#the issue is not that she's a former AG

[bameme]

Getting myself in the headspace for the coming four months of my feed to be:

"Kamala is a cop 😃🫡👮‍♀️🇺🇸🟦👩‍⚖️" vs.

"Kamala is a cop 😡🙅🐷🚨⛔🥓"

[celestie0]

gojo satoru x reader | oneshot smut [18+]

title. around the clock

Hooking up with your little brother’s babysitter? That sounds more like a bad porno than a sensible decision.

ᰔ pairing. babysitter/boxing au - underground boxer & babysitter!gojo x college student!reader (f)

ᰔ summary. when underground boxer gojo satoru becomes a little strapped for cash, he gets a day job as a babysitter for a five-year-old kid named yuuji who most definitely has adhd (but that’s besides the point). the kid’s mom gave gojo two rules, and two rules only: don’t accidentally kill my son, and do not flirt with my daughter. he’s pretty sure he’s got a good hold on the former, but he’s got no self control over the latter.

ᰔ warnings/tags. 18+, fem!reader, smut, casual sex, lil bit of fluff, lil bit of crack, slight age gap (reader’s 22 & gojo’s 27), cum play, creampie, unprotected sex, praise kink, slight degradation, gojo is a sleazebag that cares?, sort of porn-coded smut except there’s a lil bit of lore so it’s kinda porn w plot, uhh having sex with risk of getting caught, gojo beats people up at night & then plays father figure to a 5 y/o during the day, mentions of violence/alcohol/drugs/blood/cigarettes

ᰔ word count. 12.6k

a/n. hiiii friends jeez it feels like FOREVER since i've posted some good ol' smut (still has plot tho xd)...hopefully you enjoy n see ya at the bottom! lmk if i missed any warnings! if you asked to be tagged but didn’t get tagged it’s bc you have your tags off aaa :( even when some ppl tried to fix it i still couldn’t tag them i’m sorry!!

alsoooooo so very much love to @starmapz for beta reading this for me :”) really helped me w my posting nerves haha. she is also a wonderful jjk author pls go check out her works!! 💕 ART CREDITS: @/3-aem

➸ masterlist

2:34 pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): heyy um i’m sorry if this comes off kinda rude i just am kinda bad with this but i was wondering if you could text my mom for questions about yuuji’s care instead of me?

2:46pm Gojo Satoru: Oh 2:46pm Gojo Satoru: Yeah, sure

2:34 pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): sorry i know my mom doesn’t know much ab how to take care of him bc i was the one that took care of him for a while but i just really want to separate myself from that guardian role now that i’ve transferred to NYU yknow? :/ i think it’s not my place anymore. i just wanna be big sis now haha

2:46pm Gojo Satoru: I get it. Sorry if I was making you uncomfortable with my texts

2:48pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): no no not uncomfy by it, thanks for looking after him. it’s just i’m kind of busy n stuff so it can be distracting 

2:49pm Gojo Satoru: Ok, got it

2:52pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): and it was kind of an issue with his last babysitter

2:53pm Gojo Satoru: Oh?

2:55pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): yeahhh like he would keep textinf me n stuff uhh kinda weird things… i told my mom about it and she was super pissed so she fired him

2:55pm Gojo Satoru: Weird things?

2:56pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): yeah he was always “accidentally sexting me” n like he sent me a dick pic once sooooo yeah

2:56pm Gojo Satoru: Who tf 2:56pm Gojo Satoru: I’ll go beat him up

2:57pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): oh no no its fine lol 2:57pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): please dont beat anyone up 2:58pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): i’m not saying you’re like him tho i just think maybe less texting unless its an emergency okay?

3:00pm Gojo Satoru: Are you sure because I will totally go beat him up for you

3:01pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): NO I DONT WANT YOU TO BEAT ANYONE UP FOR ME 3:01pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): also no offense but you dont look like you could beat someone up

3:01pm Gojo Satoru: WHAT 3:02pm Gojo Satoru: Tf you mean “no offense” that’s literally the most offensive thing you could say to a guy

3:04pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): yeaa i mean you have muscles ofc but in the ‘ohhh i wanna look good for instagram’ way and not like real man muscles yknow

3:06pm Gojo Satoru: Ok princess next time you visit home and go on one of your stupidly large grocery hauls I’ll make sure you carry all those groceries in by yourself 

3:06pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): NO 3:07pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): I WAS JUST JOKING 3:07pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): YOURE SO STRONG TY FOR ALWAYS CARRYING THE GROCERIES INSIDE 3:08pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): PLEASE KEEP CARRYING MY GROCERIES INSIDE

3:09pm Gojo Satoru: Nah 3:09pm Gojo Satoru: Should we be texting right now? I’m not sensing any emergencies here

3:11pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): pls. my groceries :(

3:16pm Gojo Satoru: I’ll let the kiddo know you say hi 👋🏼 

The irony of it all was that, if Gojo really wanted to, he absolutely could beat the shit out of someone. And he has, hundreds of times, pseudo professionally. Although that isn’t something he’d admit to you, out of fear that you might relay that info back to your mom who would then become mortified that she’s entrusted her five-year-old son’s life to the hands of an underground boxer. 

But he needed the money. A night-time job didn’t really make daytime money, not when they could easily replace him with the next dude the second he gets knocked out of the ring more than twice, let alone if he let it happen once. And although he sometimes made large sums, it wasn’t stable income. He needed a back-up plan, and so babysitting it was. 

The babysitter working nights at unsanctioned dojos and gyms located in the back of cartel blocks, knocking teeth out of men twice his size, would put any decent mother into a coma or induce some episode of syncope, hence why it wasn’t something he put on his resume before he got hired. Not that he even needed to provide a resume; your mom seemed desperate to cover the position as fast as possible, that promotion at work was moving faster than she wanted to, and Gojo’s beneficial attribute that he possessed as a candidate to look after her son, compared to all the other potential hires, was that he had a penis.

He likes the kid. Yuuji. He’s got kind of a short attention span, and makes Gojo weary of his age. Hold up, that makes him sound like he’s geriatric, he’s really only the ripe old age of twenty-seven, but the immortality and infinite stamina that a five-year-old boy has on him is enough to have him huffing and puffing at the end of every single evening shift he takes on with the rascal. 

Fighting is all sprint, and no stamina. Sure, there might be some more seasoned boxers that might disagree with him, but for someone as young as him in the field, it’s the tactic he’s been forced to gain. If he draws a fight on for too long, he'll get killed by a forty-two year old man with steroids clogging up his adipose tissue and enough  testosterone to grow a full-body beard by the time the sun starts to set. No, his strategy is to knock them out within the first fifteen seconds. Use their weight against them, and whatnot. A tactic he’s found has worked, since he’s been undefeated thus far. 

He can never wrap his head around it. The drug lords that run the rings who’ve gained millions the night before from selling crystal meth only to lose it all the night following in the second Gojo hooklines a solid punch to their betting boxer’s chin, making them see God & their Momma before they tap out (if they’re even able).

He doesn’t pocket much money from it, not anything compared to what the men who bet on him end up making at least, but it’s a decently solid sum. How lucrative it really is depends solely on what he thinks the value of his life is.

It’s not unheard of, boxers dying in the ring. Turns out, rich drug dealers care very little about the sheep they’ve captured to perform their entertaining little stunts. But Gojo wasn’t doing all of this to feel some sense of work-life pride, no, it was just sustenance. When basic needs are not met, humans resort to the most animalistic of all behaviors, and while he’s not proud of what he does, he can’t deny the fact that it’s turned him into an adrenaline junkie that gets a rush in his veins every time he knocks a jaw loose.

But balance was key. And hence why he’s a boxer by night, babysitter by day. For at least four days a week, he gets to pretend he’s the king’s most trusted appointed knight, or he’s the radioactive tyrannosaurus rex that wants to tyrannize all the other dinosaurs, or maybe he’s the evil power ranger (he always forgets which color that one was) that is determined to make the world a living hell by smashing mr. potatohead against the bunk bed post a billion times for all the other toys to see. Or whatever other imaginative hyperfixations Yuuji imposes on him in the later afternoon once he’s had his bowl of spaghetti-O’s and is ready to play. Lately, the kid’s been really into space. They’ve got all sorts of space toys these days. Back in Gojo’s day, he just had a good ol’ Buzz Lightyear.

“One rule, that’s it: don’t accidentally kill my son. Actually, one more rule. Don’t flirt with my daughter.” 

There’s a part of Gojo that believes your mom kind of knows he’s up to shady shit at night, otherwise why else would she clause for him to not flirt with you if she didn’t read the slight swell to his eye and the healing gash across his cheek as anything other than this boy is trouble and I want him nowhere near my too-good-for-him daughter of reproductive capacity since that’s the exact tale of how I became a single mother in the first place. Or maybe he inherently looks like he’s up to no good? He’s not sure which angle is more offensive, and which one was more flattering. Well in any case, she entrusted Yuuji’s life to him, despite acknowledging the plausibility of harm, and that means she overall thinks positively of him, right? ……right?

The first night he met you, it was awkward to say the least. Gojo spends most of his nights performing deadly stunts for middle aged men with potbellies, and most of his days hanging out with a five-year-old (one who he’d argue is his only friend at this point). Sure, he’s got some people he sees occasionally back in his high school hometown when he can brave hearing about how everyone’s in college now or doing a masters or they’re working respectable nine-to-five day jobs meanwhile he has to lie to his Pops that he’s been working in insurance for the past two years. Listen, in fairness, he probably makes the same amount of money as an insurance broker would anyways, but he can’t exactly own up to the identity of his craft. 

Anyways, the point is, he’s not used to seeing other people his age anymore. There’s the occasional hook-up with girls he hasn’t seen since Mrs. Tracy’s homeroom period back in sweet two-thousand-sixteen, or his twice-a-year hangout with Suguru where he only learns the day of where he's visiting from since the guy moves around more than Gojo can keep up with. But save for that, he mostly just sees your mom and then Yuuji. 

So seeing you standing in the kitchen for the first time when he went to put Yuuji’s half-finished GoGurt back in the fridge was startling to say the least. When the sight of a woman startled him, he knew he needed to start getting out again.

