#like there's this weight and it's sinking and pulling me down with it

[kiralamouse]

I just keep thinking about Jingo,

"Can't you go faster?" said Vimes. "Why, certainly," said [the commandeered ship's captain] Jenkins nastily. "Where would you like us to put the extra mast?" "The ship [we're pursuing is] just a dot," said Carrot. "Why aren't we gaining on them?" "It's a bigger ship so it has got what we technically call more sails," said Jenkins. "And they're fast hulls on those Klatchian boats. And we've got a full hold—" He stopped, but it was too late. "Captain Carrot?" said Vimes. "Sir?" "Throw everything overboard."

~Ten pages later~

"So what're you going to do when we catch them?" "Er..." Vimes hadn't given this a lot of thought. [...] "What do you suggest?" "Grapnels. You can't beat grapnels. Catch 'em on the other ship and just pull 'em toward you." "And you've got grapnels?" "Oh, yes. Saw some only today, in fact." "Good. Then—" "As I recall," Jenkins went on relentlessly, "it was when your Sergeant Detritus was chucking stuff over the side and he said, 'What should we do with dese bendy, hooky things, sir?' and someone, can't recall his name just at this minute, said, 'They're dead weight, throw them over.'" "Why didn't you say something?" "Oh, well, I didn't like to," said Jenkins. "You were doing so well." "Don't mess me about, captain. Otherwise I'll clap you in irons." "No, you ain't going to do that, and I'll tell you why. First, 'cos when Captain Carrot said, 'These chains, sir, what shall I do with them?' you said—"

~Nine pages later, in a terrible storm threatening to sink the ship~

"Hasn't this ship got a lifeboat?" said Cheery hurriedly. "I'm sure I saw one when we came on." "Yeah... lifeboat," said Detritus. "Anyone want a sardine?" said Cheery. "I've managed to get a tin open." "Lifeboat," Detritus repeated. He sounded like someone exploring an unpleasant truth. "Like... a big, heavy thing which would've slowed us down...?" "Yes, I saw it, I know I did," said Reg. "Yeah... dere was one." said Detritus. "Dat was a lifeboat, was it?" "At the very least we ought to get somewhere sheltered and drop the anchor." "Yeah... anchor..." mused Detritus. "Dat's a big thing kinda hooks on, right?" "Of course." "Kinda heavy thing?" "Obviously!" "Right. An'... er.... if it was dropped a long time ago, on accounta bein' heavy, dat wouldn't do us much good now?"

Terry Pratchett knew it. You CANNOT make a system better by just ditching everything you can't immediately see an immediate use for. Especially when you don't understand how any of it works, so some of the not-immediately-obvious stuff is actually foundationally critical.

[bitchinbarzal]

Got you | J Hughes

summary: jack shows up in the middle of the night and you’re the only one he wants.

-

The insistent buzzing of your phone jolts you awake. Disoriented, you squint at the screen, the glowing numbers reading 1:37 am, before your bleary eyes focus on the name flashing across it.

Jack.

Your stomach twists. He never calls this late. Jack is the kind of guy who falls asleep with his phone still in his hand, mid-text, and wakes up at a reasonable hour with no recollection of what he was saying. If he’s calling now, something’s wrong.

You answer, voice thick with sleep “Jack?”

There’s a pause, just long enough to make your chest tighten. Then, his voice — low, quiet.

“Can you let me in?”

You don’t think. You just move. Throwing off the covers, you rush to your front door, unlocking it without hesitation. The second you pull it open, you see him stood with his hood pulled up, hands stuffed in his pockets, the dim hallway light casting shadows across his face.

“Jack—”

He steps past you, barely meeting your eyes, his movements stiff like he’s holding something back. He paces once before sinking onto your couch, elbows on his knees, hands laced together like he’s trying to keep himself from coming undone.

You close the door softly “What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head.

Jack is rarely quiet. He’s the guy who always has a chirp ready, who fills silences with offhand comments or dumb jokes just to keep the energy light. But this is different. This is Jack stripped of all his usual defenses, and it unsettles you.

You sit beside him, close but not touching “Talk to me”

He exhales sharply, tipping his head back against the couch. For a second, you think he won’t say anything at all.

“I had a bad game”

Your heart aches at the way he says it. Like it’s more than that.

You frown “Jack—”

“I know” he interrupts “I know it’s dumb. I know it’s just one game, and I know I’ll bounce back, and I know it’s not the end of the world” His voice strains on the last part, and he shakes his head, jaw clenched “But I couldn’t shut it off. The way I played, the way I let the team down. I got in my own head, and I couldn’t stop. I didn’t know where else to go”

The last part is barely a whisper.

You exhale slowly.

So this is why he’s here.

He didn’t come for empty reassurances. He didn’t come for someone to tell him it’s fine, that it doesn’t matter.

He came for you.

For the quiet. For the comfort.

You don’t say anything at first. Instead, you shift closer, reaching for his hand. He tenses at first, but then exhales, letting you thread your fingers through his. You squeeze gently.

“It’s not dumb” you murmur. “I know how much you care. That’s not a bad thing”

He lets out a shaky breath, his thumb brushing absentmindedly against your skin “I just feel like I can’t get out of my own head sometimes. Like I’m never enough, no matter what I do”

Your chest tightens. Jack Hughes; rising superstar, face of a franchise, beloved by an entire city and yet, sitting here in the dim glow of your apartment, he’s just Jack. He is a boy who puts too much pressure on himself, who carries the weight of expectations too heavily on his shoulders.

You wish you could take some of it from him.

But all you can do is be here.

“You don’t have to figure it out alone” you whisper “I’m here. Always”

Something shifts in his expression. His fingers tighten around yours like he’s grounding himself in your presence. For a long moment, he just looks at you, something unspoken hanging in the air between you.

Then, he moves.

He leans into you, head resting on your shoulder, body finally relaxing for the first time since he walked through the door.

You stay like that. Wrapped up in each other, your fingers still laced together. You don’t fill the silence with meaningless words. You just exist beside him, letting him take what he needs.

And when his breathing evens out, when the tension in his body finally eases, you press a soft kiss to the top of his head and whisper

“I’ve got you”

And you do.

Always.

[chleem]

are you taking requests?

Frat!Drew taking care of his sick gf ❤️‍🔥

⋆.˚ Warnings: fluff, swearing, making out, symptoms of fever mentioned, (still, read at own caution

ִ ࣪𖤐 a/n: okok i really enjoyed writing this one btw happy valentines!

word count: 4.7k

──── 𝜗𝜚 ─────

The door creaks open with a faint squeal, the unmistakable sound of keys jangling through the room. 

You peek from underneath your covers, and you see Drew, your boyfriend, coming into your dorm. It’s not surprising, since he always tends to drop by after his classes, knowing you’d be here. 

But today, you wish he wasn’t here. The last thing you want is for him to see you like this—sick, drained, and barely holding it together. 

And trust, you’ve seen yourself this morning, and you looked like a mess—felt like one too. Your hair’s tangled, face pale, and eyes heavy with exhaustion. The feverish sheen on your skin isn't helping either. 

Definitely not the best version of yourself, and you’d rather he didn’t see it.

He doesn’t seem to notice right away, his eyes lighting up when he spots you in bed. 

“Hey, babe,” he calls out, lazily dropping his bag on the chair, “I’ve got, lunch.”

You don’t even sit up, barely managing a faint smile. You should’ve at least looked excited, or at least, when he walked in, greet him. 

But the burning sensation in your throat prevents it, along with what felt like the sun riding your face.

Drew hesitates for a moment, his eyes flickering over to you, before he puts the food down on the desk and moves toward you.

He’s quiet for a moment, brows furrowed with his smile fading, his eyes scanning over your features. The concern in his eyes overtakes the blue in them, and it’s like you can see every worry he has for you reflected there.

He mutters something under his breath, the realization sinking in. 

His hand comes in contact with your forehead, cold compared to it, “you’re, shit, burning up.”

Without another word, Drew stands up, moving towards your mini fridge. 

He pulls open the door, kneeling down to inspect its contents. You could only assume he’s getting something cold to press against your forehead. 

“Drew…” you choke out, your voice weak and strained. "I’m fine, I’m fine, really.”

You watch as he gets up with a cold water bottle in his hand, making his way back to you. 

“No, you’re not,” he says, his voice soft but firm. 

The bed creaks under Drew's weight as he sits down beside you. 

He raises his hand to press the bottle against your forehead, but with all the energy left inside of you, you move away.

“No—no, I—I don’t need…” you protest, your words shaky. 

You can see the way Drew has a little smirk forming on the corners of his mouth, like he finds this amusing, or cute, even. But that’s impossible, with how disgustingly sick you are right now. 

“Come here,” 

His other hand wraps around your wrist, attempting to pull you back in. 

“No-“

“Babe-"

“No,” you whine, trying to shake off the grip he has on you. It’s not tight, but it’s enough to make you feel like there’s no escaping his care. 

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, and with one final tug, you’re lying close next to him again, your body too tired to resist. 

He takes the cold bottle, pressing it to your forehead gently, the coolness almost immediately providing some relief from the heat that's been overwhelming you.

You flinch slightly at the contact, then slowly melt into it.

Drew's hand stays steady, a comforting presence you can’t deny even if you try. 

“How long have you been like this?”

“Just this morning,” you mutter, and you take his hand around your wrist, interlocking his fingers with yours, the simple act grounding you in the moment. 

Your attention drifts to the way his hands look around yours—rough yet soft.

“Didn’t even text me,” you hear him scold, his voice holding a touch of playful frustration. “Not even a call-“

“I can’t even sit up,” you excuse, your voice cracking slightly. 

His thumb moves absently over your knuckles, “y’know why- why you’re sick?”

You tear your eyes away from his hand, meeting the blue eyes of his. 

“Because of this small, small ass dorm,”

A playful smile tugs at his lips, his eyes teasing as they look down at you. You can’t help but smile too, having heard this from him many times before. 

You already know what Drew’s next lines will be-

“Y’know how much better my frat is,”

-and it makes you chuckle weakly.

Your hand comes up in an attempt to push him away, and it causes his signature deep, throaty laugh to escape him.

“I didn’t text because-“ a cough escapes you between words, “I look ugly right now.”

You watch the way Drew’s eyes settle on your face, lingering on every little detail, his mouth slightly open, as if he’s speechless, and for a moment, you almost forget that you’re sick.

“…you do,” he finally speaks up, after what felt like eternity, “look worse than ever.”

"Oh my god," you mutter, a smile on your lips. You make another attempt to push him away, that only brings him closer, his laughter low and genuine. “Get out-“

“Shhh,” he lightly coos, the smile wide on his lips, “y’know I don’t mind.”

"That's worse," you whisper, a pout forming on your lips as you look away from him. The warmth of his teasing makes your chest feel lighter, even as you try to act annoyed.

You hear him chuckle again, then you feel his hand leave yours. It rests gently on your chin, tilting your face back toward him, forcing you to meet his gaze.

His eyes are softer now, the teasing giving way to something deeper, a tenderness that makes you feel seen in a way you didn’t expect.

“Y’know I don’t mind,” Drew repeats, this time more softer and, with a certain, almost promising tone in them. 

And with the way he's slowly leaning down, eyes locked into yours, lips parted, you know what’s going to happen next. 

For a split second, all you can focus on is the closeness, the warmth, the anticipation…

But then reality hits you.

“I’m sick,” you whisper, hand resting on his chest as you push against him, your face flushed not from the fever, but from the sudden rush of nerves.

Drew pauses, hovering just inches away from your lips, his breath warm on your skin. “I don’t care,” he murmurs, the need to kiss you obvious, as if it’ll physically harm him if he doesn’t do so. 

“I’m sick,” you repeat, eyes flickering to his lips. 

“Mhm,” he bites down on his lower lip, his hand gently cupping your cheek. 

You don’t even realize that he’s dropped the bottle that was against your forehead. 

“I’m sick, Drew,” your voice cracks, and you giggle, noticing how it cracked. 

“I missed you,” he suddenly confesses, his breath against your skin not as hot as the blush on your cheeks. 

The admission catches you off guard, but it melts something inside of you. 

Without thinking, you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him close. It’s like an automatic response, one that brings him to lay gently on top of you, the pressure light.

“I’m sick,”

You repeat, for the thousandth time. 

“I’know,”

And just like that, Drew kisses you.

It’s gentle at first, like he’s testing the waters, a light brush of his lips against yours. But the more you let yourself melt into him, the deeper the kiss becomes, a massaging of tongues. 

Despite the burning, sickening feeling coursing through your veins, Drew’s kiss seemed like the cure. No, it was better than the cure itself. 

You could feel yourself go breathless, the arch of your back enough to prove how much you enjoyed this. 

Drew does too, a low groan escaping him. 

You could feel him shift above you, supposedly to bring his whole body onto the bed. 

Your legs instinctively spread underneath the covers, feeling one of his knees between them, then your hands threading through his hair. 

Drew’s lips trail down to your neck, leaving soft love bites that make your heart race. The warmth of his touch, the softness of his lips, everything feels like a perfect moment.

But like all good things, it all comes to an end.

A cough erupts from you, deep and nasty, the kind that only old people seem capable of producing. It causes your entire body shake.

Drew’s movements come to a halt, his reaction buried into the nape of your neck. 

You could feel your face flush from embarrassment, your grip on his hair tightening. 

Then, slowly, he pulls up, his face inches from yours.

The way his blue eyes are looking at you, so close, it’s almost overwhelming.

“…sexy,” 

he says, a chuckle following after, his lips curling into a mischievous grin.

You don’t even realize you’ve been frowning until laughter comes out of you. The sound surprises you, your chest lightening from his teasing and the absurdity of it all.

“Shit,” you say between laughs, your hands leaving his hair to cover your eyes. 

Drew watches you, his grin softening. He loves it when you laugh, especially if he’s the one that makes you laugh like that- genuine, free, and unburdened by everything else.

“Sexy, just my type,” he adds on, and you laugh even harder, despite the stinging in your head. 

“Oh my god,” you exhale, the words a mix of disbelief and amusement, as your laughter gradually comes to an end.

The sound of it lingers in the air for a moment, filling the space between you two.

You lightly push him off of you, and Drew lands on your small bed next to you with a soft chuckle, his body sinking into the mattress.

“I’ll fuck you even though-”

he starts, his voice teasing but with an underlying sincerity. 

The words are strange, but the way he says them makes you glance over at him, his body fully angled toward you, his arm tucked under his head. “-you’re dangerously sick.”

You shift your body to face him, mirroring the way he tucks his arm under his head.

“I wouldn’t,” you whisper back to him, eyes locking into his. 

He’s studying your features again- intensity in his eyes as he lingers a beat too long. 

“What?”

“I wouldn’t.”

“If you were me? Or if I was sick?”

“If I were you-“

“So if I was sick, would you fuck me-“

“What?”

“Yeah, if I was-“

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Why would I?” You chuckle, your lips curling into a playful grin, as you raise an eyebrow at him.

“God, now I feel stupid for saying that-“

Drew laughs, but you can tell he’s not really embarrassed. He doesn’t feel stupid for saying it. If anything, he’s being completely genuine and honest, even if the words were a little out of field.

“You’re stupid no matter what you say,” 

You tease, a chuckle following after. 

He doesn’t laugh. 

Instead, his gaze lingers on you, more intent than before. His eyes are gentle, yet there’s a depth to them that makes you feel like he’s seeing you in a way that’s more than just surface level. It’s clear he’s not joking anymore.

“…I guess I am,” he mumbles, almost like a whisper.

You can’t help but look at Drew the same way, taking in the way his hair falls messily around his face, the natural plumpness of his red lips, and blueness of his eyes.

“…yeah, you are,” you whisper, more to yourself. 

Your eyelids start to feel heavier, the exhaustion from being sick catching up to you. 

You let out a small yawn, knowing that you’re unable to fight the sleepiness anymore.

Your eyes flutter just enough to see Drew’s hand reach out, landing gently on your waist to pull you closer to his embrace. He wraps his arms around you, your face nuzzled into the crook of his neck. 

At that moment, you can feel yourself relax into the familiar scent of Drew. The steady rise and fall of his chest is soothing, and the sound of his heartbeat lulls you further into comfort.

A soft sigh escapes you as you finally let go, finding peace in the safety of his arms, letting the quiet of the moment carry you off into a restful, much-needed sleep.

——

hours later

You wake up slowly, a soft grogginess lingering in your mind as your room comes into focus. 

The bed feels a bit colder than before, and you blink a few times, confused at first.

You stretch your arms out, only to realize you’re spread across the bed, your body tangled in the covers. 

You also realize that Drew's missing, the entire warmth of him gone, and for a moment, panic flutters in your chest.

“Drew?” you murmur, your voice raspy and thick from sleep.

As you turn your head to look around, you finally spot him. 

He’s sitting beside your pillow, leaning back against the headboard. 

You blink again, a little surprised. 

He gives you a small smile, “hey sleepyhead.”

You rub your eyes, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep, but that’s when you feel the cool, almost damp cloth on your forehead. Your hand reaches up, and you tug at the cold bandage, frowning. “What?-“

“Cooling patch,” Drew says softly, a light chuckle escaping his lips at your reaction.

Your mind stirs as you process how he managed to get one, but before you could ask more, you feel one of his arms hook under against your boobs, pulling you to sit upright.

“Oh,” you giggle stupidly, noticing how effortlessly he does it.

Drew laughs too, and lets his hand rest there, his thumb gently rubbing small circles against your skin, his touch soothing.

His other hand reaches to your nightstand, and he hands you a glass of water. 

“Here,” he murmurs, glancing down at the cup as he holds it out.

You reach to take it, but just as your fingers touch the glass, his hand doesn’t let go. His fingers curl gently around yours, enveloping your hand as he guides the glass to your mouth.

You laugh softly at his persistence, feeling his warm touch around yours. His lips curl into a small, playful smile as you take a few sips, the cool water soothing your dry throat.

“Better?” he asks, his gaze soft and patient, still holding the cup for you.

“No,” you tease, a playful smirk tugging at your lips, though part of it is true. You still feel a bit off, but the way Drew is looking after you makes it all feel a little more bearable. 

His expression softens even more, a faint chuckle escaping him as he tilts his head slightly, “you want me to kiss you again?”

The sudden question catches you off-guard, your eyes widening. 

“Seemed to work earlier,” Drew adds, with a playful wink.

“Is that your cure for everything?” you tease back.

“Sadly, no,” he shakes his head, before planting a quick kiss to your temple, the warmth lingering there. “But, I do have this-“

He sets the cup on back on the nightstand, before leaning down to the floor, and your eyes follow his every move in anticipation. 

The sound of plastic bags rustling fills the air, and then, Drew pulls out the all-too-familiar packaging of that disgustingly, bitter fever medicine.

Your face scrunches up at the sight, the thought of it already making your stomach turn. “Ugh, seriously?” you laugh, already imagining the taste.

He smirks, holding it up like it's some sort of prize. “Yup,” he teases, his eyes gleaming with amusement as he watches your reaction.

“You need to eat first, though,” Drew adds, and before you can protest, he leans down once more, rummaging through the plastic bag at his feet. 

This time, he pulls out a takeout box, different from the one he had earlier.

It hits you: so that's how he got everything. The medicine, the cooling patch, the food—it all makes sense now. He must've gone out to buy it all while you were still sleeping.

He carefully sets the box on your lap, smiling as he opens it to reveal fried rice, from your favorite Chinese place. Even through your clogged nose, you can smell the delicious taste of it. 

Your heart swells at the thoughtfulness of this man, your boyfriend. 

The way he’s gone out of his way to make sure you’re taken care of, to comfort you, and to help you feel better—despite everything, it’s like he’s always a step ahead.

You can't help but smile, and for a moment, you forget the sickness, simply basking in how lucky you are to have him by your side. 

“Thank you,” you say softly, your voice laced with genuine appreciation. The smile on your lips tugs a little wider, and you look up at him, meeting his eyes, your gaze soft and filled with gratitude. 

It’s not just the food or the medicine, but the kindness behind it all. The quiet reassurance that, in moments like these, you’re not alone.

Drew’s mouth is slightly open, and he seems a little taken aback by your sincerity. He quickly shakes it off, almost shyly, the hand around you pulling at the fabric of your shirt. 

His voice is quiet as he murmurs, “It’s nothing… I told you, I've got you.”

His words hang in the air, and despite the simplicity of the statement, they resonate deeper than anything he could say.

You nod, whispering, "I know.”

As your eyes drift down to the food in your lap, a realization settles in for the both of you - you need utensils. 

“Fuck,” Drew chuckles softly. He leans down again, the soft rustle of plastic filling the silence before he effortlessly tears open the packaging with one hand.

He hands the chopsticks, and you take it, starting to eat. 

The familiar taste hits your tongue almost immediately, and you let out a small moan due to how good it is.

Drew watches you, his smile softening. “Good?” he asks, a hint of pride in his tone.

“Perfect,” you smile, his attention making you feel light. 

You laugh, leaning your head on his shoulder as you continue to eat, savoring both the meal and the comfort of his presence.

——

True to his word, he really does got you. 

Over the next few days, Drew was with you, stuck to you, almost. At least, whenever you were awake, he was there—by your side, ensuring you had everything you needed. 

Whether it was fetching you water, making sure you were comfortable, or just sitting beside you quietly scrolling his phone, he was always present.

Showering? Thankfully, your dorm had its own private bathroom, so Drew could help when needed. Whether it was holding you steady, washing your hair, or just sitting on the bathroom seat watching over you.

Meals? Takeout or deliveries. Drew made sure you ate, even when you didn’t feel like it.

And the medicine? Drew was strict about it. He made sure you took it on time, never missing a dose.

Last but not least, your class notes. You never quite figured out how he did it, but somehow, Drew had them. You’d notice a stack of neatly organized notebooks by your desk, or catch a glimpse of him typing away on his laptop. 

You knew you had to find a way to repay him for everything he’d done for you. It felt like a huge debt—which you would have to find a way to pay once you were back to full health.

The opportunity came sooner than you expected. 

Just two days after you started feeling better, you got a message from Drew—a photo of him lying in bed, looking completely miserable. 

He had that all-too-familiar expression on his face—exhausted, feverish, and looking like he’d just been hit by a truck. The same look you had just a few days ago.

Without hesitation, you grabbed the essentials: fever medicine, water, tissues, cooling patches, etc.

When you arrived at his frat house, one of his roommates answered the door, clearly expecting you. “He’s upstairs,” he said, yawning, probably tired from whatever party he was at the night before. 

“Thanks,” you murmur, before heading upstairs, knocking gently on Drew’s door before opening it. 

There he was, sprawled out on the bed, looking like he was in no mood to move, his face flushed and eyes barely open.

“Aww, poor baby,” you say softly, making your way over to his bed. 

You sat down beside his pillow, watching him as he slowly turns his head to look at you, a weak but amused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“You came?” Drew murmurs, his voice hoarse. “You didn’t have to-“

His words are cut off by a sudden cough, loud and rough, and you instinctively reach out, running your hand through his hair in a soothing gesture. 

“Well, you sent me that picture,” you start, talking about that selfie, “was I suppose to ignore it?”

Drew gives a tired chuckle, “…it’s that kiss.”

“What?”

“That kiss-“

“-which one?”

“Aw, fuck,” he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut, clearly bothered by the headache that's making him wince.

You brush his messy hair out of the way, your palm resting against his forehead. Yep, he’s burning up, just like how you were a few days ago. 

You reach into the plastic bag, pulling out the cooling patches, the ones Drew had used for you not long ago. 

You peel one off, carefully pressing the cooling patch onto his forehead. You note the look of relief across his features, his lips curling up into a faint smile.

“Every- every kiss we shared,” he murmurs, answering your playful question from earlier. 

Drew might have kissed you a bit too much, while you were sick. 

You chuckle quietly, remembering how his lips always seemed to find their way to you, even when you could barely keep your eyes open or your head from spinning.

“Are you blaming me?”

Drew shifts in his spot, and you can tell he’s trying to sit up, but the fever has him weak. You move quickly to help him, your hands gentle as you support his back and guide him into a sitting position.

“Yeah,” he mutters, leaning back into his headboard, a lazy look in his blue eyes, “you’re- too fucking hot.”

You shake your head, a smile on your lips, “gosh- even a fever isn’t enough to shut you up.”

You reach down to get the bottle of water from the bag, the sound of Drew’s laugh softly echoing through the room. 

You open the tightly sealed bottle of water with a little more force than necessary, and as you glance up to hand it to him, you find Drew already staring at you. 

His gaze is either starry-eyed or unfocused, with his lips parted.

And the combination of his flushed face and the cooling patch on his forehead makes him look comically adorable.

You try to hide the grin tugging at your lips, but it's impossible.

“Drew?” You call out. 

Out of nowhere, he leans down, his movements slow but deliberate. Before you can even register what’s happening, he’s hugging your waist, pulling you closer to him with a surprising amount of strength.

You blink, caught off guard, the warmth of his embrace making your heart skip. 

“Drew?” you repeat, voice hitched. 

He stays there for a moment, face muffled into your lower abdomen. His grip into your shirt tightens just a little, as if he doesn’t want to let go. 

His breath is warm against the area there, his weight slowly pressing into your lower stomach. 

The way he’s clinging onto you feels more intimate than it should, his back rising and falling with every breath he takes, your hand slowly finding itself trailing under his shirt, rubbing onto the skin there. 

“Just... need this,” he murmurs, his voice muffled against you.

“…okay,” you whisper, as you give him the comfort he craves.

He then murmurs something else to your lower stomach, which causes him to shyly rub his face deeper down. 

You furrow your eyebrows, fingertips coming to a halt on tracing his back. 

“…did you say something?” You ask, looking down at him. 

He says it again, but it’s too muffled in. 

“…I can’t hear you,” you tell him, genuinely unable to hear whatever he just said. 

He lifts his head slightly, just enough for you to catch a glimpse of blue, shining up at you. For a moment, you can see the tiredness strip from his eyes, replaced with something much deeper. 

“I- keep doing that,” Drew says, referring to the way your hands trace over the outline of every muscle on his back. 

“Oh,” you smile, doing it. 

You don’t know why, but you thought he was gonna tell you something important. Something he hasn’t said before. 

And Drew didn’t know why he didn’t say it- why he didn’t say it directly to your face. 

He didn’t know why the simple act of saying ‘I love you’ felt so difficult, especially when it seemed like the perfect moment (at least for him) for it. 

His heart was full, yet the words stuck in his throat. It pounds loudly in his chest, making him nervous in ways he wasn’t sure of. 

Maybe it was the fever rush, or maybe it was just the closeness, the way you were here, holding him.

Maybe it wasn’t the way he’d imagined it—said into your eyes, clear and strong. No, he said it to your lower stomach, muffled by his own vulnerability.

But the words were out there, and even if they weren’t exactly how he intended, Drew knew he meant them with every part of himself.

Then, interrupting his thoughts, another nasty cough ripped through him, causing his body to shake violently, you shaking along too. 

“Oh- babe,” you chuckled gently, patting his back to get those coughs out, “sit up and drink some water, mhm?”

Drew gave a small nod, though he didn’t make an immediate move. His exhaustion weighed heavy on him, but your gentle encouragement was enough to coax him into action. 

With your support, he shifted slowly, leaning back just enough to reach the water you had brought earlier.

You watched him take a few sips, his hands steadying on the bottle. 

“Better?”

“No,” he teases, the corner of his lips curling into a grin. The familiarity of that line makes you roll your eyes at him, a soft laugh escaping your lips.

He chuckles too, but then his grin fades into something softer, more sincere, as he leans back against the headboard, sliding a bit further into his pillow.

The look in his eyes is a quiet invitation, asking you to lay down with him.

You don’t need to think twice. You kick off your shoes, urging him to scoot over, and slide under the covers with him. 

This time, it’s Drew who rests his head into your chest, his arms holding you tightly to him. His leg comes up between yours, almost as if caging you in completely. 

His grip on you is possessive yet gentle, and it makes you feel like nothing else matters in this moment but the two of you, tangled up in each other's presence.

And maybe, holding you is just what Drew needs too, as a ‘cure’ for his fever. 

-------------------------------

bit long- but only bc i had so much fun writing this, hope you like it!

elevator | other

[littlelamy]

I need a lawyer rafe smut BAD😭😭

Reader is his assistant and she can tell he is stressed out bad and wants to help him out.

Idkhelpme

lamy's note: i felt hot just writing this oml 😮‍💨

you can tell the moment he steps into his office. the way his jaw is set, the way he tosses his briefcase onto the desk with a little too much force. rafe doesn’t have to say a word for you to know—he’s had a hell of a day.

“long day?” you ask, voice soft, careful.

he drags a hand down his face, exhales slow. “you have no idea.”

you do, actually. you’ve seen the back-to-back meetings on his calendar, watched him down his third coffee before noon. his tie is still perfectly knotted, but his shoulders are tight, his patience thin.

“let me help,” you murmur, stepping closer, fingertips grazing his wrist.

his eyes flick to you, something dark, something needy flashing across his face. his breath is heavy, controlled, like he’s holding something back. “yeah?”

“yeah.”

you don’t wait for permission. you step between his legs, press your hands to his chest, feeling the solid weight of him beneath the fabric of his dress shirt. his pulse jumps under your touch. your fingers work the buttons, slow, deliberate, each one undone revealing more of his tanned skin.

“fuck,” he mutters, half under his breath, half into your hair when you lean up, lips brushing the sharp line of his jaw. “you know what you’re doing.”

“i do.”

you sink to your knees, the carpet burning against your skin, but you don’t care. all that matters is him, the way his breathing turns ragged, the way his fingers tangle in your hair. the way the tension finally melts from his body as you take care of him, just like you said you would.

his belt comes undone with a sharp clink, and his cock is already straining against his briefs. he groans when you palm him through the fabric, a needy, desperate sound that makes you ache between your thighs.

“fuck, baby,” he rasps. “you really wanna take care of me, huh?”

his words are a challenge, but you don’t hesitate. you tug his briefs down, freeing him, and your mouth waters at the sight. thick, heavy, already leaking for you. you drag your tongue along the head, savoring the taste of him before sinking down, taking him inch by inch until he’s pressing against the back of your throat.

“jesus—” he chokes out, head falling back against the chair, fingers tightening in your hair as you bob your head, sucking him down with filthy, wet sounds. his hips twitch, his control slipping as you hollow your cheeks, take him deeper, let him use you the way he needs.

his breath is ragged, his thighs trembling beneath your hands as you work him over, tongue teasing the sensitive underside, lips wrapping around him tight. he’s close, you can feel it in the way he throbs against your tongue, in the way his grip tightens, desperate, possessive.

