and trembling. "I buried it so deep I forgot it had a shape," she whispered. "And then—"

She finally looked at Kate.

"And then her."

The table was so quiet it felt like the whole diner had faded away.

Caitlin forced herself back to Gabby and McKenna. Felt her spine try to fold, and made it stay straight.

"And now it’s mine," she said. "Before it’s gossip. Before it’s a headline. Before it’s someone’s fucking thinkpiece about what girls' sports are turning into." Her voice cracked.

"I’m proud of it," she said. "I’m proud of her. I’m proud of us."

"But I need—" She broke off. Swallowed the shards of the words. "I need it to be mine just a little longer." She pressed her palms flat against the table.

"So I’m begging you," she said, voice barely a whisper now. "Please don’t tell anyone. Not the team. Not the coaches. Not anyone."

Her throat closed around the last words.

"Please let me hold onto it while it’s still something good."

Kate’s hand found Caitlin’s under the table.

Not squeezing. Not shaking. Just there.

Caitlin blinked hard, grounding herself in it.

McKenna cleared her throat — quiet, sure. “We hear you,” she said. Voice low. Serious. “We’re with you. This stays with us.”

Gabby nodded, eyes a little too bright. “Of course,” she said. “Cross my heart.”

Caitlin breathed out, slow and shaky. The air didn’t feel lighter. But it didn’t crush her.

She squeezed Kate’s hand once, grateful and aching. “Thanks,” she said, voice raw but real.

And just like that — the tension thinned, stretched, softened. McKenna leaned back, grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. 

“Just—seriously," she said, deadpan. "Try not to have too much lesbian sex in our apartment this summer, okay? Thin walls, people.”

Gabby snorted so hard she nearly knocked over her Coke.

Kate barked a laugh against Caitlin’s shoulder.

Caitlin groaned, covering her face.

“Oh my god,” she muttered.

McKenna shrugged, all innocence. “I’m just saying. Some of us like to sleep.”

Gabby wiped tears of laughter from her eyes.  “I’m just excited to say I lived with a campus power couple before they got married and bought a golden retriever."

Kate turned red and kicked Gabby under the table.

“I’m so happy for you,” Gabby blurted. “I mean—like, wow, Caitlin, that’s—" She cut herself off, face flushing.  "You guys are, like, endgame, huh?”

Kate snorted softly into her glass. Caitlin felt her whole body flush.

"It wasn’t—it wasn’t easy," Caitlin said, slow and careful, "figuring it out."

Gabby nodded, earnest now. “Yeah. I mean—shit. I can’t even figure out if I’m into my Chem lab partner or just obsessed with their handwriting. So like. Respect.”

Caitlin huffed a laugh — sharp, startled, real.

“We didn’t plan it,” Kate said, finally speaking up, voice low and steady. “It wasn’t... some grand master scheme.”

“We fought it,” Caitlin added, rolling her eyes. “Hard.”

Gabby gasped dramatically, clutching her chest. “Enemies to lovers? Training montages?? Forbidden love in the trenches???”

Kate snorted. “More like—two idiots ignoring the obvious.”

McKenna cracked a grin. “Yeah, that sounds about right. Peak dumbass behavior.”

Gabby leaned across the table, eyes wide, fully invested now. “Okay, wait, wait. How long has this been happening? I demand a timeline. I demand footnotes. I demand...an annotated bibliography.”

Caitlin groaned, slouching down into the booth like she could disappear into the vinyl. “Halloween,” she muttered.

Gabby shrieked, loud enough that half the diner turned. “Halloween? Halloween?! You’ve been making me third-wheel since October?!”

Kate looked smug. “Could’ve been worse. We could’ve started making out during team lifts.”

McKenna fake-gagged. “I’m literally going to have to bleach my brain.”

Gabby waved her arms around dramatically. “I want a refund on every group hang I thought was platonic.”

Caitlin laughed — really laughed — the tension bleeding out of her chest for the first time in what felt like months. "It wasn’t like that," Caitlin said, cheeks burning.

Kate looked at her — that soft, private look she almost never used in public — and shrugged. "It kinda was."

Gabby groaned. "You’re both the worst. I’m gonna sue."

McKenna shook her head, smiling. "Leave them alone," she said. "It’s good. It’s real."