You were on your tiptoes, reaching up to grab at something over the fridge, and wearing these ridiculously short shorts to where he could see the curve of your ass, his line of sight trailing down the skin of your bare legs. He couldn’t see anything of your form above your shorts, given you were wearing an extremely baggy t-shirt with NYU on it in big bolded university letters. As far as he knew, you were a senior at NYU, studying psychology, made dean’s list consecutively for the past three years given the way your mother posted all your stellar transcripts up on the fridge (he gets that she’s proud of her daughter, but doesn’t that kind of stuff usually end in grade school?) But other than that, it was all the information he had on you.

“Here,” he said, pressing his front to your back, maybe just to get a feel, as he reached over to you to finally grab the box of cereal you were swatting for, the one that he purposefully placed at the back because Yuuji learned how to climb counters recently. “Is this what you want?”

He had heard you gasp, spinning around on your heel fast, staring up at him with wide eyes like you weren’t expecting some random man to be in the house right now, and your first instinct ended up being to grab the knife out of the kitchen knife block and lunge it straight at his torso.

If it wasn’t for his boxer reflexes, he’d have ended up at the ER that evening. Or dead. All depending on the strength you could pack into a stab. But instead, he deflected it, though not without a gash to his torso through the fabric of his shirt, one that you spent the rest of the evening profusely apologizing for and eventually mending to with cotton balls and neosporin. 

“I didn’t know you were my little brother’s babysitter,” you mumbled with a small wince on your face as you dabbed ointment on the wound while he pulled the hem of his shirt up to his shoulder. He’s never had an injury tended to before. It was nice.

“It’s fine, I get it, totally acceptable response to seeing a random dude in your house.”

He remembers the curl of your eyelashes while you stared down at his bare upper half, something he imprinted on his memory rather than the concern in your face as your fingertips traced the scars across his chest. He hoped they made you feel better about the one you just slashed into him, because after all, what was one more? 

He knows he shouldn’t have, but he kissed you that night. Two minutes before your mom came home, and right after you bid him goodnight with one more apology, he backed you up against the door of your bedroom, his hands on your hips pulling you towards him, and his lips pressed against yours. Something seamless, from candid conversation that was heading towards an end, to full fledged making out against white-painted wood, his teeth nipping at your lip and he wondered just how touch-starved those university boys were leaving you given the desperate way you’d clinged to his shirt for dear life as he deepened the kiss.

The moment only lasted one minute and fifty-seven seconds, and in the remaining three, your mother’s key pushed into the front door and he had to pull away. Always, on the dot, 10PM, she was home. It was how he knew he had two minutes left to make a move in the first place.

So much for no flirting.

6:57pm Gojo Satoru: Bahahah I accidentally forgot where yuuji’s epipen is 6:58pm Gojo Satoru: [sent a photo] 6:59pm Gojo Satoru: Turns out this can-o-soup was just covering it in the cabinet

7:01pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): ??? why did you need to find his epipen

7:08pm Gojo Satoru: Oh he accidentally took a bite of my pad thai 7:09pm Gojo Satoru: I freaked cuz I thought it had peanuts in it but I remember I asked for it without any  7:09pm Gojo Satoru: shit’s crazy

7:10pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): WHY THE FUCK DIDNT YOU TEXT ME????????

7:12pm Gojo Satoru: YOU SAID YOU DIDNT WANT ME TEXTING YOU UNLESS IT WAS AN EMERGENCY ?

7:13pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): SATORU YOU THOGHT HE ATE SOMETHING W PEANUTS IN IT AND YOU FORGOT WHERE HIS EPIPEN WAS THATSS A FUCKIGN EMERGENCY

7:15pm Gojo Satoru: THE KID IS DOING FINE HES ALIVE JESUS LEAVE ME ALONE 7:16pm Gojo Satoru: [sent a photo] 7:16pm Gojo Satoru: See. he’s chill 7:17pm Gojo Satoru: with intact airways might I add 7:18pm Gojo Satoru: Also isn’t he a little too old to still be watching baby sensory videos?

7:20pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): yeah my mom thinks he has adhd :(

7:22pm Gojo Satoru: oh

He tried to keep his word though (although he doesn’t recall ever giving it) out of the respect he had for your mom. She was a hard-working lady, single mom of two who went from working three jobs to now being a major administrator at a big law firm near the outskirts of town. It was an underdog story if he’d ever heard one, and he loved an underdog story. 

But a little texting here and there wouldn’t hurt, right? Or so he thought, until you told him to cut it out with the contact. Maybe you were just trying to be the good one in this situation. After all, hooking up with your little brother’s babysitter? That sounds more like a bad porno than a sensible decision. Still, he’ll eventually get your replies to his which shirt should Yuuji wear to the park? and look, the toothfairy gave him the butt of a joint and a couple thumbtacks for his front tooth. he’s ecstatic texts, although in a less timely manner than before when you weren’t trying to preserve propriety. And when you’d occasionally visit every other weekend, he’d do his best to keep his hands in his pockets, and you’d fill up your nights with hangouts with your hometown friends to avoid spending too much time with him at the house. A silent agreement to not fuck each other, it was. 

4:55pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): send pic of yuuji pls i miss him :(

5:04pm Gojo Satoru: [sent a photo]

5:08pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): IS THAT BLOOD?!?!?!?!

5:09pm Gojo Satoru: chillllllll it’s fake. We’re working on his halloween costume

5:09pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): WHY DOES IT HAVE BLOOD?!?!?!?!?!?

5:10pm Gojo Satoru: He wants to be a baby xenomorph and I'm his parasitic host. You know that iconic chestburster scene from the old school alien movies? yeah

5:12pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): satoru please for the love of god just dress him up as a dinosaur or something

5:13pm Gojo Satoru: I’m not the one that came up with the idea, okay? It was him

5:14pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): because you let him watch adult swim with you before putting him to bed. you’ve deranged his brain.

5:14pm Gojo Satoru: He needs it. Builds character.

Gojo was living a double life, and if someone asked him, he’d say it was less of a Clark Kent way and more of a Bruce Wayne way, although in reality, he knows it’s close to neither. He’s no superhero with a concealed identity fighting crime, he’s a con artist that’s tricked a hard-working woman into hiring him just because he’s trying to save up enough money to get the fuck out of this godforsaken town, given he’s not knocked dead before then for the crime’s amusement.

But Yuuji looks up to him now. And Gojo’s grown attached to him too. He taught the kid how to tie his own shoes and piss inside the actual toilet like a real man. And that kid’s the only thing that’s made him question any of this. Maybe that’s what dads feel, suddenly held to all this impossible responsibility and the pressure to stop doing stupid shit so that you’ll stick around to see your kids get older. The thought that there are eyes on you now, eyes that are innocent and hopeful and learning, and because they know nothing at all, you feel the responsibility to protect them from everything. For fucks sake, remind him to never become a dad. 

“Do you like my sister?” Yuuji had asked him out of nowhere one afternoon after he just got home from preschool, stacking a blue cube over a yellow one at the dining table.

“Uhh,” Gojo starts. He wondered if your mom had put a wire on the kid, so his answer was as diplomatic as he could manage. “Yeah, she’s cool. You’ve got a cool sister.”

“But. But.” Yuuji stutters, trying to find his big boy words. He stretches up higher to reach the top of his stack of blocks, but he only has so much arm real estate at the age of five. “Do you like her like you wanna kiss her?”

Gojo grabs the block from the kid’s hand, for a moment questioning Yuuji’s decision to want to put a blue block over another blue block, but he figures aesthetics are the least of a kid’s concern, and so he places the block where Yuuji wanted it. 

Why does the kid know what kissing is anyway? Do kids know that kind of stuff at that age? Isn’t a kiss to a five-year-old just something their mom gives to them before they head off to preschool for the day? And not something that happens between adult men and women? Maybe he should stop watching that adult swim in front of him.

“No. I don’t want to kiss your sister,” he says, again, because he is suspicious of a wire. It was a lie and then some, because he wants to do a lot more than just kiss you.

Gojo lifts the RedBull he was nursing up to his lips and watches Yuuji in the corner of his eye as the kid stares at his growing stack of blocks with a concentrated expression on his face, his chubby fingers squeezing tightly into little round dimpled balls, like he’s putting together all his tiny brain cells together to form another coherent thought before turning to face Gojo on the chair.

“It’s ok. You can kiss her if you wan’ed to. You can marry her too,” Yuuji says.

Gojo almost spits out his RedBull. He barely manages to swallow it, a broken cough immediately leaving his throat when some of the liquid goes down the wrong pipe and he’s smacking a fist against his chest to knock the sanity back into himself.

“Where the fu—…where the flip did that come from?” he asks, blinking back tears from the rasp in his throat.

Yuuji’s small shoulders sulk as he sits back on his heels. “I want a papa.”

Oh fuck that hurt. Jesus christ, there was nothing more sad than that. Yuuji has literally never known what it’s like to have a dad, since his had left before he was even born. Gojo’s not really close to his old man by any means, but he had still been a fatherly figure in some pivotal moments when he had needed it growing up. Kids need their dads. And he’s seen enough people lose their way without one to know that the value of them is really underestimated.

He’s also kind of shocked that Yuuji really did think of you as his motherly figure. Maybe since it had always just been him and his dad, Gojo learned how to self sustain from a young age, and he and his dad became accustomed to just looking after their own interests to avoid the headache of tending to one another. My land is my land, and your land is yours, and there was the occasional Saturday night spent together with his dad’s millions of beer bottles emptied dry on the carpet in front of the 1992 box TV as the two shared a greasy pizza from the place down the street. That was the extent of family solidarity that he knew.

But he can’t imagine being barely eighteen and having to take care of your little brother all by yourself because your mom was too busy trying to put food on the table and was too poor to hire a babysitter. Your mom tried so damn hard to keep you away from the single teenage mother life, but somehow ended up giving it to you by proxy in the end anyway. It was no wonder you wanted space now that Yuuji’s a little older and your mom can afford a babysitter. No matter how much you might love your sibling, being their effective guardian out of pure necessity had to have taken a toll.

Gojo clears his throat before he speaks. “Buddy. If I married your sister, we’d be brothers. I wouldn’t be your dad.” 

Yuuji’s eyes light up at the word brother. “Brothers? Me and you?”

“Yeah. Bros.”

The kid giggles, all bubbly with cheeks rounding fully and eyes sparkling. Gojo reaches out to ruffle at his hair before Yuuji gets down onto one stubby leg at a time from the chair then bolts towards the kitchen.