“fuck, baby, i’m—”

he doesn’t get to finish before he’s spilling hot and thick down your throat, and you take it all, swallowing around him as he groans, his whole body shaking beneath you.

when you finally pull back, wiping the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, he looks down at you with dark, satisfied eyes.

“damn,” he breathes, pulling you up onto his lap. “you really do take care of me, don’t you?”

and when he kisses you, deep and dirty, you already know—he’s not nearly done with you yet.

taglist: @namelesslosers @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @sstargirln @rafedaddy01 @soldesole @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @rafesbabygirlx @drewsephrry

[dragonnarrative-writes]

Transferrable Skills Part 9

Transferrable Skills Masterlist

Read on AO3

CW: Smut, 18+/MDNI, praise, kissing, manual stimulation, oral sex (Reader receiving), premature ejaculation, dirty talk, power exchange, hand on neck (no breath restriction), face-sitting, breath restriction (Simon receiving)

Notes: Happy Valentine's Day and anniversary of the death of the colonizer James Cook at the hands of the people of Hawai'i.

Simon pulls his thumb free and swipes it over your lips. You chase it, then gasp when his whole hand wraps around your neck. He meets your eyes, then uses his thumb to rock your head from one side to the other, slow. Your arms feel a bit weak as he examines your face.

“Color,” he rumbles.

“Green.”

“Wan’ you t’ sit on my face,” he says. “Color.”

You lick your lips, think for a moment. “Yellow-green.”

“Good girl.” Simon’s eyes crinkle in the corners when he smiles. “Talk to me.”

It would be silly to say “I’m a bit heavy,” since you’re pretty sure he could bench you as a warm up. “I don’t want to hurt your neck.”

“Won’t let you,” Simon answers, like it’s that easy. Maybe it is.

Still, you’re a bit nervous. “I haven’t had a shower.”

He uses his light grip on your neck to hold your gaze. “You trust me?”

You can’t help but nod. “I do.”

“Then trust me when I say I wan’ to. We c’n shower, later, if you wan’.” He shrugs. “Don’ mind eatin’ twice. C’n let you know the difference, if you like.”

“Simon!”

His laugh shakes the bed, and then the hand behind his neck comes down to grab your hip. He draws you up his body, until one of your hands is braced on his shoulder. You can’t help the way you shiver when he settles your legs on either side of his ribs, spread so wide there’s no way to avoid pleasant pressure where you’re already sensitive.

“Color, sweet girl.”

God, you want to do what he’s asking, but... “Are you sure?”

The grip on your hip goes just a little tighter. “I’m not gonna let you hurt me. An’ ‘m not hurtin’ you. This is only fun if we’re both ‘avin’ fun. Acknowledge.”

“Acknowledged.” It’s amazing how much the familiar idea calms you. “You’re not going to ask me for anything you don’t really want. I don’t have to agree to anything I don’t want. It’s supposed to be fun.” You take a deep breath and let it out. “Green.”

Simon hums as his hand comes down from your neck to sit against your collar bones and sternum. And then you’re yelping when he suddenly lifts you. You try to freeze, because of course you do, but he does something to get your legs around his arms and then your knees are up by his temples.

He only waits long enough for your hands to smack against the wall above the headboard before both of his are pulling you down against his mouth. You’re suddenly struck by the almost fearful realization that he’s made you tell him, many times, exactly how you like to be touched.

His lips and tongue immediately find your clit. But instead of the bombardment that you expect, Simon’s mouth is soft against you. He braces his big hands under your hips, and you can’t help but start to relax into his hold. The self-consciousness eases away as he drags the flat of his tongue over you, slow and indulgent. He makes a pleased sound from between your thighs and you can’t help but giggle as you let yourself sink closer to that fuzzy place your mind was in before.

It doesn’t take long for your hips to protest the position. You shift more of your weight onto your knees and let your forehead rest against your forearms. Apparently, that’s what Simon’s been waiting on, because his lips purse around your clit and suck. The moan that shivers out of you is echoed by his groan. And that’s all the warning you get before he really gets going.

Simon pulls you even more firmly against his mouth, and you know he can’t breathe, that his nose is surrounded by the fat around your mound. He doesn’t seem to give a damn, alternating between sucking kisses and spearing his tongue into your pussy with abandon. Something he does makes you clench and twitch against his face, a not-quite ticklish sensation that shoots up your spine. He does it again, again, again, until you’re grinding against his jaw with punched out moans.

You don’t even have time to worry about his lack of air. All of a sudden, his palms push you up, taking all of your weight for just a second, before you’re sat right back down. That casual show of strength would make you weak in the knees if you were standing. As it is, you can only moan and shiver as his hands shift, until his thumbs can hold your lips apart to give his tongue even more access to you.

The noises between you are obscene. You can bury your face in your arms to avoid seeing the blissful expression on his face, but there’s no way to avoid the wet sound of his mouth working. You can’t ignore how slick the entire lower half of his face feels against your pussy, your thighs, the underside of your ass. And then he uses his hand to shift your thigh and spread you even more open.

Jesus, you’re going to come like this. You can feel it fluttering through you, feel yourself getting wetter by the moment.

“S-Simon,” you whimper. You reach down with one hand to run your fingers through his short hair. “I’m - Simon, you’re gonna -”

His hands press you up again, just long enough for him to growl, “Give it to me.”

“Simon!” You accidentally yank at him when his tongue sweeps over your clit again. It’s hard to feel bad about it when he moans his approval into you. When he squeezes at your thighs, just this side of painful, you squeak, pulling again. “Si-!”

As you look down, his eyes are already fixed on your face, pupils blown wide. His right hand shifts, and then the tip of one of his fingers is inside of you again. The awkward angle makes you arch your hips back, chasing the sensation right into rutting against his tongue in an overwhelming wave of sensation.

You barely make a sound as your pussy clenches against his fingers, suddenly and totally breathless. The orgasm that rolls through you isn’t as devastating as the first one, but it’s strong enough to make your legs shake. You almost lose your balance, but he’s there, holding you up. His groans easily drown out your whimpering.

When he just doesn’t stop, you give his arm two desperate taps. “Si-imon!”

The prickle of his stubble startles half a yelp from you as he lets you slide unceremoniously off of his face and onto his chest. He looks debauched, smirk shining with evidence of your pleasure.

“Tha’ weren’t so bad, eh?” he rumbles up at you. He coos when all you can do is cover your face with one hand and shiver. “Feelin’ good, pretty girl?”

You hum, then look down at him from between your fingers. “Yes, sir.”

“Good girl. Did good trustin’ me,” He pets over your legs, equal parts gentle and firm. He looks contemplative for a moment, before asking, “Wanna cuddle?”

That’s exactly what you want. You swing one leg over so you’re not straddling him anymore. And then there’s a confused moment of getting your bodies aligned. The queen sized bed feels so much smaller with him in it. And then you realize that his face is still wet. You’re still wet against the thigh he’s put between your own.

You cringe when he uses the edge of the flat sheet to swipe half-heartedly at his mouth and chest. He laughs at your face before pressing a kiss to your forehead. When he lets you go to look into your eyes, you can’t help but press your lips to his.

He opens his mouth to yours immediately, and the kiss becomes filthy. His mouth tastes like you, like you’ve seeped into his skin.

So much for cuddling, you giggle to yourself as he rolls you onto your back and pins you under his bulk.

[00valentina-writes00]

hii i love your grayson fics soo much, your grayson is so real and you have a wonderful writing style!!

could you please do grayson x reader, who is overworked and going through a mental breakdown and grayson comforts her with words and touches. maybe even some nsfw in the end, as you wish

♡♥︎“Let Me Take Care of You”♥︎♡

Your hands tremble over the stack of papers on your desk, the ink smudged where your grip has grown too tight. The words blur together—meaningless, tangled strings of letters that refuse to make sense no matter how hard you try to focus. Your breath is shallow, coming too fast, chest tight with a pressure that feels impossible to push down.

It’s all too much.

The exhaustion, the deadlines, the expectations piling higher and higher until you feel like you might suffocate under them.

You don’t even hear the door open.

Not until a warm, steady hand presses against your back.

“Sweetheart.”

The voice is deep, calm—soothing in a way that makes something in you crack.

Grayson.

Her touch is gentle as she kneads slow circles into your shoulders, fingers pressing into the knots of tension wound tight beneath your skin. She doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t push—just stands behind you, letting the warmth of her presence sink into your bones.

You inhale shakily, but it stutters on the way out.

“You’re shaking,” she murmurs, more to herself than to you.

You press your lips together, blinking hard against the sting behind your eyes.

“I—I’m fine,” you manage, voice rough.

Grayson hums, unconvinced. “Come here.”

You don’t resist when she gently pulls you up from your chair, guiding you into her arms. She holds you firm against her chest, her chin resting atop your head. The steady rise and fall of her breath presses into your back, grounding you in something real, something solid.

“You’re working yourself too hard again,” she murmurs, her fingers rubbing slow, soothing circles against your arms.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“I can’t stop,” you whisper. “There’s too much to do, I just—”

She hushes you gently, lips brushing your temple. “You can stop. Just for a little while.”

Your body resists at first—muscles still locked in tension, mind still racing with all the things you should be doing. But Grayson holds you steady, arms firm but comforting, the scent of her lingering after a long shift—the faint musk of leather, metal, and something warm that belongs entirely to her.

And slowly, bit by bit, you sink.

She feels it too—the way your body finally starts to relax into her, the way your breathing evens out just the slightest bit.

“That’s it,” she soothes, her hands stroking gently down your back. “Just breathe, love.”

You do.

For the first time in what feels like hours, you actually let yourself breathe.

The weight of her hands, the warmth of her chest against your back—it makes you feel small in the best way, like you don’t have to hold everything up by yourself for once.

Grayson shifts, pressing a kiss to the side of your head before murmuring, “Come lie down with me.”

You hesitate.

“I’m not tired,” you lie, voice hoarse.

She chuckles softly, but there’s something fond in it. “Sweetheart, you’re exhausted.”

Her fingers slip beneath your chin, tilting your face up so you’re forced to meet her gaze. Those dark eyes study you, soft yet unwavering, seeing through you in the way she always does.

She leans down, brushing her lips over your forehead before whispering, “Let me take care of you.”

Your stomach twists, not in nervousness, but in something warm.

You nod, letting her guide you to the couch, pulling you down into her lap once she sits. She keeps you close, one hand resting at your waist, the other stroking absentmindedly over your arm, up to your shoulder, back down again—an absentminded, grounding rhythm.

“You do too much,” she murmurs after a while, fingers tracing slow, lazy shapes against your skin.

You swallow.

“It doesn’t feel like enough.”

She sighs, pressing a kiss against your temple. “It’s more than enough.”

Her lips trail lower, soft against your jaw. “You are enough.”

Your breath catches.

Grayson takes her time with you, every touch slow and careful, every kiss a patient reminder that you’re here, that you’re safe, that nothing outside this moment matters.

When her hands finally drift lower, slipping beneath the fabric of your shirt, it’s not rushed. It’s not urgent.

It’s just her.

Taking care of you.

Loving you.

Her hands slip lower, fingertips teasing beneath your shirt, skimming along your stomach, brushing higher until they’re cupping your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples through the fabric.

Your breath stutters.

She smiles against your skin, enjoying the way you shiver, the way your body slowly starts responding to her touch.

“Good girl,” she murmurs. “That’s it.”

Her hands ease lower, dipping beneath the waistband of your pants, her fingers slipping between your thighs.

You gasp, your hips jolting, thighs parting instinctively for her, giving her access to where you need her most.

Grayson hums approvingly, lips ghosting over your jaw.

“Always so tense,” she muses, voice dropping as her fingers stroke between your folds, parting them with slow, teasing movements. “You just need a little help, don’t you?”

You nod, breathless, forehead resting against her shoulder, letting her guide you down onto the couch.

Grayson settles behind you, legs framing yours, her arm wrapped around your waist, keeping you close as her fingers continue their slow, torturous pace.

“You’re soaked,” she murmurs, dragging her fingers through your slick. “Been needing this, haven’t you?”

You whimper, hips rocking instinctively into her touch.

She chuckles, low and warm, slipping a finger inside you—slow, deliberate, letting you feel every inch as she curls it just right.

Your body melts, the tension unraveling, pleasure seeping into your muscles like warmth after a long winter.

“That’s it,” she whispers, pressing a kiss behind your ear. “Let go for me.”

She adds another finger, pumping into you slow and deep, her palm grinding against your clit, her free hand stroking your stomach, grounding you in sensation

You moan, breath hitching, body arching into her, needing more.

Grayson obliges.

Her pace quickens, fingers fucking into you with steady, unrelenting precision, her mouth trailing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your neck.

She knows your body. Knows exactly how to touch you, exactly how to pull you apart, how to take care of you in a way no one else does.

“You’re safe,” she murmurs. “You’re mine. You don’t have to do anything but feel this.”

And you do.

You feel everything.

Your body surrendering, your mind quieting, every last ounce of tension unraveling as pleasure overtakes you completely.

Time slows.

The world fades.

All that exists is her.

Her touch.

Her voice.

Her love.

You’re safe here.

Safe in her arms, in her warmth, in the slow, steady rhythm of her fingers guiding you into bliss.

And for the first time in weeks, you let yourself relax.

You let yourself breathe.

[bright-side20]

Part two of this , featuring smut. Enjoy, and happy Valentine’s Day! 🫶

Azriel stood in the warmth of the house, rain still dripping from him, his body aching from more than just exhaustion. The weight of her words pressed against his ribs, heavy and undeniable.

I love you.

He had spent so long convincing himself he was unworthy of such things of love, tenderness, of her. Yet here she was...

“Come,” she murmured, taking his hand.

He let her lead him. The bathing chamber was filled with the soothing scent of lavender and cedar, steam rising as she filled the copper tub. He watched her move, graceful, certain ,like she had already decided he would stay. Like she had already decided he was hers to care for.

She reached for Truth-Teller first, unfastening the sheath strapped to his thigh. She set the blade aside on the marble counter, her gaze lingering on the dark steel for a heartbeat before returning to him. Only then did she move to the buckles of his leathers, working through the fastenings in his back with gentle patience.

Azriel exhaled sharply when she loosened the final strap, the leathers peeling away from his rain-soaked skin. Cool air rushed over him, followed by the warmth of her fingertips lightly tracing down his spine. His hands clenched at his sides, muscles tensing under her touch.

“Elain,” he rasped.

She hummed softly in response, her fingers ghosting over his arm before she stepped back.

“I’ll be right back,” she said.

She disappeared into her room, leaving him standing there, bare except for his soaked undershorts. The tub was now full, steam rising in curling wisps. Azriel exhaled, forcing himself to release the tension coiling in his chest. Slowly, he slipped off his shorts. The hot water engulfed him as he adjusted his wings and lowered himself into the tub, the heat sinking deep into his muscles. He let his head fall back against the rim.

When she returned, she was wearing a fresh pink nightgown soft, clean, and dry. The fabric clung to her curves in. Her damp hair spilled over her shoulders.

And then...her touch.

Her hands sweeping over his shoulders, down his arms. He swallowed hard, his body going rigid before he forced relaxed under her gentle care. He didn’t move as she lathered soap into her hands, working it over his chest. He had been touched before, but never had he felt wanted like this. When she lathered soap into his hair, his eyes fluttered shut, a quiet sigh slipping from his lips.

“Elain,” he murmured.

“I’m here,” she whispered, her fingers combing through his hair, carefully rinsing the soap away. Azriel exhaled a slow, uneven breath. Elain’s fingers lingered, her nails lightly scraping against his scalp in a way that sent a shiver down his spine...

Azriel stared at his hands, the water flowing over his knuckles. For the first time in centuries, he felt the pull to open up. Maybe it was the warmth in her gaze, the quiet way she listened...not out of obligation, not to judge, but because she genuinely wanted to understand him.

So he spoke.

"It happened after my brothers," Azriel said, his voice barely above a whisper. "After I made them scream the way they made me scream."

Elain didn’t flinch at the coldness in his tone, so he continued.

"I was different after that," he admitted. "Colder. Everyone looked at me with fear in their eyes. Even Cassian kept his distance. I didn’t care. I didn’t want anyone close."

"Rhys’s father used me more than ever then," Azriel continued, his gaze fixed on the water rippling around his hands. "I was efficient. I didn’t ask questions. I did what I was told." His throat tightened. "Including the night he ordered me to kill an old male."

Elain’s fingers, resting on the edge of the tub, twitched, but she remained silent, letting him speak.

"He was no one important," Azriel said, though the words felt hollow. "Just a scholar. He lived in a crumbling estate, surrounded by books no one cared to read anymore. He was old, frail. No threat to anyone. But Rhys’s father…" Azriel exhaled sharply. "He was paranoid. He believed the male had spoken treason."

Elain frowned. "What did he say?"

"He told the High Lord that he would lose his loved ones to his own arrogance."

Elain leaned in closer, listening intently.

"Rhys's father believed in eliminating anyone who questioned his control. So he sent me to handle it. Not just to kill him...to interrogate him first. To make sure there wasn’t more he was hiding." Azriel shut his eyes, but it did nothing to block out the memories. The cold stone chamber. The scent of blood.

"He knew," Azriel whispered. "The moment I walked in, he looked at me like he had already seen it all before. He didn’t beg. He didn’t fight. He only smiled at me and said… ‘The night will bow before the light, and the rose will bloom even in shadows.’ Then he told me I would know the truth when I saw her."

Elain’s lips parted, her eyes wide with something unreadable. Slowly, she lifted a hand, brushing a damp strand of hair from his forehead, her touch achingly gentle.

"Was he… a seer?"

Azriel nodded. "I didn’t listen to him. I did my job. And when he was too weak to speak, I ended it."

The silence between them stretched. Azriel forced himself to look at her, to see if she had finally realized what he was. But there was no horror in her gaze. Only sorrow.

"I didn’t know," he rasped. "I didn’t know that the next year, Rhys’s mother and sister would be slaughtered. That we would fail to stop it. That if his father hadn’t been too arrogant to listen to that male…" He swallowed hard, his voice breaking. "If I hadn’t been so...I wasn’t even angry. I just... I didn’t feel anything. Maybe… maybe I could have..."

"You were a weapon to him," Elain interrupted, her voice firm but gentle. "He manipulated your state of mind and used you."

Azriel shook his head. "That’s not an excuse."

She opened her mouth to protest, but he continued.

"When you started having your visions, I knew there was nothing wrong with you. The more I listened to you, the more I realized this was your power. Your gift. And all it took was reading one of the books I kept from the scholar ." His breath hitched. "I killed the one who told me about you. And I could tell you about the hundreds of people I tortured and killed because I was emotionless. Because I was falling into the heart of the pit."

Elain cradled his face in her hands.

"And I’m sure you could tell me about the thousands you’ve saved," she murmured. "Including me."

Azriel stilled.

She shifted closer, her hand still resting on his cheek. "What you did in the past does not define you, Azriel." She pressed a soft kiss to his lips before whispering, "That is not all you are. It is not all you will ever be."

He stared at her, at the quiet certainty in her eyes. For so long, he had carried his past like a brand, a wound that would never heal. Yet here she was...offering him love. Offering him acceptance.

Her hands slid down to his. "Come on," she said, tugging lightly. "Let’s get you out of there."

He let her help him, her grip firm as she guided him up. Her eyes flickered downward before she quickly looked away, her cheeks darkening.

Azriel’s lips twitched, just slightly. "Elain," he said, voice rough. "I’m naked."

"I know," she blurted, turning to grab a towel, her face burning. She thrust it toward him without meeting his gaze. "Here."

He took it, a quiet chuckle escaping as he wrapped it around his waist. She was still unsettled, her eyes stubbornly avoiding his chest. The pink in her cheeks deepened when he smirked at her. He might have teased her, but instead, something in his chest tightened… something fragile, something aching.

She turned back, another towel in hand, he expected her to simply pass it to him. But instead, she stepped closer, lifting onto her toes to press the cloth to his damp hair.

He froze, breath catching.

She was so close. So warm.

The gentle drag of the towel over his scalp, the way her fingers brushed the tips of his ears...it was such a simple thing, yet so intimate that his throat tightened. His wings drooped, exhaustion pulling at him.

"Azriel?"

He exhaled sharply. The weight of centuries, of sleepless nights, of battles ...it all crashed over him at once. His wings felt like stone, too heavy to hold up. His body ached in a way he couldn’t explain, but it wasn’t just physical. It was something deeper. Something he had buried for too long.

Elain let the towel fall, her hands finding his shoulders. "Come here," she said, gently pulling him down.

And he did.

He didn’t even realize he was shaking until he felt her arms wrap around his neck. A strangled sound left him, and then the tears came...silent, relentless. He buried his face in her neck, his grip tightening around her waist.

She held him through it, her fingers threading into his damp hair. And when the sobs faded into ragged breaths, when he finally lifted his head, he found her looking at him with nothing but understanding.

"I love you."

Elain’s breath hitched.

"I love you," he said again. " Elain...I don’t know when it happened. Maybe it was the first time you asked me if I could fly. Or the first time I took your hand in mine. But I love you."

His scarred hand lifted, brushing softly against her cheek. "And I think… I think I have for a long time."

Elain swallowed hard, her eyes bright, lips quivering. Then she smiled.

A small, breathtaking thing.

Her thumb traced the damp path of his tears. "And I love you, too, Azriel."

And he closed the space between them.

The first brush of his lips was soft, tentative, but her warmth stole through him like the first rays of dawn after an endless night. He lingered there, breathing her in, his nose brushing against hers.

But when she sighed, when her lips parted slightly in invitation...Azriel broke.

It wasn’t urgent like their earlier kiss. He kissed her deeper, slower, his tongue tracing along the seam of her lips before slipping inside. The taste of her flooded his senses...honey, sweet and intoxicating....

His hands slid down her back to that sweet ass, pulling her closer until every inch of her was pressed against him.

Elain moaned a quiet, breathy sound against his lips...and his grip tightened as if she were the only thing keeping him from unraveling completely.

She was.

Azriel tilted her head back, taking his time, savoring her. He licked into her mouth, coaxing, teasing, until she met him with equal fervor, her hands sliding up his bare chest, her fingers scraping lightly over his muscles.

He shuddered, a groan escaping his throat.

Elain kissed him like she knew.

Like she knew how much he had starved for this. For her.

Like she knew that this wasn’t just a kiss...it was him.

They broke apart slowly, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, as if he had poured something of himself into that kiss.

Elain’s hands slid down his arms, her touch light, reassuring. She met his gaze without hesitation. "Come with me," she murmured.

She took his hand, guiding him out of the bathroom and into her bedroom. Azriel barely had the strength to think as she led him to the bed, easing him down onto the soft sheets. He exhaled as his body sank into their warmth, his head falling back against her pillows...pillows that smelled like her.

Elain's fingertips grazed his temple. "You're tired," she whispered.

Azriel opened his eyes. She slipped onto the bed beside him, curling her body against his. He didn’t resist when she guided his head down until it rested over her breasts, where the steady, soothing beat of her heart filled his ears.

He exhaled shakily, pressing closer.

Her fingers traced the lines of his shoulders, down the ridges of his spine...gentle, warm, dangerously close to his wings. He wished she would touch them. Wanted her to.

Slowly, the tension in his body ebbed. His wings stretched slightly, then relaxed fully against the mattress. Elain kept her slow caresses, her hands moving in soothing circles over his arms, his neck...until he was melting into her touch.

Azriel let out a contented sigh. He felt her warmth, the steady rise and fall of her chest beneath him, the scent of jasmine and honey wrapping around him, lulling him deeper, deeper…

She was his home. The place he had searched for, longed for, without ever knowing it. And for the first time in centuries, Azriel slept.

A deep, dreamless, peaceful sleep.

....

Azriel stirred, the warmth against his chest unfamiliar yet… right. For a moment, he thought it was another dream...the kind that always slipped through his fingers when he woke. But as his eyes fluttered open, he realized...this wasn’t a dream.

Elain was in his arms.

At some point during the night, they had shifted, and now she lay nestled against him, her face pressed to his neck, her breath soft and warm against his skin. His arm was draped over her waist, holding her close...as if, even in sleep, he hadn’t wanted to let her go.

He blinked at the clock across the room, his eyes widening. Past midday. He had slept too much. More than he had in centuries.

A slow exhale left his lips. Then, Elain stirred. She shifted against him, her hand gliding over his chest. A soft yawn escaped her before her lashes fluttered open, big brown eyes meeting his.

She smiled...sleepy, warm, beautiful.

Her fingers trailed up his throat, brushing over his jaw, her touch light, unhurried. As if she, too, wanted to savor this moment.

"Did you sleep well?" she murmured.

Azriel let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Too well."

Her smile deepened, but before she could say anything else, he rolled her beneath him his wings slightly flaring. She gasped, but he only brushed his lips over her jaw, his voice a whisper against her skin.

"It’s because of you."

Elain's fingers drifted over his bare chest, unhurried. Her touch lingered over the tattoo inked over his skin, tracing the swirling patterns.

Then, before he could think, before he could breathe...her lips followed.

Azriel let out a low sound as she pressed soft, open mouthed kisses over his tattoo, her tongue flicking out to taste his skin. His hands fisted in the sheets beside her, his control hanging by a thread.

“Elain,” he warned, voice hoarse.

She only pressed another kiss over his heart, her breath warm against his skin as her fingers trailed lower.

With a growl, Azriel captured her wrists, pinning them above her head. He watched the way her lips parted, how her breath hitched at the feel of him pressing her into the mattress.

He kissed her deep, consuming, his tongue sweeping against hers as he drank her in. Elain whimpered into his mouth, her body arching, pressing into his throbing cock.

Azriel’s breath came in rough, uneven pulls as he dragged his lips down Elain’s throat, tasting the delicate skin, feeling the way she trembled beneath him. He wanted to take his time, but the way she sighed...soft and aching...

Elain lifted her head slightly, watching him, as he kissed lower, down the center of her chest, over the soft swell of her breast. He pressed his lips to the thin fabric of her gown , his tongue flicking out in a slow, teasing caress over her sensitive nipples .

A gasp left her lips, her breath catching as his hands skimmed down her sides, tracing the delicate curve of her waist before slipping lower, pushing up the fabric of her nightgown. She lifted her arms, allowing him to ease it over her head, and his breath hitched at the sight of her...her perfect, creamy skin glowing in the light, her curly brown hair scattered across the pillow, her soft, round breasts rising and falling with each breath. His gaze lingered, darkening with desire, as he took in the delicate pink of her nipples, now taut and hard, peeking out like tender petals against the smoothness of her skin. He couldn’t tear his eyes away, mesmerized by her beauty...like she was a goddess carved from sunlight, too perfect to be real.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick, his hand gently cupping her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple.

Elain’s cheeks flushed, her lashes lowering, but then she pressed against him again, desperate, needy. Azriel hissed at the friction, and he pinched her nipple just enough to make her gasp. He smirked, dragging his lips over her jaw, his breath hot against her skin. "Patience, love."

Azriel lowered his mouth to her chest, the heat of her skin searing against his lips. He felt the rapid rise and fall of her breath beneath him, the soft swell of her breast pressing against his mouth. When his lips brushed the taut peak of her nipple, a shiver of need shot through him, and his mouth closed around it, drawing it in with soft pressure. His teeth grazed her nipple, and her body jolted in response. He couldn’t resist, his teeth returned to tease the sensitive peak, and a soft whimper escaped her lips. Azriel’s pulse raced as he pulled back, only to let his tongue trace slow, deliberate circles around her other nipple, savoring the soft texture beneath him. He moved lower, his mouth continuing to worship her, trailing kisses across her ribs and down her stomach. Every breathy sound she made sent heat curling through him, urging him on.

Then he reached to the soft skin of her thighs, his scarred hands parting them just enough as he settled between them. He glanced up, meeting her gaze, waiting. He watched her swallow, her fingers twisting in the sheets, but she didn’t pull away.

Instead, she let out a shaky exhale and parted her legs just a little more, offering herself to him.

He pressed a kiss to the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, then another, and another...closer, teasing, never quite where she needed him. Elain let out a small, desperate sound, her head tilting back against the pillows, her body trembling beneath his touch. His fingers found her through the lace of her underwear, stroking, massaging, feeling the damp heat of her. Her knees buckled, her thighs twitching.

“Azriel,” she whispered, a plea.

He hooked his fingers into the delicate fabric, and she arched for him, helping him slip it down until she lay bare beneath him. But the instant she was exposed, he saw the soft flush spread across her cheeks. Her legs shifted, closing slightly, and he waited, his gaze never leaving hers. She parted her legs just enough, and he let out a low, guttural hiss at the sight of her...slick, waiting, perfect.

“Fuck, Elain,” Azriel growled, his fingers sliding through her dripping folds, feeling how soaked, how ready she was for him.

She arched against him, grinding shamelessly, her breath coming in desperate, gasping moans. "Azriel," she choked out.

He hooked his arms beneath her knees and wrenched them apart, spreading her so wide she had nowhere to hide. Her breath hitched, but she didn’t look away,not when his fingers dug into her thighs, not when his head lowered between them, not when his hot breath ghosted over her aching, swollen clit.

Then he licked into her... slow at first, just enough to make her whimper. Then rougher. Deeper. His tongue dragged through her folds like he wanted to drown in her.

"You taste good," he groaned, his voice muffled against her. "So sweet."

Her entire body trembled as he sucked her clit between his lips, flicking it roughly before releasing it with a wet, obscene sound. She gasped, hips jerking, but his hands tightened as he held her exactly where he wanted her.

Azriel watched her, the way her fingers clenched the mattress, gripping the sheets so tightly her knuckles turned white.

Reaching up, he grabbed her wrist, prying it from the sheets and guiding it into his hair. “Hold on,” he said “I want to feel you.”

He felt her fingers clench in his hair, holding him there, urging him on. He growled against her, the vibration making her shudder beneath him. Then buried his face between her thighs, licking and sucking with an almost desperate hunger, his hands gripping her tighter as he lost himself in the taste of her. He ate her like a starved male, determined to drive her to the edge, to make her feel every inch of the craving consuming him.