Caitlin sat back in the booth. Let the noise wash over her. Gabby demanding how she hadn’t picked up on it. McKenna asked if they were planning to decorate the apartment with a hundred framed photos of each other.

Kate’s knee bumped against hers under the table, soft and sure.

For the first time in her life, Caitlin didn’t flinch away from being seen.

She had said it. Out loud. In the middle of greasy fries and stupid stories and a table full of people she loved.

She had said it.

And the world — her world — hadn’t ended.

—--

The apartment was dark except for the kitchen light.

Kate dropped her keys in the bowl by the door and toed off her sneakers without looking. Caitlin followed behind her — slow, dragging, hoodie sleeves shoved over her hands.

Neither of them said much.

It wasn’t silence like earlier — tight and scared. It was something else now. A worn-out kind of full. Like every part of Caitlin’s body had finally exhaled and didn’t know how to pull itself back together yet.

Kate moved without thinking — grabbing the half-eaten tray of brownies off the counter, shoving two onto a plate, and setting it down like an offering.

"Eat," she said, voice too soft to be a command.

Caitlin blinked at the plate. Blinked at her.

Then — slow, almost shy — she climbed up to sit on the counter. Pulled her knees to her chest. Reached for a brownie.

Kate leaned against the opposite counter, arms crossed, just watching her.

Watching her be here. Be real. Be hers.

Caitlin took a bite. Chewed. Sighed like it was the first real thing she’d tasted all day.

Kate’s throat burned.

She pushed off the counter and crossed the tiny kitchen. Stopped right in front of Caitlin’s knees.

Caitlin looked up at her — sleepy, slow, open in a way that made Kate want to fall to her knees.

Kate set her hands on either side of Caitlin’s thighs, boxing her in. Not trapping. Anchoring.

She didn’t ask permission. She didn’t need to.

She just leaned in and kissed the corner of Caitlin’s mouth — soft and slow, like saying thank you with her whole body.

When she pulled back, Caitlin was smiling — small and private and wrecked.

Kate brushed her knuckles over Caitlin’s cheek. Breathed her in like a prayer.

"You didn’t have to do that," she said quietly.

Caitlin shrugged — the smallest motion. "I wanted to."

Kate swallowed hard.

"I love you so much," she said. "You don’t even know."

Caitlin tipped her head forward, resting her forehead against Kate’s.

"I know," she whispered.

Kate squeezed her eyes shut.

She wanted to give Caitlin something for it. Something huge. Something stupid. The city skyline. The moon. Every stupid Taylor Swift song that ever meant too much at the wrong time.

Instead, she just kissed her again. Kissed her like she didn’t have anything else to offer but everything she already was.

And Caitlin — Caitlin kissed her back, brownie still in one hand, hoodie sleeves still bunched over her fingers, legs swinging off the counter like she could float if she let herself.

Kate finally pulled back, breathing Caitlin in like she couldn’t get enough.

“You’re unbelievable,” she whispered, grinning against Caitlin’s jaw. "Like, I think I might actually die from how much I love you."

Caitlin huffed a little laugh — the tiniest thing — and bumped her forehead against Kate’s again. "You’re such a sap," she muttered.

Kate beamed, no shame whatsoever.  "Yeah, and you’re stuck with me."

Caitlin took another lazy bite of her brownie, chocolate smudging the corner of her mouth. Kate wiped it away with her thumb, like it was the most important thing in the world.

"Come here," Kate said, tugging gently at Caitlin’s hoodie sleeve.

They slid down together — Caitlin off the counter, Kate steadying her with hands firm at her waist — until they were both sitting on the kitchen floor.

Backs against the cabinets. Legs tangled. Brownie plate abandoned somewhere between them.

Caitlin tucked herself into Kate’s side without thinking — head on her shoulder, knees bumping Kate’s thigh, one hand fisted in the hem of Kate’s hoodie.

Kate wrapped both arms around her, tucking Caitlin in like she was something precious.

Neither of them spoke for a while.

The kitchen light buzzed softly overhead.

The smell of chocolate and sugar and skin and summer filled the space between them.

Caitlin’s breaths evened out slowly, her whole body sinking into Kate’s.