“Juice!!” he yells somewhere around the corner out of sight.

Gojo sighs, staring at all the toys he pulled out for Yuuji to play with, all left in a scattered mess across the table. He gets up out of his chair and heads towards the fridge. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll get you your juice, you little demon.”

The conclusion he comes to, and it might read like an obvious one, is that kids don’t really know the reality of life, hence why adults hide so much from them. 

This is what he thinks of tonight when he wraps his worn out boxing tape around his hands and his wrist, tightening it with his teeth, and he can smell the sweat and grime from them. The back of the underground gym had an old dated locker room, and as Gojo stretches his neck side to side while sitting on the stiff metal bench, he eyes the peeling red paint of the locker in front of him, blurring vision making it look like spilt blood. 

His phone pings with a text. He shuffles inside his duffle bag to look for it while his other hand scratches at his bare chest.

1:07am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): hhhhhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii 1:07am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): omgomgomg sor y i’m 

He blinks at the screen, confusion flashing across his face. He types one letter, but then he sees three dots and a speech text bubble in the bottom left, so he waits for you.

1:09am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): i drunk :(

The corner of his mouth ticks up slightly. 

1:09am Gojo Satoru: Yeah I can tell

1:10am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): at a apartyyyy

His eyebrows raise slightly, the thought of you tipsy on some frat party couch flashing through his mind, yet of all things you could be doing at that frat party, you’re texting him? Must be a really boring party.

1:11am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): whyyy are you aawake?

1:12am Gojo Satoru: Couldn’t sleep 1:12am Gojo Satoru: Don’t you have a midterm in the morning?

1:14am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): wtf hwo do you knwo that

1:15am Gojo Satoru: Your mom keeps your schedule posted on the fridge

1:15am yuuji’s sister (no flirting): im so fucked;’;(((

He snorts. He’s got a bit more life experience than you, five-ish years to be exact, more than enough time to master the no-hangover hangout, but just before he can offer you some advice, he sees another text from you. 

1:16am yuuji’s sister (no flirting): can i tell u smething 

His gaze flits up to the ceiling briefly, and he hears commotion outside the thick walls of the locker room. The previous fight was over, and fast. The guy must’ve been knocked out in under twenty seconds tops, which means that Gojo was next up against whatever superbeast just beat him up. 

1:17am Gojo Satoru: Sure

He stands up, placing his phone down on the bench before he flexes the muscles in his arms a couple times to get the blood flowing into them. And there’s the noise of another ping. Actually, four.

1:14am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): sonetimes 1:14am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): i thikn of  1:14am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): when u kisse me 1:14am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): *kissed me

His eyes widen slightly, irises dry to the ashy cigarette smoke from outside lingering in the air, and his heart rate picks up a bit. An adrenaline junkie with close to no fear in his veins due to the way his amygdala’s been fried to a crisp from years of boxing, yet he’s got his breath hitched from the memory of your soft lips against his. It makes the blood rushing through the muscles of his arms rush somewhere down south instead.

Loud banging on the door of the locker room jolts him out of his trance, and he’s stiff around the edges once more.

“Satoru! You’re up, man,” he hears Danny, the fight coordinator, yell at him from the other side of the heavy & poorly-installed steel door.

Gojo sighs, glancing down at the texts on his phone. To respond, or not to respond. You’re off your face, clearly chatty from the alcohol, and he knows for certain you’ll regret every life decision you’ve ever made once you wake up in the morning and see the self sabotaging behaviors you’ve engaged in tonight. He knows that responding to you might put you at ease rather than straight up ignoring you, but the feeling will pass, and he has a match to win with no more room left to stall.

He makes his way out the locker room, pushing past the crowded halls of people underneath dim flashing club lighting, some dudes angrily jerking to face him when he pushes past them with a stiff shoulder, only for their eyes to widen when they see just exactly who pushed them. 

There’s strippers in the ring, doing some routine for pre-match, and Gojo narrows his eyes at the man he sees laying back over the rubber boundary rope, head tipped back up to the ceiling with a wicked grin on his face. So that was his opponent? He’s never seen the guy before. Was he from a different district? Different district talent was tough, you had no background info on them, while they’ve been preparing to be here for weeks. Hence why boxers tend to do better when they visit a different district than they do in their own. There have been rules made to limit these types of fights, mostly over outrage that it was unfair to bid on them, but they were also usually more entertaining to watch. Gojo’s got a sick feeling to his stomach as the strippers clear the ring.

“Hey,” Gojo calls out, grabbing Danny by the back of his collar and dragging him towards him and away from the girls stepping down onto the floor, “what’s in for this fight?”

Danny glances up at the ceiling. “Tarp’s bettin’ tonight, so it can’t be anything less than ten grand for you. I’d say tops fifteen?”

Gojo narrows his eyes further, then glances off into the ring again. The man stands up, and Gojo gets a better look on his face. He’s got short hair, neon green in color with a dark fade underneath and tattoos all over his face. But those eyes. They were freakishingly red, and it made him uneasy. He knows the type. The type of boxers that do this to genuinely hurt people for thrill. Make no mistake, Gojo understands he’s made himself out to be like that too, gaining some kind of rush out of this profession, but this type of fighter was different. The type to literally continue smashing a dude’s face into the floor until they’re a bloody mess even minutes after the winning call, and no referee to stop it because that’s the kind of action the spectators wanted.

Danny reads his line of sight. “That’s Gale. Newton’s new boxing toy. Came outta nowhere about a month ago. He’s undefeated so far in his district, and Newton specifically wanted to see you up against him tonight,” Danny tells Gojo, resting his elbow up on his bare shoulder. “Chances are he’ll compete with Tarp for final bid if you win this one. I’m talking twenty-five grand in the next if you can knock him out in this.”

“Uh-huh,” Gojo acknowledges, rolling his shoulder so Danny’s elbow falls from it. Forget the money, he just wants to make it out of this alive.

He sets his foot up on the square, ducking through the dividing boundary straps and the tacky caution construction tape that the gym thinks creates an exciting ambience. He hears the static of the speakers as the announcers call out Gojo’s name, then this other guy, loud bass club music booming through Gojo’s chest as he tries to take a few deep breaths through the thick air of this low-ceiling arena. 

The dim overhead lights flickered, casting shadows over the makeshift ring, and the crowd pressed tight around at every perimeter area, yelling and pushing, one even tosses a beer bottle on the square and it shatters, spreading glass all across, a few shards reaching Gojo’s feet and he looks down at them with a shudder. A fight immediately breaks out in the crowd over something related or possibly entirely unrelated, and he’d have no way of knowing as he swipes the shards away with his heel.

The influential men always sat up on higher seating, off towards the back in their own VIP section where they suck in the smoke of fat cigarettes and peer through 100% tinted sunglasses to assess the boxers they’ve bid thousands on. The light reflects off the golden grills of their teeth with every snarl at any passerby that gets too close, like a lion in its den. That’s what the sanction was called. Lion’s den.

Gojo sighed, eyeing the twisted grin of this Gale guy across from him. Was that his real name? Usually, foreign district guys get nicknames. Gojo’s always thought the nicknames were tacky, and he’s accumulated some of his own over the years, but to his ears, none of them ever really landed, although The White Fox admittedly was kinda nice. Reminded him of throwback shooting games. 

He sucked a breath in through his teeth, holding his hands up in front of his chest in weak fists, storing energy in them in the form of pure anticipation alone, and then the bell rang.

His opponent lunged towards him immediately, fists flying in a barrage of reckless strikes, and Gojo’s eyes momentarily widened in the briefest moments of hesitation he had been allowed before ducking and dodging every one of this guy's shots, then jumping a step back to create distance.

Fuck. He was fast. Not just boxer fast, athlete fast. There was a difference. And it wasn’t a good one to be up against.

Gojo picked up light on his feet. He couldn’t win this one fast, that much was certain. One single careless or reckless move, and he’ll get tackled. He knows that by the malicious look he sees on that guy’s face, grin wide like he’s some cannibalistic beast. 

Stepping back towards the center, Gojo purposefully set himself up for Gale to swipe a vicious hook towards his head, before Gojo last minute ducked down, crouched to the floor, and swung his leg out to knock the guy off balance by his ankles, and he falls onto his back with a loud thud!

There’s a moment of momentary silence from the crowd, right before Gojo put the man in a torso-lock, twisting him in a way a human body should absolutely not be twisted, hearing the grunts of pain and the crack of spine even through the shouts of the crowd.

He can hear it. Kill him! Knock his fucking teeth out! Snap his neck like a goose, man! FIN-ISH HIM! FIN-ISH HIM! FIN-ISH HIM!

He feels like throwing up. 

Gojo looks up at the referee, who wasn’t really a referee, just there to run the clock when there was action and only barely stop it before near death. “This is enough, right?” he asks.

The referee nods. “1-0, next round.”

Gojo lets go of his opponent, leaving him there to heave for a moment before he gets up onto his feet again. Just needs one more, and he’s a winner. Ten grand in his pocket, and he won’t have to come back here for a couple weeks.

Gale gets up, swiping at the spit that had trickled out the corner of his mouth down to his chin, and he had an enraged look on his face. The second the bell rang for the second round, he exploded forward towards Gojo with even more fervor than before, gritted expression with a thirst for violence fueling the storm of punches he was throwing towards Gojo but he tried to remain calm, light on his feet, swiftly duck and avoid before he can find another opportunity to clear a sharp, clean jab right to the ribs—

sometimes, i think of when you kissed me

Gojo misses his strike, leaving his guard wide open, and Gale takes the opportunity to land a solid punch straight to his jaw, sending his mouth guard flying straight out of his mouth into the air, and knocking him backwards onto the ground with a thud and then he finds himself staring up at the rusting metal ceiling and a ringing in his ears that almost matches the roar of the crowd.

His head is in a haze, dizzy like where one second could feel like a millennia. He feels a soreness underneath his chin, a pain that radiates to his mouth, and he briefly swipes his tongue over his front teeth to make sure he still has all of them. 