She bucked against him, writhing as his tongue pressed deep, as he teased and tormented her with slow, devastating strokes. But when he slipped a finger inside her, curling it just right Elain cried out, her entire body tightening.

“That’s it,” he murmured against her, his voice rough. “Take what you need, Elain.”

She did. She ground against his mouth, chasing her pleasure, using him just as he wanted her to. And gods, he loved it.

When he added a second finger, stretching her, she shattered with a sharp, gasping sob, her walls pulsing around him, drenching him in her release. He didn’t stop, didn’t let her come down, fucking her with his fingers, his tongue laving over her clit until she was whimpering, pushing at his shoulders.

Only then did he pull back, his lips and chin glistening with her arousal. He dragged his tongue over his bottom lip savoring her, his gaze never leaving hers as he crawled up her body.Then he kissed her,leting her taste herself on his tongue.

Elain moaned, her legs tightening around his waist, locking him to her, her bare, soaked heat grinding against his cock, separated only by the thin towel.

Azriel moaned, his hands gripping her hips, guiding her movements as he rocked against her, desperate and aching, feeling how perfectly she fit against him. He wanted to bury himself inside her, to make her his in every way, to lose himself in the way she felt, the way she moaned for him.

But he needed to hear it. Needed her to say it.

“Elain,” he murmured, his lips dragging over her jaw, her ear. “Tell me what you want.”

Her fingers found the edge of his towel and with one motion she shoved it aside.

He watched as her breath hitched, her eyes darkening as she took him in ,his cock, thick, hard, flushed with need. He saw the way her lips parted, the way a soft, helpless sound slipped from her throat. His cock twitched in response.

Azriel clenched his jaw “Elain,” he said

she lifted those wide brown eyes to his and whispered, “Put it in me.” A slow exhale. “Make me yours.”

His mouth crushed against hers his teeth grazing her lower lip before he pulled back just enough to line himself up. His hands gripped her thighs, spreading her, holding her open for him.

And then he thrust inside her in one smooth stroke.

Elain cried out, arching against him, her fingers biting into his shoulders.

Azriel's head dropped to her shoulder, his breath ragged as her body clenched around him, impossibly tight, impossibly hot, gripping him like she never wanted to let go.

“Fuck,” he gritted out, his voice shaking. “You feel...” He couldn’t even finish.

She whimpered, shifting her hips, her walls fluttering around him .“Move,” she begged, breathless. “Azriel, please...”

He pulled out slow, making sure she felt every inch of him before he slammed back in, setting a ruthless rhythm. She gasped his name, again and again, her legs tightening around him as if she wanted him deeper, as if she never wanted him to stop.

And gods, the way she moved with him, the way she met every thrust, the way her voice cracked on his name...

It wrecked him.

He didn’t just want to take her. He wanted to claim her so thoroughly she’d still feel him tomorrow, next week, forever...

Her pleasure built again...faster, harder...her muscles tightening, her body trembling beneath him. Azriel felt it, felt the way she clenched around him, gripping him so perfectly it made his vision blur, each thrust sending her closer, sending them both spiraling toward the edge.

“Come for me,” he said. One hand slipped between them, fingers finding her clit, rubbing it in circles.

Elain shattered.

She came with a cry, her body arching, her walls squeezing him so tight it nearly broke him. The sound of her, the feel of her, dragged him under, and with one final, bruising thrust, Azriel followed his release hitting him.

A shuddering moan tore from his throat as he buried himself deep, spilling inside her, his entire body trembling with the force of it. He stayed still, buried inside her, his lips trailing soft, reverent kisses over her shoulder, the curve of her neck, the delicate line of her jaw.

“You're mine,” he breathed

He felt her body tense, her breath hitching. The words settled in her, deep and permanent. He could feel it...the way they connected, the weight of the truth hanging between them.

Her hands, tangled in his hair, pulled him closer, her legs tightening around him, pulling him deeper. Her eyes locked with his,and she whispered, “And you’re mine.”

His heart stuttered at her words. He shuddered again, a tremor running through his whole body. His soul had known long before his mind did. She was his. And gods, he was hers.

His fingers slid down, gently tracing the curve of her collarbone, across the delicate skin of her throat, pressing lightly against her pulse. His mouth hovered just above hers, breaths mingling.

And then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said it.

"I love you, Elain."

Her lips brushed over his, barely a kiss, "I love you, Azriel."

A wave of emotion washed over him, deeper than anything physical. His arms tightened around her, pulling her even closer, and he knew, without a doubt, that he would never let go. Something shifted between them, something more profound than words, more enduring than promises...

[sylusonychinus]

Day 6 - you said you'll grow old with me

Request by anon -

can we get a pure angst fic like literal no comfort just hurt and tears and everything because I barely see any angst fics from this game. So like it's basically Innocent birdcage where instead of Sylus getting killed by MC he killed her first

a/n: well i mean it was requested :3 I have a surprise for yall on valentines keep an eye out for it (つ╥﹏╥)つ (i semi sobbed maybe)

The moon hung low, a cold witness to the tragedy unfolding within the dimly lit halls of the abandoned estate. Flickering candlelight cast distorted shadows along the cracked walls, where dust and time had long settled like ghosts of the past. And in the heart of this decayed ruin, a cruel stage was set.

She never saw it coming.

One moment, she stood before him, hands trembling yet reaching out, the warmth of her touch almost brushing his sleeve. There was sorrow in her eyes—pleading, desperate. The next, a cold shock spread through her chest, the weight of betrayal sinking into her like jagged glass.

She gasped, choking on something thick, something warm. Her knees buckled, and the world tilted violently as she staggered, hands flying to the sharp intrusion buried deep in her torso. Scarlet bloomed across her dress like a macabre flower, staining the pale fabric with a truth she refused to acknowledge.

"Sylus…?" Her voice cracked, disbelief drowning the edges of her words.

His expression was unreadable, a glacial mask that revealed nothing, not even satisfaction. The dagger in his grip gleamed under the dim candlelight, slick with her lifeblood, yet his hand did not waver.

"You hesitated." His voice was a mere whisper, as if the weight of his actions had already begun sinking into his bones. "And I couldn't afford that."

She wanted to laugh, to scream, to curse the heavens for their cruel fate. But her body was betraying her faster than he ever did. The air burned in her lungs as she shuddered, her fingers clutching weakly at the dagger still lodged inside her, as if pulling it free would somehow undo the irreversible.

Tears slipped down her cheeks, unbidden, unwanted.

"I—" she tried, her breath hitching as her vision swam. There was so much she wanted to say, to demand—Why? Did none of it mean anything? The stolen glances, the fleeting moments where she thought she had seen something real in his eyes? The unspoken promises that now shattered like fragile glass at their feet?

But words failed her, and all that remained was the silence between them.

She fell.

Sylus watched as she crumpled, her body hitting the cold stone floor with a sickening finality. The crimson pool expanded beneath her, tainting the remnants of what little innocence had remained between them. His fingers twitched, an unspoken thought lurking just beyond reach, but he shoved it down, deeper, burying it beneath layers of duty, necessity, and cold, calculated resolve.

And yet, as her broken form lay motionless, her breath slowing, fading—

He could not look away.

A tremor ran through him. The hand that had so easily driven steel into her flesh now felt foreign, as if it no longer belonged to him. A sharp, suffocating weight pressed against his ribs, an unfamiliar ache he could not name.

He had done what needed to be done.

So why did it feel like he had lost everything?

Her fingers twitched, barely perceptible, as if even in her last moments, she refused to let go. It was cruel. She was cruel.

And when the light finally left her eyes, the shattered remains of his soul went with her.

The dagger slipped from his grasp, clattering against the floor, forgotten.

But the silence that followed would never leave him.

a/n: comment down below if you cried (つ╥﹏╥)つ

[linoxpudding]

Kitchen Chaos - Seo Changbin

*gif credit goes to owner*

summary: cooking date doesn't go as planned, moral of the story? your boyfriend can't multitask, but he can definitely love you right

pairing: seo changbin x reader

genre: fluff, established relationship

word count: 741 words

a/n: incorporated this request and this request for this fic, enjoy ♡

Masterlist

~°~

Cooking dinner with Changbin sounded like a dream. You had imagined soft background music, playful banter, and maybe even a little flour fight like in movies.

What you hadn't considered was that Changbin had the multitasking ability of a potato.

"Are you sure you can handle chopping the onions and stirring the sauce at the same time?" you ask, watching Changbin grip the knife like he's about to fight for his life.

He scoffs, rolling up the sleeves of his hoodie. "Babe, please. I can lift weights twice your size, rap at lightning speed, and make fire beats. I think I can handle—AHHH MY EYES."

You stifle a laugh as Changbin dramatically throws the knife down and rubs his eyes with his sauce-covered fingers.

"BINNIE, NO!!" you exclaim, grabbing his hands before he rubs spicy tomato sauce all over his face.

"I’M BLIND. THIS IS THE END."

"It's literally just onion," you giggle, guiding him toward the sink. "Here, rinse your hands first, pabo."

Changbin lets you take care of him, pouting as you dab his face with a towel. "This is why I lift, not cook."

You roll your eyes affectionately. "Cooking requires multitasking, which you suck at."

"I do NOT suck at multitasking," he grumbles.

"Really?" You smirk. "Then why is the sauce burning?"

"WHAT?!" Changbin yelps, spinning around so fast he nearly knocks over the cutting board. He rushes to the stove, frantically stirring the bubbling sauce. "No, no, no—babe, why didn’t you say anything sooner??"

"I was literally about to," you laugh, leaning against the counter. "I love how you act like it’s my fault."

He sighs, defeated. "Okay, maybe I can’t multitask. But!! I make up for it in other ways."

You tilt your head. "Like?"

Without a word, Changbin steps closer and pulls you into his chest, arms wrapping tightly around you. "Like giving the best cuddles," he murmurs against your hair.

You hum contentedly, letting yourself sink into his warmth. "That’s true," you admit. "Cuddling is your one true talent."

"Hey!" he protests, but you feel his chest vibrate with laughter. His hand starts rubbing gentle circles on your back. "Cooking is overrated anyway. Let's just order takeout and cuddle instead."

You laugh. "So you're giving up?"

"Not giving up—strategically retreating."

You roll your eyes, but the way he tightens his arms around you makes your heart melt. "Okay, okay, you don’t have to cook," you said between giggles. "Just be my taste tester."

His eyes lit up immediately. "Wait, so I get to eat without doing any of the work?"

"Yep."

He grabbed a chair and sat down so fast you swore you heard a whoosh of air. "Best. Plan. Ever."

"And you have to feed me."

"Obviously."

"And you have to cuddle me all night."

Changbin smirks, squeezing you tighter. "Babe, I was already planning on it."

---

By some miracle, dinner turned out fine, despite Changbin’s… contributions.

After eating, you both collapsed onto the couch, stomachs full and laughter lingering in the air. Changbin stretched his arms with a content sigh before opening them wide. "C’mere."

You didn’t need to be told twice. Crawling into his embrace, you rested your head against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat. His arms wrapped around you snugly, like a protective cocoon, and he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.

"You know," you mumbled sleepily, "for someone who’s bad at multitasking, you’re really good at cuddling."

His chest rumbled with laughter. "That’s ‘cause cuddling only requires one skill—holding you close and never letting go."

Your heart melted. "Smooth, Seo Changbin. Very smooth."

Changbin grinned, his arms tightening around you as he tucked you even closer, his body heat instantly wrapping around you like a thick, cozy blanket.

For a few moments, the world outside faded. The only thing that mattered was the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest against yours, the soft hum he let out as he pressed a gentle kiss to your temple.

You turned your head slightly, just enough for his lips to meet yours in the softest, sweetest kiss. It wasn’t rushed or demanding—just warm, like morning sunlight streaming through the window.

He pulled back barely an inch, his lips still ghosting over yours. "Mmm," he hummed, his voice all soft and lazy. "This is definitely my best skill."

You let out a breathy laugh, nudging your nose against his. "I can’t argue with that."

[moeitsu]

The Dark Tide Siren!Arthur Morgan x Reader Modern AU Ch 8 - A Storm Is Born In Still Water Summary: Spending the evening with the Marstons, laughter and warmth filling the space, you couldn’t ignore the looming presence of the hurricane on the horizon. A quiet unease has settled in your chest—this night felt like the calm before the storm. The last taste of normalcy before everything was about to change. wc: 11k tw: none! Swim Back! ↞ ﹏𓊝﹏ ↠ Sail Ahead!

AN: This ended up being longer than I intended, but I really enjoyed it. Reader spends some quality time with the Marstons in this chapter. With a juicy little surprise from Arthur at the end :)

tag list: @photo1030 @v3lv3tf0x @ireallyhonestlydontcare @shygamergirl01 @cloudywithachanceofcrisis @sevikaspuertoricanwife @abducted-cowz @ilovethatforyousworld @gatodebiquini @onyxlune @bomdada

Standing in front of the bathroom sink, I rolled the small pearl between my fingers, its smooth surface cool against my damp skin. Steam curled around the room in ghostly wisps, clinging to the mirror in a thick, hazy veil. The humid air pressed against my bare skin, making me sweat all over again, as if the shower had done nothing to wash away the night.

Since I’d arrived home, I couldn’t stop replaying everything.

I could still feel him everywhere—Arthur’s strong hands gripping my waist, his slick tongue dancing with mine, his warm breath filling my lungs. No amount of scrubbing could erase the phantom sensation of his touch, the way my skin still tingled as if he had left an invisible mark on me.

Maybe it wasn’t just his touch that had me so undone. Maybe it was the trust, the raw vulnerability of it all. Arthur had a way of making me feel safe, seen—like I was something treasured. He unraveled me with the sound of his deep, melodic voice, lured me in with the ethereal glow of his body, pulsing like a heartbeat in the water.

A shiver rolled through me, despite the heat lingering in the air. If he hadn’t been the one to pull away, how far would I have gone?

At that moment, I had been ready to strip my wetsuit from my body, to give myself to him completely, to discover what lay beneath those shimmering scales. It was insane. I had only known him for a week. I barely understood his biology. And yet…to Arthur, I was the first to show him kindness. To explore him with gentleness and admiration.

And standing here, miles away from him, I still felt his pull. That strange, invisible tether binding us together. This feeling inside me was foreign yet familiar, and it felt wonderful. Damn it, some part of me truly did love him.

My gaze dropped to his gift, its pearly-white surface reflecting the golden glow of the bathroom light. My stomach twisted as I finally let the weight of this tiny treasure settle over me.

I had sealed my fate. Not that I could or even wanted to refuse him. But the future… whatever awaited us… terrified me. I had accepted his courtship. I had expressed a mutual desire to mate. The thought of sex with him sent heat rushing up my neck, my body reacting before my mind could catch up. My thighs pressed together instinctively, aching with an anticipation I barely understood.

Part of me knew I shouldn’t want this. And yet every time I was near him my body betrayed me. 

But this was bigger than just desire. Charles’ warning rang in my ears. This was bigger than my feelings. It could be dangerous. Hell, it could even be deadly.

I placed the pearl down on the cool porcelain sink, its milky surface gleaming under the dim light. My fingers lingered on it for a moment before I turned away, grabbing my night creams and smoothing them over my skin with slow, absentminded strokes. And yet, as I went through the motions, my thoughts wandered.

What do his cocks look like?

The question struck like a bolt of lightning, sending a flush creeping up my neck. I don’t think I’ll ever truly grasp the fact that he has two. My hands faltered for a moment before I forced myself to keep going, spreading the thick cream over my cheeks with shaking fingers.

What would they feel like?

Would they be like the rest of him—silken, slick, and impossibly warm? Would they have the same ridges as his tongue, designed to pleasure and devour? A whimper nearly slipped from my lips at the thought.

I snatched my toothbrush, clicking it on with a little too much force before shoving the humming bristles into my mouth.

Would he even fit inside me?

Arthur was big. Not just in size but in presence, in the way his chest and shoulders dwarfed me, the way his powerful frame moved through the water with effortless grace. He was far bigger than any human I’d ever met. His tail alone nearly weighed 300 lbs. Would it hurt? Would his body even be compatible with mine? Surely there was some way we could make it work.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to conjure up the brief glimpse I’d caught when I was stroking his gills—the way he had pressed them into my soft stomach, the heat of him unmistakable even beneath the water. Slipping past his scales in a moment of raw hunger and pure arousal. Part of me loved that I had that effect on him, that my touch alone brought out a primal side that he tried to keep locked away. That instinctual need to—

My eyes flew open.

Did he want to impregnate me?

My breath caught in my throat, the electric hum of my toothbrush suddenly deafening in the small bathroom.

Could he?

His father was human, which meant there was some possibility for offspring. And sirens—at least from what little I knew from Lenny’s lesson—didn’t just mate for pleasure. Mating season wasn’t about getting off from the heat of arousal. It was a biological imperative, an instinctual drive to breed, to create strong, healthy offspring so the species could endure for generations. Arthur’s body was driven by its biological processes, much like my own. My body still followed its natural reproductive cycle, ovulation and menses occurred whether I wanted it to or not. And I was certain, there was no birth control for sirens. 

I spit out the foamy toothpaste, watching the milky swirl spin down the drain as I gripped the edge of the sink, my thoughts following it into the abyss. There was only one way to answer these questions, and standing here spiraling like my minty spit wasn’t going to help.

I needed to take this one day at a time.

Arthur had been open with me about nearly everything. He would understand my hesitation, my concerns, my fears and my fantasies. If he was going to be my mate, and I his, there were things we needed to discuss. Things I had to know first.

But for now, this pearl—this sacred vow—would remain between us. Like our own little secret.

Grabbing my hairbrush, I wrung the excess water from my hair over the sink, watching droplets slide down the porcelain before wiping the mirror with my palm. The fog smeared under my touch, revealing my reflection in hazy fragments. I pulled my tangled hair back from my face, only to freeze as the light caught something shimmering on my ear.

My breath hitched.

Leaning closer, my pulse pounded in my throat as the blood drained from my face.

Iridescent lines, thin as spider silk, wrapped delicately around my earlobe, tracing up the helix in intricate, swirling patterns. The faint shimmer was unmistakable. Evidence of Arthur’s hunger, where he had nipped at my flesh and then soothed the ache with his traitorous tongue.

Shit.

A rush of heat crawled up my neck, an unrelenting mix of embarrassment and something far more dangerous—desire.

With a sharp grunt, I tossed my hairbrush into the sink, the clatter echoing in the small space. Yanking my bathrobe off the door, I threw it around my shoulders and stormed out of the bathroom.

So much for keeping this a secret.

At this rate, I might as well walk into work on Monday with a brand-new fucking piercing.

* ‧̍̊˙· 𓆝.° ｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ·˙‧̍̊ *

The microwave let out a shrill beep, its sound slicing through my quiet apartment like a judge’s gavel, sentencing me to another regrettable meal. With a sigh, I trudged to the kitchen, grabbing the steaming plastic tray and peeling back the film. A wave of artificial cheese and processed nostalgia wafted up, clinging to the air like an unavoidable truth.

Flopping onto my bed, I sank into the pillows, the mattress dipping beneath me. Eating in bed was typically reserved for the days I truly felt pathetic—but after tonight’s adrenaline-fueled chaos, I figured I’d earned it. The glow of the bedside lamp cast long, soft shadows across the walls, wrapping the room in a cozy, almost melancholic warmth.

Ah, gourmet.

Just as I reached for the remote, my phone buzzed against the nightstand, the vibration rattling the wood, its soft white light cutting through the dimly lit room like a whisper demanding to be heard.

Hey. ~JM

A small smile tugged at my lips. Placing my dinner down on my lap as I swiped the notification open and typed back.

Hi.

You alive? ~JM

No, you’re talking to a ghost right now.

Grinning, I stabbed at the sad excuse for macaroni with my fork as I waited for his reply.

Very funny. Just wanted to make sure you got home safe. ~JM

Home by 11 PM sharp, Mr. Marston. Don’t worry, I didn’t break my curfew ;)

Taking a streaming bite, I instantly regretted it, and reached for my drink to wash away the taste of disappointment. My phone vibrated again.

You’re impossible. How’d your swim with Arthur go? ~JM

I smirked, stretching out across the mattress, my legs tangled in the blankets.

Wouldn’t you like to know? You tryna get lessons to be a lifeguard or something?

Three little dots danced on the screen. Disappearing for a moment then coming back. Then—

Forget it. ~JM

I laughed softly, and he was calling me impossible? Perhaps I was playing too much. Despite our antics John was a sincere friend. He was only looking out for me after all.  

I’m teasing, you idiot. It was nice. Arthur showed me around the tank. Discovered some new abilities of his too. He really is something incredible.

I couldn’t help but think back to the way his bioluminescence had flickered like a living constellation beneath the water, the way his voice had wrapped around me like a song meant just for me. The way his warm breath curled in my chest. It crossed my mind whether or not I should share that piece of information with the others. Charles asked me to keep him updated on everything. But how much did I really need to share? 

Yeah, incredibly weird. You both are. Guess that’s why you get along so well. ~JM

Rolling my eyes, I bit back another laugh.

Don’t hate me ‘cuz I got to swim with the magic fish and you didn’t :P

Oh shut up. Are we still on for tomorrow? Abby and Jack are coming too. ~JM

That made me sit up, my exhaustion momentarily forgotten.

It was tradition—an unspoken ritual between John and me. Every time a big hurricane loomed on the horizon, we’d go out for drinks, raising our glasses to the storm before it had the chance to take anything away from us. One last hoorah, just in case we woke up to find the world outside our doors washed away.

It was a morbid tradition, sure, but necessary. The hurricanes had been growing stronger, more relentless. Sometimes it felt like Mother Earth was being sinister, toying with its humans. Though who could blame her. Each summer, we lost more land to the sea, watched the shoreline creep further inland, watched the cost of repairs climb higher than we could keep up with.

But this tradition—this small act of defiance—was our way of saying we wouldn’t break. That no matter what was coming, we’d face it together, with laughter in our throats and whiskey in our veins.

This time, though, Abigail and Jack would be joining us. It meant fewer drinks, fewer reckless choices, but I didn’t mind. If anything, I was proud of John for bringing them along, for letting them be part of something that had always just been ours. It meant he wasn’t just bracing for the storm anymore—he was facing it with the people he loved most in the world.

Absolutely, I’ll be there. I miss those two!

They miss you too. Was thinking either Shady Belle or Bronte’s. ~JM

I nearly choked on my drink.

This little island off the coast wasn’t exactly known for its fine dining. There were only a handful of places to eat, and even fewer that were appropriate for the whole family. Neither John nor I were rolling in cash, which meant our options were limited. But Shady Belle? Really?

To put it kindly, Shady Belle was a dump. A dive bar tucked into the shadiest part of town—hence the name. The kind of place where the floors were perpetually sticky, the jukebox was always playing something just off-key, and you were guaranteed to see at least one fight break out before closing time. It attracted the worst kind of crowd—drifters, troublemakers, men who smelled like cheap beer and regret. But it was cheap. Greasy burgers, stale fries, watered-down whiskey. You got what you paid for, and in our case, that wasn’t much.

Bronte’s, on the other hand, was a different world entirely. A cozy little beachside Italian restaurant, nestled right by the harbor where the scent of salt and grilled seafood filled the air. The place had charm—worn wooden tables, twinkling string lights, and the soft hum of waves crashing just beyond the deck. Their seafood was as fresh as it got, pulled straight from the harbor each morning and served up in buttery pastas and rich, fragrant risottos. It wasn’t fancy, not exactly, but it was a place you took your family, where you lingered over good food and even better conversation.

And somehow, John thought these two were interchangeable.

John Marston, you are not bringing your lovely family to a dump like Shady Belle. I forbid it, shame on you. >:(

I’m just messing with you, boss. We’ll see you tomorrow at Bronte’s. ~JM

I set my phone down with a contented sigh, sinking deeper into the pillows. My food had gone cold, my show remained unwatched, and yet my mind was still tangled in thoughts of Arthur—his touch, his voice, the pull of something I didn’t fully understand.

And yet, despite it all, a weight had lifted from my chest.

That small conversation with John had grounded me, brought back a sense of normalcy, like an anchor in the middle of a storm. The calm in the eye of a hurricane. For tonight, I let myself believe that the little pearl gleaming on my nightstand was just that—a simple pearl. A treasure from the abyss. Nothing more, nothing less. Whatever future awaited me with Arthur could wait.

With that thought, I let my eyes slip closed, drifting off to sleep with a small smile on my lips.

* ‧̍̊˙· 𓆝.° ｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ·˙‧̍̊ *

The hum of my truck’s engine faded into silence as I shifted in my seat, giving myself one last once-over in the rearview mirror. It wasn’t vanity that kept me checking my reflection—it was the damn iridescent marks that shimmered no matter how I tried to conceal them. The fading sunlight caught the delicate lines, making them glint like pearls against my skin.

Covering the scars on my wrist was easy enough with a well placed watch or bracelet. But my ear was a different challenge. I had tried earrings, but they only drew more attention. A beanie had crossed my mind, but late summer in the Outer Banks was no time for extra layers. With a sigh and a silent prayer that no one would notice, I raked my fingers through my hair one last time, letting it fall over my ear before stepping out of the truck.

The scent of salt air and freshly baked bread welcomed me as I stepped into the restaurant. It didn’t take long to find the Marstons—the hostess barely had time to point me in their direction before the sound of Jack’s high-pitched giggles rang through the patio. His little voice carried over the murmur of dinner conversations as he eagerly scribbled across his kids’ menu, tongue poking out in deep concentration.

“Aunty!” he shrieked the moment I leaned over his chair, wrapping my arms around him in a tight hug.

“Hey, nugget,” I grinned, ruffling his blond hair as he giggled into my shoulder. I slid into my seat, warmth settling in my chest as I turned to Abigail. “It’s so nice to see you. You’re looking great! How’s the baby?”

Her tired but radiant smile said it all before she even answered.

A few months ago, I had been jolted awake by a drunken call from John, slurring his way through the news that he was going to be a father of two. I had given him an earful—not just for drowning himself in whiskey instead of being there for Abigail, but for calling me instead of facing his own emotions head-on. Still, beneath my frustration, I understood.

John wasn’t in the best place, mentally or physically, when Jack was born. That was before I came around, but Abigail had told me how much he struggled with fatherhood in the beginning. His own father had been a hard, unloving man, and John had spent his youth running wild, just another orphaned street kid scraping by however he could. It wasn’t until Hosea took him under his wing that he found something like guidance—like family.

By the time I entered the picture, John was already trying to be better, to be more present. And then he found out Abigail was pregnant again. The drinking didn’t stop overnight, but I helped him reel it in, reminded him that this time, he didn’t have to figure it out alone. He didn’t have many friends outside the facility, and I had quickly become the person he called on those nights when doubt crept in, when he mumbled about being a failure and a sorry excuse for a father. I listened. I talked him down. I reminded him that he wasn’t his old man—that he had a choice in the kind of father he wanted to be.

And looking at him now, his hand resting protectively on Abigail’s, his eyes soft as he watched Jack chatter away, it warmed my heart to see how far he’d come. To see him not just accepting fatherhood, but embracing it.

Abigail beamed, her whole face lighting up. “She’s wonderful. Been kickin’ around in there like she’s training for the Olympics, though,” she laughed, resting a hand on her belly as if to calm the tiny storm within.

I gasped, nearly dropping my napkin. “She?!” My voice came out more like a squeak. Last time I saw her, the baby’s gender had still been a mystery.

With a proud nod, she confirmed it, and I looked between her and John, my excitement bubbling over. “Well, congratulations, you two! A baby girl—what wonderful news!” I turned to Jack, who was still absorbed in his coloring. “What about you, Nugget? Are you excited?”

Jack didn’t miss a beat. He threw a crayon triumphantly into the air and declared, “I’m gonna be the best big sister!”

Laughter erupted around the table. John chuckled, shaking his head as he gave his son’s shoulder a light nudge. “Big brother, kid. You’re gonna be the best big brother to your little sister.”

The minutes melted away as we talked about everything and nothing, Abigail filling me in on all the baby know-how while Jack chartered between this topic and the next. When the waitress arrived to take our orders, I raised a knowing eyebrow at John as he casually ordered a Blue Moon. He caught my expression and mouthed just one before returning his attention to Jack’s latest tic-tac-toe match.

When my turn came, I ordered an Irish coffee.

John shot me a look. “Little late for coffee, isn’t it? You tryna pull an all-nighter?”

I nodded, stirring my straw absently in my water. “Gonna stay up to track the storm. It’s not supposed to hit land until after midnight. They’re saying it’ll weaken to a Cat 3, but I’m not sure I believe that.”

Abigail’s smile faltered slightly as she twisted her hands in her lap. “I heard they already evacuated some parts of the island. Are you sure you’re safe in your apartment?”

Before I could answer, our drinks arrived, and John lifted his beer in salute. “I’ll drink to that,” he said with a grin before taking a long sip. Jack, wanting to be just like his old man, eagerly lifted his sippy cup of milk and took a dramatic gulp, his little brows furrowed in exaggerated seriousness.

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t suppress a smile. “I’ll be fine, Abby,” I reassured her, waving a dismissive hand. “I’m on the fourth floor, anyway. Only thing I really gotta worry about is the wind.” I threw in a wink for good measure.

Abigail didn’t look entirely convinced. She reached over the table and took my hand in hers, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Alright,” she said, her voice softer now. “But if you lose power, water—or even if you just need some company—you’re more than welcome to stay at Hosea’s with us.”

Her warmth settled over me like a blanket, and for a moment, the looming storm didn’t seem quite so daunting.

Dinner carried on in a comfortable rhythm, the conversation flowing as easily as the drinks. Abigail shared stories of Jack’s latest antics—his newfound fascination with bugs, his insistence that he could build a boat out of sticks, his stubborn refusal to accept that the moon wasn’t actually following him home at night. John chimed in with the occasional quip, rolling his eyes in mock exasperation whenever his son interrupted him to “correct” the details of the stories.

Plates were passed, forks scraped against ceramic, and the scent of garlic and butter mingled with the salty ocean breeze. The sun had dipped below the horizon, casting the sky in deep hues of indigo and violet. The colors reminded me of a certain someone, but I pushed those thoughts aside. As if on cue, the string lights flickered to life above the patio, bathing the space in a warm, golden glow. The soft hum of conversation from other tables drifted around us, but beneath it all, there was something else. 

A shift in the air.