Kate pressed her lips to the top of Caitlin’s head — once, twice — just to remind herself she could.

Just to say, without words: you’re safe, you’re loved, you’re mine, you’re free.

"I would’ve waited forever," Kate said into her hair.

Caitlin didn’t answer right away. Just curled closer.

"You didn’t have to," she murmured finally, voice thick with sleep and sugar and love. "I was already yours."

Kate closed her eyes against the sudden, stupid, overwhelming rush of feeling.

If she could’ve folded Caitlin up and kept her tucked against her ribs forever, she would have. 

If she could’ve spun the whole world out of this moment — this kitchen, this girl, this life they were building — she would have.

Instead, she just tightened her arms around her.

And Caitlin let her.

Let herself be held.

Let herself be loved.

Let herself be hers.

No hiding. No fear.

Just this.

—--------

The apartment looked smaller with half the drawers yanked open.

Boxes towered in the corner. Sharpie-scrawled labels. Old textbooks. Kitchen towels no one had washed properly in weeks.

Caitlin sat cross-legged on the floor, sorting through the bedroom drawer. Batteries. Takeout menus. Coins. 

And underneath it all — the vibrator.

She froze.

Kate, folding towels across the room, caught the way Caitlin stiffened. Her eyes flicked to the drawer. Back to Caitlin.

A beat.

"That one’s ours," she said, voice low. 

Caitlin plucked it out by the very end — like it might burn her — and dropped it onto the “deal with later” pile.

She meant to leave it there. Meant to let the moment pass — like she let so many moments pass, even now, even with Kate.

But something inside her — stubborn, reckless, hers — cracked open instead. “Where's the rest of them?”

Kate blinked. The towel sagged out of her hands. "The rest of what?" she asked — low, careful.  No smile. No rescue.

Caitlin fidgeted with the hem of her hoodie. “You know.”

Kate’s mouth twitched. "You’re gonna have to spell it out for me, Clark," she said. Soft. Teasing.

Giving Caitlin every chance to back out if she needed it.

Caitlin scowled at her. Cheeks burning. “The — the other stuff,” she muttered. “Didn’t you used to have—?" She gestured helplessly. "The other toys."

Kate dropped the towel in the laundry basket. Crossed the room — slow, careful — and sat down beside her.

Cross-legged. Shoulder to shoulder. The way they always fit when they didn’t know how to say the important things yet.

“I used to,” Kate said. Voice low. Even.  Like she was offering something delicate between her palms.

"I had stuff," Kate said — rough, unflinching. "Strap-ons. Harnesses. Toys. All of it." Caitlin picked at the fraying seam on her jeans. Made herself meet Kate’s eyes.

“And?” she asked.

Kate shrugged — a small, tight motion.

"I tossed them."

Caitlin stared at her.

"You tossed them?"

"Yeah."

"Like... in the garbage?"

Kate barked a laugh. "Yeah, Cait. Like in the garbage."

"Oh?" Caitlin asked.

Kate smiled — small, crooked. "Seemed appropriate."

Caitlin tucked her chin into her hoodie.  Half-hiding. Half-burning.

"Why?" she asked again. Because she needed to know. Needed to understand the shape of the life they were building.

Kate’s fingers found the hem of Caitlin’s hoodie. Fidgeted with the soft fabric. Didn’t pull. Just stayed there.

"Because I don’t want any of that coming with me," she said, voice rough.  "Into this. Into you."

Caitlin's throat locked. Kate kept talking, soft and sure, like she was laying bricks under their feet.

"I don't want you thinking you have to measure up to anything. Or anyone." She shook her head. Looked down. "And I don’t want to carry around ghosts." The room went very still. "I want everything with you to be new," Kate said. "I want it to be ours."

Caitlin sat back against the cabinet, breathing like she’d been hit. Ours.

Not a hand-me-down life. Not a reenactment.

Ours.

"You ever miss it?" Caitlin asked, rough and small.

Kate looked up. Met her straight on. "I don’t miss anything from before you."

The words sat between them — loud and soft at the same time. Caitlin scrubbed a hand over her face. "God, you're such a sap," she muttered, voice shaking.

Kate grinned.  "Yeah, well," she said, bumping Caitlin's knee with hers, "you're the one digging through the vibrator drawer like a little detective."