What the fuck was that? That intrusive thought. There’s no intrusive thoughts allowed in life or death situations, not when he was always just one smash to the head away from a permanent concussion. But, fuck, he can’t help it. Can’t help thinking of you. Even when his vision has gone blurry and he should really be weary about what happens next in this ring, his mind’s just thinking about you, at some frat party, tipping back shots of tequila and waiting for a text-back in response to your tipsy ones. Were you even waiting up on him? Have you already passed out on the couch, or were your friends dragging you back to your dorm? Or are you fucking some other dude right now? Has he got his hand up your top, squeezing at you, sleazily feeling you up before spilling beer all down your shirt, and are you kissing him back with the same enthusiasm, your phone now somewhere long slipped between the cushions of the couch and out of sight?

Even though it’s still sore, he tenses his jaw. Grinds his teeth, even. Tasting blood somewhere along the line of his gums, he realizes his lip is split. He licks at it, the flavor of copper more rich on his tongue, and he clenches his fists tightly. Why’s he thinking of that right now? It just pisses him off, the thought of you with some other dude. Maybe that’s what he needs to win this fight. Spite. Although he’s not sure why the guy across from him at the ring has to pay for it.

He lifts his head up off the ground, and while it felt like years he had been down, a glance at the timer tells him it’s only been a solid four seconds. A solid four seconds that his opponent had to fully charge a lunge towards him with the look of death in his face, raising his elbow up into the air in time with his leap, ready to come straight down, and Gojo’s eyes widen at the sight above him from where he’s still lying on the wood.

“Shit—” he cusses, rolling his body over to the side so that the dude falls straight down onto the floor rather than elbow Gojo in the fucking ribs, and then he gets back up on his feet. 

Stakes were high, he has to end this, he has to end this now, and he flexes the muscle in his right bicep, channeling everything he has into this one blow, and before Gale even really has a chance to turn around and face him again, Gojo’s already three-fourths set up a knockout undercut that he drives straight up the guy’s chin, with so much force it has him lifting up off the floor, a vertebrate stretch to his spine before he’s sent flying backwards and slammed against the tight rubber lining of the ring to where he was half hanging over it.

The room fell silent for a split second, then erupted in a roar as the referee fell to one knee beside Gale, checking him for any semblance of consciousness, and when he found none, he waves the match off. 

Gojo’s eyes flit up towards the lion’s den, the only opinions that he really needed to care about were sitting in those mahogany chairs with glasses of scotch swirling around in their hands, and he sees some of them looking straight at Gojo before leaning towards one another and discretely talking about something he can’t make out because he doesn’t know how to read lips.

He feels someone tug at his arms from behind, pulling him to crouch down and he balances back on the balls of his feet. He glances down through the ring at the floor. Danny was leaning against the wooden surface of it. “Dude. Go.” He jerks his head towards Gale, who still laid there sprawled across the now stretched out rubber perimeter bands. “Go fuck him up. Knock a few more teeth out, I don’t know, get some more blood out of him.”

“What?” Gojo huffs, yanking his arm away from Danny’s grip. “The fuck are you saying?”

“I told you, man, Newton’s here and he’s got his eye on you. Go give him a show,” Danny says, “do it.” And when he sees clear frustration on Gojo’s face he sighs. “Twenty-five grand, consider that, will you?”

Gojo sneers at the man, an awful taste in his mouth as he spits blood towards Danny’s feet. “Go fuck yourself on his cock if he wants a show that bad.” And then he ducks underneath the bands and hops back down onto the floor, pushing past people who were trying to grab at him and pull at him and lift him up and even throw him down until he made it through flashing hallways and back to the locker room.

He shuts the door behind him, sliding the bolt lock into the frame so no one can follow him inside, and then he leans his weight back against the chilling steel before tipping his head back until it hits the surface too.

He lets out of a few deep breaths, then stares down at the sting he finds over his knuckles. Red and blistering from the last punch he delivered, and he’s almost certain he broke a bone in his hand. Fuck. It was bleeding across the cuts, too. He had to figure out a way to get it all healed by tomorrow, as if that was humanly possible, just because he doesn’t want Yuuji questioning him about it.

Yuuji. For fucks sake, when has he ever thought about the kid this much? When has he ever thought about much of anything when he’s out here or in the ring? He’s a babysitter by day. He’s a “part” of your family when the sun is up and normal functioning society is breathing their lives into the clean air. That’s it. He’s no five-year-old’s caretaker in front of all these primetime drug lords, and he certainly shouldn’t be thinking of you when facing big, burly men he’s aiming to rough up, all within the dead hours of night. So then how come these thoughts are on his mind at all times, twenty-four-seven, around the clock?

He heads further into the locker room, glancing down at the bench where he’d left his phone, then picks it up, neck craned all the way down to glance at the screen as he holds his phone by his hip because he doesn’t have any energy to pick it up any further towards his eyesight. 

He sees your messages. You never sent any follow-up ones, just your horrendously typed out sonetimes, i thikn of when u kisse me *kissed me across the span of four texts, and Gojo runs a tired hand down his face.

He tips his head back to groan at the ceiling, guttural with no basis other than a release of all the pent up frustration of every sort, then he types in a couple messages to you,

3:23am Gojo Satoru: That’s nice 3:24am Gojo Satoru: I think about fucking you all the time 

—and then tosses his phone into his duffel bag to call it a night.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

You’re awoken to your alarm blaring heavily, and you whack your arm across your nightstand table beside your tiny twin-size bed to hit the snooze button, then rub your eye with a loose fist while smacking at the residual taste of alcohol you have on your tongue. 

“Mm…” you mumble to yourself. And then the thirst hits you. The overwhelming, intense, unquenchable thirst that leaves your mouth feeling like the Sahara desert before you grab your twice-dented Hydroflask from the nightstand, twist the cap off and chug about twenty ounces of water in one breath. 

You let out a deep exhale and fall back into bed, your hand resting on top of your water-filled tummy, and you stare up at the ceiling of your dorm. 

Last night was horrible. You knew you shouldn’t have gone to that frat party, especially given you have an exam in—you checked the time on your phone—about an hour, and an hour was not enough time to recover from the raging hangover headache that’s pounding through your head. But your roommates insisted you went, and so go you did. You never knew what to expect, always torn between shaving your pussy before you go or throwing on a stained pair of sweatpants to keep the guys away instead. Sometimes, it was a combination of both. But last night, you ended up drinking more than you usually do, and that always led to poor, poor, poor decisions, in which all the sense of pride you had in yourself was washed down with the puke that you hurled into the upstairs toilet. 

You grab at your phone again, briefly seeing that your friends had sent you some photos from the night. You immediately swiped off to the side to dismiss the notifications, because as far as you were concerned, you never wanted to see those photos in your life.

And then, in the briefest of moments, you saw a familiar name in your notifications that made you heart skip a beat.

Gojo Satoru (yuuji’s babysitter)

With an immediate gasp, you pulled your phone to your chest and held it there, blinking up at the pale yellow ceiling, your heart picking up in rhythm.

Oh fuck.

That was right.

You drunk texted him last night.

You drunk texted your little brother’s hot babysitter.

Fuck.

Mortified was an understatement, possibly because you don’t even remember what you said, and so you don’t even want to see what he replied with.

You groan, rubbing both your hands across your face then kick your sheets back with your feet like a child having a temper tantrum because you were so embarrassed you had even texted him at all last night. I mean, he was hot. A little older than you, really gorgeous eyes, tall, and, yeah, you gave him shit for the Instagram muscles thing, but that’s only because you thought he’d find it cheeky that you were trying to humble him despite the fact that he’s more toned and ruggedly sculpted than any other man you’ve ever met. You didn’t want to have a flustered schoolgirl attitude because it would just seep through to his ego.

In any case, he was hot, there was no denying it, so can you really blame yourself? But still. There was collateral with this. You had to see him every other weekend. He knows your family, even your extended since they invited him to Thanksgiving dinner a couple weeks ago. A high-risque drunk text recipient if he ever was one (of course he has been, look at that face). Why couldn’t you have just drunk texted ECON160 guy from last semester who Clit DJ’d you underneath your desk at the back of the lecture hall instead?

The thing that made you nervous about Gojo Satoru was that he was just so…confident? Like, in that I was raised to be this way confident and not that I fought inner demons my whole life to barely end up this way confident, y’know? Never had to fake it ‘til he made it, he just was. At least that was the kind of energy you got from him, and unfortunately for you, it was nerve wracking but enticing all at the same time.

You sigh. “Stupid. Stupid. Stuuuuuupiiiiidddddddddddd. You. Are. So. Stuuuuuupiiiiddddddd,” you sigh, running your hands through your hair to grip at the strands.

You pull your phone away from your chest, and finally brave yourself to read the texts from your notifications screen, but not without blurring your vision a little to further stall. And then you finally refocus it to read them. The first one you see has you gasping—

3:24am Gojo Satoru (yuuji’s babysitter): I think about fucking you all the time 

It has heat spreading across your cheeks, and you blink at your screen, then quickly swipe up to read the previous messages with rushed glides of your index finger on the screen to see that he had sent it to you in response to your barely coherent texts about how you still so often think about that time he randomly pressed you up against the door of your bedroom to kiss you that night you first met him.

I think about fucking you all the time

At 3 in the morning? He decided to send that text at 3 in the fucking morning? That was the devil’s hour. What’s he trying to tell you? 

Oh come on, you’re not stupid. And you know he isn’t either. The sexual tension was palpable, it was there since the day you two met and you almost stabbed him, and also everytime you were visiting the house, and his shoulder brushes against yours when he’s trying to get past you in the kitchen, or when you’ve got Yuuji in your arms and the kid is clinging to Gojo’s sleeve because he wants him near him at all times. There’s even sexual tension over the phone, in those stupid texts he sends you all the time about meaningless child care stuff, and honestly, those little updates made your day.

But… you don’t know much about him, and your mom would kill you if she ever found out you wanted him. And she’d probably pulverize him if she found out he ever made a move on you. Cremated without leaving a trace behind would be an understatement. She thinks he’s no good and she thinks you’re too good. You know she’s warned him before to not get close to you, as if she was pre-emptively expecting him to try to get in your pants like it was some canon force of the universe, hence why he’s probably so fucking awkward around you whenever she’s there too. Like if he accidentally got caught staring at your ankles, your mom would light him on fire, so he’d rather not risk it by just avoiding looking at you at all.