The wind carried a different weight now, cooler, charged with something powerful and untamed. The storm loomed just beyond the horizon, invisible but present, pressing against the edges of our peaceful evening. The distant rumble of waves against the shore sounded rougher than before, like an unspoken warning. I glanced toward the darkened sky, the edges of heavy clouds rolling in, and felt it deep in my bones. The tension, the waiting.

But here, on this little patio strung with golden lights, everything still felt normal. Safe.

Jack, having polished off his dinner with the determined enthusiasm only a child could manage, rocked back and forth in his chair, barely containing his excitement. “Dad, can we go inside and see the fish? Please? Please, please, please?”

John sighed, already pushing back his chair. “Alright, alright. But you gotta actually look this time, not just tap on the glass and scare ‘em off.”

Jack beamed, leaping up from his seat and practically dragging his father toward the restaurant’s entrance. “You know Papa Hosea owns an aquarium right? You can come see the fish whenever you like.” 

“But I wanna see those fish!” He pointed a small finger towards the tank inside the restaurant. 

Abigail and I watched them go, their figures illuminated briefly by the warm glow of the doorway before disappearing inside.

A gust of wind sent a shiver through the patio, rattling the string lights overhead. Abigail pulled her cardigan a little tighter around her shoulders and shot me a look. “You sure you don’t want to take that offer?” she teased, but there was something genuine in her eyes.

I smirked, but the thought lingered. The storm was coming, and even with a full belly and good company, I couldn’t quite shake the feeling that this might be the last normal night for a while.

Abigail studied me for a moment, her fingers idly tracing the rim of her water glass. The playful glint in her eyes softened into something quieter, something knowing. “And how are you doing?” she asked, tilting her head slightly. “I feel like a terrible friend. We’ve spent the whole night talking about me and the baby, and I haven’t even asked about you.”

“You are the farthest thing from a terrible friend Abby. Hell, you’re practically like family.” I hesitated before my next words, swirling the last of my Irish coffee in my mug. “But, I’m fine. Nothing exciting to report,” I said, but even I wasn’t convinced.

Abigail arched her brow. “Oh, fine, huh? That’s convincing.”

I huffed a laugh and shook my head. “I mean it. I’m just… busy. Work’s been a lot.”

“So I’ve heard,” Abigail said, swirling the last of her drink before setting it down. “John told me all about that monster you guys found on the beach. He still won’t let me come see it, though—said he doesn’t want me to get wrapped up in it. Whatever that means.” She waved a dismissive hand, her tone light, but the word monster lodged itself like a thorn in my chest.

I forced a small smile, but my throat tightened. I couldn’t blame her—how could I? She had never met Arthur, never seen him beyond whatever crude image John had painted for her. Knowing him, he had probably fed her just enough details to keep her curiosity in check, just enough to make sure she didn’t go snooping around for more. But I doubted he spared the more unsettling details—the sharpness of Arthur’s features, the unearthly glow in his eyes, the sheer, overwhelming presence of him.

To her, he was just a story. A strange, terrifying thing washed up from the deep, something not quite human. And maybe that was easier. Easier to believe in a monster than to acknowledge the gentle yet broken man beneath.

I shifted in my seat, holding my drink just to have something to do with my hands. “John just worries,” I said carefully. “You know how he gets.”

Abigail scoffed. “That’s one way to put it. He acts like I can’t handle myself.” She shook her head, then gave me a pointed look. “But you have seen it, haven’t you?”

My fingers curled around the ceramic mug. Him, I almost corrected. But instead, I just nodded. “Yeah. I have.”

Abigail tilted her head, watching me closely. “And? Is it really as bad as John says?”

I hesitated, feeling the weight of the truth pressing against my ribs. Worse, I wanted to say. And yet... not at all. Instead, I just swallowed and gave her the safest answer I could.

“We’re taking it one day at a time.”

She wasn’t buying it. She never did. “You sound just like Hosea. Anyways, are you seeing anyone?” she pressed, her voice light but her gaze sharp. “Or still working yourself into the grave?”

I exhaled slowly, tapping my fingers against the side of my cup. “I don’t know if I’d call it seeing someone,” I admitted, choosing my words carefully. “It’s… complicated.”

That caught her interest. Abigail leaned forward, propping her chin on her hand. “Complicated how?”

I let out a breathy chuckle, running a hand through my hair. Where did I even begin? “He’s… different.”

Abigail’s brows lifted. “Different good or different bad?”

“I don’t really know yet,” I admitted honestly. “He’s just—he doesn’t fit into any category. Not someone I ever expected to know, let alone…”

“Let alone what?” she prompted, her lips curving into a knowing smile.

I sighed, shaking my head. “He’s not like anyone else, Abigail. He’s got this way about him—like he’s seen and done things most people couldn’t even begin to understand. And it’s not just that he’s been through a lot, it’s that he wears it, you know? Like it’s stitched into him, into the way he moves, the way he talks.”

Abigail’s expression softened. “Sounds like someone with a rough past,” she said gently.

I swallowed, staring down at the swirls in my coffee. A rough past. That was one way to put it. “Yeah,” I murmured. “And sometimes I feel like I’m standing on the edge of something I can’t fully see. Like if I step too close, I might lose my footing entirely.”

For a long moment, Abigail didn’t say anything. Then, she reached across the table, squeezing my hand. “You’re not scared of him, are you?”

The question caught me off guard, but the answer was easy. “No. Never.” That much I knew for certain.

“Then maybe that’s what matters,” she said simply. “Different doesn’t always mean bad. And complicated doesn’t always mean impossible.”

I looked up at her, at the quiet reassurance in her eyes, and for a moment, I let myself believe her. But deep down, I knew that Arthur wasn’t just different. He was something else entirely. And that was what made this so damn complicated. 

The conversation lulled into a comfortable silence. The clinking of silverware and the hum of distant conversation dimming in the space between us as patrons left to take shelter from the oncoming hurricane. The air was thick now, charged with the quiet presence of the storm rolling in from the sea. The string lights overhead flickered slightly as the wind picked up, rustling the palm trees and sending the scent of salt and rain through the open patio.

Abigail glanced at the sky, then at Jack, who was starting to rub at his eyes between half-hearted scribbles on his kids’ menu. “We should get going before it really starts coming down,” she said, pushing back from the table.

We settled the bill, and as we stepped into the parking lot, the restaurant’s warm glow spilling onto the pavement, the wind had gained strength. It whipped at Abigail’s cardigan and sent Jack giggling as he tried to fight against it.

“Be safe, alright?” she said, pulling me into a tight hug. She smelled like vanilla and the faintest trace of baby powder. “And if you change your mind about staying with us—”

“I know where to find you,” I finished with a small smile.

She gave me one last squeeze before turning to buckle Jack into his car seat, her voice soft and affectionate as she reassured him they’d be home soon. That left me alone with John for a moment, the space between us filled with the howling wind and the rustling of palm fronds overhead.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels. “Storm’s rolling in fast,” he muttered.

Before I could respond, a sudden gust swept through the parking lot, catching my hair and blowing it back from my face. I barely noticed it—until I saw the way John’s expression shifted.

His eyes flickered, just for a second, to the iridescent glint of the thread like jewels on my ear, catching the restaurant’s light like tiny embers against my skin. It was only a second. A brief, unreadable look before he schooled his expression into something neutral.

I froze, unsure if I should say something—unsure if he would. But John just exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head before stepping forward and pulling me into a quick, tight, one-armed hug.

“Stay dry,” he mumbled against my hair, his voice low and rough.

“You too.” 

And just like that, he let go, turning away without another word. I watched as he climbed into the driver’s seat, the glow of the dashboard briefly illuminating his face before he started the car. Abigail waved at me through the window, and then they were gone, disappearing down the darkened road toward Hosea’s home.

I stood there for a moment longer, the wind tugging at my clothes, the scent of rain heavy in the air. Then, with a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, I turned and headed for my truck. It was going to be a long night, and I had a date with the storm radar.

* ‧̍̊˙· 𓆝.° ｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ·˙‧̍̊ *

Sometime after midnight, exhaustion must have won—I hadn’t meant to fall asleep. The coffee I’d downed earlier had lost its fight against the weight of my eyelids. The last thing I remembered was watching the storm churn on my computer screen, the swirling eye of the hurricane swallowing our little island whole. Reds and yellows slashed across the radar like open wounds, fading into greens and blues on the outskirts. I had been listening to the radio, tracking power outages, storm surges, trees crashing onto roads, and the eerie mention of debris washing up on the shore.

Now, I woke to a sharp crick in my neck, my laptop dimly glowing where it had slipped between the folds of my blankets. The storm still raged outside—wind shrieking against the windows, rattling the glass in their frames. But something was… off. It was too quiet.

The low hum of the radio had been reduced to static, its garbled voice flickering in and out, whispering in fragmented syllables. I reached up, tugging the string of my bedside lamp. Nothing. No power. That explains the silence, the hum of my AC is typically a comforting white noise.

Rubbing the sleep from my face, I sat up, disoriented. My watch read 3:17 AM. Outside, the wind howled like a living thing, its ghostly wails slipping through the cracks in the building. But beneath it—beneath the storm’s fury—I heard something else.

A faint, rhythmic buzzing. My phone.

It must have slipped from my bed while I slept, and now it was vibrating somewhere on the floor, lost in the darkness. I strained to listen, feeling blindly across the wooden boards until my fingers brushed the smooth glass.

I flipped it over, squinting at the screen. John.

A cold weight settled in my stomach. My thumb hovered over the answer button for only a second before I swiped to pick up.

“John?” My voice was hoarse, the word barely audible over the static hum in the air.

For a moment, there was nothing but the howl of the storm.

Panic began to coil in my gut, tightening with each second of silence. “John, is everything alright?” I was praying this was some kind of butt dial, or that he was simply calling to check in on me.

A sharp burst of static crackled through the line, followed by a distorted mess of noise—wind shrieking, the distant clang of something metal slamming against concrete.

“—out. Power’s out—damn generators—”

I sat up straighter, gripping the phone a little tighter. Did Hosea lose power too? But why would he be calling me about it? “John, I can barely hear you. Where are you?”

The wind battered against my windows, rattling them in their frames. My heart pounded against my ribs, its rhythm matching the erratic pulse of the storm.

“—at the facility—” His voice wavered, distant, then returned in a frantic rush. “It’s bad. Real bad.”

I threw the blankets off and shot up from the bed, already reaching for my boots. So he’s not at Hosea’s, got it. Leave it to John to be at work during a damn hurricane. “What’s happening?”

More static. A low, shuddering creak echoed through the speaker, like steel under pressure.

“—system’s down—” His voice cut in and out, growing more frantic. “Aerators failed—oxygen levels—” Another sharp cut of silence. “Pumps not working.”

I cursed under my breath, fumbling in the darkness as I yanked my jacket on and scrambled for my keys. My hands shook, the weight of his words pressing down on me like a vice. If the generators were down, that meant the entire facility was in darkness—no lights, no air circulation, no cooling systems. And John… John was there alone, trying to handle it himself.

He’d be working himself into the grave, pushing through exhaustion, sweat soaking his clothes in the humid, stifling air. And if the tanks were failing—if the aeration system was down—he wasn’t just fighting to keep the lights on. He was fighting to keep everything inside that building alive.

“Hang on, John, I’m on my way. Don’t do anything stupid, wait—”

His voice broke through again, this time with a single, chilling sentence:

“They’re suffocating.”

I froze. My breath hitched. The wildlife was suffocating.

My mind raced, connecting the dots at a sickening speed. No generators meant no power. No power meant no saltwater pumps. No filtration. No oxygen cycling through the water.

In a normal aquarium tank, that would be bad. In an enclosed system as massive as the facility’s main exhibit—housing fish, sharks, rays, and other massive marine life—it would be a death sentence. Oxygen depletion would happen fast.

Too fast.

Hypoxia. It could happen within hours. A slow, suffocating death. The fish would panic first, gills flaring, their bodies slamming against the glass in erratic distress. Then tissue damage. Starved organs. Their movements slowing as their bodies failed them. Then—

I swallowed hard, forcing my spiraling thoughts to a stop.

A sharp inhale hissed through my teeth as realization slammed into me like a tidal wave.

John wasn’t just talking about the fish.

The static flared again, his voice cutting through—urgent. Desperate.

“Arthur—”

The line crackled, breaking apart into nothingness.

I clutched the phone tighter, pulse hammering in my ears. “John?” I pressed, voice rising. “John, what about Arthur?!”

But the call had already gone dead.

My mind raced as I bounded down the staircase, taking two steps at a time, barely feeling the impact beneath my feet. The last step was a blur—I half-jumped, half-stumbled, but I didn’t stop moving. I tried to remind myself—Arthur can breathe air. He’ll be okay. If things got bad, he could pull himself to a shallower part of the tank, find a pocket of safety.

But that wasn’t enough to quell the gnawing fear twisting in my gut.

Without oxygen circulation, the water would turn against him. CO₂ and ammonia would build rapidly, poisoning the very environment he called home. And Arthur—his entire life had been spent in a controlled aquatic space, monitored, maintained. What if his body needed those precise conditions? What if we had overlooked something critical?

And even if he survived physically, the psychological toll would be its own kind of torment. He would be trapped in that space, forced to witness the creatures he shared his world with convulsing, gasping, dying. The thrashing, the desperation—he wouldn’t just see it; he would feel it.

I shoved through the front doors, and the storm nearly knocked me off my feet.

Wind roared around me, a force so strong it stole the breath from my lungs. Rain pelted my skin like a relentless volley of tiny bullets, cold and stinging. I had to squint against the downpour, barely able to make out anything beyond a few feet ahead. The street was an endless expanse of blackness, the power outage swallowing every familiar landmark into a shapeless void.

My hands shook as I fumbled with the truck keys, the metal slick from the rain. I yanked the door open, using the full force of my body to fight against the wind, and threw myself inside. The moment I slammed the door shut, the world outside became muffled, but the storm still howled, rattling the windows, making the vehicle feel like a fragile bubble against something vast and furious.

I gripped the wheel, my knuckles white. I was terrified.

Of the storm. Of what I might find when I got to the facility. Of what Arthur might be enduring right now.

This was reckless. I knew that. But John was alone. Arthur could be suffering. And I couldn’t sit here, waiting, hoping, while the worst unfolded in the dark.

I had to get to them. I shoved the keys into the ignition, took a deep breath, and turned the engine over.

The roads were a nightmare.

Water pooled in deep, deceptive pockets along the asphalt, and my tires skidded more than once as I navigated the flooded streets. The rain pounded relentlessly, turning the windshield into a smeared, shifting blur, my wipers barely keeping up. Streetlights were dead, leaving only the erratic flashes of lightning to illuminate my path in harsh, fleeting bursts. Each time the sky cracked open, it revealed a scene more unsettling than the last—fallen palm trees, submerged sidewalks, waves crashing violently over the breakwater.

As I neared the facility, the ocean raged against the shore, its swollen tides rising higher than I’d ever seen, swallowing chunks of sand and hurling salt spray across the road. My chest tightened. If the storm surge got worse, the flooding would only accelerate.

Then, through the sheets of rain, I spotted John’s truck parked near the back entrance. Relief and urgency tangled in my chest. I swerved into the lot, barely throwing the gear into park before yanking the door open.

The second I stepped out, the storm slammed into me with full force. Wind tore at my clothes, rain slashed at my skin, and the ground beneath my boots felt slick with rushing water. I forced myself forward, head down, arms wrapped around myself as I fought against the gale.

By the time I reached the door and shoved my way inside, I was drenched to the bone, my breath coming in gasps. The moment I was safe from the storm, another realization hit me like a brick.

I should have brought a flashlight.

The facility was pitch black.

The only sounds were the muffled roar of the wind outside and the frequent claps of thunder that seemed to shake the whole earth. Accompanied by the slow, eerie drip of water somewhere deeper in the dark.

The beam of my phone’s flashlight cut through the suffocating darkness, barely illuminating more than a few feet ahead. The air inside the facility was thick and damp, carrying the scent of saltwater and something faintly metallic. Every step I took echoed down the empty corridors, swallowed by the creaks and moans of the building as it strained against the wind and rain hammering from outside.

“John?” My voice wavered, lost in the vast, suffocating silence.

Nothing.

The emergency lights weren’t working. That meant the backup battery system had failed too, leaving the entire place cloaked in a darkness so absolute it felt unnatural. My pulse pounded in my ears as I moved forward, the walls pressing in closer with every passing second. Shadows stretched and twisted with each flicker of my light, my own breath sounding too loud in the stillness.

A sudden groan reverberated through the ceiling, the metal framework shifting under the storm’s relentless force. I flinched, sucking in a sharp breath as a distant crash echoed somewhere deeper in the facility.

“John!” I called again, louder this time, urgency creeping into my voice. I pushed open the nearest door—a supply closet. Empty.

I turned down another hallway, checking every room I could think of—his office, the staff lounge, even the breakroom. Each one was abandoned, cold, and eerily still. The farther I went without seeing him, the more the panic gnawed at me.

A door down the hall rattled violently, the wind slamming against it from the other side. I spun toward the sound, my breath hitching as the phone’s flashlight beam trembled in my grasp.

“John, where the hell are you?” My voice cracked, frustration and fear tangling in my throat.

I was running out of places to look. If he wasn’t in the generator room or one of the main labs, then that only left one place—the tanks.

My grip tightened around my phone as I turned toward the large double doors leading to the main exhibit hall—the heart of the facility. The water filtration tanks, the viewing platforms, and, of course, Arthur’s enclosure loomed ahead.

Dread coiled in my stomach, the weight of it pressing against my chest as I stepped forward. There was no possible way he was outside. He couldn’t be. My mind began to spiral into dark places, and I fought to pull myself back.

A new fear gripped me, chilling my bones. What if he’d gone outside? What if he’d tried to check the outdoor power lines? The floodwaters had already crept dangerously close to the shoreline. If he got swept away, carried out to sea—no.

Stop.

I couldn’t afford to let my mind race ahead. There was still a whole aquarium to search. Panicking would only slow me down and it certainly wouldn’t help Arthur.

I forced myself to focus, squaring my shoulders as my heart hammered in my chest. A faint sound caught my attention—something that almost felt like instinct pulling me up the stairs. The dive locker. The very top of the facility, where divers prepared for routine cleanings, repairs, and underwater shows. The thought of him up there made my skin crawl, but it was the only place left to check.

I pushed myself faster, my legs burning as I took the steps two at a time. Sweat slicked my face, dripping down my neck, but I didn’t slow down. I needed to find him. And I needed to find him now.

I called his name again, the sound of my voice small and hoarse in the oppressive silence.

When I reached the top of the stairs, I threw open the door without hesitation. The weak beam of my phone’s flashlight sliced through the dark, illuminating the expansive space ahead. The water glimmered, reflecting the dim light in small, rippling waves. It looked strange, like a portal to something deep and unknown—an abyss that threatened to swallow everything in its path.

I moved deeper into the room, my breath shallow, chest tight. Every shadow seemed to shift, each movement amplified in the silence of the storm’s fury outside.

Then, I saw it.

A figure.

Cloaked in shadow, their silhouette outlined faintly against the water’s surface. They were frantic, their hands moving quickly, pulling on something heavy. An oxygen tank. The sound of metal scraping against metal cut through the stillness, a sharp contrast to the storm’s distant wail.

But even in the darkness, I knew who it was.

A flash of pale skin, the faint glow of scars, pink and familiar, unmistakable.

John.

My breath caught in my throat, a mix of relief and dread flooding me all at once. I took a cautious step forward, my heartbeat echoing in my ears, I had no time to waste. 

"John!" My voice came out hoarse, louder now, trembling with an urgency that made my hands shake. “What the fuck are you doing?!” 

The wind howled through the building, its voice blending with the roar of the storm outside. John didn’t hear me. His back was to me, his focus entirely on the task in front of him—strapping the oxygen tank to his back. Securing the mouth piece for him to breathe and then—

Without warning, he jumped into the water.

I froze, my heart slamming in my chest as the splash echoed across the room. The sound felt too loud, too sudden, like it had split the air. Panic ripped through me. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t move.

"John!" I screamed again, but the storm drowned my words, swallowing them whole. He couldn’t hear me. My phone slipped from my trembling hand, hitting the metal floor with a harsh clatter before sliding across the platform into the murky water below.

I didn’t hesitate. I bolted toward the diving stage, my legs shaky and my mind racing. What the hell was he thinking? John couldn’t swim—he’d never learned. And he certainly wasn’t certified to dive. He was throwing himself into a dark, cold ocean of uncertainty with no experience, no knowledge of how to survive down there. Taking a deadly risk on everything.

I reached the edge, my hands gripping the railing so tightly my knuckles ached. My chest was tight, panic clawing its way up my throat. I looked out at the rippling water, scanning the dark expanse, my pulse pounding. It was too dark to see him, let alone see anything in the tank. Did he have a light with him? He could bump into something, or something could bump into him.

What the fuck was he thinking?!

More importantly, what should I do? What could I do? Standing here I felt as useless as a blobfish out of water. 

I wanted to dive in after him, to drag him back to safety, but I was no diver either. I couldn’t risk both of us. And besides—if I couldn’t find him in this black water, what would I do? If he was unconscious, if he was already struggling… I’d be no better off. We would both end up dead.

Should I try to get the generator up and running? Was that even possible with the storm raging? I had no knowledge of electrical currents and power supply. But I’d seen it done before, you just pull a ripcord. How hard could it be? The air inside the building was becoming thick with heat, the lack of oxygen starting to settle into my lungs. Time was running out. It was like everything was moving in slow motion—every second stretching into eternity.

I paced back and forth, my hands shaking violently. The cold sweat on my skin clung to me, sticky and nauseating. There were so many things I needed to do, so many choices—and all of them felt like life-or-death decisions.

The air was getting heavier with each passing second, but it was hard to focus, hard to stay calm when my thoughts kept circling back to John, to his reckless jump into the water. I couldn’t lose him, not like this.

Minutes stretched into an endless haze. It was like I was trapped inside a nightmare. No light, no air, no way to call for help. I could hear my own heartbeat, feel the seconds dragging by as I stared into the murky water below, waiting for any sign of movement. Waiting for anything—anything at all—to show me that John was still alive.

And then, suddenly, I heard a sound—a faint, distant thump followed by the familiar hum of the filters. My heart leapt in my chest, but it was swallowed by the howling winds. Was that him? 

I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to do something. I turned toward the diving equipment, my hands fumbling as I tried to get the gear on. My fingers were slick with sweat, slipping against the straps and valves. It felt like everything was moving too fast and not fast enough all at once.

But what if I made it worse? What if I was too late?

I barely registered the eerie glow steadily growing beneath the water, my mind too tangled in panic, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts. It wasn’t until a sudden, violent splash shattered the silence that my head snapped up, my fingers still clumsy against the buckles of the oxygen tank.

Bodies hit the platform with a sickening thud, the wet slap of limbs against the slick metal ringing through the storm-rattled air. My heart seized in my chest.

Arthur.

And beneath him, heaving, coughing, a goddamn mess—John fucking Marston.

Relief hit me first, a bone-deep rush that nearly took my knees out from under me, but it was quickly drowned by something hotter, something furious. The adrenaline that had been running through my veins since I first bolted out into the storm boiled over. I stormed toward them, my pulse still hammering from the sheer terror of thinking I was going to have to drag John’s lifeless body out of that water.

As if sensing my rage, Arthur backed away, slipping silently beneath the surface, his dark eyes lingering on me as he floated in the murky depths. I was glad to see he was okay—grateful—but right now, my fury had a singular target.

“Do you have a goddamn death wish, Marston?” I shouted over the thunder’s deafening growl, my voice shaking with the weight of all the things I wasn’t saying—I thought you were dead, you idiot. I thought I was too late.

John, of course, wasn’t the least bit fazed by my anger. He rolled onto his knees, hacking up water, and cleared his throat like he hadn’t just jumped into a pitch-black tank during a hurricane with no diving experience.

“Pumps are running,” he rasped, still catching his breath. “I can redirect the generators to keep ‘em on so they don’t fail again.”

I stared at him, dumbfounded. He was shaking, his body trembling with cold, adrenaline, maybe even fear—though he’d never admit it. His lips had a bluish tint, his hands clumsy as they tried to push against the slick platform.

“Enough about the goddamn generators!” I snapped, my voice cracking from the force of it. “You could have died, John! Why the hell didn’t you wait for me?”

He let out a breath, slow and heavy, shifting onto his knees. In the dim light, I could see it clearly now—the raw exhaustion in his expression, the way his fingers curled against the platform as if steadying himself.

“We were running out of time,” he murmured, his voice rough with strain. “Without the pumps filtering the water… everything would have—”

He trailed off, his breath still uneven, his shoulders rising and falling with the weight of what he wasn’t saying. I swallowed hard, my anger warring with something else. Something dangerously close to fear. Because he wasn’t wrong.

Defeated, I yanked a towel from the nearest locker and wrapped it around him as he shrugged the heavy oxygen tank from his back. John coughed again, spitting out a mouthful of saltwater before dragging a trembling hand down his face. 

"One of the main pumps was clogged," he finally said, voice raw. "I tried clearing it from the control panel, but nothing was working. The pressure was building, and if it backed up any further, the whole damn system would’ve started dumping toxins back into the tank." He looked up at me then, eyes glassy but sharp with determination. "Everything would’ve died."

I exhaled sharply, my hands tightening around the damp towel I’d just wrapped around him. I knew he was right, knew how delicate the balance in Arthur’s enclosure was. But knowing didn’t make it easier to swallow the fact that he’d risked his life to fix it.

Before I could say anything, a soft ripple caught my attention, and Arthur moved to the edge of the platform, watching us with an intensity that made my skin prickle. His dark hair clung to his face, water glistening on his skin under the glow of his veins. "He nearly drowned," Arthur said bluntly, his voice calm but edged with something deeper. "By the time he realized the tank wasn’t secured properly, he was already sinking."

My stomach twisted violently. I turned back to John, my breath catching in my throat. "Jesus Christ, John—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," he cut me off, his lips pressing into a tight line. "By the time I figured out the straps were loose, I was already flailing. Damn near sucked in half the tank trying to stay afloat." He let out a humorless chuckle, but it fell flat against the weight of what had just happened.

Arthur shifted, the water lapping softly as he leaned on the edge of the platform. "I got to him just in time," he continued, eyes locked on mine. "Dragged him up ‘fore he could panic and make it worse."

A shudder ran down my spine. I wasn’t sure what terrified me more—the fact that John had nearly drowned in the dark, or the thought of what might have happened if Arthur hadn’t been there to pull him out.

I sighed, leaning back on my heels. “You got lucky, John. Abigail would’ve killed us all if something happened to you. Go home. Be with your family before this storm tries to take away what really matters.”

John let out a slow breath, his head hanging low as he nodded. “Yeah… yeah, you’re right.” He turned to Arthur, shifting the towel around his shoulders. “Thank you, Arthur….I don’t know how to—”

Arthur waved a dismissive, webbed hand. “No need. I understand, just do as the lady says. Go be with your family.”

A quiet chuckle escaped John as he pushed himself to his feet, tightening the towel around him. “You two are my family. This place… it’s my home. I’d be lost without it.”

My chest ached at the words, he had always been like family to me. But to acknowledge Arthur like that, it made my heart grow warm. He’d come such a long way. Before I could stop myself, I pulled him into a tight hug. “And we’d be lost without you. Just promise me you’ll be careful getting home. The roads are hell.”

John nodded against my shoulder. “I’ll be fine. Just gonna check the generator room one last time and grab some dry clothes from my office.” He pulled back slightly, studying me with a look of concern. “You sure you don’t wanna come back to Hosea’s with me? I don’t like the idea of you driving out there alone.”

I smiled, touched by his worry—especially after what he’d just been through. But as I glanced at Arthur, something in my gut told me I needed to stay. That I’d be safer here with him. “I’ll be alright. I think I should stay with Arthur, make sure no more pumps get clogged.” I shot him a wink, trying to keep it light.

John huffed out a laugh and pulled me in for one last hug. “Not exactly the swimming lesson I was hoping for.” He gave my shoulder a firm squeeze before stepping back. “You be safe, ya hear?”

I nodded, watching as John disappeared into the darkened corridor, his wet footsteps fading into the storm’s relentless roar. A deep sigh left my lips as I finally let myself sink onto the platform, crossing my legs beneath me. The adrenaline that had kept me moving, kept me focused, was finally wearing off. In its place came exhaustion, creeping in like the tide, mingling with the lingering relief that John was—at least for now—safe.

But even with Arthur’s presence, unease curled around my ribs. The storm was still raging outside, the building groaning under the relentless wind and rain. It was so dark in here, the only source of light coming from the gentle glow of Arthur’s bioluminescent veins, pulsing with his heartbeat beneath the skin. The water around him shimmered with the soft glow, casting strange, shifting shadows along the walls. They twisted and danced with each ripple, almost alive, taunting in the periphery of my vision.

My gaze remained fixed on the door where John had left. Would he be okay? Should I have gone with him? The roads were treacherous, barely visible even with headlights. And the thought of him driving alone in this storm, half-drowned and exhausted—

A violent crack of thunder shook the facility, so loud it felt like the sky itself was splitting open. My whole body jolted, a sharp gasp escaping before I could stop it.

I didn’t even notice Arthur moving until I felt him behind me. The platform barely creaked under his weight as he pulled himself up, his broad chest pressing against my back. Before I could say anything, two strong arms wrapped around my waist, his warmth chasing away the cold that had settled in my bones. His chin found my shoulder, his breath fanning across my neck, a steady and grounding presence against the chaos outside.

“You are afraid,” he murmured, his deep voice cutting through the storm, resonating right next to my ear. 

There was no mistaking his meaning, no way the wind could steal his words away. He was close enough that I knew, without a doubt, he was inhaling my scent. Taking in the subtle shifts in my emotions the way he always did.

I swallowed, my fingers absentmindedly grazing over the tops of his hands, feeling the slight texture of his silky skin, the way his thumbs traced slow, soothing circles against my abdomen. “Not afraid,” I whispered, though my voice wavered. “Just… worried. What’s going to be left of this place tomorrow? What if… what if John doesn’t make it home?”

Arthur exhaled a slow, steady breath, then pressed a lingering kiss just beneath my ear. The warmth of it sent a shiver down my spine, but gods, it was a welcome distraction.

“Shhh,” he rumbled against my skin, his lips brushing so softly it made my heart stutter. “You make my hearts bleed when you worry like that.” His embrace tightened, pulling me impossibly closer, as if he could shield me from the weight of my thoughts. “We cannot control the storm, only focus on what’s in front of us.”