Caitlin groaned. Dropped her head onto Kate’s shoulder.

"Regret. Immediate regret," she mumbled into her hoodie.

Kate laughed — real and warm and alive.

"Too late now," she said, slinging an arm around Caitlin’s shoulders. "You opened Pandora’s drawer."

Caitlin snorted helplessly against her.

They sat like that for a while. Wrapped up in each other. Wrapped up in the life they were stupid, lucky, brave enough to keep building.

"If we ever... you know. Want new stuff."

Kate smiled — small, wrecked, real.

"Then we’ll get it," she said. Voice low. Rough. Sure. "Together."

A beat. A breath.

"And it'll only ever be ours."

Caitlin bit her lip.

"Only if it’s pink," she said, dead serious.

Kate choked on her own breath.

"Oh my god," she gasped. "You’re gonna make me walk into a sex shop and buy pink glitter shit, aren’t you?"

Caitlin nodded solemnly. "The gayer the better."

Kate buried her face in Caitlin’s hoodie, laughing so hard she almost tipped them over.

"You’re evil," she said.

"You’re stuck with me," Caitlin said smugly.

Kate tightened her arms around her.

"Good," she said. "So fucking good."

#wnba#kate martin#caitlin clark#wnba basketball#f/f fanfic#fluff#wnba players#womens basketball#katelin#kate x caitlin#katelinfanwrites#wlw#fanfic#headcanon#smut#wlw smut#uconn wbb#wbb#iowa wbb#iowa hawkeyes#wnba draft#uconn huskies#uconn women’s basketball#paige bueckers#paige x azzi#azzi fudd#paige buckets#iowa women’s basketball#wlw post#wlw nsft

[visanni]

My Harry Potter Reality

My name in this reality is Jade Diggory and I’m a half blooded ravenclaw.

Cedric and I were adopted by Amos Diggory, a black woman in my reality, looks like Gugu Mbatha Raw- when he was two and I was a baby, our parents having pasted away in the wizarding war. We’re distant neighbors to the Weasleys and the Lovegoods, living in a cozy little house, Cedric and I’s rooms even being attached by our bathroom (has two doors, one leading to my room and one leading to his, kinda like from Atypical for those who’ve seen that show). Before I shifted in 2022, I scripted out the ‘plot,’ so Cedric is alive and healthy, graduated as head boy, 22 years old attending Oxford, studying medicine and still dating the lovely Charlotte (Cho). Luna is kinda like my baby sis (oh and also she’s a shifter too) and Xeno is kinda like my uncle, since they live very close to us and our whole lives we did a lot of family activities together in the summer. I’m also sorta kinda close to Ginny and Neville because of that too since Ginny would sometimes come over to see Luna and Neville would sometimes take the train in the summer to spend a week or something with her. Though when we’re at school we pretty much just wave to each other in the corridors- and also I’m spared by Ginny’s terrifying fury whenever she’s in a mood. I’ve also been to the burrow a few times but whenever I’m there, I chat with the twins moreso than anyone (they’re ravenclaws just like me in my reality). But I remember when I was younger and would catch glimpses of Percy (as described in the novels; glasses, combed back hair, tall, muscular but lean, and a bitch in attitude) I literally wouldn’t be able to function like I would be GOBSMACKED by his presence. He didn’t acknowledge my existence but fucking everyone knew I had a big fat juicy crush on him apparently. Ginny, Molly, THE TWINS- the teasing was insufferable. But I’ll get more in to that later…

My best friend is Padma Patil and my closest friend after her is Daphne Greengrass, but I call her daffodil 🌼 Padma and I are very similar, and though I am a bit more reserved, she’s always able to bring out my inner extrovert. She’s extremely energetic like 90 percent of the time, likes to listen to the radio and is a HUGE gossip (so am I). Daphne on the other hand is the complete opposite, even quieter than me, not because she’s shy but just because she’s chill like that. She gets us invites to slytherin parties (they are invite only) but we honestly don’t like them very much because everyone just gets drunk and the music is somber and pretty much everyone just chats and plays card games. BUT it’s okay because even she herself prefers hufflepuff parties (which tbh is kinda similar but the music is little more upbeat and everyone gets high instead) mainly because it’s ofc where her girlfriend Hannah Abbott is.