Your mom has always been protective of you. Your father was a deadbeat, one she thought she loved, only to watch him leave. And she had to raise a baby all by herself. He re-entered your lives right before you graduated high school, knocked up your mom again with Yuuji, and guess what? Left again without a trace. To be doubly humiliated by a man is a fate you wouldn’t wish on any woman, but that’s exactly what your mom went through. It was a wake-up call for her, though. No more living paycheck to paycheck like you had been your whole lives up until Yuuji was born. The kid doesn’t even know how lucky he is with everything he has right now. Your mom worked her way up the corporate ladder and made something of herself and now you guys were comfortable, so it was safe to say she had some sort of right to look after her daughter, of whom she simply doesn’t want to follow in the same naive footsteps of her youth.

You get it. She wants to break the generational cycle. But it made being with men tough on all fronts, let alone dating. You could never bring a guy home because he’d never be enough, even if he cured cancer or could make you orgasm while doing a sixty-nine handstand. And while her overbearing paranoia over what you do or where you are or who you’re with has since dimmed slightly since you officially moved out to finish your last year of higher education at NYU, you can still feel her disappointment from a hundred miles away when you’re making out with some random frat guy on his beer-stained couch at eleven AM on a Tuesday.

But you got to college. You’ve already made it this far. You’re on dean’s list. You graduated high school as salutatorian. You’re the most highly decorated cello player in the state. You won Miss County pageant when you were sixteen for your philanthropic efforts towards feline leukemia. You did online community college for three years so you could stick back after high school and help your mom raise Yuuji, which meant that you had to forfeit your scholarship to Cornell. You’ve spent your whole life being good, you just wanna be bad for a little bit.

And if bad meant fucking the hot and mysterious babysitter, then so be it. 

You pick your phone up, begin blasting what the hell by Avril Lavigne on your dorm room bluetooth speaker, then type a message to him that says—

10:34am you: do it then

—then shove your phone under the sheets and belt out the lyrics aaaall my life i’ve been good, but now, ahhhh i’m thinkin’ what the hell!!! while kicking your feet and clutching your pillow.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Gojo has no clue what divine entity has overcast their gratuitous spirit over him on this blessed Monday afternoon, but he’ll thank them for it later once his balls are empty. 

He’s got you on your back, sprawled across the couch in the living room, the first fuck being a rushed one that you offered him with before he has to go pick Yuuji up from circle time at preschool, which wasn’t ideal, but he’s delirious at the sight of you underneath him right now. Your little NYU shirt, a tighter one this time, bunched up over your bare breasts, otherwise entirely naked other than the flimsy panties dangling at your ankle, and the view of the tip of his cock looking hot and heavy against the velvet of your cunt, slowly pushing in, feeling the warmth of your walls squeeze around him paired with the sweet moan that leaves your lips, makes him fall forward with a bracing hand dug into the cushion by the side of your head because the sensation feels so fucking good he can hardly keep himself upright.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he grunts, pushing himself in further to try and bottom out but he’s still got a couple inches he needs you to take, and so you curl your hips upwards towards the cieling to make more room for him, practically putting yourself into a mating press and soon enough he’s balls deep, “you on any birth control?”

“Uh-huh,” you moan, eyes closed and head tipped back with one hand squeezing your own tit.

“I can cum inside then, yeah?” he asks you, pushing your knees to your chest, slowly drawing his hips back and you squirm underneath him.

“Let’s get there first, and then we’ll discuss,” you breathe out.

“I’ve been there for the past ten minutes, baby. I could cum at any second with the way you look and feel,” he informs you flatly, because it was just the truth and you had to know it, then he feels himself twitch inside, slowly working up to a languid rhythm, almost fearfully like your mom’s going to pop out somewhere around the corner with a camera crew ready like one of those retro TV shows just to humiliate him on national television for not keeping it in his pants like she’d told him to. 

“Harder,” he hears you whisper, and he rolls his eyes shut to just focus on the feeling. The feeling of your nails grazing down the skin of his chest and his abs, tracing the scars he’s collected over the years, and he feels you tightening around him. He leans down to kiss you, fucking you properly now with the squeak of the couch springs echoing across the room, your hums of moans seeping through his lips until he’s fully taking them on with an open-mouthed kiss of sloppy tongue. 

The fact that it was wrong felt right to him, and he realizes in this moment he’s lost all sense of control. He wasn’t just an adrenaline junkie that liked to rough up dudes, he was an adrenaline junkie that wanted to fuck you against all better judgement or moral compass. The way your tits were bouncing, the slap of skin on skin, his balls slapping against your ass while you wrap your legs around him tighter, all convincing him that any consequence made it worth it.

“Good,” he groans the praise, pinning your hands above your head as he rams his hips against yours, your cute moans and squeals sounding like literal music to his ears and he feels heat spread all the way up his neck, “goooood, keep squeezin’ me like that, fuck.” He slows down momentarily, just to take a moment and watch, really look and see the way his length disappears inside of your pretty self with every push forward, and then he works back up to a relentless pace that has you tipping your head back with a slack jaw and eyes closed tightly shut, sprained expression of pleasure spread across.

“Oh, oh my god, Satoru—” you mewled and he felt dizzy from the sound of his name from your softly parted lips.

“Fuck, I’m gonna—” His hand finds it’s way between your legs, calloused pads of his fingers brushing against your clit and you jolt underneath him, gasping as your hand shoots out to dig your nails into his bicep for purchase. “I’m gonna cum, better tell me where you want it.”

“In me,” you moan, “nowhere else.”

He presses his mouth against your cheek in a lazy smile, “Atta girl,” he drawls before pushing your ankles down as far as they’d go near your ears, folding you in half and then reigns all hell into your cunt. He should really care a bit more about your pleasure, but testing your flexibility like this with both his hands holding you down was doing sinful things to his brain, and besides, you had yourself covered with the messy circles you were rubbing over your clit. It was hot to see that too, your nimble pretty fingers so close to the place where he was pounding into you. 

“Oh shit, shit, shit—” he grunts when starts to see blistering white in his vision, balls straining with a pleasure that was almost painful. The moment he finishes feels like hot flashes in his brain, a heat like the cum he begins to paint inside your walls in time with your release, thrusting over and over and over, each one more staggered as he lets off a long, drawn out groan that comes from deep within his chest with the feeling of you milking him dry and the sound of you enjoying every second of it. He can’t remember the last time he came this much or this hard and even after coming down from the high, he feels the remnant pulse of your orgasm around his now half-flaccid dick.

He leisurely pulls out, hearing you let out a soft whimper as he marvels at the sight of his cum slowly dripping out of you and down towards the couch, before he scoops it up with a couple fingers and pushes it back inside. You grip his wrist tightly, but you weren’t stopping it, that motion of him plunging it all back into you.

“Want a taste?” he asks, casually.

“Mhm,” you nod, face looking flush.

He pulls his fingers out of you, coated with sex, then plugs your pussy with the fingers of his other hand because he kinda likes the idea of you walking around all day with him inside of you, so he doesn’t want it getting out. He’s then pushing his other fingers past your lips, pleased to find he’s met with not even so much as a grazing of teeth, and he grins, “bet you take a dick in your mouth as good as you take it down here.”

Your furrow your brows at him, the pout of your lips seen in the way they were puckered to lick his fingers off clean, and when you release the suction with a smack of your tongue and his fingers were wet from your saliva now, his eyes narrow with desire. You push his face away with the heel of your palm to his forehead. “Flattery won’t make me suck your dick.”

“Alright. So? How is it?” he jerks his chin towards your face, pushing against your hand with his forehead until he’s hovering over you again, “taste good?”

“It’s cum, Satoru.”

He shrugs. “Bad?”

“No,” you say, and you can’t make eye contact, “good.” You sigh. “Hot. I don’t know. Salty, sweet. I’m the sweet. You’re the salty. And this conversation is obscene.”

He kisses you, capturing your lips softly, tongue darting out to taste what’s on yours. “I like it that way. Dirty. Nasty. Obscene, whatever.”

There’s the slam of a car door heard from the driveway, and the two of you instantly make eye contact with round eyes.

“Sa—” you stutter, “Satoru.”

He gets up off the couch in a panic, and heads to the window of the living room fully butt-ass naked, then peers through the blinds to see—

Your mom was making it up towards the front door, rustling with her keys in her purse. And the last thing he sees before he turns around to face you is her pushing the keys through the lock.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,” he cusses, finding his boxers off of the floor, hopping on one foot with his cum & slick coated dick flapping around and slapping against his thighs unceremoniously as he tries to get one leg in through them and then the other. You’re trembling as you hook your panties back into place, pull your shirt back down your torso, and even in his extremely panicked state, he’s still sad he can’t freely stare at your tits anymore. You’re rummaging for your skirt in a haste, looking everywhere for it, and he finds it underneath the coffee table before tossing it to you and then he side-to-side hops towards the coat closet while he pulls his sweatpants up over his ass, in time for you to quickly run and shut the door of the closet closed just before the front door of the house swings open.

The inside of the coat closet is dark, barely enough space in there for a six-foot-four two-hundred-and-twenty pound man, but it’s better than being balls deep inside his boss’s daughter on the couch when said boss just came home from work.

He hears conversation on the other side of the door, albeit muffled, and he presses his ear to it to hear better while he tucks his dick into his boxers from where it was hanging over the waistline.

“Mom! You…you’re home so early,” he hears you squeak out.

“Yes,” your mom says, “The rest of my meetings today are online, so I figured I’d come home when there’s less traffic.”

Gojo feels you lean against the coat closet door.

“I see, I see, how was your day at work?” you ask with a tremble in your voice.

“Fine.” And then nothing. The silence could mean that was all she had to say, since your mom wasn’t really a woman of many words, or it could be a silence that means she’s suspicious about something. “Darling, why is your skirt flipped up and tucked into your panties? Your whole butt is showing.”

Through the wood of the door, he hears you softly gasp. “Oh, um, I just went to pee. Must’ve—…must’ve got caught when I pulled it back up.” 

“I see,” your mother says, and Gojo can hear her dropping her heels down near the shoe rack at the entrance. “You know, I really don’t like those short skirts you wear often. Maybe it’s just your generation, but I think it looks tacky and cheap.”

“Mom,” you say, in as stern of a voice as you can manage without sounding embarrassed.

Your mother sighs. “In any case, where is Satoru? I still would like him to go pick up Yuuji. I don’t have the patience to sit in preschool & daycare traffic right now.”