Or behind us, I thought, exhaling as I leaned back against him, letting my head rest on his shoulder. He was such a massive presence, his body swallowing mine completely, a wall of solid strength against the uncertainty surrounding us.

Arthur let out a quiet, contented sound, something between a sigh and a low, pleased hum, his arms flexing as he drew me in. His hold was protective, steady, unshakable. And for the first time since I’d raced through the storm to get here, I let myself close my eyes, just for a moment, letting his warmth anchor me.

“Try to relax,” his voice was low, almost strained, like he was holding back something deep and primal. “You’re safe here. Safe with me.”

His hand moved agonizingly slow up my side, fingers tracing along the curve of my ribs, his palm so big that the tips ghosted over my breast. The barely-there touch sent a shiver down my spine, and I sucked in a breath, trying—and failing—to quell the growing heat pooling between my thighs.

I wanted more. Gods, I needed more of him.

Everywhere. 

I wanted him to touch me everywhere. I wanted him to slide that hand fully over my chest, to feel the way his rough but gentle thumb would tease over my hardened nipple. To know what it was like to be touched, claimed by something as wild and untamed as Arthur. I wanted his claws to tear through the thin barrier of my clothing, to leave nothing between us. These were dangerous thoughts; terrible, sinful thoughts.

There must be a special place in hell for women who looked at a creature like Arthur and imagined how he would feel between her thighs.

But fuck. These are where my thoughts are. 

I was drowning in them, so lost in the heat of my own fantasy that I barely noticed when his hand shifted, cupping my cheek with careful reverence. It wasn’t until I heard the deep, rolling timbre of his voice that reality snapped into focus.

“Does it feel good, sweetheart? What I’m doing to you in your thoughts?”

My breath caught. My body tensed, a mixture of shock and shame flickering through me like a live wire. Startled, I started to pull away, but before I could—

“No,” he whispered against my neck, his voice firm yet impossibly soft. “Don’t stop, I’m certain that whatever it is you’re imagining is something I’m enjoying immensely.”

A large, webbed hand slid down, fingers splaying wide over my belly, holding me in place. If only his hand would move a little lower…claws grazing the line of my waistband. Almost like he was teasing. The pressure of his touch grounded me, kept me from slipping away. I could feel his hearts beating against my back, steady and strong.

My pulse pounded in my ears as I swallowed hard. “S-so you can read my thoughts now too?” My voice was barely a whisper, breathless and unsteady.

Arthur chuckled, the sound rumbling deep in his body, reverberating through me like a melody I never wanted to stop hearing. The fondness for him that stretched through my chest was almost painful at this point. 

“No, my love,” he murmured, his lips brushing just beneath my ear, sending a delicious shiver racing down my spine. “But when I touch you, your soul is so familiar to me. It’s as if I have known you in a hundred lifetimes before this.”

His grip on my waist tightened, fingers curling possessively, but not to restrain—to anchor.

“I feel your need calling to me, and my own… my own wishes to bury itself inside you.” His voice darkened, rich with longing, heavy with promise. “It tells me to cling to the curve of your waist, to clutch at the feeling in my chest that lingers when you’re near. My soul wishes to keep you—” his lips pressed lightly against my temple, sealing his words into my skin “—and never let you go.”

Something between us shifted then, something that had been dancing on the edge of certainty, now falling into place with an undeniable finality. And it wasn’t just the slickness between my thighs or the fire licking up my spine.

Arthur had just placed the leash to his heart in my hands.

And I knew—he would never ask for it back.

AN: I promise the next chapter is pure smut. The title is "The Point of No Return" and I think we can all guess what that implies. I have sooo many steamy ideas I just need to figure out how to put them all together. But it's gonna be fun ;) I know this was a long chapter, so I hope you don't feel too deprived of our favorite seaboy. I love John/Abigail/Jack so dearly, they deserved some one-on-one time with the reader <3

[sobbingscripter]

Tags: [mlw][fluff][slight crack][i know it's late but goddammit, i will fulfill my promise][friends to more][little bit suggestive][michael's pining][and jealous][relatively one of more shorter ones][basically a drabble?][i'll complete as smut if it's wanted][platonic prone]

"Are you still mad that I wasn't your Valentine?"

You plop down beside Michael, feeling the way you sink into the ridiculously plush sofa, your manicured toes burrowing into the fluffy, deep blue rug and you glance up at him, his attention literally anywhere other than on you.

"Michael, Valentine's Day was like, 2 days ago. And I had a date."

"A date you're not even gonna call back." Michael huffs, muscular arms folding across his chest, the fabric of his sleeveless T-shirt is snug against his shredded torso, clinging to each dip and curve of his carved body. And his eyes narrow at you.

But it's hard to be intimidated by someone who has the kind of blue eyes country songs are about.

"He was rude to the server and he wore sandals to a restaurant. You know I'm not being seen in public with that kind of animal." You mutter under your breath, grimacing at the mere memory and Michael hums.

"How much did he tip?" He questions, glancing at your from the corner of his eye, from beneath long, dark lashes and he doesn't wanna admit, but he's somewhat invested in the story.

Michael revels in your unlucky lovelife.

Each bad date brings you closer to, as he likes to say, Big Dick Mike.

"Well, we tipped like, seve—"

"No no, how much did he tip?"

You purse your lips, averting your gaze.

"He gave the waitress life coach advice." It's hard to push those words from between your lips, and the laugh Michael lets out just drives in how shitty your date actually was.

"Ew!" He cackles, the corners of his eyes crinkling and his full lips spreading into a shit-eating grin. "Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew. That's— not only is he stupidly comfortable having his toes out, he's disrespectful to restaurant staff, he thinks he's a life coach AND he's broke?"

Michael lets out another huff of a laugh.

"You lost so much aura for feeling comfortable enough to tell me that." He snickers. "This isn't a safe space, sweetheart. It's the Golden Barracuda Shark Den."

Michael's arms stretch over the back of the couch, and he grins down at you.

"Population, one. Booster. Gold." He hums. "Or as I like to say, fat sack Carter."

You grimace at the nickname. It gives you an ick that isn't serious enough to stop you from hanging out with him, but it's serious enough to make you wanna pop him in the eye.

"Everytime you say shit like that, it makes sense as to why no woman wants you." You stare up at Michael, eyes narrowing in distaste when you feel the way his arm slides down from the backrest of the sofa, resting in the nape of your neck before he flexes, your face nestled in the crook of his elbow, pulling you closer and his bicep bulges against your pulse.

"You poor, sweet, naive, stupid, brain-dead, slow—" "Michael, get to the point."

"I've got women, dollface. Plenty."

"Michael," you place a hand on his chest, and Michael's expression softens at the gentleness of your touch, "the women who pop up when you're watching movies illegally don't count. Karen, is in fact, not 5 miles away from you."

Michael should've known better than to expect anything other than an insult from you, and it isn't even long before he has you choked in the crook of his forearm, his weight pressing down into the curve of your spine and his breath fanning against the side of your face.

It's hot, minty and you can smell the faintest hint of that citrus-y candy he had earlier, and you squirm under his weight. And it feels like you have an anchor on your spine.

"Get your fat ass off me, you big backed bitch!" You groan, thrashing but it's hard to move too much when your throat's clutched against a human Ken doll's toned, tanned and sculpted muscles, his bicep pressing against the side of your head.

"At least I don't ditch my friends to go on a date with some sandal wearing slob." Michael argues.

"I didn't even ditch you! I was texting you the whole time!" You hiss back, your cheeks flushing slowly with the exertion and Michael shifts, his hot breaths brushing against your ear and Michael's lips purse.

He can't deny that you left him feeling too neglected.

You had still responded to his plethora of text messages, responding to each of his memes individually, and giving him the same amount of attention you'd give him in person.

But that was the problem.

You weren't with him in person.

Your body mist didn't fill his nose, the sound of your laugh didn't ring in his ears until the early hours of the morning. He didn't get to watch the way first rays of sunlight dance across your features as you fell asleep in the middle of the nth movie.

He didn't get to feel the way you wedge your icy feet between his muscular thighs, giving him that mischievous smile as you continued to mooch off his warmth.

"It's not the same." Michael huffs, flexing his bicep even more and you push at him, your back arching and you press against him, ass flush against his hips and you both still.

Michael's breaths stutter, and he chews on his plump bottom lip as he tries to come up with a joke to alleviate the tension that's settling in the air with the density of pollen in springtime.

"Maybe don't arch like that." He murmurs softly before his arm relaxes and he opts to loosen his grip around your neck, but the feel of your nails digging into his forearm, keeping him in place. And Michael swallows.

"You nasty ass—"

"Michael." You say his name so sternly.

"No, 'm sorry. Promise. Don't take this away from me. I will actually throw up."

Taglist:

@lucky-beheaded 🌻

@anesthesia-4rizzle 🎀

@feral010 ✨

@blckbarbiedoll 🌷

@allycat4458 🪻

@jasontoddswhitestreak 🌸

@custardpuddingprincess ⭐

@couldeatthatgirlforlunch 🦄

@theamazkngskye 🍄

@titchx0 🦆

@starski 🌃

[earthtoharlow]

HIT THE LIGHTS

3rd installment of the Flashing Lights series, must read Flashing Lights & Don’t Like The Lights first to understand

Series Masterlist

2. POV

Jack was back home from another quick trip to New York. He’d just wrapped up filming a music video for a freestyle he’d been working on, and he couldn’t wait to share it with Maryse.

As soon as he walked through the door, he kissed her hello and dragged her to their living room, eager to play the track.

“I’ve been dying for you to hear this,” he said, grinning as he set up the speakers. “It’s called Tranquility.”

She smiled back, loving how excited he was. “I can’t wait,” she said, settling onto the couch.

Maryse nodded along as the beat dropped, always loving when he worked with Hollywood Cole. The first couple lyrics hit her like a brick.

“Twenty-five hundred plus a couple utilities

Fuck it, I’ll pay it just to keep the tranquility

Fuck it, I love ya, I’ll do anything for you

’Cept settle down with you.”

Maryse’s chest tightened, and the words echoed in her head, pulling her mind back to the comments she’d overheard in the bathroom and the questions during her interview. It was like a cruel confirmation of everything she’d tried to push out of her thoughts.

Still, she managed to keep her face composed, smiling faintly as the song finished.

“So?” Jack asked, leaning forward with hopeful eyes. “What do you think?”

“It’s great,” she said quickly, her voice betraying no hint of the turmoil inside her. Before he could press her further, she stood up. “I’ll be right back. I just need to use the restroom.”

She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, her breath shaky. Her reflection in the mirror looked just as rattled as she felt. She pressed her palms against the sink, willing herself not to cry.

“It’s just a song,” she thought, but the ache in her chest wouldn’t go away. She couldn’t shake the sting of hearing those words come from the man she loved.

Maryse took another deep breath to steady her thoughts. She knew, deep down, that Jack’s lyrics often came from a mix of past experiences, storytelling, and pure creative expression. The line could very well be about someone else.

But even knowing that, the sting lingered.

It wasn’t just the lyric—it was the timing. After everything that had happened—the women in the bathroom, the invasive interview questions, and the doubts swirling in her own mind—it felt too personal, even if it wasn’t meant to be.

“You’re overthinking,” she told herself, gripping the edge of the sink. But the tears pricked at the corners of her eyes anyway.

She hadn’t told Jack about what happened. Not about the women’s cruel comments. Not about how much it had rattled her during the interview. Not about how much she hated feeling weak.

And now, she couldn’t help but feel like the universe was pushing her to confront it all. But where would she even begin? Would it sound like she was pressuring him? Would he understand how much it hurt?

She closed her eyes and sighed, wiping at her cheeks before any tears could fall. “He loves me,” she reminded herself. “That’s what matters.”

Maryse walked out of the bathroom, she froze at the sight of Jack leaning casually against the wall, his arms crossed. But his expression wasn’t casual—it was soft, concerned.

“Hey,” he said gently, pushing off the wall. “What’s wrong?”

She hesitated, the weight of everything threatening to spill over. Before she could stop herself, the words tumbled out.

“You can’t release that song.”

Jack blinked, clearly taken aback. For a moment, he didn’t know how to respond. Then he gave her a small, nervous smile. “Wait… is it that bad?” he joked, trying to lighten the mood.

“No, it’s not bad,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “It’s amazing. That’s not the point.”

His smile faded, and he studied her face carefully. “Then what is the point?”

She looked down, fidgeting with the promise ring on her finger, debating how much to say. “It’s just… that one line. You know the one I mean.”

Jack’s eyebrows furrowed. He thought back to the song, replaying the lyrics in his head. Then it clicked.

“‘Except settle down with you,’” he said slowly, his tone cautious.

Maryse nodded, unable to meet his eyes.

“Baby, it’s just a line,” he said softly, stepping closer. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“But it does,” she whispered, finally looking up at him. “At least, it does to me. Especially after the interview. And the bathroom thing…”

“What bathroom thing?” he interrupted, his concern deepening.

She bit her lip, realizing she’d just revealed more than she intended. “It’s not important.”

“It clearly is,” he said firmly. “Talk to me, M.”

She hesitated again, but the worry in his eyes broke down her walls. Taking a shaky breath, she told him everything—the women in the bathroom, the cruel things they said, the way it had haunted her during the interview, and how that lyric felt like salt in the wound.

When she was done, Jack looked stunned. He reached out, cupping her face in his hands. “Baby, I had no idea. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I didn’t want to seem like I was pressuring you,” she admitted. “Or like I was weak, letting what they said get to me.”

“First of all, you’re not weak,” he said firmly. “You’re the strongest person I know. And second… I hate that they made you feel like that. I hate that I made you feel like that, even by accident.”

Her eyes filled with tears again, but this time they were tears of relief.

Jack pulls her into a tight hug resting his chin on her head. Maryse let herself sink into his arms, feeling his steady heartbeat against her cheek. For a moment, the weight of her emotions felt lighter, but it wasn’t enough to quiet the nagging thought in her mind.

As she stood there, she finally asked, her voice muffled against his chest, “So… are you just not going to drop the song?”

He paused, his grip loosening slightly. Pulling back to look at her, his expression was soft but firm. “I’m still going to drop it,” he said gently. “It’s already set for release, and the video’s done.”

She stepped back, her arms crossing tightly over her chest as she processed his words. “So, you’re still going to drop it,” she said, her voice edged with hurt.

Jack sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s already set. The video’s done, the release date locked in. It’s not as easy as just pulling it back now.”

Her brows furrowed, her voice trembling. “I’m telling you how it made me feel, and you’re still okay with putting it out there? After everything I’ve been dealing with?”

“It’s not about us,” he said, trying to explain, though his tone carried a hint of frustration. “That line isn’t about you or our life. It’s just a song.”

“But I’m your partner, the mother of your kids!” she shot back, her voice rising slightly. “Shouldn’t my feelings matter more than a release schedule?”

“Of course, they matter,” he said quickly, stepping closer to her. “But you know how this works. This isn’t personal, it’s business. I’m not trying to hurt you, but I can’t just stop everything because of how it might be interpreted.”

She shook her head, taking a step back. “It’s not just how it might be interpreted, it’s how it feels. And right now, it feels like you’re choosing this song over me.”

“That’s not fair,” he said softly, his tone now more pleading than defensive.

“Neither is you knowing how much it hurts me and still deciding to go through with it,” she said, tears brimming in her eyes. “I know it’s just a song to you, but to me, it’s a reminder of everything people have been saying about us—and about me.”

Jack’s jaw tightened as he watched her wipe away her tears. “You’re acting like I’m doing this to hurt you,” he said, his voice tinged with defensiveness. “But I don’t tell you not to release songs that make me look bad.”

Maryse turned to face him, her eyes narrowing. “When have I ever released a song that makes you look bad?”

He threw up his hands. “I’m just saying, you’ve written stuff about your past relationships, your struggles, and I’ve never once told you not to. I’ve always supported your art, no matter how it might make me feel.”

“That’s different,” she shot back, her voice rising. “I’ve never put out a song that could make people think I don’t care about you—or us.”

“And I’m telling you, that’s not what this song is,” he said firmly, his tone growing sharper. “It’s not about you. It’s just a line, a piece of the bigger story. Why can’t you see that?”

She shook her head, her frustration spilling over. “Because it doesn’t matter what it’s about to you—it’s about how it makes me feel. And right now, it feels like I’m standing here telling you I’m hurt, and you don’t care.”

“That’s not true,” he said quickly, his voice softening. “You know I care about you more than anything. But I’ve worked hard on this, and I can’t just scrap it. You wouldn’t want me to ask you to do that with your music, would you?”

She blinked back fresh tears, her voice trembling. “I wouldn’t put you in this position, though. I wouldn’t write something that could hurt you like this.”

Jack stepped closer, reaching for her again, but Maryse took a step back. “I’m going for a drive,” she said quietly, squeezing past him to leave the room.

As she turned to leave, Jack’s voice stopped her in her tracks. “Yeah, go ahead,” he said, his tone sharp and laced with frustration. “Leaving like you always do when things get tough.”

Maryse froze, her back to him, his words slicing through the air like a dagger. Slowly, she turned her head to look at him in disbelief.

“Are you serious right now?” she asked, her voice barely steady.

He shrugged, leaning back against the wall, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “I’m just saying, it’s easier to walk away than actually talk about it, isn’t it?”

Her jaw tightened as she fought to keep her composure. “You know what? Maybe I’m walking away because I need to think before I say something I’ll regret,” she shot back.

“Well, let me know when you’re done thinking,” he said coldly, turning away from her.

Maryse didn’t respond, the lump in her throat making it impossible to speak. Instead, she walked out, letting the door close softly behind her, the silence in its wake feeling heavier than anything they had said.

As the door clicked shut behind her, the house fell into an uneasy silence. Jack stood there for a moment, running a hand down his face, his frustration simmering beneath the surface. With a sigh, he pushed himself off the wall and made his way to the twins’ room.

He opened the door quietly, careful not to disturb their nap. The room was filled with the soft hum of the sound machine. London was curled up with her tiny fist resting against her cheek, and Noah’s chest rose and fell under his favorite blanket.

Jack leaned against the doorframe, letting the tension in his shoulders ease. This room had become his safe haven—a place where everything felt simple and pure. No arguments, no miscommunications, no outside noise. Just them.

He walked over to Noah’s crib, brushing a hand gently over his son’s curls before looking over at London. A small smile tugged at his lips despite the heaviness in his chest.

But as much peace as he felt here, the weight of his relationship with Maryse lingered. He loved her—there was no doubt about that. He would do anything for her and their family. Yet, sometimes, he felt like he had to constantly prove his loyalty, like he was being held to a standard he’d already exceeded. It was exhausting, frustrating even.

He knew dropping the song might make things worse, but his music was how he expressed himself. It wasn’t about her, not entirely, and he couldn’t keep walking on eggshells, trying to protect her from lyrics that weren’t meant to hurt.

With a deep breath, he sat down in the rocking chair between their cribs, resting his elbows on his knees.

He hated that she had overheard those women in the bathroom. The thought of her standing there, listening to them tear her down, made his chest ache. He hated it even more that some small part of her seemed to believe their words, even after everything they’d been through together.

He had spent years showing her how much she meant to him, in every way he knew how. And yet, the idea that she might still doubt him, even for a second, stung more than he cared to admit.

He looked over at Noah and London, their tiny faces so peaceful. This was what mattered most—this family. Not the outside noise, not the opinions of strangers who didn’t know the first thing about their love.

But how could he convince her of that when she carried those insecurities so deeply? And why did it feel like no matter what he did, it wasn’t enough to quiet those doubts?

A bitter thought crept into his mind: maybe she didn’t believe him because a part of her didn’t think she deserved it. He immediately shook his head, trying to push the thought away. He loved her, flaws and all, but moments like this made him feel like he was fighting a battle he couldn’t win.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. He didn’t know how to fix this, but he knew one thing for sure—he hated that she was hurting, and he hated that anyone had the power to make her doubt their bond. He just wished she could see herself the way he saw her: as the love of his life and the mother of his children, someone irreplaceable.

As Jack left the twins’ room, his mind wandered back to the phone call he’d had with his mom a few days ago. She had asked him outright when he was going to marry Maryse, and at the time, he’d brushed it off, saying they were happy as they were. But now, standing in the quiet house, the weight of that question lingered.

This disagreement, the tension, the way they seemed to struggle to communicate when things got tough—it all made him think that maybe they weren’t ready for marriage yet. Sure, he loved her more than anything, but love wasn’t the only thing you needed to make a marriage work. Trust, communication, and being on the same page were just as important, and right now, those pieces felt shaky.

He hated the idea of rushing into something as big as marriage only to have it fall apart because they hadn’t figured out how to handle the rough patches. And if he was being honest, a part of him was scared—scared of the pressure, the expectations, and what it would mean if they failed.

Jack leaned against the kitchen counter, rubbing a hand over his face. He thought about how much he hated seeing her upset, how exhausting it could be to constantly feel like he had to prove himself, and how frustrating it was that she sometimes seemed to question their bond.

He loved Maryse, but this situation had him questioning whether they were truly ready for the next step. Maybe his mom was right to ask, but he wasn’t sure she’d like his answer if he told her what he was really thinking.

Still feeling unsettled, Jack grabbed his phone and called Urban, the one person he could vent to without fear of judgment. When his friend picked up, Jack immediately started talking, the frustration in his voice clear.

“Man, I don’t know what to do right now,” he began, pacing back and forth in the kitchen.

“She’s upset about this song, which, yeah, I get it, but now it’s like… I feel like no matter what I do, I’m always proving something. Like, why can’t she just trust that I’m here for her?”

Urban listened quietly before asking, “Did you talk to her about why the song hit a nerve? Or are you just assuming?”

Jack sighed. “She told me some women were talking trash in the bathroom at her meeting, basically saying she’s just a baby mama and that I’ll never marry her. And now she’s looking at me like I’m proving them right by dropping the song. But dude, that line? It’s not even about her. It’s just a bar! I write about experiences—past, present, all of it. And she knows that!”

“So, you’re saying the line isn’t about her, but… you can see why she might think it is, right?” Urban asked carefully.

“Yeah, I get it,” Jack admitted reluctantly. “But she knows me. She knows how I feel about her. And now I’m questioning everything. Like, are we even ready for marriage? Am I messing this up? It’s just… exhausting sometimes.”

“Look, dude,” Urban said, “you and Maryse? You’ve been through a lot. But it sounds like this isn’t just about the song. It’s about some bigger stuff that you two haven’t dealt with yet. Maybe instead of defending yourself, you just need to listen. Let her know you hear her. And then tell her where you’re at, too. Honestly.”

“You’re probably right,” Jack muttered.

“I usually am,” his friend teased. “But for real, talk to her. And maybe take a step back from all this ‘proving yourself’ stuff. You’re doing your best. She’s doing her best. Y’all just gotta meet in the middle.”

“Yeah,” Jack said, his voice quieter now. “You’ve become real smart since getting with Ava.”

Urban laughed, “I mean, I been trying to tell you—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jack muttered, shaking his head. “You and your girl got it all figured out?”

Urban laughed again “Nah, we don’t have it all figured out, but we talk to each other—even when we know it might piss the other one off.”

Jack sighed, leaning back against the couch. “Yeah, well, that sounds real nice in theory.”

“It’s not just theory, bro. It’s work. But that’s how you build trust.”

He ran a hand down his face. He knew Urban was right, but it didn’t make things any easier.

***

When Maryse left the house she didn’t even bother getting in her car, deciding to just walk instead. She ended up at a nearby park, thankfully there wasn’t anyone around as she sat on the park bench.

Maryse grabbed her phone and called her two closest friends, Doja Cat and Saweetie. She knew they’d pick up without hesitation, and within minutes, the three of them were on a three-way call.

“What’s up, girl? You okay?” Doja asked immediately, concern in her voice.

“Yeah, you sound off,” Saweetie added. “Spill.”

Maryse sighed, curling up on the couch with a blanket. “It’s just… me and Jack. Things feel so different now. Ever since the twins came, I feel like our relationship has changed so much, and not always in a good way.”

“Changed how?” Doja asked.

“Well, for one,” Maryse began, “it feels like we’re always on different pages. Like, today, he played me this song that he's dropping soon with a line that just… it stung, you know? And I know he didn’t mean it the way it came across, but it hit a nerve after everything that’s been said about us.”

Saweetie chimed in, “You mean all the baby mama stuff people keep talking about online?”

“Exactly,” Maryse admitted. “And I overheard some women at my meeting basically calling me a glorified baby mama, and it got in my head. Then, when I heard that line in his song, it just… hurt. But the thing is, I haven’t even told him about what I heard in the bathroom because I don’t want to come across as weak or like I’m pressuring him to get married.”

“Girl, first of all,” Doja said firmly, “you’re not weak. You’re human. And you’re allowed to feel some type of way. Don’t let what those women said mess with your head. They’re projecting.”

“Facts,” Saweetie agreed. “And honestly, Maryse, if you’re feeling like this, you need to tell him. Holding it in is just going to make it worse.”

“I know,” Maryse said softly. “It’s just… everything is so different now. I love him, and I know he loves me, but it feels like we’re always arguing or misunderstanding each other. Before the twins, we were on the same wavelength. Now, it feels like we’re speaking two different languages half the time.”

“That’s parenthood,” Saweetie said knowingly. “It changes everything. But it doesn’t mean your love isn’t still there. You just gotta work a little harder to find your rhythm again.”

“And don’t forget,” Doja added, “he’s probably feeling the pressure too. Dads don’t always show it, but they stress about providing, protecting, and all that. Have y’all talked about how you’re both feeling lately? Like, really talked?”

Maryse shook her head, even though they couldn’t see her. “Not really. We’ve had moments, but I don’t think either of us has been fully honest.”

Doja sighed heavily. “You know, Maryse, I’m gonna be real with you. Since the very beginning, communication has been y’all’s main issue. Like, it’s been a pattern.”

“What?” Maryse said, slightly defensive. “That’s not true. We talk—”

“Do you, though?” Saweetie interjected. “Because, girl, I love you, but you have a habit of holding stuff in until it blows up. And Jack? He’s not exactly the king of expressing himself either.”

She frowned. “I don’t hold things in.”

Doja snorted. “Oh, really? Should I remind you about when you two broke up? How long did you keep all your feelings bottled up before it all came spilling out at once?”

“Or,” Saweetie added, “when that incident happened your album release party with Nate and you refused to answer Jack’s calls and he just wanted to make sure you were okay!”

Maryse opened her mouth to respond, then closed it again. She couldn’t deny they had a point.

“Okay, fine,” she admitted. “Maybe we don’t always communicate the best. But it’s not just me! He can be so stubborn sometimes, and I don’t want to seem like I’m nagging or complaining.”

“That’s the problem,” Saweetie said gently. “Y’all are both so worried about how the other person is going to react that you don’t say what’s really on your mind. That’s not nagging—it’s being honest.”

“And trust me,” Doja added, “he’d probably rather hear you vent than have you bottling it all up. That’s when the real problems start.”

Maryse sighed, running a hand through her hair. “You’re both right. I just… I don’t want to make things harder than they already are.”

Girl,” Saweetie said, “things are only hard because you’re making them that way by avoiding the real conversations. Y’all love each other. We all see it. But love isn’t enough if you’re not communicating. You gotta stop being scared to tell him how you feel.”

Maryse let their words sink in, realizing how much truth there was in what they were saying. She had been avoiding hard conversations, hoping things would resolve themselves, but that clearly wasn’t working.

“Okay,” she said finally. “I hear you. I need to stop avoiding things and just… talk to him.”

“Yes!” Doja exclaimed. “That’s all we’re saying. You two are solid—you just gotta act like it.”

As the conversation wound down, Saweetie sighed. “And for God’s sake, Maryse, stop walking away when the going gets tough. You do it all the time.”

“I don’t—” Maryse began defensively, but Doja cut her off.

“You aren’t even home right now!” Doja said firmly. “Every time things get hard, you shut down or leave.”

Maryse groaned. “That’s not fair. I needed space.”

“Space is fine,” Saweetie said, her tone softer now. “But you can’t just keep walking away and expect things to magically fix themselves. If you want this relationship to last, you have to face the hard stuff head-on. Together.”

Maryse sighed, knowing they were right. “I know. I just… sometimes I feel like walking away is better than saying something I’ll regret.”

Doja snorted. “Yeah, but then you leave him hanging, and that’s not fair either. He’s probably sitting there wondering what the hell is going on while you’re off avoiding the issue.”

“You’re right,” Maryse admitted quietly. “I need to stop doing that.”

Saweetie’s voice softened even more. “We’re not trying to gang up on you, girl. We just want you to be happy, and we know you love him. But love means showing up, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”

Maryse felt her eyes sting with tears. “I do love him. So much. And you’re right—I need to do better. I just… I’m scared sometimes.”

“Of what?” Doja asked gently.

“Of saying the wrong thing. Of making things worse,” Maryse admitted.

Saweetie chimed in, “But avoiding it doesn’t make it better. You’ve got to trust that your love is strong enough to handle tough conversations.”

She nodded, wiping her eyes. “You’re right. Both of you. I need to stop running and just… deal with it.”

“Exactly,” Doja said. “Now go handle your business, and stop making us play therapist.”

Maryse chuckled through her tears. “Thank you. I needed this.”

“Anytime,” Saweetie said. “Now go fix it before we have to come over there ourselves.”

Maryse laughed. “Love you guys.”

“Love you too,” they said in unison before hanging up.

***

Maryse paused in the doorway of the living room when she finally made it back home, her hand resting lightly on the frame as she took in the sight of Jack sitting on the couch, his head in his hands. He looked tired, frustrated, and maybe even a little defeated. She swallowed hard, her earlier resolve wavering, but she forced herself to step inside.

“Where are the twins?” she asked softly knowing that it wasn’t nap time for them yet.

Jack didn’t look up right away. When he did, his expression was unreadable, but his tone carried a sharp edge. “While you left me,” he said, his words deliberate, “I took them to my mom’s house. Figured they’d want to see their grandparents.”

Maryse blinked, taken aback by the pettiness in his voice. She hadn’t expected that. “Oh,” she said quietly, unsure of how to respond.

Jack leaned back against the couch, his arms crossed now. “Didn’t seem like you wanted to be here, so I thought I’d give you the space you clearly needed.”

Maryse bit her lip, guilt twisting in her chest. “I didn’t leave because I wanted space from you or the kids. I just walked to the park…I needed a moment to think.”