And not to be braggadocios heh… but because Cedric is my brother, I’m honestly kinda popular. I’m friends with lots of people and lots of people know me. A few people I’m good with besides the ones mentioned are Harry and Susan Bones… and that’s pretty much it. Susie had a crush on me for a while (get in line girl I’m sorry) and we went to the yule ball together (as friends) but now we don’t really talk as much anymore which is kinda sad because I’m pretty sure it’s because she knows nothing is gonna happen between us. As for Harry, y’all already know bout him so I’m just gonna rundown a few different things in my reality compared to this one. When he murked Voldy as a babe, he indeed got him for good. Did Professor Quirrell try to bring him back? Yerp. But he failed and then nothing happened after that. And yes the infamous Sirius Black was able to get his innocence proved but no Harry doesn’t live with him. And because of all this hubba jubba, everyone kinda unofficially calls the era we live in after him, and there’s tons of books written about his anomaly and biographies with quotes from Remus, Sirius, and Emmeline Vance (mainly to due with their friendship with his late parents).

But back to moi- my roommates are Padma ofc, Terry Boot, and Richard Moon, but everyone just calls him Ricky. Terry looks like Kedar Williams Stirling, pretty hot but unfortunately a nerd. Him and I are two of the six ravenclaw prefects and our job pretty much just entails looking out for the younger kids, sitting in as teacher assistants for the younger kids, and party planning for the ravenclaw house. Ricky is a blonde, blue eyed quidditch playing whore (in a fun way) and him and Terry are lowkey best friends. He also has an older sister named Elizabeth who’s also in ravenclaw and she is GORGEOUS. She looks like Kennedy Walsh and for a long time I wanted to be like her so bad but I digress…

As for what’s happening at the moment in my reality, I’m in my last year of hogwarts (19 years old because hogwarts’ starting age is 13 in my reality) and I’ve been pretty much just been writing lots of essays and doing lots of needless projects. I have a really good job set up for me in the Magical Creatures department in the ministry so yea just lots of busy work it feels like.

Now let’s get into my love life heh… Over the summer I had an internship at the ministry- under Percy. This was ALL before I had met my s/o. So it was very heavily scripted before I shifted there and was unnecessarily drama filled lmao. Anyways… the second to last time I had shifted there I was living with Percy in his flat for the summer (sleeping in a different room) and nearly dying with every teency tiniest interaction we had. At this point he couldn’t ignore my obvious crush and started to reciprocate a bit (as I had scripted mwahaha). He would chuckle at my lackluster jokes, brush my arm and tell me I’m doing a good job, even leaving work early to walk with me back home. I had the weasley goods in the bag UNTIL, I shifted back and met my s/o. Naturally I had wanted to shift with him here. Show him around my abode and have a little red headed weasley baby. But… he didn’t want to shift as Percy. Didn’t see himself as him and even told me he didn’t like him. In fact, he told me he was a bit jealous of him seeing as I spent years drooling over him. So for a while I didn’t shift back to my Harry Potter reality. Didn’t want to without my s/o and didn’t even know what I would do once I did. Like how the frick do I get myself out of a new budding relationship where I literally live with him… Recently though, my s/o finally told me who he would like shift as if I were to go back. Zacharias mf Smith. That little hufflepuff cunt. I was a bit in disbelief at first, but I guess I shouldn’t have been too surprised. I mean blonde hair, brown eyes, tall, and obsessed with me- yea that’s my s/o… and it was also Zach coincidentally way before I had met my s/o.

Zach’s had a crush on me ever since we were second years. And I’ve always known and kinda just ignored him lol. He wasn’t exactly romantic though, he was just a really big flirt; sometimes would randomly put his arm around me, invade my personal space, ask me for kisses on the cheek whenever he sold me weed, yadda yadda yadda. But he was an asshole to like pretty much everyone but me, and yea that flattered me because I’m a little slut but I wasn’t gonna date someone who was rude to my friends. Until my last shift of course (mwahaha). Now I incidentally have like a love triangle?? That obviously my s/o is gonna win in.

Anyways this was a lot more long winded than I had anticipated, sorry if it’s clunky and poorly written but yea that’s my life :p