“Oh gosh, I don’t know,” you chirp, and then he hears you let out a small oh no before you lean even more weight against the door, this time somewhere lower, and he realizes you’re pressing your ass against it. His eyes narrow with a small frown, and then he realizes— his cum must still be trickling down your thighs. You couldn’t put your panties on fast enough. 

Shit. That’s hot. A little fucked up, but hot. He feels his dick harden against the fabric of his boxers, and he rests his forehead against the door, fringe stuck to his forehead with sweat as he slips his hands down his sweatpants and then gives his cock a firm squeeze. The thought of you discretely swiping his cum up your inner thigh and smearing it against your thin panties so your mom doesn’t catch sight of it dripping down your legs has him slowly working up to a rock-solid erection, and he almost lets out a broken grunt from the feeling.

“What?” your mother says, “what do you mean you don’t know?”

“I’ve just been watching TV this whole time,” you say, “last time I saw him…he was…um, in the backyard pulling weeds?”

He lets out a small scoff through his nose at your cover-up. Cute. And not bad. 

Your mother sighs loudly, and he glances down at the strained veins on his dick as he tugs it through his hand, the tip rearing and appearing flushed and dripping with precum. God, you were just on the other side of this door. Less than a few inches away, and he’d be inside of you. 

“I’m going to take a shower. Go find him and tell him to pick up Yuuji soon. But before then, change into something less revealing,” your mother says in a more or less detached tone, and he can hear the stomps of her footsteps up the stairs from above him in the coat closet.

The two of you wait at least a solid minute, and just when the coast is clear, he hears you turn the knob of the coat closet and slowly crack it open.

“Okay, I think she’s in the shower, I hear the water running,” you whisper at him, “you can go now—” You glance down towards his groin, your jaw dropping. “What—…Satoru, why the fuck is your dick staring at me right now?!” you whisper-hiss at him.

He pulls you into the coat closet, pushing your front against the door to where it clicks shut, and you gasp when his hands pin your wrists crossed behind your back and his dick presses into the plush of your ass.

“You talkin’ to your mom while your pussy’s stuffed full of my cum was the single hottest thing that’s ever grazed my lizard brain,” he tells you, flipping your skirt up and hooking your panties to the side, his index finger briefly brushing against your entrance to find it still leaking from the way your walls were pulsating from his words. And then he aligns his tip to your entrance. “Now keep quiet while I do this, ‘kay?”

“Oh—” you gasp, your cheek pressed against the door as you arch your back and push your ass out for him, “okay—” you say, barely vocalizing the first syllable before he’s already stuffing himself inside of you with one solid glide of a push, making you yelp loudly and he has to instantly cup a hand over your mouth.

“Shhhhhh,” he hisses at you, immediately starting to pound you from behind, “told you to— fuuuck,” he catches sight of his length covered with a mix of your glassy arousal and his white cum, now starting to cream at the base of his cock, “jesus christ—” he breathes out, squeezing the flesh of your ass harshly with his other hand and you let out another yelp, “I told you to fuckin’ keep quiet.”

“I’m—mff,” you muffle against his palm, “I’m trying but,” your hips move back in time with his, “feels good, feels too good,” you mewl, and his hand desperately yanks up the fabric of your shirt so he can squeeze at your breast.

“Yeah?” he grunts, hypocritical for telling you to keep it down when he was slamming his hips against your ass with so much fervor he wouldn’t be surprised if the sound was reverberating across the entire house, “you like it when I fuck you while your mom’s all clueless just up the stairs?” His rhythm falters, feeling his release building, and his hand reaches in front of you to rub your clit, making you drop your head against the door with tightly closed eyes. “Gets— you—wet, doesn’t it?” he torments you, his lips near your ear as he slams his hips against you harshly with every enunciated syllable. 

“Mhm, mhm,” you easily agree, or maybe that’s because it’s all you can really articulate, and he angles his hips up so his balls slap more fervently against your clit, making you scream into his palm while he picks up the pace of the circles he draws on your clit and in one, two, three— beats of his pounding heart, he feels you come undone around his cock, gushing wetness leaking out of you, he can feel the mess of fluids splattering on the skin of his thighs due to each of his heaving thrusts as he cusses out a fuuuuuuckkk before spilling his cum inside of you, a short-lived and thicker release this time that has you mewling from overstimulation, and in a few following thrusts, he’s given you everything he had to give.

His eyes open, he wasn’t even aware he had shut them in the first place, and he glances down at where the two of you were joined. Rings of arousal coat the length of his half-pulled-out dick, and the second he retreats all of it, a bulging push of his cum seeps out of you, dripping and pooling all over the hardwood floors.

“Holy shit, I wish I could take a picture of this,” he says, taking a step away to commit the sight to memory, your legs trembling and still slightly spread, ass pushed out and when you wiggle it a little, he lets out a huff of an exhale because he just can’t believe how sexy you are. Are all college girls like this? He’s never been to college, his old man’s been trying to get him to go for years, but maybe this is what finally convinces him.

“No pics,” you breathe out once you catch your breath, standing up straight slowly, “that’s my one sex rule.”

He takes a step closer to you, flipping your skirt back over your ass while you shimmy your shirt down to cover your chest. “That’s the only rule you have? Anything else goes?” he asks.

You spin around to face him, his eyes briefly flitting down to the still exposed skin of your midriff. “I have a feeling I’d be making up more specific rules if it was with you.”

He smiles, his hands grabbing your hips before pressing you up against the door again. “I also had a rule. It was to not fuck you. Wait, no, to not flirt with you. Which, technically, I didn’t do.”

You blink your eyes at him. “You’re kidding, right?”

“What?” he asks, genuinely confused, “I didn’t.”

“Huh—” you scoff, “how do you think we got into this situation in the first place?? You didn’t just say wanna fuck? You were insufferably flirty with me.”

“Nahhh nah nah nah nah, baby, that’s not flirting,” he tells you, thumb running circles over your hips, “that’s, like—…I don’t even fuckin’ know how it worked on you to be honest, I was just being stupid.”

“Oh okay so I’m stupid.”

“I never said you were stupid?”

“Well you said you were being stupid so me falling for it must mean I’m stupid.”

“Pshhh. You’re cute. Pulling weeds, by the way? Adorable.”

Your hand slowly roams up the front of his shirt, the fabric bunching at your wrists until you uncovered up to his collar bone, and you stare at his skin. He tries to not let the way his heart’s beating faster show through the heave of his chest. 

“Why do you have all these scars, anyway?” you whisper to him.   

“Too many girls tryna stab me,” he tells you.

You roll your eyes. “Seriously.” Your thumb traces the one you had left on him. 

“I—” He stops himself.

Does he tell you? Should he tell you? What, just because he’s seen you naked and you took his dick like a queen he’s supposed to open up to you about these things now? He doesn’t know. Maybe he could? Maybe you already suspect what he does at night. And if not, at the very least, I’m an underground boxer might make you think he’s hot? At the very worst, you’ll report him to the cops and he’d get fired as your little brother’s babysitter then thrown into jail, but not before the busted cartel gets him first.

“Maybe I’ll tell you some other time,” he says, his hand wrapping around your wrist and pulling it from his chest, “no hyper personal details until you’ve had my dick in your mouth at least once or twice. That’s my one rule.”

You snort. “I could’ve guessed that rule from a mile away.”

He hums. And then there’s the sound of steps creaking down the stairs above the two of you.

You both make eye contact, eyes widening, internally yelling at each other: how the fuck did we get into this situation twice?!

This time, Gojo opens the door and stumbles out of the closet, leaving you inside of it, just in time for your mom to come down the stairs.

“Satoru. I was looking for you,” she says as she rounds the post. “Have you picked up Yuuji? He has to go for his swimming lessons soon.”

“Ah, nope, was just about to head out,” he says, letting out a cough to diffuse tension, “sorry, I was—” he points his thumb over his shoulder to behind him, “…pulling out some gnarly weeds.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “I see. Well, thanks. If you want, I can add a gardening stipend to your paycheck. Let me know.” And he’s not sure how to respond because he’s not sure if she’s joking. 

He heads out the door, the keys to your mom’s minivan in his palm as he throws them up into the air and catches them a couple times. And just before he gets inside the car, he turns on his heel to face the house and pulls his phone out of his pocket to type in a message for you.

3:22pm Gojo Satoru: Send over those me-specific sex rules soon

.

.

.

[the end]

a/n. hope u enjoyed im shitting bricks posting this bc i haven't posted a oneshot smut since february but thanks so much for reading i appreciate u!! i got way too invested in the whole underground boxer thing 😂😂 but the fact i managed to keep everything under 12k is an accomplishment to me bc if u read my other fics you know i’m a yapper LOL i have another kind of a similarly written smut oneshot n it’s a lil angsty (totally different au tho) i’ll probs post that one next but yea i really like, hmm, i really like exploring entire characters within a short amount of time i enjoy writing the obscure lore drops xd it’s been kinda fun so far anywho much loveee hope to see u around! <3

➸ masterlist

taglist:

@joemama-2 @erencvlt @pickuptruck01 @hanakotateyama @nuronhe

@beabadobeee @air3922 @timetoletmyimaginationfly @chiyokoemilia @jotarohat

@sirencholia @sorcerersseestars @horisdope @to-dabi @staoru

@aliidarling @ninjaturtletoes @lavender-hvze @lanadelreylover11 @chckn-pi

@satoryaa @gojodickbig @v4mpieres @reinam00n @sleepyyammy

@haikomaiko @tbzzluvr @myahfig4 @arabelluhhh4200 @bloopsstuff

@nat-the-gayass-down-bad-mf @badbclub @blackunecorn @geniejunn @n0tviv

@verystrawberryhottub @iheartshopping @peonysfordayz @dreamsxmerci @aishies-stuff

@milkm4nz @athinasaurus @sashisuslover @welldamnsatoru @aeriiixhh

@crystalymin @dcvilxswish @miakxn @satxoru

[technofeudalism]

on today's episode of "i only pay attention and pretend that i give two shits about the sanctity of human rights when there's a freaking Cheeto in the white house"

“While the administration should be lauded for its efforts to provide children and families access to the court system, its failure to ensure legal representation has produced a massive due process crisis,” said Talia Inlender, Deputy Director of the Center for Immigration Law and Policy (CILP) at the UCLA School of Law. “It should be obvious that immigration court proceedings are far too complex for children to navigate without legal representation, especially when the consequences are so dire. The Biden administration must take swift action to ensure legal representation for all children in immigration court.”