He let out a humorless laugh. “A moment, huh? You’ve been having a lot of those lately.”

Her shoulders sagged, and she took a tentative step closer. “Look, I know I shouldn’t have left like that. I was upset, but I should’ve talked to you instead of running off. I’m sorry.”

Jack’s eyes softened slightly, but his walls were still up. “Why didn’t you just say what was on your mind? Why is it always easier for you to walk away than to talk to me?”

She hesitated, struggling to find the words. “Because I didn’t want to argue. I didn’t want to say something I couldn’t take back. I’m trying to do better, I swear.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The tension in the room felt suffocating. Finally, Singer walked over and sat down beside him. She placed a hand on his arm, her touch tentative. “I’ll go pick them up,” she offered.

He shook his head. “They’re fine where they are for now. My mom was happy to have them.”

Maryse nodded, her throat tightening. “I’m sorry,” she whispered again.

Jack glanced at her, his expression softening further as he saw the genuine regret in her eyes. “We can’t keep doing this,” he said quietly. “It’s not good for us. Or them.”

“I know,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “I’ll do better. I promise.”

Jack exhaled, the weight of the day still heavy on him. “We both need to do better.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder, and after a moment, he rested his cheek against her hair.

They sat in silence for a few moments before pulling away.

Jack leaned back against the couch, arms crossed as he looked at Maryse. “Let’s just put everything out on the table,” he said firmly. “No holding back. Say what you need to say, and I’ll do the same.”

Maryse hesitated, her fingers gripping the sleeves of the hoodie she had stolen from him years ago, the fabric now soft and worn. She tugged at the cuffs absentmindedly, trying to gather her thoughts, but her mind felt like a tangled mess. Where did she even start?

Her throat felt dry as she opened her mouth, then closed it again, glancing down at her hands. “I…” she started, then sighed, shaking her head.

Jack didn’t rush her. He just watched, waiting.

She took another breath, trying again. “I feel like… things are different. Since having the twins.” She glanced up at him, searching his face. “Not in a bad way. Just… different.”

Jack’s expression didn’t change, but she could see the way his jaw tightened slightly, like he’d been thinking the same thing.

She swallowed, tugging at her sleeve again. “And I don’t know if it’s just me, but sometimes I miss how things used to be.”

The room felt heavier now, but not in a way that was unbearable. Just… full. Full of words unsaid, of feelings waiting to be unpacked.

Jack nodded slowly, rubbing his hands together as he processed her words. “I get that,” he finally said, voice low.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

And for the first time in a while, it felt like they were finally about to have the conversation they needed.

***

TO BE CONTINUED

AN: I’m posting this really late my bad but let me know your thoughts pleaseeeeee! I had to split this chapter in two parts because it was too long hehe

Tag List:

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[aikuwrld]

barou considers himself a man with patience— most of the time. he tries. he really does. he’s been practicing especially hard for you. barou also considers himself a realistic man— again, most of the time. what was he expecting? no, really, what exactly was he expecting when he had chosen to dorm with four other boys who seemed to foolishly believe that hygiene was a foreign, irrelevant, rather tedious concept? four boys whose spare time “bonding” was spent talking about their hook-ups with hot girls or debating how “glam” or “unglam” another team’s play was. and don’t even get him started on how they asserted their dominance through burping contests held almost every single day— how could a king end up with such misfortune?

of course he was the only one cleaning up after four boys who treated their dorms like nothing but a pigsty. sendou’s sweaty socks sprawled all over the floor after practice or a match when the laundry bin was not even three feet away, aiku’s spicy ramen packets still filled with powder littering the kitchen counter, niko’s skin care creams and manga abandoned on the bed and on the floor alike, and good god… was that… aryu’s strands of long hair all over the tub? it looked like something straight out of a horror movie. a plugged in hairdryer dangerously close to the sink— oh, he could gag… a man can only hold himself back for so long.

barou’s throat was nearly raw after yelling for everyone to tidy up after themselves at least a little before he’d start on the deep-cleaning for the day. it was a free day for everyone in the blue lock building which meant he’d finally have this dorm to himself. and he was going to spend it cleaning. that meant everyone had to leave. no exceptions. his head pounding so hard, so viciously, that he considered for a fleeting moment that strangling his teammates to death once they all came back from their day off and proceeding to bashing his head in after would be the smartest way out than dealing with another mess after all his hard work.

oh, but then there you are when he opens the dorm door after finally finishing up the last bit of cleaning for the day. the weariness racking his body disappearing while he leans against the door frame to look down at you, squeezing his broom tightly in what he believes strongly must be ‘cuteness aggression’ at the sight of your beaming, bright smile and your arms held out wide for a hug. and was that a basket of snacks for him in your hands? god, how could barou resist?

“hey, princess…” barou sighs out in a low voice, a small smile forming on his usually stoic face. a smile meant just for you.

without a second thought, almost as if it were second nature, barou props the broom against the wall before pulling you close to him. it must’ve been the longest hug he’d ever given you in your years together. not that you’d ever complain about that though. his tense, weary muscles relaxing as the smell of your shampoo dulls his senses. his eyes flutter shut while he presses gentle kisses on your shoulder, murmuring softly about how much he loved you and missed you.

he doesn’t waste any time at all to indulge in you, after all, he’d managed to finish cleaning up after ruthless animals, he was more than deserving of this— of you. barou keeps your warm body tucked in between his legs, back pressed against his chest with one hand on your waist, the other pushing back your hair to kiss at the nape of your neck while you tell him about his sisters that you’ve taken care of while he’s gone. how life is back at akita. how much you’ve missed him.

barou was taken aback when you suddenly pull away from him, a pang of disappointment hitting him before you’re telling him to move up. the mattress dipping from the weight of your knees as you crawl behind him, running your hands down the expanse of muscles as you pull him back a little.

“where are you going? come here, i wasn’t finished kis—”

“relax, sho. let me do your hair.” you giggle out, his eyebrows that were once furrowed suddenly washed away with a look of surprise.

barou melts in your arms seconds later, his worries dissolving while you tangle your nimble fingers through his soft hair. a groan leaving his lips while he shifts back comfortably, careful not to put so much weight against you. for someone who styled his hair with gel so often, it never failed to impress you just how soft and luscious it was. the red streaks— now a little dull from the constant washing still looked so good, you had to remind yourself to thank aiku some time for recommending it to your stubborn boyfriend in the first place.

“mm.. definitely needed this… thank you, baby..”

he groans out while you comb through the silky, smooth hair, the familiar scent of his shampoo and hair oil hitting your nostrils. barou was always adamant on using white musk oil after shampooing. it was his signature smell. it was the one step that really brought his routine together.

as your fingers glide through the lush strands, you marvel and coo at the softness, how long it seems to have gotten over the time he’s been gone. you let the strands cascade through your fingers while you appreciate just how his hair, usually disciplined and controlled like the man himself was on the field, was soft and loose— like this secret side of him. a secret side the king only gave you the privilege to see.

barou forgot about his stresses, about the grueling matches, the relentless practices he had, how the therapeutic hours he spent cleaning the dorm would be undone in half the time. around you, he didn’t have to worry about anything else. none of it mattered. you were always so good to him. so ready to love him and care for him. how could barou ask for more? the trust he had for you— the vulnerability to see him in such a relaxed state was for your eyes only. he wouldn’t have it any other way.

he’d lost. niou lost and all he felt was frustration. anger. disappointment. how could he have lost? his defense was outstanding. he’d sacrificed his usual hours at boxing practice to get it right. spent countless hours with aiku and darai to sharpen his skills. yet the hardest pill to swallow, the thing he couldn’t wrap his mind around was how could he have lost in front of you? his pretty baby. you were so proud of him. you’d given him the biggest kiss, cupping his face and telling him how well he’d play.

he looked up at the first half of the game and there you were. all dolled up in his jersey, showing off his name and number like a badge of honor, the brightest smile on your face. and all he could think about was how he could anticipate nagi’s next move and whether you’d prefer a wedding ring with vintage or modern style twist. his sweet angel in the front rows, best seat. and then he’d blinked, and before he knew it, he lost. and god. he was ashamed of himself.

he looked up while everyone lined up to bow at the end of the game to the crowd and noticed that your seat was empty. the weight of his loss only seemed to become heavier. niou had let not only his team down, but he had let you down too. it gnawed so mercilessly at him that while everyone clapped each other on the back and grumbled about dissecting the tactics used by the blue lock team to play better in the locker room, the usually boisterous and proud man stayed silent.

he stayed by the corner, slumped over a bench with heavy arms resting on his knees and a towel draped over his damp hair that covered the view of his face. the weight of everything slowly pressing down onto him at an unforgiving force; crushing him into place. he was ashamed to face anyone, least of all his damn self.

“hey, good defense back there, niou. you… you did good, alright?”

his captain’s gruff and unusually gentle voice breaking through the heavy air followed by a firm slap on his broad back that jolted him forward. niou grunted out a hollow ‘thanks’ in response.

it isn’t long before the chatter in the locker room dies out and empties. aiku was the last to leave, eyes never leaving niou as he looks back at his teammate with a sigh. he knew niou needed space. it was rare for the doberman to look so... defeated.

as the heavy door clicked into place and the footsteps faded off, niou steeped in the demeaning silence. the muffled drip of water from the shower heads blending in with the water droplets beading down his wet hair and hitting the tile floor. each rhythmic plop of water sounding heavier than the last. he swallow thickly, clenching his fists tightly until they were white, thumbs digging into the flesh of his palm.

he doesn’t lift his head when the door creaks opens again, assuming it’s most likely aiku back to coax him into grabbing a drink to swallow away all his sorrows or another one of his teammates who might’ve forgotten something in the locker room. it wasn’t until he heard it— his ears perked up at the familiar, light sound of footsteps. and when your voice cuts through the silence, his head shoots up, the towel on his head slipping off.

“kazuma? baby, what are you still doing here? i was in the back waiting for you to come out and— kazuma, you’re going to catch a cold, oh, your hair’s still wet and—“

he looks away; the shame twisting and pulling at his chest. how could he look you in the eyes after failing you with that sorry excuse of a performance? you must’ve been disappointed to call him yours, to wear his name on your back. you must’ve been embarrassed walking back to get to the locker rooms having to endure the pitying glances of everyone, you must’ve—

“kazuma, look at me.”

your voice is still soft as ever just firm and as tough as nails. it popped right through his bubble of self-loathing he’d grown comfortable suffocating in for the past hour. he knew better than to ignore you. he didn’t want to. even if he was disappointed in himself. he glances up at you with uneasy eyes, breaking contact to bend down to pick up the damp towel stalling for time to try to collect himself in some way before meeting your eyes again.

“i…”

niou starts, his mouth going dry as he swallows hard. trying his best to piece together what he so desperately wanted to say. niou sure as hell wasn’t a man who made excuses. he owned up to his shit. but, right now? right now, he was blanking out, hair uncomfortably soaked and slouched over like a loser trying to own up to something— a failure he never really expected in the first place in front of his lover.

“i’m sorry, baby. i don’t… you wore my jersey out there. proud as hell, cheerin’ for me and i couldn’t even give you a win. i just don’t understand… i worked ass off for this. and i still… i let everyone down, i…”

he doesn’t know what else to say, his voice dying down again and fading off into the silence again. he drops his heavy head once more, damp hair falling forward and slipping off his shoulders. his heart shattering as his own words seemed to have hit him like a bullet. it was unforgiving and sharp, his body crumbling.

“kazuma, come here, my love…”

you start, voice as soft and gentle as ever as you slide over next to him, wrapping an arm around the side of his neck to guide his head down on your shoulder. you could care less if the damp strands of his thick hair soak into your jersey. you press a lingering kiss on the top of his head, one hand cradling his head as the other holds onto the back of his shirt in an attempt to ground him to get your words to come through.

“i don’t come to your games expecting a win. i come because i love you. how could i ever love you any less because of a score? you worked so hard and gave it your all— i saw that. and i’m so proud of you. i love you. i always will.”

he’s suddenly still; his trembling fists relaxing as your words begin to sink in. for a second his body does limp in your arms as he sighs out shakily. god, it was all he wanted to hear from you and more. you were here. you always were.

“i… i don’t deserve you, baby. you know that?”

his warbling voice is thick with emotion, the cracks of disbelief and insecurity not going unnoticed by your trained ears. he looks up at you before bringing a large hand up to cup your face.

“you’re still here. i made all these mistakes and you’re still here.”

he croaks out, his chest tightened as his words slow down as he struggles to process everything.

“of course i’m here. where else would i be? look at this hair, hm? you didn’t even comb it, your beard still looks good as ever though.”

you grumble out, running your fingers through his hair and lifting it up before letting it flop back down, running a thumb over his facial hair to try to ease the tension.

“hold on, let me find the dryer and your brush. stay here.”

and he does exactly that. niou sits there, glossy eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. all he could think about is what he did to deserve you. he just can’t bring himself to look away— lost in this little blessing that’s you. how all his aches and pains seemed to unravel the tight, thorny hold it had on his poor heart.

it doesn’t take long until you’re back with the dryer, brush, and his bottle of oil, running your fingers through his hair as you tend to drying it off as quickly as you can. with every manageable comb through with your fingers, niou finds himself coming alive; cracking open bit by bit. slowly starting to become himself a little more with each joke you two crack or kiss he steals from you. his heart growing softer, his weary body lighter.

niou eagerly leans into your touch as you begin to work the brush through his hair, you’re standing in between his legs, combing carefully through the knots and working your way up to his scalp as the slight waviness begins to set in his dark hair, soft and loose. you bring lips down to kiss the hair occasionally, basking in the warmth. he has one arm around your waist and the other beneath the curve of your ass, squeezing the supple flesh of the back of your thigh once in a while as he rests his cheek against your stomach.

you’re finished in no time, rubbing in the egyptian musk oil into his hair. the comfortable silence settling around you both. the rich, masculine smell of wood and amber filling the room. he basks in the warmth of your working hands while you scratch at his scalp, bunching up the curled ends of his hair in your hands before letting them go. the soft clicking sounds of your rings brushing together creates the perfect sound that reminds him of stars twinkling up in the night sky.

“there we go, handsome. you look so good, baby.”

your hands cupping his face once more as you bring your lips down to kiss his, he has his arms wrapped around little tighter around your body before he’s breaks away.

“i love you,” he murmurs out against your lips.

“i love you. you’ll always be my man,” you reply out breathlessly, your heart swelling with nothing but affection and adoration.

“yeah? say it again.”

“god, you are just… my man. you’re my man.”

“again.”

“you’re my ma—“

you gasp out sharply, unable to finish your sentence he’s up on his feet with that mischievous glint dancing in his bright eyes and a smile you’d rather die now than live a hundred years without seeing. he throws you over his shoulder with ease and picks up his duffle bag with his free hand. he ignores your laughter and pleas to put you down as he kicks open the locker room door, heading towards the parking lot to his car outside, striding like a man who had won the absolute world.

ᣟ៹ ❤︎៝ : happy valentine’s day weekend!! spent mine eating burritos n typing this up n yearning .. i hope you guys treated yourself n had fun!! you deserve it. <3 i barely see anything for barou as it is but niou work is BARREN .. i hope i reached some niou fans out there pls i love him he is underrated !! i love both of my long haired princesses sm and i just KNOW they are absolute suckers for you and when you comb their hair they just fall in love pls .. i am sorry for any spelling mistakes in advance these came out a lot longer than i had expected omgg .. also got my first ask !! i am so excited to start writing that n those reiner hcs :3

[xlettex]

Deception || tetsurou kuroo Yakuza AU - Chapter Six

From the moment you looked into his eyes, you knew—he was nothing but trouble. Everyone warned you. Stay away from him. Don’t get involved. But you never listened. Tetsurou Kuroo, better known as Kurai, is the infamous yakuza boss of Japan. Just mentioning his name is enough to send shivers down spines and silence conversations in dimly lit alleyways. He is a force of nature—deceitful, ruthless, and dangerously unpredictable. A man who bends the world to his will, leaving chaos in his wake. And yet, to you… he is irresistible. You crave him — his touch, his warmth, the way he sets your skin on fire with just a glance. He makes you feel invincible like you can take on the world. But loving him is a double-edged sword. Because just as he lifts you up, he destroys you.

pairing - tetsurou kuroo x reader genre - action romance, crime romance, dark romance, erotica/smut rating - 18+ MINORS DNI chapter word count - 13.0k content warning - violence, drugs and alcohol, illegal activities, sexual content, angst. see each chapter for specific warnings.

Authors Note - This fanfic is inspired by the amazing fanart of the tetsurou kuroo mafia au (found image on pinterest, help me find the artist - I want to credit them). Disclaimer - This is a work of fiction, I do not condone the act of illegal activities, violence, or romanticization of the yakuza. Read at your own risk.

chapter five <- chapter six -> chapter seven

✯ chapter-specific warnings - smoking, violence, injury, threats, exhaustion, illegal activity, manipulation, stalking? & surveillance ✯

The knock was too soft. Hesitant. Like you weren’t sure if you should be here at all. You tightened your grip on the sleeves of your shirt, shifting on your feet as the seconds dragged on. Your stomach twisted—not from anything logical, just a deep, sinking weight pressing against your ribs.

You shouldn’t be here. But where else could you go?

The moment Koushi’s door swung open, everything inside you nearly collapsed.

He was wearing sweatpants, an old college hoodie that was too small for him, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and his hair messier than usual—probably grading papers or falling asleep on the couch watching reruns of shitty crime shows.

He whispered your name. Careful. Measured. His voice wasn’t angry. But something about it made your chest tighten. 

You had shown up unannounced before. Late-night coffee runs, bad days at work, post-breakup meltdowns where you just needed to sit in his kitchen and exist. But this was different. You were different.

Koushi saw it instantly. The tension in your shoulders. The way you hesitated in the doorway like you weren’t sure if you had the right to be here. The way you exhaled—sharp, uneven—like the simple act of knocking had drained you.

“Can I come in?”

He didn’t ask questions. Not yet. He just stepped aside, letting you in. Because whatever this was—it wasn’t good. The door clicked shut behind you, and suddenly the weight in your chest felt suffocating.

The house smelled the same—warm, familiar, safe. A mix of fresh coffee, old books, and the faintest trace of laundry detergent. It shouldn’t have felt so foreign.

Koushi walked past you, heading toward the kitchen, his voice casual—but too careful. “You eat yet?”

You shook your head.

He nodded and reached toward the chair by the kitchen table, grabbing a hoodie. One of his old ones. He tossed it to you without a word. The fabric was soft and faded with time. Without thinking, you pulled it over your head. The weight of it settled against your shoulders as you sank into the chair, exhaling slowly.

He didn’t comment.

Instead, he just grabbed a mug and filled it with coffee, no cream, no sugar—just how you liked it. Something about that made your throat tighten. He placed the mug in front of you. The soft clink of ceramic against the wooden table felt heavier than it should have. A quiet gesture, but loaded with understanding.

You stared at the steaming liquid, watching the way the dark surface rippled from the motion, the heat curling into the air like something alive. The rich, bitter scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the space between you, comforting and familiar—the kind of familiar you hadn't realized you were aching for.

Something inside you twisted. It was too much. Too normal. Too grounding. Too real.

Koushi settled into the chair across from you, silent, waiting. He didn’t press, didn’t pry. Not yet. But you could feel it—the weight of his gaze, the careful way his fingers curled around his own mug, the patience that came with knowing you weren’t ready to say it yet.

The coffee was warm when you finally wrapped your hands around it, the heat seeping into your palms, spreading through your fingers like a lifeline. You took a slow sip, letting the bitterness settle on your tongue, waiting for it to burn away the tightness in your chest.

It didn’t.

His eyes flickered, barely a movement, but you caught it.

He knew.  You weren’t okay. 

You curled your fingers tighter around the mug, pressing your palms into the ceramic as if the warmth could hold you together. As if you weren’t unraveling at the seams.

He exhaled slowly, resting his elbow on the table, his fingers tapping against the side of his cup—a subtle rhythm, slow, methodical. Then— "You want to tell me why your hands are shaking?"

The words weren’t sharp, but they cut through you anyway. Your stomach clenched. You hadn’t noticed. You dropped your gaze to the mug, watching as the ripples trembled beneath your grip. Your knuckles were white, your fingertips pressing too hard against the ceramic, as if you were too afraid to let go. You forced yourself to take another sip, hoping he wouldn’t say anything else.

He did. "Or are you just gonna sit there and pretend everything's fine?"

Your throat tightened. You couldn’t do this. Not yet. Not without breaking.

Koushi sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw, his patience stretching thin, but not snapping. He studied you for a long moment, then leaned back in his chair. "You don’t have to talk. Not yet," he said finally. "But drink your coffee before it gets cold. You look like you need it."

The words should have been casual. They weren’t. They were permission. To sit here. To breathe. To exist without expectation. The lump in your throat tightened, your grip on the mug shifting as you swallowed hard against the overwhelming urge to say something—to tell him.

But how were you supposed to tell him?

That you had gotten into something you couldn’t leave? That you had said yes to something you didn’t fully understand? That the reason your hands were shaking wasn’t just exhaustion—but the realization that your life wasn’t your own anymore?

So you didn’t. Instead, you took another sip of coffee. And for now, that was enough.

Koushi didn’t push. He didn’t press, didn’t demand, didn’t fill the silence with questions you weren’t ready to answer. He just waited. Not for an excuse. Not for the whole truth.

Just for whatever you were willing to give him. You swallowed, your fingers tracing the rim of your mug absently, words lingering at the edge of your tongue before you finally let them slip. “I got a new job.”

His eyes flickered, barely a movement, but you caught it. He nodded once, slowly. His fingers tapped against the mug. Not surprised. Not relieved. Just… waiting.

“Yeah?” His voice was even. Casual. “Didn’t know you were looking for one.”

“I wasn’t.”

The admission hung between you. For a second, you thought he might call you on it—ask what changed, ask why now, ask what kind of job leaves you like this.

Shaking. Worn thin. Like whatever you’d just stepped into was already swallowing you whole.

But he didn’t. He just took a sip of coffee, his gaze steady. Letting you decide how much to give him.

You exhaled, tucking your hands into the sleeves of his old hoodie. It smelled like him. Like home. Like something steady. Faint traces of cologne still clung to the fabric—warm, clean, familiar. A scent you’d known for years. A scent that didn’t belong to this night, to this mess, to the weight pressing down on your ribs. A scent you could lose yourself in if you let it.

And for a moment, you almost did.

“It’s… different from the hospital,” you murmured, voice softer now.

Koushi hummed a quiet acknowledgment. But he didn’t ask how. Didn’t ask what you were doing or why you looked like you hadn’t slept. And for some reason—that made it easier to keep talking.

“It’s not bad,” you murmured. Not a lie. But not the truth, either. “Just… new.”

Another slow nod. Thoughtful. Measured. And then—soft, quiet, careful: “You gonna tell me what kind of job it is?”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t have an answer. But because you did. Your fingers curled around the ceramic, gripping it just a little tighter. “It’s still medical work,” you said finally. “I’m helping people who can’t go to a hospital.”

He exhaled, slow and deep. His eyes closed—just for a second—before settling back on you. And then, softer this time—“It’s safe, right?”

Your breath caught. You knew what he was really asking.

Not if you were happy. Not if you were okay. But if you were in danger.

If he should be worried. If he should be doing more than just sitting across from you, waiting for answers you wouldn’t give him.

You thought about Tetsurou. The way he carried himself—calm, deliberate, inescapable. The way he looked at you—with an unsettling certainty—that nothing would touch you. Not because the world wasn’t dangerous. But because he wouldn’t allow it.

“Yes.” Your voice was quieter than you meant it to be. But honest.

A pause.

The words settled between you, heavy and unmoving. Koushi didn’t argue. Didn’t call you out. But the way his fingers tapped against the table again—slower this time, measured, like he was piecing something together—

Made it clear.

He knew. Maybe not everything. But enough. And the worst part? He let it go. Not because he believed you. But because, for the first time, he wasn’t sure if he could save you.

The silence thickened, pressing against the walls, against your ribs, wrapping around your lungs like something you couldn’t shake. It should have felt like relief—that he wasn’t pushing, that he wasn’t demanding more. 

But it didn’t. Because Koushi never let things go. Not when it came to you. His fingers curled into a loose fist against the tabletop, jaw tightening before he exhaled through his nose—long, slow, controlled.

You saw it happen—the moment he swallowed back instinct. The moment he forced himself not to argue, not to press, not to force the truth from you. Not because he didn’t want to. But because—what if he didn’t like what he found? What if he couldn’t fix it? What if you were already too deep?

A lump formed in your throat, thick and unmoving. You hadn’t wanted this. Hadn’t wanted to bring Koushi into your mess, hadn’t wanted him to look at you like he was losing something. But he was.

His knee bounced beneath the table—restless energy curling at the edges of his frame—but his voice remained steady. Quiet. Unshaken. “Okay.”

That was all. Just okay. Not a demand. Not a lecture. Not an ultimatum. It should have made it easier. It didn’t. Because his quiet wasn’t relief—it was the weight of something unspoken, something hanging between you that neither of you knew how to bridge.

You knew it. He knew it.

He just didn’t know what to do about it. And somehow, that was worse. His gaze flicked toward the window again—just for a second. Just long enough for unease to settle beneath his ribs.

You didn’t follow his line of sight. You didn’t have to. Someone was there.

Watching. Waiting.

You wondered if he had noticed them when you walked in. If he had already seen the car idling on the street. If he had already known—before you even knocked on his door—that something was wrong. That you weren’t in control.

His Adam’s apple bobbed slightly as he swallowed, his knee finally stilling. He rolled his shoulders back, stretching his arms over his head—as if trying to shake off whatever thoughts were creeping in. Then, his voice came again—softer this time. More certain.

“Remember my promise—I’m not going anywhere.”

The words landed heavier than you expected, curling around something fragile inside you. He meant it. No matter what you had done. No matter what you hadn’t said. No matter what you were turning into. He meant it.

Your breath hitched, just barely—and Koushi caught it. His expression softened—just for a second—before he leaned back, voice dipping lower, quieter.

“You don’t have to tell me everything.”

A pause.

“But when you need to, I’ll be here.”

His gaze flicked to yours, and for a moment— Something cracked inside you.

And then, he let out a slow, tired breath—one that sounded like he was carrying the weight of the night on his shoulders. His fingers drummed absently against the table as if debating something. Then—

“I never thought I’d say this,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face, “but I think I’d rather have you show up crying over some loser you dated than… whatever the hell this is.”

You huffed out a small laugh. Weak, but real. “Gee, thanks.”

He shot you a smirk—tired, worn at the edges, not quite reaching his eyes. “At least then, I could tell you he sucked and threatened to key his car.”

Something in your chest eased. The corner of your lips twitched—the smallest flicker of warmth in an otherwise cold night. For the first time since stepping through his door, your shoulders relaxed. Because this—this—was why you had come here. Not to be questioned. Not to be saved. But to be with him.

To pretend, even for just a little while, that things could still feel normal. You glanced at him, hesitating.

“…Can we just watch a movie?” Your voice came softer now, barely above a whisper. “Like old times?”

He  blinked—caught off guard for a second. Then—He smiled. Small. Barely there. But real. 

“Yeah,” he said, already moving towards the couch. “Yeah, we can.”

You were curled up on the couch now, pressing into the worn cushions, the soft hum of an awful reality show filling the room. Koushi’s half-sat, half-sprawled beside you, arms folded, head tilted back against the couch cushions. His breathing had slowed, evening out into something softer, quieter. He was finally relaxed.

Every so often, he muttered something half-heartedly about how stupid the contestants were, and you’d nudge him in response, letting the warmth of normalcy settle into your bones. For a moment—just a fleeting, fragile moment—it almost felt like nothing had changed.

Then—an unfamiliar chime cut through the quiet. Your pulse jumped. The moment shattered. You didn’t need to check. You already knew who it was. Slowly, carefully, you pulled it out, heart stuttering as your gaze fell on the message.

Tetsurou: It’s getting quite late.

Your chest tightened.

Koushi stirred beside you, letting out a drowsy, incoherent mumble—something about the show being garbage, about how he’d never understand why you watched this crap. His words slurred slightly. He was barely awake now.

You swallowed. You needed to go. Carefully, so carefully, you shifted, pulling away from the cushions, standing without making a sound. Koushi barely moved. His head lolled slightly against the couch, his breathing deep and steady now.

Asleep. Good. 

Your fingers twitched as you grabbed a pen, ripping a scrap of paper from an old receipt on the counter. You hesitated—just for a second.

Then, you wrote:

Didn’t want to wake you. Thanks for tonight. Don’t worry about me too much. I promise I’ll come back.

A pause.

The pen hovered over the paper. Then—with a quiet, final certainty, you added: I love you.

You pressed the note to the fridge, letting your fingertips linger against the paper, the ink still fresh. Then—without another glance back, without letting yourself stop, without letting yourself think too much—you slipped out the front door.

The moment you stepped outside, the cool night air bit at your skin, settling deep into your bones. You curled deeper into Koushi’s hoodie, pulling the sleeves over your hands, but it didn’t help. Because the second you looked up—

You saw Lev.

He was leaning casually against the sleek black car, hands stuffed in his pockets, the dim glow of the streetlights casting long shadows across his face. The moment he spotted you, he pushed off the car, stretching lazily—but his eyes told a different story.

His gaze dragged over you, slow, deliberate. His smirk twitched, but there was something thoughtful behind it, something assessing. “That guy your boyfriend?”

You rolled your eyes, fingers brushing the car door handle. “You sure like to talk for someone who’s not supposed to?”

Lev’s smirk faltered—just for a second. Just long enough for you to see it. The realization. The unspoken warning that had been drilled into him.

He wasn’t entitled to your life story. And he knew it.

He huffed out a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess I just can’t help myself.”

You didn’t respond. Without another word, you slid into the car.

Lev hesitated. Just for a second. Then, he followed, shutting the door behind him, the interior dimly lit by the soft glow of the dashboard. The quiet hum of the engine filled the space as he settled into the seat beside you.

Outside, the streetlights flickered. Inside, the weight of the night pressed against your ribs. Lev didn’t push. Didn’t ask. Didn’t even look at you right away. Instead, he exhaled through his nose, shifting in his seat, tapping his fingers absently against his thigh before muttering—just low enough that you almost didn’t catch it.

“He’s not gonna like this.”

A sharp pang rippled through your core. You turned to him, but he was already scrolling through his phone, eyes fixed on the screen, his expression carefully neutral. Like he hadn’t just said anything at all. Like the words hadn’t just settled deep in your chest like a warning.

The silence in the car stretched, thick and heavy, wrapping around your ribs like something you couldn’t shake. By the time you stepped into the penthouse, the feeling hadn’t faded. The weight in your chest. The hum beneath your skin. That slow, sinking awareness curling at the edges of your ribs.

The air inside was still. Too still. The only sound was the distant thrum of the city below, muffled by the walls of glass stretching from floor to ceiling. The lights were dim, casting long shadows across the polished floors, stretching toward the massive windows where the skyline burned gold against the night.

And then—him.

Tetsurou sat near the window, sprawled across the chair, cigarette balanced between his fingers, draped across the leather as if he had all the time in the world. The ember flared red as he took a slow drag, exhaling smoke into the air like he had nothing better to do than wait.

For you.

The city lights burned behind him, slicing across his sharp features—angles of gold and shadow. His half-lidded gaze tracked your every move. Unbothered. Relaxed. Watching you like you were something he owned. Something he hadn’t quite decided what to do with yet.

You wrinkled your nose, waving at the air between you. “Smoking kills, you know.”

A smirk curled at his lips. Slow. Unhurried. He flicked the ash off the tip, eyes dragging over you like a slow burn. Lingering. Peeling you apart. "What I do can too."

The words slithered through the space between you, curling around your ribs, settling deep in your chest. A quiet reminder. A warning. You shifted, but his gaze didn’t waver.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

And then—just when the silence stretched too thin, his voice came again. Low. Even. Too casual. “We need to talk.”

A flicker of unease crawled up your spine.

He leaned forward, forearms resting against his knees, cigarette still dangling from his fingers. The smoke curled between you like a barrier—something thick, something you wouldn’t be able to cross. “The attitude earlier today?” His fingers tapped once against the armrest, the sound too soft, too deliberate. “Yeah, that doesn’t happen again.”

Your shoulders stiffened. “Excuse me?”

His smirk deepened—but there was no humor in it.

"Careful."

His voice was almost conversational, smooth, and easy. But the way his fingers curled loosely around the cigarette? That told a different story. A story of control. Of patience. Of warning.

“I let you leave earlier, didn’t I?” His voice was almost lazy, but there was something sharp beneath it. "That was me being generous."

A pause. Just long enough for the weight of his words to settle. Then—he exhaled, slow, deliberate. “Don’t start thinking my patience is endless”

The ember in his cigarette flared as he took another slow drag, the red glow sharp against the darkness of his gaze. Then—with a flick of his wrist—he snuffed it out in the ashtray beside him. The ember died instantly.

His gaze flickered back to you. Cold. Unshaken. "If you leave, I need to know where you’re going."

Your pulse kicked up. "Why?"

He tilted his head slightly, considering you. Then—he stood. And suddenly, the room felt smaller. "Because now people are watching you."

The words hit deeper than they should have.

"Because this world you just stepped into? It doesn’t care that you’re not part of it."

Another step. Slow. Deliberate.

“And because if something happens to you, it won’t be an accident.”

The air between you thickened, pressing heavily against your ribs. You weren’t stupid. You knew he was dangerous. Knew the world he lived in was built on power, fear, and control. But hearing it? Acknowledging it? That was different. You swallowed, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t let you catch your breath.

His voice dropped lower, just above a murmur—the kind of quiet that felt more lethal than anything else. He exhaled sharply through his nose, like something was pressing against the edges of his control.

His voice dipped lower, something slipping through the cracks. Raw. Unfiltered.

"If something happens to you, I—"

A sharp inhale. A flicker in his expression—a single misstep. Gone in a second.

You barely had time to process it before his smirk snapped back into place, quick, unrelenting.

"No attitude. And no more leaving without telling me where the fuck you’re going." He exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. "I let it slide tonight” His voice was low, even, but there was something final beneath it—something that left no room for argument. "Push your luck again, and you’ll see what happens. Got it?"

Your jaw clenched. You could feel it—the way he had already drawn the line for you, the way stepping over it would mean something. Would cost something. But still—you nodded.

A beat of silence.

Then—his smirk twitched. Like he had expected a fight. Like he almost wanted one. But then—it vanished altogether. His gaze dropped, flickering over you once, twice—slow, deliberate. Like he was putting something together, piece by piece, as if something wasn’t adding up. 

The hoodie. A hoodie you didn’t leave in. The sleeves hung loose over your hands, swallowing you in a fabric that wasn’t yours. Your hair—messy, slightly tangled. A muscle in his jaw ticked. His fingers twitched at his side. Then—he stepped forward. Deliberate. Unhurried. A predator closing in.

You held your ground. Barely.

He stopped just short of you, close enough that you could smell the smoke clinging to his clothes, the faintest trace of cologne beneath it. His fingers lifted, grasping the edge of the hoodie sleeve, rubbing the fabric between his fingers.

Testing. Questioning.

“Where’d you get this?”

The words were deceptively soft. A slow drag of a knife over the skin. Your pulse hammered, but you forced yourself to meet his gaze. “The friend I was with.”

A shift. Subtle. Small. But you felt it. His grip on the hoodie tightened. His eyes darkened.

“Friend.” He repeated it slowly, rolling the word over his tongue, stretching it out—like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to swallow it or spit it back out. His thumb ghosted over the fabric before his fingers left it, his hand dropping back to his side. Then—his jaw flexed once, twice—before tilting his head. His gaze—sharp, assessing, cutting through you like glass.

“What’s their name?”

Your breath caught.

Bait.

You knew it.  He knew it.

And yet—your lips parted, but no words came.

His smirk deepened. “No name?” A step forward. Too close.

You felt the heat radiating off him, the warmth of his breath ghosting over your skin.

“You know,” he murmured, voice dipping lower, silkier, “it’s a little weird, don’t you think?”

Your throat went dry. “What is?”

A hum. Low. Amused. Dangerous. His fingers barely grazed the hem of the hoodie. “The fact that you left in one thing…” His eyes dragged over you, slow, heavy-lidded. “…And came back in another.”

The weight of his stare sent something sharp curling in your stomach.

“That you smell like someone else’s cologne.”

Your pulse jumped. 

He saw it. Felt it. And he liked it.

“Is this friend a boyfriend?”

The words hit like a flick of a knife. Quick. Testing.

“No. He’s just—” You stopped yourself. Swallowed, grip tightening around the sleeves of the hoodie. “He’s just a friend.”

He hummed like he wasn’t quite convinced. Then—he leaned in, voice lowering, tone shifting from casual mockery to something deeper, something laced with quiet intensity.

“Did he touch you?”

The breath you sucked in was sharp. Too sharp.

“Huh?”

His fingers skimmed higher. Slow. Barely-there touches. His smirk never wavered. “I asked if he touched you.”

You swallowed. “Why would that be your business?”

He tilted his head, searching. Waiting. Then—he leaned in. Close. Too close. His lips hovered near your ear, voice softer now, smoother, more covetous. “Everything about you is my business, doll.”

Your breath hitched.

And Tetsurou? He fucking felt it. His fingers brushed against the hem again—just once—before he stepped back. But the absence of his touch was just as sharp as the presence of it. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. 

The silence between you stretched—thick, smothering, unforgiving. His fingers flexed at his side, his thumb lazily swiping over his phone screen, A brief pause. A decision was made. But his attention never left you.

Still waiting. Still watching. But he didn’t press. Didn’t demand an answer. He just let the weight of the unspoken words sit between you, curling around your ribs like something too heavy to carry—but impossible to let go.

A tight knot coiled in your chest.

He was playing with you.

You squared your shoulders, tilting your chin up just enough to meet his gaze without faltering. “You don’t own me.”

His smirk returned. Slow. Deliberate. But there was something cruel in it now. “No,” he murmured. “But I do own the space you stand in.” His head tilted, mocking curiosity. “And I like to know who’s been playing in my territory.”

You exhaled sharply, forcing yourself not to react. Not to let him see the way your body tensed at his words. 

His territory.

Like you were his—as if the decision had already been made for you. Your fingers curled into the sleeves of the hoodie, twisting the fabric between them. A second too long.

He noticed. The corner of his mouth twitched, a quiet exhale slipping through his lips. His gaze flickered lower, tracing the shape of you beneath the hoodie, the way it swallowed you up, covered you. The amusement in his expression deepened.

“So, your friend,” he drawled, stepping forward again, crowding the space between you until the only thing you could smell was him. “Was he good?”

The words were slow. Too slow. You swallowed, willing yourself not to react. Not to take the bait. “Good?”

His smirk grew. “Yeah,” his voice dipped, almost thoughtful. “I mean… you come back in his hoodie, smell like his cologne…hair all messy like someone had his hands in it…” His smirk deepened, sharp and slow. “So, did he fuck you?”

The words landed heavy. Like he wanted to see you flinch. Like he wanted to see if you’d break. Your jaw tightened. “No.”

A beat. 

Then—his tongue flicked over his teeth, jaw flexing. Something unreadable passed over his face. A flicker of thought. A slow calculation. Then—a low chuckle. 

“No.” He repeated it like he was tasting the word, testing it. “And I’m supposed to believe that?” His fingers brushed against the hem of the hoodie again, grazing your hip before pulling away.

You knew he felt the way your breath caught. You knew he enjoyed it. Your hands tightened into fists inside the sleeves. “Believe what you want.”

He hummed. A quiet, menacing sound. He didn’t respond. Just watched you. Like he was weighing something. Like he was deciding something. And then—

The corner of his mouth twitched. A slow, almost amused exhale slipped past his lips. "Oh, I will."

Silence stretched between you two until it was broken by the faint sound of heels clicking against the marble floor. Your stomach clenched. The air shattered. You turned toward the sound, your body already tensing.

And then—you saw her. 

Tall. Blonde. Beautiful in an almost cruel way. The silk of her dress clung to her figure, shifting with every deliberate movement as if it had been made to fit her perfectly. Like she was made to belong in places like this.

In his space. With him.

Her hair cascaded over one shoulder, sleek and shining, not a strand out of place. The gloss on her lips wasn’t smudged, wasn’t bitten raw. She was put together. Effortless. And she looked at you like you were nothing.

Not with curiosity. Not with hostility. With indifference.

Like she had already decided you weren’t worth noticing. A knot formed in your core. Something sharp and unfamiliar crawled up your spine, lodging itself deep in your ribs. 

You weren’t stupid. You had no right to be mad,  no reason to tighten your grip on the hoodie sleeves, but—she wasn’t just some girl. You could feel it. See it. She didn’t just know him. She knew this place. And when her lips parted—the final nail in the coffin.

“You texted,” she murmured, voice lilting with something sweet—too sweet. 

Fake.

Tetsurou backed up slightly, putting just enough distance between you and him, completely at ease, completely in control. His smirk deepened. “Yeah.” His voice was lower now, smoother—like he had just won. Like you were the only one with something to lose. Your stomach clenched, something sick curling in your chest.

Her eyes flickered to you for just a second. A second too long. Not a greeting. Not curiosity. A silent appraisal. And then—she turned to him fully. “What do you need me for?” She was waiting. 

And Tetsurou?

He let the silence stretch. Long enough for you to feel it. Long enough for your heart to hammer inside your chest. Then—he moved. Right past you. Straight to her. Your breath caught. She didn’t even blink. Didn’t react. Didn’t hesitate. She just smiled up at him, waiting for his next move.

He didn’t even hesitate either. His fingers skimmed her hip, slow, deliberate, easy. He leaned in, murmuring something low against her ear, something meant only for her. You didn’t hear the words. Didn’t need to. Because the message was already clear.

This was what you had walked into. This was who he was. This was what he did. And the worst part? He was watching you the entire time. Like he wanted to see what you would do. Like he wanted to see if you’d break. The weight of the hoodie on your frame felt heavier now. Your fingers curled into the fabric again, gripping it so tightly your knuckles ached. 

The silk of her dress caught the light as she shifted closer to him, tilting her head slightly, waiting. Your breath hitched. You needed to leave.

Now.

But his hand lingered on her waist, fingers just barely brushing the fabric of her dress. Not possessive. Not tender. Something worse. Calculated.

And then—he looked at you. A flicker of something passed through his gaze. Fleeting. Quick. But it was there. Like he was watching for something. Like he was waiting for something. 

Your throat tightened. You refused to give it to him. Swallowing the lump forming at the back of your throat, you turned on your heel. Didn’t run. Didn’t let yourself falter. 

You forced your feet to move, not toward the exit—but toward the stairs. Each step felt too loud, the soft padding of your shoes against the cold marble amplified in the quiet tension that stretched between you and the scene you were leaving behind.

You swore you could still feel his gaze, dragging over your retreating form like a brand that hasn’t cooled. 

And then—a quiet chuckle. Low. Amused. Something dark curling at the edges. You didn’t stop. Didn’t turn around. Didn’t give him the satisfaction. But the sound followed you. Chasing you up the stairs that had not felt this long before. Or maybe it was just the weight curling in your stomach. 

Halfway up, you heard her voice. Sweet. Laced with something light, teasing. Meant to be heard.

“You missed me, didn’t you.”

Your fingers clenched into the sleeves of the hoodie. Don’t stop. His voice followed, smooth and unbothered.

“Yeah.”

You forced your legs to keep moving. Almost there. She giggled softly, and then, quieter, but still loud enough to reach you—because it was meant to.

“Could’ve just waited for me in bed, you know.?”

Your stomach twisted. You didn’t stop. Didn’t glance back. Didn’t react. But your grip on the railing tightened.

And then—footsteps.

His.

Your pulse spiked. He was moving, the heavy sound of his loafers clicking against the floor. Unhurried. Measured. Like he had all the time in the world. Like he knew exactly where you were going. And then—another pair. Lighter. Softer. In sync.

Hers.

Your breath caught. You didn’t have to turn around. Didn’t have to see it. Because you already knew. They were walking together. Heading your way.

You swallowed, shoving open the door to your room before either of them could say anything else—before you could see whatever came next. The second you stepped inside, you shut the door.

Not slam. Not locked. Just closed.

And the silence that followed was deafening. Your hands curled into the sleeves of the hoodie, the fabric soft between your fingers. Something you never should have worn in the first place. And yet—your jaw clenched. You weren’t going to let him get to you. You weren’t.

But as you slid down against the door, knees pulling to your chest, the cold realization sank deep into your ribs. 

He already had.

The silence of your room pressed in around you, thick, suffocating, drowning out everything—except for one thing.

Her voice.

"Could’ve just waited for me in bed, you know."

A fresh wave of nausea curled in your stomach. The words clung to you, clawed at your skin, and settled deep in your chest. You squeezed your eyes shut. Willed them away. But they stayed. And then—

Lev’s voice. A whisper in the car. A warning disguised as nothing.

"He's not gonna like this.”

You exhaled sharply, head tilting back against the door. Lev was right. Tetsurou hadn’t liked it. Not one bit. But this wasn’t just about that. This was a power play. A punishment for something you didn’t even do. Because he had taken in your appearance and had assumed the worst.

He hadn’t believed you. He hadn’t let your explanation matter. He had just reacted. Texted her. Brought her here. Made sure you saw. And now, while they were just down the hall, their voices carrying through the space between you, their presence lingering, pressing in—

You were here. Alone. Your fingers curled into the sleeves of the hoodie, gripping it tightly. It wasn’t yours. It was meant to be a tether, something to ground you, to remind you of a world outside of this one. Of warmth, of love, of Koushi. But now?

Now, it felt like a mistake. Like an open wound left exposed, a reminder of something Tetsurou had just ripped away without even knowing what it meant.

Laughter—hers—floated through the silence, soft, muffled by walls but still clear enough. The quiet murmur of his voice followed, smooth, unreadable. 

And then—footsteps.

Not distant. Not fading. Moving. Pausing. Settling. A rustle. A shift.

The faintest creak of the mattress. The bedroom door shut with a quiet click.

The sounds echoed.

A slow, simmering pressure built in your chest, clawing downward. You shouldn’t care. You had no right to care. But as you sat there, alone, hoodie clenched between your fingers, the truth burned through you like a sinking weight.

He wanted to hurt you. 

And he had.

And Tetsurou?

He fucking knew it.

You weren’t sure how long you sat there, fingers curled tight around the fabric at your sleeves, knuckles aching from the pressure. The room felt too small, the air too thick, pressing down on your chest until breathing became a conscious effort.

Beyond the window, the city stretched toward morning, streetlights flickering out one by one as the dark bled into dawn.

The first thing Kuroo registered was warmth. A weight pressed against his chest—soft, familiar. A leg was thrown over his, blonde hair fanned across the pillow. The scent of expensive perfume clung to the sheets, heady and overwhelming.

Alisa.

His jaw ticked. For a second, he just stared at the ceiling, last night bleeding back into him like a slow, creeping ache. 

You. That fucking hoodie. The way you looked at him—like you didn’t know him. Like he had become something different in your eyes.

And now?

Now, he was here. With Alisa in his bed. A move he’d made deliberately. A move that should have settled something inside him. But it didn’t.

Alisa stirred, pressing closer, nails tracing lazy patterns over his stomach. “Mmm,” she hummed, voice thick with sleep. Then, after a pause—her voice sharpened slightly. “I thought you didn’t want anything to do with me anymore.”

Kuroo tensed. She wasn’t teasing. She was testing.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t react. Just exhaled sharply, swinging his legs off the bed. His hands dragged down his face before reaching for his sweatpants, shoving one leg through, then the other.

Alisa rolled onto her side, head propped up on her palm, watching him. “Guess that changed.”

His fingers curled slightly around the waistband of his sweatpants. He needed a shower. Needed to get out of this room.

Alisa studied him carefully. “Lev told me how you threatened him over her.”

Stillness.

The words landed like a flick of a knife. Kuroo’s body went rigid.

Alisa caught it. Her smirk curled as she sat up, hair falling over her bare shoulder. “That’s a first,” she murmured, studying him. “Didn’t think you cared enough to pull shit like that.”

His fingers clenched around the sheet.

Alisa tilted her head, watching him like she had just stumbled onto something interesting. “Did she do something to piss you off last night?”

Kuroo stood up. Sharp. Abrupt. His fingers twitched at his sides, jaw flexing as he grabbed his shirt off the floor. Measured. Controlled. “I’ve got shit to do.”

Alisa blinked, waiting—like she expected more.

But Kuroo didn’t offer anything. Didn’t explain. Didn’t care to. “Do me a favor,” he said, voice low, clipped. “Be gone by the time I get out of the shower.”

Silence.

Alisa blinked. Like she hadn’t quite heard him right. Then—slowly—her lips curved. Not a smile. Something else. Something sharper. "Huh." She leaned back against the headboard, studying him, her nails tapping idly against her thigh. Watching him like she was putting something together.

She exhaled, then—deliberately, lazily—slid out of bed. She didn’t scramble to grab her clothes, didn’t rush to leave. Instead, she stretched, taking her time, her movements slow and fluid. Making a show of it. 

When she finally reached for her dress, she paused—just for a second—fingertips grazing the fabric before glancing back over her shoulder. "Guess a girl can get under your skin after all."

Kuroo didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just kept his focus on the shirt in his hands, jaw locked tight.

Alisa’s smirk deepened. But she didn’t push. Didn’t need to. She had already won. With a quiet hum, she slipped her dress over her head, smoothing out the silk as she stepped toward the door. No rush. No hesitation. And then—just as she reached for the handle— she tossed one last look over her shoulder.

“Let me know when you’re done pretending she doesn’t matter.”

Click.

The door shut behind her. The silence that followed was different than before. Hollow. Taut. Suffocating. Kuroo exhaled slowly through his nose, pressing his palms against his face.

Fucking hell.

His head tilted back, eyes catching on the ceiling, but all he saw was you. Your expression last night. The way you didn’t fight back. Didn’t say anything. The cold, empty weight of it clawed at his ribs.

And for the first time in a long time—he knew he fucked up.

With a sharp inhale, he made his way to the bathroom. The door clicked shut behind him, locking out everything but the sound of his heavy, unwanted thoughts.

The bathroom filled with steam, curling against the mirrors, clinging to the tile. Kuroo let the water scorch down his back, head tilted forward, fingers braced against the marble wall. His eyes squeezed shut.

The scent of Alisa still clung to his skin. Cloying. Suffocating. He scrubbed at his arms, and his chest like he could wash away the weight pressing into him. Like he could erase the taste of last night—the choice he made.

It didn’t work. Your face still lingered in the back of his mind. Not angry. Not hurt. Just… blank. That was worse. A muscle in his jaw ticked as he exhaled sharply through his nose. He didn’t know what he was expecting. That you’d lash out? Yell at him? That you’d push back, give him something—anything—to work with? But you didn’t. You just turned away.

His fingers curled into fists, forehead pressing briefly against the cool tile. That fucking hoodie. He had been so sure—so convinced he knew what he was looking at. 

But now? Now, the certainty didn’t sit right.

The water ran hot, but his thoughts ran hotter. By the time he shut it off, stepping out into the thick steam, the weight in his chest had settled into something cold. Heavy.

Something was wrong. 

He grabbed a towel, running it through his hair once before tossing it onto the counter. A glance in the mirror—his reflection stared back, unreadable.

Tch.

He didn’t waste any more time. The second he stepped out of the bathroom, he was moving. Down the hall. To your door. 

A beat.

Then—his knuckles rapped against the wood. 

Silence.

His stomach twisted. He knocked again. 

Nothing.

The unease crawled up his spine as he tested the handle.

Unlocked.

The door pushed open with an ease that made his pulse kick up. The room was still.

The bed? Untouched.

His gaze swept over the room, scanning the space his men had furnished for while you were out last night. It looked different now. Lived in. His eyes caught on the new additions—the personal touches that hadn’t been there before. The photos. Neatly arranged on the dresser.

He stepped closer, his fingers ghosted over the edge of a frame. A younger you, with a woman and a man. Parents.

His gaze locked onto another. A gray-haired man. Grinning. Arms slung over your shoulders, casual, familiar. Too familiar.

He knew this guy. Had seen him with you before. Something sharp coiled in Kuroo’s stomach. A flicker of something ugly. Jealousy. His jaw tightened. He had no fucking right. He knew that. But it didn’t stop the feeling from creeping in, slow and insidious, settling into his chest like a weight he couldn’t shake. His fingers curled tighter around the frame, the growing tension pulling him back to reality.

Where the fuck were you?

His movements were sharp as he turned on his heel, heading downstairs, hoping—expecting—to find you somewhere in the penthouse. But you weren’t. The only thing waiting for him was a note. Pinned to the fridge. Small. Unassuming. But somehow, it felt heavier than it should have.

His fingers plucked it from the stainless steel, scanning the words once. Twice.

At work.            The driver took me.  Don’t send a guard.

No snark. No fight. No anything. Just cold. Impersonal. Kuroo exhaled sharply through his nose. His grip tightened around the note. Something deep inside him twisted. Not anger. Not jealousy. Something else. And he fucking hated it.

He grabbed his phone, sending out a single message."Both of you. Penthouse. Now."

Minutes later, Lev sat stiffly across from him on the barstool, fidgeting under Kuroo’s scrutiny. Kenma, on the other hand, was unbothered—leaning against the island, eyes flicking over his laptop, already knowing this was important.

Kuroo exhaled sharply through his nose, tapping once against his knee. “The guy she was with last night.” His voice was even. Too even. “Tell me everything.”

Lev hesitated. “Uh… what about him?”

Kuroo’s stare hardened. “Start with where you guys went”

Lev swallowed. “Some house about thirty minutes away.” He reached for his phone. “I still have the address in my phone—”

Kuroo waved a hand. “We’ll get to that. Now—describe him.”

Lev blinked. “Oh. Uh, gray-haired dude? Looked a little older than her, but not by much.” He scratched the back of his head. “They seemed… close.”

Something coiled tight in Kuroo’s chest. A sharp breath. A muscle in his jaw jumped. Then—he was on his feet.

“Uh, boss?” Lev called after him, confused.

Kuroo ignored him, moving fast, his feet carrying him back upstairs before he could think. The framed photos. His fingers closed around the one that had caught his attention earlier. His grip tightened as he stared at it. The anger built in his chest, burning hotter. 

He turned on his heel, heading back downstairs, the photo gripped tightly in his hand. He slammed the frame onto the countertop, the quiet thud of the glass a harsh contrast to the storm inside him. “Is this him?” His voice was low, dangerous.

Lev blinked, glancing down. Then—a nod. “Yeah. That’s the guy.”

Kuroo exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. That slow, insidious feeling continued to gnaw at him, coiling deep in his chest, refusing to loosen its grip.

Kenma, still leaning against the counter, finally spoke. His tone was unreadable, but his gaze flickered between the photo and Kuroo like he already knew this was about to be something. 

“Want me to pull up the address?”

Kuroo’s jaw tightened. “Do it.” Kenma’s fingers flew over his keys, the only sound in the room was the quiet tap of keys.

A beat of silence. 

Then—his brows lifted slightly. “Huh.”

Kuroo’s patience snapped. “What.”

Kenma didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he turned his laptop toward Kuroo.

Sugawara Family Residence. 

But something else.

Occupants: Koushi Sugawara.

Kuroo’s stomach dropped. 

Sugawara. 

The name slammed into him like a freight train. He’d read it before. When he looked into you when he skimmed through your past. 

He just hadn’t fucking thought.

The hoodie. The fucking hoodie.

It didn’t belong to just some random guy. It didn’t belong to a fucking boyfriend.

It belonged to a man who was family.

Kuroo clenched his jaw so tight it ached. His fingers twitched at his side before curling into a tight fist, knuckles whitening. 

And then—his arm jerked. His fist swung up— toward the counter, toward the wall—

But he stopped.

Just short.

Fingers shaking. Breath coming fast, uneven.

A sharp exhale left his lips, ragged, unsteady. He dragged a hand down his face, pressing his palm hard against his temple like he could scrub the weight of this realization out of his skull. But it didn’t budge. It sat there, cold and immovable, pressing against his ribs, heavy, unshakable.

He had thought you were trying to provoke him. That you wanted to make him jealous. But you weren’t flaunting anything. You were just holding onto something real. Something that had nothing to do with him.

And he’d fucking ripped it apart without a second thought

Kuroo leaned back against the wall, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. His heart hammered against his ribs, too loud, too fucking fast.

He had fucked up. More than he realized. More than he fucking thought possible. 

Kenma’s gaze flickered between the screen and Kuroo. A slow blink. “What did you do?”

Kuroo’s jaw tensed. He inhaled sharply. “Something I shouldn’t have.”

Kenma clicked his tongue, watching Kuroo’s expression shift. “Damn.” A pause. Then—flat, but edged with something dry. “You really fucked up if you’re admitting a mistake.”

Kuroo clenched his jaw.

Kenma wasn’t wrong.

This was worse than he fucking thought.

Kuroo leaned towards the counter, phone in hand, thumb hovering over your name in his contacts. The weight in his chest was unbearable now.

You were gone.

Not gone, gone. But you had left the penthouse before he could see you before he could fix anything, before he could even talk to you. That wasn’t an accident. It was a choice. One that told him exactly how deep of a hole he had dug.

He exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders back before typing out a message and hitting send.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. The sound barely cut through the fog clinging to your mind, but the vibration sent a dull pulse through your hip. You exhaled sharply, rubbing at your temple, willing away the exhaustion pressing in at your skull.

Lack of sleep was catching up with you. Hard.

You hadn’t slept well the night before moving into Kuroo’s penthouse—your mind restless, unable to settle after your world had flipped upside down overnight. And last night? Last night you didn’t sleep at all. Not after what he did. Not after the scene he had so carefully crafted for you to see.

You should’ve known better than to care. You should’ve.

But your body didn’t get the memo. The pit in your stomach hadn’t left, a slow-sinking weight pressing against your ribs, growing heavier with every replayed moment. Every breath. Every memory of his smirk curling at the edges of something cruel.

Your phone buzzed again.

With a slow breath, you pulled it out, the screen too bright against your tired eyes. The message sat there, clear, simple.

Tetsurou: Let me send a guard.

Your fingers tightened around the phone. You stared at the words longer than you wanted to admit. It wasn’t an apology. Not directly. Not with words. But this? This was him saying I still care. I still want to keep you safe.

And maybe that should’ve meant something. Maybe, on another day, it would have. But today?

Today, you remembered last night.

The calculated way he let you see him with her. The way his fingers had brushed against her waist, the low murmur of words meant just for her, but loud enough for you to hear.

You inhaled sharply, chest tightening with something sharp, something cold.

Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard. A thousand different responses flickered through your head—ones that bit, ones that deflected, ones that asked why.

But in the end, you only sent one word.

No.

You didn’t wait for a reply. Didn’t give him the chance to argue. Instead, you locked the phone and shoved it back into your pocket, the weight of it suddenly unbearable.

A deep, tired sigh slipped past your lips.

"You look like you're about to pass out. And if you do, I’m not resuscitating you."

The dry voice pulled you back into reality, and you blinked up to find Shirabu staring at you, arms crossed, unimpressed as ever.

You huffed out a weak, humorless laugh, shaking your head. "Good to know where we stand Shirabu."

Shirabu raised an eyebrow. "You look like you’ve been hit by a truck. And I’d rather not have someone who looks like roadkill assisting in surgery today."

"Feel like it, too. But I’m fine."

He clicked his tongue, eyes scanning over you like he was diagnosing an illness. "Maybe you should just go home before you pass out on someone's open chest. Kind of a bad look."

A short, humorless breath left you. "Nice to know you care."

"I'm serious." He clicked his tongue, arms crossing over his chest. "You look like shit."

The bluntness should have irritated you. But it didn’t. Because this was normal. A coworker making an observation. A cold, pragmatic assessment. Logic.

Not control.

For a moment, a split second, you felt something unfamiliar pressing against the exhaustion in your chest—relief. Because this world was familiar. The pace of it. The order. The simplicity of a tired doctor telling you to go the hell home.

It was grounding. It was safe.

It should have been enough.

You let out another breath, rolling your shoulders.  "Not happening. I just need to keep busy. I’ll stick to rounds, checking on patients—nothing major."

Shirabu didn’t look convinced. "Fine. But I better not find you faceplanted in some supply closet." He shook his head before heading off, leaving you standing in the middle of the hallway.