The report’s key findings include:

In a five-month period in FY 2022 alone, almost one third of immigration court cases initiated by the Biden administration–more than 80,000 in all–were against children, over 30,000 of whom were under the age of 5, according to the Transactional Records Access Clearinghouse (TRAC).

Studies show that unrepresented unaccompanied children are at least five times more likely to be ordered removed than children with access to counsel. 

By the government’s own account, 44% of unaccompanied children and 51% of families on the Dedicated Docket lack legal representation.

The vast majority of removal orders entered against children are for failure to appear: Approximately 72% of removal orders against families on the Los Angeles and Boston Dedicated Dockets were issued in absentia, with over 48% against children, many under the age of six. Worse yet, 86% of removal orders issued against unaccompanied children were for failure to appear.

Immigration courts under the Biden administration ordered more than 13,000 unaccompanied children removed in absentia between Fiscal Years 2022 and 2023.

The report details how the Biden administration’s treatment of children in immigration court is unlawful, and calls on the Biden administration to: prohibit in absentia removal orders against unrepresented children; terminate the Dedicated Docket; and ensure legal representation for all unrepresented children in removal proceedings.

In handwritten cursive, a Russian immigrant named Marina wrote out the story of the day U.S. Customs and Border Protection agents took away her 1-year-old baby while she was being held in a detention facility in southern California. “I cried and begged, kneeling, not to do this, that this was a mistake, not justice and not right,” she wrote. “She was so little that no one knew anything about her. I was very afraid for her and still am!” This didn’t happen during the Trump administration, which separated more than 4,000 migrant children from their families under its controversial “zero tolerance” policy. Marina was separated from her baby in April of this year. The 40-year-old former restaurant manager came to the U.S.-Mexico border with her husband, mother-in-law and child to seek asylum. More than eight months later, she and her mother-in-law remain in federal immigration custody in Louisiana. Her husband is detained at a different Louisiana immigration facility. And Aleksandra is over a thousand miles away, being cared for by strangers in foster care in California. Aleksandra is one of around 300 children the Biden administration has separated from their parents or legal guardians this year, according to two government sources who asked not to be identified because they hadn’t been authorized to speak about the separations. Most of the cases involved families crossing the southwestern border, the sources said. These numbers haven’t previously been reported. Similarly, 298 children were separated from their parents in 2023, according to a government report to Congress published on Tuesday, even as overall migrant crossings have declined. According to the report, the average amount of time children separated between April 2018 and October 2024 have spent in federal custody before being released to a sponsor is 75 days.

Biden responds to Bernie Sanders' immigration plan: "We shouldn't abolish ICE. We should reform the system. ICE is not the problem. The policies behind ICE are the problem, and that's easy enough to fix if the President knows what he or she is doing."

unfortunately Joe never got around to fixing the Gestapo agency but he tried his gosh darndest and he isn't Drumpf so i guess the pride in being an American was still secure at that point for most liberals. i'm sure that when the next charlatan says the same thing that they'll retain this energy, right? right??

[nemesyaaa]

soft heart shaped // brother's ennemy!rafe x innocent!reader

summary ; there was a fair reason of why your brother always keeping you away from the kook boys, even his own friends. there was also a fair a reason of why he wouldn't let you around his ennemy.

warnings ; +18 content. reader is kind of innocent but it doesn't involve rafe having a kink/or attraction about it. mean!rafe. intox kink/drugging. protective!brother. daddy issues. smut. oral(f&m r.). dumbification. daddy kink. light of violence. little age gap. mentions of stalking. soft!crybaby. p in v. dubcon. lil background. again, be aware of the warnings.

author's note ; as much as i love the brother's bsf trope, the brother's ennemy concept ran into my mind. i also wanted to add ; reader and her brother are kooks. it's not about pogues matters. i'm sorry if it's kinda shitty.

your brother always made sure you were safe and you had everything you needed. it was understandable knowing that none of your parents had been home for so long. he made sure that you always had what you wanted, and that you didn't have to lift a finger, or sweat a single drop to get it. all you had to do was ask for it to be wrapped in a gift at your bed. you were the youngest, the little princess who had to be spoiled and pampered, the one to whom we granted every whim, the one to whom we said amen without necessarily being a believer, the one we looked at hoping that she would always remain as beautiful and innocent, but also the one we always admired from afar because she wasn't allowed to be with boys alone.

your brother was one of those siblings who could have been the child prodigy if your parents were still around. he always had good grades at school, always praised by his teachers, and he knew how to play a musical instrument. It seemed that when you heard him playing the piano, you stopped crying. you had heard him play so many times, sitting on his lap, his hands sliding across the keyboard as he gently pushed your fingers on the piano keys, hoping that a few notes would calm you down.

he was protective. he had always lost interest in other girls just to only care about you. he was protective because he didn't want you to suffer, and because he knew the kook boys. even though he hated pogues, he knew you'd be safer with one of them than one of those rich boys with so many privileges.

one of them was particularly his enemy. rafe cameron. the one and only son of ward cameron. the businessman who controlled the island but was also one of your father's former best friends. you had seen him so many times in your house with all his children and his trophy wife.

rafe had always been a little weird around you. he always said he was there for your brother but it was always you he looked at. he always found an excuse to be with you. sometimes you wonder if it wasn't a question of ego.

you knew he and your brother didn't get along. they were always arguing and fighting. “I forbid you from hanging out with him.” your brother had warned you once, after coming back with an ugly black eye on the face. “is that him? " you asked shyly, swallowing hard. his gaze was fierce. “exactly. that’s why you have to listen to me. ”

did that necessarily make Rafe Cameron a dangerous person? You wondered because your brother could also be very violent. never towards you. but towards others.

could rafe cameron attack princesses like you, didn't you deserve better treatment? you were always so confused.

but one day, you knew that your brother had shot Rafe at a party. and after that he was gone, nothing more. you were alone at home. there was no one left.

He didn't respond to your messages or your calls. if he was no longer there, there were no more rules, no more prohibitions, right? you were totally free. you could wear the clothes you wanted, talk to whoever you wanted, come home at the time you wanted, go wherever you wanted. you no longer needed permission or approval. you no longer had any chains.

so you went to this kook party that everyone was talking about and that Sarah absolutely wanted you to come. she said you needed that, rather than staying alone in your castle.

When you arrived there, your heart was racing. Sure, your brother wasn't there to judge you, or tell you to go home, but you had the impression of feeling his warning dark stare through all these people looking at you.

you wanted to turn around, to run away. you heard people talking, music blaring from the speakers, all these drunken bodies pressed together which made you even more transparent. It wasn’t long before you started smelling like alcohol, drugs, and sex, the scent exploding in every corner.

while you were still thinking about leaving, you moved away but your back hitted someone's chest. a hand was placed on your shoulder to hold you close then a slightly mocking chuckle was heard in your ear.

“Careful, baby. "

you turned to confront the person. “rafe. " you announced without surprise.

"Such a face. I might think you're disappointed."

“I was looking for Sarah.”

“It’s a shame. She’s not here.”

“I’m leaving then.”

"I'm afraid you're not going anywhere." he mocked gently.

you looked at him strangely. he was there in front of you, with a drink in his hand, and his body was blocking your way.

“It’s not a game.”

“oh princess, it’s not because you don’t play that no one plays. and you see… when I look at you in this ridiculous tight outfit and especially alone, I really want to play.”

“you’re sick.” you replied.

"yes." he simply replied "but baby, everyone knows it, it's not a secret. on the other hand..." he leaned over to whisper something in your ear. “i would like to know how much you are too willing yourself to come to my party without your brother to protect you.”

“I don’t need him.” you defended yourself, stepping back so as not to be seen so close to him. “I’m a big girl.”

"yea, such a big girl. look at you, you managed to dress yourself." he teased you with a laugh. “ i'm joking, i admit you're pretty. why that face, baby ? i thought that little dress of yours wanted some rafe validation. ”

“you’re really not funny.”

"I think above all that you should relax. and I can help you with that..." he suggested softly. but all his sympathy was so fake. “have a drink.”

you laughed sarcastically and his smile widened. he had followed you into the crowd, acting like a bodyguard so you wouldn’t get lost among the people. he placed an arm around your waist, the size of his hands groping at your hips, pretending to be a gentleman when this kindness was purely ridiculous.

“don’t touch me. ” you snapped.

“too late. i just did.” he replied. “If you didn’t want me around, you shouldn’t have come here. you don’t make the rules in my house. ”

“It’s called harassment.”

“oh isn't-it a big word for little girls like you? is that what your bro told you to say if i touch you? ”

it was so annoying to see him openly making fun of you. to believe that you had not grown or evolved for him.

“Do you want a drink?” he asked kindly.

“you think you’re going to drug me without my knowledge?” you laughed. " Nice try but forget about it."

he took a sip of his drink and responded with an emotionless voice. “you’re wrong.”

"what? you would never have drugged me? stop lying."

"no I mean. I wouldn't have done it without your knowledge." and he left with a smirk.

you grimaced before taking a drink at the bar. you had inspected the inside before drinking it because you didn't trust anyone here. and Sarah wasn't there which was weird since her boyfriend, Topper was there.

you had managed to relax after several drinks, and you wanted to take a seat on the huge sofa in the salon but it was full. so you found a space upstairs in one of the empty rooms.

you had barely sat down on the bed when the door was already opening to reveal someone. rafe cameron. again.

“are you stalking me?”

"I'm not sure you'd like the answer, baby. but I'll let you guess. after all, you're a big girl."

"Can you stop doing that? Do you think I'm scared because my brother isn't here anymore?"

"you see, I didn't really like the fact that he shot me. Do you know how much it hurts to be shot? No, I'm sure you don't. Little princesses like you have no awareness of the real world, right? ” he knelt between your legs, keeping them apart with a hand, and lightly pinching your forehead to get into your brain. “ If we don't tell them anything, they know nothing. ”

"I'm not stupid. I know it hurts but I didn't do anything to you. I'm not my brother."