The moment he disappeared, that false sense of normalcy collapsed. The exhaustion wrapped around you like a second skin, suffocating, clinging to the edges of your lungs.

You exhaled sharply, fingers curling into the fabric of your scrub sleeves. You should’ve been relieved. You had shut Tetsurou down. You had drawn the line.

So why the hell did it still feel like you couldn’t breathe?

The hospital air was always thick—antiseptic, muted voices, the quiet hum of exhaustion clinging to overworked doctors and nurses. 

But this?  This was different.

It started as a twinge. A whisper of unease slithering down your spine, subtle but unshakable. You were being watched.

You ignored it at first. Too tired. Too drained.

Your body running on autopilot as you moved through the halls, doing exactly what you told Shirabu—keeping busy.

But the feeling didn’t fade. If anything, it got worse. Too obvious. Too intentional. Like whoever it was wanted you to know they were there.

Your gaze flickered to the side—casual, practiced, not obvious.

And there he was. A man, leaning against the far wall, just out of reach of the passing nurses and patients. His frame was relaxed, posture at ease, but something about it felt off. Too calculated. Too still.

Dressed entirely in black. Hat pulled low. Long sleeves concealing his arms, hands tucked neatly into his pockets.

That wasn’t an accident. Your stomach twisted. One of Tetsurou’s men.

Of course.

Your exhaustion snapped into something sharper. Anger burned through the fatigue, simmering beneath your skin until you couldn’t hold it back anymore.

Tetsurou didn’t take your ‘no’ seriously. The audacity of him. Sending someone to stalk you. To watch you. To make sure you weren’t slipping beyond his grasp.

You saw red. You didn’t hesitate. Didn’t stop to think.

You marched across the hallway, shoulders squared, heart hammering, and shoved every ounce of anger into your voice.

 He didn’t react, didn’t shift, didn’t move—just let you approach, let you get close. 

Fine. You’d give him something to report back to his boss.

"Seriously?" Your voice came sharp, low enough to avoid drawing attention, but full of venom. "You’re not even trying to be subtle now? Tell your boss he can go fuck himself."

Silence.

The man tilted his head, studying you, and something about the way he did it made your skin crawl.

Not arrogant. Not flustered. Not caught off guard.

Just… interested.

"That’s a lot of anger," he murmured, voice smooth, unreadable. "He must really want to keep an eye on you."

Your breath hitched—not at his words, but at the way he said them. Carefully. Calculated.

The unease settled deep in your chest, pressing against your ribs like a slow-growing weight.

You narrowed your eyes, jaw tightening. "Tetsurou doesn’t need to keep an eye on me," you snapped, hating the way his name tasted in your mouth. Hating the way this man’s presence made you feel like you were back under his thumb. "So you can tell him to back off."

The man just smirked.

"Noted," he murmured. And then—he just walked away.

But the unease didn’t.

It clung to you. Crawled under your skin.

It followed you through the halls, through the minutes that stretched endlessly, through the exhaustion that should have dragged you under but didn’t. Because the worst part?

You weren’t tired anymore. You were wired.

Your body was running off something sharper than adrenaline. The feeling of being watched hadn’t faded—not really. Even now, hours later, it lingered, pressing against your spine, refusing to let go.

That man. His voice. His smirk.

Your mind kept circling back to it, turning over details you hadn’t processed in the moment. The way he didn’t blink when you snapped at him. The way he seemed amused by your anger. The way he had walked away so easily.

You shivered, rubbing your arms as you made your way toward the emergency room. Your shift was nearly over and you were hanging on by a thread.

One more round of patient checks, then you could get the hell out of here. Then you could breathe.

But just as you stepped past the dimly lit corridor near the storage rooms—

An arm shot out.

Before you could react, a strong grip curled around your wrist, yanking you sideways.

Your breath caught—

The world tilted—

And then you were shoved into the darkness of a supply closet, your back hitting the shelving as the door clicked shut.

Tetsurou.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. You barely had a second to process before anger surged through you, sharp and immediate. 

The final fucking straw.

"You’ve gotta be kidding me," you snapped, exhaustion collapsing into frustration as you pushed off the wall, stepping toward him.

Tetsurou didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Just stood there, towering over you, watching.

Too still.

Your chest heaved, the heat in your veins burning hotter.

"Why can’t you just leave me alone?" Your voice dropped, but the bite remained. "Is this fun for you? Dragging me into your world, making me second-guess everything—making sure I can’t turn a corner without feeling like you’re right there?"

Nothing.

No reaction.

Just golden eyes locked onto yours, unreadable, waiting.

That only pissed you off more. 

Because the truth was—you weren’t even sure if you were talking about just him anymore. The feeling had been there all day. Lingering. Pressing against the back of your mind like a shadow you couldn’t shake.

And Tetsurou?

He wasn’t even reacting.

Your fingers curled into fists. "Say something!"

Nothing.

"Fine," you snapped. "Then get the hell out of my way—"

"We’re leaving."

Your whole body locked up. The words were calm. Final. Not a demand. Not a request.

Just a fact.

Your nails dug into your palms, anger clawing at your throat. "You don’t get to decide that."

His gaze didn’t waver. "You’re done for the night."

A humorless laugh slipped past your lips. "Are you kidding me? You can’t just—"

"You’re stitching someone up," he cut in, voice like steel.

Your stomach flipped. "What?"

"That’s why I came here." He exhaled sharply, like this was just another thing piling onto the already fucked-up night. "One of my men took a hit. I need you to take care of it. Now."

You stared at him. Fury still burning. Mind still spinning. And for a moment—you considered saying no.

But the look in his eyes? Said now was not the time.

"Fine," you muttered, voice clipped. "Let’s go."

He didn’t respond. Just moved.

When he stepped past you, his shoulder brushed yours. Firm. Intentional. And then—his hand ghosted against your hip.

The lightest touch. Barely there. But it sent a shockwave through you.

A warning. A claim.

Your pulse jumped, frustration crackling beneath your skin. The cramped space felt even smaller now, his presence filling every inch of it. Too warm. Too inescapable.

His fingers curled around the doorknob. He didn’t look at you as he pulled it open.

And just like that—the fight was over.

For now.

But the heat in your chest hadn’t faded.

The tension sat thick and suffocating between you, trailing behind as you followed him out of the hospital, past the sterile white walls and fluorescent lights, out into the night.

You expected him to take you straight to wherever he had planned—wherever his injured man was waiting.

But instead—

The car slid through the Tokyo streets, past the flashing neon signs, past the familiar grunge of the city’s underbelly—until the driver pulled the car to a slow, smooth stop.

Your brows furrowed. This wasn’t what you expected. Not some dimly lit, back-alley hideout. Not some run-down warehouse or a shady underground room. Instead—Tetsurou had brought you to a restaurant.

And not just any restaurant—one of the most exclusive izakayas in Tokyo.

The kind of place where the rich came to sip sake and pretend they weren’t the worst people in the city.

The moment his car pulled up to the entrance, your irritation—already boiling under your skin—flared.

"What the hell is this?" you muttered, shooting him a look as the valet opened your door.

Tetsurou ignored you. Not unusual.

But when he stepped out, fixing the cuffs of his suit like this was just another night out, you felt something snap.

You barely had a second to push the door open yourself before he was already moving, walking ahead like he expected you to follow.

You did—but not quietly. The second you caught up to him, you leaned in, voice low but sharp.

"I thought you said—"

He cut you off before you could finish, his voice smooth, final. "Come on."

Like that was supposed to be an answer. Your jaw clenched. Your fingers curled into fists.

No explanation. No warning. Just the expectation that you’d go along with whatever bullshit he had planned.

You could’ve stopped walking. Could’ve dug your heels into the pavement and forced him to actually tell you what the hell was going on. But instead, you followed.

Angry. Fuming. But you followed.

The second you stepped through the doors, the heat of frustration crashed against the cool, controlled atmosphere.

It was warm inside—too warm.

Low jazz hummed softly over the quiet clink of glasses. The smell of grilled wagyu and sake filled the air, masking the undercurrent of expensive cologne and cigarettes. Every detail was meticulously designed to feel inviting.

And yet—you felt nothing but unease.

Because he didn’t look around. Didn’t glance at a menu. Didn’t acknowledge the waitstaff. Didn’t even pretend like this was a normal night out.

Your stomach twisted. Something was off. You leaned closer, voice hushed but sharp.

"Tetsurou—"

But before you could finish, his hand pressed lightly against the small of your back.

Not enough to push. Not enough to force.

But just enough to make you move.

Your eyes flashed. You opened your mouth to snap at him—but then he was leading you past the tables, past the bar, straight toward the back of the restaurant.

Straight toward a staff-only door. Your breath hitched. Your pulse jumped.

But Tetsurou? He just pushed it open. And just like that—you weren’t in the restaurant anymore.

Everything changed.

The second the door shut behind you, the warmth of the restaurant vanished—replaced by something colder, quieter, heavier. The hallway stretched narrow and sterile, lined with unmarked doors. The walls were too clean. The silence too suffocating.

The smell of cedar and grilled steak? Gone.

Now, the air smelled like disinfectant and metal. You dug your heels in, finally stopping.

"Where the fuck are we?"

He didn’t answer. Didn’t pause. Didn’t even acknowledge your anger.

He just kept walking, taking you past crates of imported liquor, past a door that hummed with the faint sound of machinery, down a flight of stairs that smelled like steel and blood.

Your hands clenched at your sides. Your whole body screamed at you to turn around. But you didn’t. Because deep down, you knew—whatever was waiting for you down there needed your help.

The moment your foot hit the bottom step, your mouth dropped. This wasn’t a storage room. This wasn’t a kitchen backroom. This was something else entirely

A single, worn leather couch sat against the wall, stained darker in places you didn’t want to think about. A heavy metal table occupied the center of the room, surrounded by neatly stocked cabinets filled with medical supplies that had no business being this well-organized in a basement.

And slumped against the table—his shirt peeled back, bleeding from a deep gash across his ribs—was a man.

The sight of blood—so much blood—yanked you back into reality. Your jaw locked. Your pulse pounded.

Tetsurou just exhaled, slow and easy, like this was routine. Like the blood pooling onto the table didn’t faze him. Like a man bleeding out in a basement was just another Tuesday.

"Fix him."

That was all he said. Low. Even. Like this wasn’t up for debate. Like this was just something you were expected to do.

Your blood boiled. Your vision blurred at the edges, anger pressing against your skull like a vice. You weren’t supposed to be here. You weren’t supposed to be in the basement of a restaurant, stitching up criminals, pretending like this was normal.

And you sure as hell weren’t supposed to be doing it while Tetsurou stood there, silent, acting like nothing was wrong.

Your fingers curled into fists. You should have argued. Should have said something.

Instead, you stormed forward, snatched a pair of gloves off the tray, and got to work.

If he wanted this done? Fine. But you weren’t doing it gently.

The silence stretched thick, suffocating.

You moved quickly—too quickly. Every motion was sharp, precise, filled with an unspoken fury you had no other way to express.

Clean the wound. Disinfect. Prep the needle.

You worked like a machine, ignoring the way the man beneath you tensed as you pressed down a little too hard.

"Jesus," he hissed, body jerking slightly. "Watch it—"

"Then stop moving," you snapped, your voice clipped and cold.

He grunted but fell silent.

From across the room, you felt Tetsurou watching.

You didn’t care. Didn’t acknowledge him. Didn’t turn. Didn’t give him the reaction he was waiting for.

Instead, you focused on the thread between your fingers, on the needle piercing skin, on the rhythm of stitching something back together— because at least this was something you could control.

The second stitch went in. Then the third. The silence pressed in tighter. You knew Tetsurou wasn’t going to speak first.

But you weren’t going to break either.

You pulled the last stitch tight, snipping the excess thread with more force than necessary.

"Done."

Your voice came flat, clipped, as you ripped off the bloodied gloves and tossed them onto the metal tray beside you.

The man on the table exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Damn, that was fast. You do this often or somethin’?"

You ignored him. Didn’t look at Tetsurou. Didn’t wait for approval.

You turned, already heading for the stairs, body rigid with unspoken words. Your hands curled into fists at your sides, anger still simmering beneath your skin—sharp, suffocating, unrelenting.

This was too much. All of it. This wasn’t your world. And yet, here you were.

Again.

But the moment your hand touched the railing—

The sound of your name stopped you cold.

Low. Even. Just enough to make the air feel heavier. You didn’t turn. Didn’t speak. Just waited. Another long pause.

"You did good."

The words landed differently than they should have. Maybe it was the way they came quieter, closer—like a secret meant for you alone. Maybe it was the way the air seemed heavier between you, the way his fingers brushed against your wrist, fleeting, almost unintentional. 

Almost.

For a second—just a breath—you froze.

Because it wasn’t just approval. There was something else laced in his voice, something rare, something that made it harder to swallow down the frustration burning in your chest.

And that? That made you angrier.

Because he was acting like this this was just another night. Like nothing had changed. Like he hadn’t dragged you deeper into something you had no escape from. 

Your breath came sharp, clipped, as you yanked your wrist away, ignoring the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to hold on.

And you hesitated.

Just for a half-second. Just long enough to feel the weight of what just happened, to let it settle deep in your ribs.

Then you turned—abrupt, almost too fast.

The tension snapped like a wire pulled too tight.

But you didn’t let him get to you.

Didn’t look back.

Didn’t acknowledge the weight in his voice.

You just walked away. Out the door. Into the car. 

Without a word. 

The silence stretched. Not peaceful. Not empty. Thick. Suffocating.

The kind of silence that sat heavy on your chest, pressing down, making it impossible to breathe.

You kept your eyes on the city lights, arms crossed so tightly your nails dug into your skin. Tetsurou hadn’t said a word since leaving that basement.

Good.

Because if he had, you weren’t sure what would’ve come out of your mouth.

Your chest still burned. Anger, frustration, something sharp and bitter curling beneath your ribs. Too much had happened, too fast.

Tetsurou and that woman.

Him dragging you away from work like it was nothing.

But beneath all of that, something deeper sat heavy in your stomach.

That basement.

You knew it existed. This was the deal—stitching up criminals, keeping quiet, playing your role.

But what unsettled you the most wasn’t the blood. Wasn’t the sterile tools lined up so neatly. Not that the room was a place where men either bled out or survived. But how easily you had stepped into it.

You had just done it. Like it was natural. Like you belonged.

And whether you wanted to admit it or not—

You did.

Your pulse pounded in your ears.

Maybe you should have asked more questions. Maybe you should have hesitated. Maybe you should have told him no from the beginning.

But the moment you saw all that blood, the moment you heard Tetsurou’s voice—

"Fix him."

You didn’t freeze. Didn’t flinch. And that?

That should have scared you.

Another minute passed.

Then another.

And still, he didn’t say a word. Didn’t glance at you. Didn’t even shift in his seat. Like he was waiting. Like he knew the storm inside you was nowhere close to settling. Finally, the pressure cracked.

"You could at least say something." Your voice came out sharp, cutting through the weight of the silence like a blade.

His gaze flicked to the rearview mirror—just for a second—before settling back on the road. The driver didn’t acknowledge it, didn’t shift, didn’t react.

"Not sure what you want me to say."

His tone wasn’t teasing. Wasn’t mocking. And that only pissed you off more.

"You always have something to say." Your glare burned into the side of his face. "But now? Now you’re just gonna sit there and pretend like nothing happened?"

Finally, he exhaled through his nose. A slow, measured breath. "What do you want me to say?" His voice was calm. Too calm. Like he was choosing his words carefully.

You scoffed. "I don’t know, Tetsurou. Maybe an apology?"

Nothing. No reaction. Not even a flicker of guilt. Your pulse pounded in your ears.

"You just expect me to go along with all of this?"

His fingers tightened around the door handle, leather creaking under his grip.

Still, he said nothing. The weight in your chest grew heavier.

He wasn’t going to argue. He wasn’t going to fight you on this. Because he didn’t regret a damn thing. 

Your jaw clenched. Your stomach twisted. You turned away, pressing your forehead against the cool glass of the window, trying to shove down the frustration clawing at your ribs.

You weren’t sure how much time passed after that. It could have been minutes. It could have been the entire ride. But when the car finally slowed to a stop, you didn’t wait for him to say anything.

The second the locks clicked open—you shoved the door and stepped out.

Without another glance at him, you walked inside .

The elevator ride up was silent.

Suffocating.

You stood stiff beside him, arms crossed so tightly it almost hurt, frustration radiating off you in waves.

Tetsurou? He was unreadable.

Expression calm. Posture relaxed. But his fingers twitched—just slightly, just enough to betray him. A small movement. Almost unnoticeable.

Almost.

Because Tetsurou never fidgeted.

The second the elevator doors slid open, you moved. Straight for the stairs. Straight for the one place in this penthouse that wasn’t his. But before you could take another step—

"Stop."

The word wasn’t loud. But it didn’t have to be.

It sank into your spine, curling around your ribs, pulling you to a standstill before you could think better of it.

Your jaw clenched. Fingers curled into fists.

Slowly, you turned, fire still burning in your chest. "What?"

His gaze locked onto yours. Steady. Sharp.

"We’re talking."

A bitter laugh slipped past your lips. "Now you want to talk?"

His jaw tightened. "Yes."

Something twisted in your stomach. Because for the first time all night—Tetsurou actually looked like he knew he fucked up.

Good. You hoped he felt it.

"You don’t get to decide when we talk." Your voice came sharp, seething. "You don’t get to rip me out of my job, drag me across the city, shove me into your fucking world—"

Before you could take another breath—

Tetsurou moved.

Fast. Decisive.

Your back hit the wall. Not hard. Not rough. Just enough to make you feel it. Your breath caught—not from fear, but from the sudden heat of his presence.

Too close now.

His hand pressed against the wall beside your head, caging you in—not to trap, not to intimidate, but to make you look at him.

His voice dropped, low and controlled. "You think I dragged you into this?"

Your chest heaved.

Not from exhaustion. From something else.

You hated him for being this close—

Hated that you could smell his cologne, sharp with a hint of smoke and blood. Hated that the fire curling in your stomach couldn’t drown out the way his body heat bled into yours. Hated that even now, with everything burning between you, you still felt the electric trace of his fingers skimming over your sleeve, barely there, but enough to make something shiver up your spine.

"Move."

He didn’t.

He didn’t smirk. Didn’t tease.

He just looked at you.

Waiting.

You shoved against his chest—but he didn’t budge.

"Get out of my way."

His gaze didn’t waver.

"Not until you listen."

You could feel his breath now.

It brushed against your cheek, warm, controlled, infuriatingly steady.

Your pulse pounded.

"Oh, fuck off." you let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. "You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to act like you—"

You cut yourself off. The words felt too heavy. Too real.

He waited.

And you hated him for it. Your throat felt tight.

"You keep doing this." Her voice was quieter now, but no less cutting. "You act like my choices don’t matter. Like I don’t matter. Like I’m just supposed to go along with whatever you want, whenever you want—"

"That’s not true."

His voice was firm. Immediate. Like he couldn’t let you believe that. Like that was the one thing he refused to accept. A sharp exhale left your lips. Your fists clenched.

“Against my better judgment, I thought you cared. But I guess not.”

That did it.

His entire body went still. Not the kind of stillness that came from processing. The kind of stillness that meant something inside him snapped.

His hand tightened against the wall beside your head. 

His jaw flexed. A slow inhale through his nose.

When he finally spoke, his voice was lower. Rougher. 

"Say that again."

Your stomach twisted. You had been ready for anger. For mockery. For another one of his goddamn games. But not this.

Not the way his eyes had darkened—not with amusement, but something unreadable. Not the way his fingers twitched, like he wanted to reach for you but stopped himself. Not the way his voice sounded like it had been scraped raw.

Your pulse pounded.

He exhaled sharply. Then—his voice dipped even lower.

"Say I don’t care about you."

Your breath hitched. You opened your mouth—but nothing came out. Because you couldn’t say it. 

Not when he was looking at you like that. Not when you could still feel his warmth caging you in. Not when the silence between you felt like something breakable.

Your chest ached. Because you wanted to say it. You wanted to shove it in his face, make him feel as angry, as raw, as messed up as you felt right now.

But if you said it—it wouldn’t be true.

His fingers twitched. His jaw tightened.

He waited.

You hated him for waiting. Hated him for making you choke on the words.

But before either of you could break—

The anger surged back. Your fingers curled into fists.

"You ignored me. Twice."

He said nothing.

Your chest felt like it was caving in. The words burned on your tongue, bitter and raw.

"I wrote on the fridge not to send a guard. I replied to your text. I said no." Your voice broke on the last word, and you hated it. Hated how much it sounded like something fragile.

You swallowed hard before adding—

"And still—you sent one anyway."

Silence.

But not the kind from before. This wasn’t tense. Wasn’t heavy with something waiting to explode.

This was wrong. 

The shift in the air was immediate.

Tetsurou’s entire body –locked up—shoulders going rigid, jaw clenching once, twice. The vein in his forearm twitched beneath his sleeve as his fingers curled into a fist.

You furrowed your brow. You were expecting a fight. Expected some excuse. Some bullshit response. Some smug little grin like this was just another game to him.

But he wasn’t doing any of that. He wasn’t reacting at all.

Your pulse pounded.

"Tetsurou."

Nothing.

The only sound was the slow inhale through his nose, measured and too controlled. Like he was forcing himself to stay still.

Finally—his voice came. Low. Rough.

"I didn’t send a guard."

A pause 

Then another. 

And then—the realization hit you all at once.

Your breath caught.

Your stomach dropped.

Your blood ran cold.

And then—he leaned closer.

Too close.

His presence swallowed what little space had been left between you. His jacket brushing against your sleeve, his breath skimming your temple.

You stiffened.

Something in his eyes changed.

Just for a second—just a flicker—you saw it. Something raw. Something possessive.

And suddenly, you saw him differently.

You looked at Tetsurou. Really looked at him.

And you knew.

"Then who the fuck was watching me?"

[melancholyfool]

February 14th

Pairing: Henry Winter x Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Henry exchange gifts on Valentine's Day

a/n: rewatched the notebook and the letters kill me every time so this piece is entirely inspired by the movie. happy valentines day to all my lovely followers xoxo 💌💘 P.S henry would totally celebrate v-day if his darling girl wanted to :')

The table is set with care—crystal glasses catching the light, silver gleaming under the low amber glow, deep red roses resting in a slender vase at the center. It's a scene out of some half-forgotten dream, a painting brought to life.

And then there is Henry.

Sitting across from you in his perfectly tailored black suit, he is an image of quiet elegance. The sharp cut of the fabric, the inky darkness of it against the pale column of his throat, the way the firelight catches in his hair, illuminating the few unruly strands that have fallen loose. He looks devastating. His gaze lingers on you, eyes darkened by the dim lighting, tracing the curve of your red dress, the way it moves with each breath you take.

“You look breathtaking,” he murmurs.

A slow smile tugs at your lips. “So do you.”

He smirks, and then slowly, he reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket, drawing out a thick stack of neatly folded pages, bound together with a thin crimson ribbon.

You pause.

He places the collection before you with the same reverence one might handle a sacred text. The weight of it is immediate, tangible.

Your breath catches. “Henry, what is this?”

His fingers linger against the edges of the parchment before he finally lets go. His voice is low and careful when he speaks. “Since last Valentine’s Day, I have written you a piece every day. Three hundred sixty-five of them. Some are letters, some are sonnets or poems, some are mere fragments of thought. Some are confessions.” His voice is impossibly soft now as he tilts his head slightly, studying your reaction. “They are all yours.”

The words settle deep and a slow warmth spreads through your chest, thick and heavy.

You reach for the stack, hands unsteady as you tug at the ribbon. It slips loose, pooling onto the table like spilled silk. Carefully, you unfold the first page. His handwriting, precise and elegant, spills across the parchment in deep black ink.

You take a breath and begin to read.

"My love, my light, my sweet unweaving star, you are the hush before the vesper bell, the silver thread that binds my waking soul, the tide that bends the shore to its command.

O! would that I were made of air and sighs, so I might slip between your parted lips and be remade anew beneath your breath, forever lost within your trembling hands."

Your vision blurs at the edges. The words curl around you like ivy, sinking into the marrow of your bones, wrapping themselves into the spaces between your ribs. The fire crackles in the hearth, the faintest echo of wind rattles against the windows, but the world beyond this moment ceases to exist.

Henry watches you closely, his fingers tapping idly against the edge of the table, his lips pressed into a soft line.

“You did this every day?” you whisper, your voice barely steady.

Henry nods his head. “I did,” he says.

Your fingers tighten around the paper. “Why?”

Henry leans forward, his voice low. “Because you deserve to be immortalized.” His gaze never wavers. “And because I love you.”

The words hit you like an exhale after drowning. Your breath hitches, a quiet, broken sound, and before you can stop it, a single tear slips down your cheek, and then another.

Henry moves before you can, pushing back his chair, rising to his feet just as you do the same. You don’t hesitate as you step toward him, and he is already there, already reaching for you, pulling you into his arms.

His embrace is warm, the press of his body against yours steadying you in ways you can’t name. His arms wrap around you tightly, one hand slipping to the small of your back, the other cradling the nape of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as if he’s afraid you might slip away.

You tilt your head up, standing on your toes, hands fisting in the fabric of his suit, and press your lips to his. It's slow, aching, and deep, a silent language all its own. Henry exhales against you and his fingers tightening at your waist, and when you finally pull back, another tear falls.

He catches it with his lips, pressing a slow, reverent kiss to your cheek, then another. His breath ghosts over your skin as he lingers there, as if he could take the weight of it all and bear it himself.

"Happy Valentine’s Day, baby," he murmurs against your temple.

Henry’s arms are still wrapped around you, steady and certain, as if holding you together while your breath quivers against his collar. You can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the slow exhale of his breath against your temple. The warmth of the moment lingers between you, settling into the space where your bodies press close, where his hand still cradles the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair with absent-minded reverence.

For a while, neither of you move. The fire crackles softly behind you, the scent of wax and roses heavy in the air. Your fingers uncurl from his suit, only to smooth over the fabric and Henry does not let you go.

"You must have been exhausted," you murmur after a long silence, voice thick with the weight of everything unsaid. "Writing something every single day."

Henry huffs a quiet breath, almost like a chuckle. His fingers drift from your hair to your jaw, tilting your face up so he can meet your gaze properly. “You think so little of me if you imagine it was anything but a pleasure,” he says, grinning.

“Still. Every day, Henry?”

“Every day,” he confirms, “but not out of obligation. It was simply…” He pauses, as if searching for the right words, and then settles on, “inevitable.”

The depth of his certainty sends another shiver down your spine.

You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head as you pull back just enough to press your fingertips against his chest.

His fingers trace lightly over the curve of your waist, and then, without breaking your gaze he reaches past you, lifting the stack of poems from the table.

"Read one more," he whispers.

You swallow, glancing down at the pages. The weight of them feels heavier now, knowing each one is something pulled from Henry himself. His thoughts, his devotion, his love, all laid bare in ink.

Carefully, you pluck a random page from the stack and unfold it. Henry watches you, his fingers ghosting over the small of your back as you clear your throat and begin to read a confession:

"There are things I cannot say aloud. Not because I lack the words, but because they are too much when spoken—too heavy, too true. But I can write them, and so I will.

I am not a man prone to sentiment. I do not make a habit of soft thoughts, nor do I seek comfort in the notion of love as others do. But with you, I have found myself undone. I have found myself lost in the way you tilt your head when you are thinking, in the way your fingers linger at the edges of things, as if searching for the world beneath them.

I think of you when it rains. I think of you when I wake. I think of you in the quietest moments, when there is nothing to remind me of you, and yet, there you are, as constant as breath, as inevitable as the tide.

If I were a better man, I might have tried to resist this. But I am not, and I have not.

I am yours, wholly and without condition. I do not know how to be anything else.”

You press your lips together as another tear slips down your cheek. Henry’s gaze softens as he catches it once more with his thumb, brushing it away with a reverent touch.

"You're weeping again."

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "You keep writing things like this, and it'll keep happening."

Henry hums, tilting his head slightly. "Then I shall spend a lifetime chasing your tears."

You shake your head, pressing a kiss to the edge of his jaw. "Hopeless," you murmur.

"Entirely."

As Henry leads you back to the table, his warm fingers laced through yours, you hesitate. Your grip tightens just slightly, pulling him back.

He glances down at you, a faint furrow between his brows. “What is it?”

You swallow, your pulse a steady hum beneath your skin. He has given you something immeasurable, and now you have something for him too.

“Wait,” you murmur, slipping your hand from his.

Henry watches as you step away, moving to the small side table near the fireplace, where a slim, carefully wrapped package rests. You pick it up slowly, fingers skimming over the deep blue ribbon that binds it before turning back to him.

His expression doesn’t shift, but his eyes darken slightly, the weight of his gaze settling over you.

“You didn’t think I wouldn’t have something for you too, did you?” you say softly, extending the gift toward him.

Henry is still for a moment, then steps forward, taking the package from your hands with precision. His fingers ghost over the ribbon, loosening it, before he peels back the wrapping to reveal the book beneath.

It is a collection of Greek tragedies, bound in the richest leather, the gold lettering catching the light. The pages are edged in gilt, and when he brushes his thumb along the spine, the craftsmanship is evident—every detail and every choice made with care.

Henry runs his fingers over the cover and you watch his expression, searching for something, anything, but he only stares down at it, tracing the engraved lettering.

Finally, he speaks.

“This is…” He trails off, his voice quieter than before. His fingers press against the spine. “It’s beautiful, angel.”

You shift slightly, watching him. “I had it bound especially for you.” A pause. “There’s something inside.”

His gaze flickers up to you before he carefully opens the book, turning past the first page to find the inscription written in your own hand, neat and precise:

"For Henry, my beloved— A tragedy to hold, that I may always remain your favourite love story."

For the first time that evening, Henry falters.

It is slight—so slight that most wouldn’t notice, but you do, the way his breath catches just briefly, the way his fingers still against the page. The way his lips part, but no words come.

“Henry—"

Before you can finish, he moves.

The book is set aside carefully, and then his arms are around you, pulling you in tighter, as if the space between you has suddenly become unbearable.

You let out a soft breath, closing your eyes as you press against him.

"You remain my favourite everything."

Your eyes burn at his words.

You tilt your head up and press your lips to his once more, slow and deep. This love, in all its quiet poetry, in ink-stained pages and bound tragedies, in kisses pressed to trembling lips and hands that hold too tightly—

This is something infinite.

[house-on-sand]

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