“yes, you’re pretty.” he admitted, caressing the inside of your thighs, massaging them slowly to get your attention. "so pretty that you always got what you want when you want, right? but it's not really fair to me. I've never had that privilege. but you... you're an angel , a blessing, will you grant it to me?”

using your kindness against you, no one had ever done that to you. you were always so nice to people. you were incapable of saying no, of resisting, of being mean. This was far from your behavior.

“What do you want?”

" This. ” he had lifted the bottom of your dress gently, before revealing your panties, and revealing your pussy.

“Are you looking for revenge?”

“I would never do such a thing. I have always liked you. You're sweet…” he placed one of his fingers against your pussy, sliding it against your slick without pushing them inside your walls, just enough to leave them sticky with your wetness. he also caressed your swollen clit, addressing little circles to make it throb under his touch. you gasped loudly, his thumb playfully toying around your bullied nub. you didn't know what he was looking for but when he started to touch you more insistently, you wanted to close your legs but he blocked them with a hand to force you to let them spread. “ stay still, i'm not done. ”

he wanted to get a wide view of your pussy clamping against his fingers, to see how obedient and a good girl you could be when it came to sex.

“so sweet…” he said as he fingered your glistening cunt, forcing the stretch of your hole with strengthful strokes.

you were so tight he could feel each of his fingers moving inside you as you were grinding your hips to them. but more importantly your walls were clenching around them. the sound was obscene and viscous, as you welcomed every vibration inside your body. you were hot and your mouth was filled with breathy moans. his pace was fast and gentle as if he didn't want to hurt you. “ here it is…that's a big girl right now…”

all his three fingers were buried inside you. their thickness brushing every corner of your walls. he lighty sped up, leaving you to gasp louder while his digits ruined you. “ look at you, sweet angel turning into a little whore. is that what dad and big bro left the home, because they can't handle you anymore ? ” he rushed a deep stroke as he spoke, causing your back to arche widely and sobbing more.

you turned your head, trying to get his raspy voice and mean words out of your mind but you were a little dizzy. he was annoying with all this teasing and you can't barely stand it. but with his fingers buried in your sore insides, he had the control of your whole body. he got your pussy so easily on his side,stuffing your slutty core, and fucking you all way from to the hitting spot that was made you scream harder. he was driving his fingertips so hard that hot rush of tears was flowded over your cheeks. he didn't shut you up even if you were still at the party, because he wanted to hear you, from the little cries and sniffles, to the breathy voice and spitting babbles over your mouth. his fingers were so quick and you wanted to try to make him slow down by placing a hand on his, but that only motivated him to go faster. you had no choice but to squirm, while his gaze bore into your face.

you flushed, as he was working his fingers further in your cunt. he was hard for you to the point he started to feel the pain of boner in his pants. the music outside the room was nothing against the sloppy wet sounds of your pussy over his digits. the way he was pressuring your clit while making evil and forceful back and forth in your hole was enough to make you lose your mind.

you thought he was going to leave after making you cum, that he had gotten what he wanted but you were wrong.

he had searched for something in the drawer. a bottle of lube. and you thought that was it.

when he was back at you, his cock was wet and glowy with some substance. “i'm gonna make you very pretty, baby.” he said, before tearing your lips in two with his tip, forcing you to open your mouth wider and take him.

he pushed his cock into you without warning, leaving you no choice to do your job. you wrapped your hand around the end of his shaft, while your mouth sank around his member. you had started to suck him, your lips forming a tight but deep well around his cock. everything was wet with your own saliva. you could feel his stomach twitch every time you pumped his hard cock until it bulged inside you.

he had grabbed your hair with one hand, accompanying your head in your movements, leaving your mouth shaping in an o. you thought everything was fine, but you had started to feel a little dizzy, and also to feel your body getting a little weaker. rafe was turned on. and with the strange feeling that currently warmed your body, you couldn't maintain the pace anymore so he took care of it, driving your little lips to his dick. you were sucking as he was feeding you all his length inside your mouth, shoving it enough to make you gag and hurts your throat. a smirk appeared on his face when you became extremely needy, literally lapping at the leaking tip of his dick like a pup with wide round open eyes. “ yea, try to catch daddy's dick..come on you can do it... don't you want to own it ? ” he was giving you fat and strong slaps with his dick on the side of your cheeks, as you were trying to run your tongue against it.

he took back the stream of saliva in your lolling tongue before fucking your mouth at an insane pace. he doesn't care that you couldn't breathe and that your eyes were teary, he just wanted you to be sucking at his dick.

you giggled when he pushed your body back onto the mattress, while you couldn't really stand on your feet. he was on top of you, standing with all his big frame that was making you ridiculously smaller than him. he had spit into his fist before stroking himself, making sure all his shaft was wet and nice. “see? I told you I could make you feel better. "

and he pushed his dick you with such a sharp thrust that you whined. since your hole was still a little tight, he had forced your walls slightly. you panted, choking on each of his other strokes. you were euphoric and your unsteady body fucked hard against the mattress. “Come on, baby. nothing fun anymore? i thought you wanted to laugh. ” he mocked your tears with another rough push, sending you waves of pleasure and shivers.

he was fucking your pussy like a beast, bruising your cervix with such a primal need. you were now such a mess, babbling and crying because of him, because of the way his dick was bullying your insides. it felt so good but you could feel some pain.

as he used your cunt, taking all the space of your entire hole, rafe was delighted. no, he wasn't going to cry or regret because you decided to be a crybaby. he was going to continue fucking you until you were completely senseless and his cock fully empty.

he always hated your brother. it was like that. it was ward's fault who told him he was the son he never had. rafe couldn't help but be jealous of this relationship that his enemy and his father had. he felt erased. and you, the perfect little princess who was never blamed for anything, who was always in her own corner, he couldn't hate you, even less blame you. but he could still use you.

you were the perfect victim. you were so clean and innocent. and your brother loved you so much that rafe felt obligated to hurt you.

you were like a doll, a stupid doll with no brain that he could control so easily. you were helpless, each thrusts slamming so hards. he was forcing your head to stay, holding it into his palm. “I know, baby. i know how you feel, but it's gonna get worse if you don't let it go. "

you weren’t really sure what he was talking about, you didn’t really understand what he was saying. you were in another dimension. you could see but it was slightly blurry. his tall figure was moving above you, words were being said but you were just there, a trembling smile over your lips, a tipsy look, and crying completely out of sync with the situation.

only rafe knew the truth. you didn't feel like that because of the alcohol but the drugs that had been added with the lub. the drug quickly took effect. your body had been in possession of the substance in a few minutes but above all under its submission.

“you're so pretty. should i send a photo to your brother? "

you didn't even wince at the brother. you just laughed like it was the funniest joke you had ever heard. “Let’s play a game. you wanna play games? "

you nodded. one of the rare gestures that you managed to do fully. rafe had smiled before caressing your face. “ can you feel the inches inside you? "

you nodded with a little giggle. “if you guess the exact number, daddy's will give you all the orgasms you want and need like the princess you're. if it's wrong, you let daddy use you for the rest of the night.”

it was evil. he knew you wouldn't have the answer because you couldn't think.

“Come on, baby. don't let daddy's win the game. ” he said so softly in your ears, but his voice sounded so fake.

you tried. one time. three times. until your chances were exhausted.

“'s too bad. doesn't matter, i bet you wouldn't guess earlier all the fingers i've got in you. "

you pouted, and he just fucked you harder, rushing the pace into you to an insane one. this time, your whimpers were muffled beneath his large palm.

“ it's okay, baby. you don't need a brain when you've got such a perfect tight pussy. “

he was big. you could feel it. there was a rough strength in his thrusts. your body was pleading against his heavy one. you hated to feel like such a crybaby around him but you couldn't help.

all those tears on your cheek were real, even the saliva coating your lips, and the sniffles wetting your nose. you couldn't fight against his control.

since there is no one around you, you were craving for some attention. and rafe was giving you the one who needed, only by a simple sentence. he started the conversation with you, he was looking at you while you speak and he's listening like he cares when you know he don't. he was touching you and standing close to you like you really exist.

you shouldn't be with him. your brother warned you a lot. rafe cameron was the type of guy who doesn't fit girls like you as he said. he also said that Rafe doesnt love and only damage. he was toxic for you.

but wasn't it also toxic to listen to your brother all your life ? you were not a little girl anymore.

Rafe had filled your pussy with his cum, invading the tight canal of your pussy to the point it was coating your slit. he slipped out his dick before milking it and spreading every leaking drop over your body until there was nothing left.

he made you clean all his fat length with your mouth, feeling the pleasure holding him when you start to lick all of his cock. your tongue was already wet, but now sticky with drool and cum. you pushed your needy muscle to lap at the reddish dick, watching the face of your brother's enemy with little eyes as you were cleaning the mess.

“I bet your brother now has a real reason to hate me. " he said with a playful tone.

“ Rafe...”

“you can stay here. it's not like you can go anywhere with the substance inside you… but don't worry, i will be back. ”

[aleksatia]

🧡Caleb - Five Years Later

The third in a series of stories exploring MC’s return after five years of silence. Others are coming soon — links will be added as they’re published.

Original ask that sparked this continuation.

Sylus | Rafayel | Zayne | Xavier (coming soon)

CW/TW: Grief / Loss of a loved one, Terminal illness, PTSD themes, Emotional trauma, Mentions of death / implied past death, Medical procedures / hospitals, Restraints (medical context), Panic attacks / nightmares, confinement / loss of agency, Non-consensual medical intervention, Self-worth / guilt issues, Power imbalance (emotional), Non-graphic violence, Brief medical body horror, Touch-starvation / intimacy after trauma, Bittersweet tone, heavy emotional intensity, Hope & love, but not always soft

Pairing: Caleb x former partner!you Genre: Sci-fi drama, heartbreak and healing, soul-deep devotion. Heavy on angst, soft on reunion. Enemies to… something more broken and beautiful. MC Context: You disappeared five years ago. He never forgave you. Now you’re back — with a secret that’s killing you slowly. Summary: Admiral Caleb was forged in war and tempered by loss — and you were the one wound that never healed. When fate throws you back into his orbit, neither of you are ready for what resurfaces. Letters, graves, rain-soaked rooftops, and the love that refuses to die quietly. Word Count: 8.4K — stand-alone… for now. 🥀 This story was loosely inspired by Caleb’s latest Myth. Just a touch of that vibe, y’know?

Author’s Note: Okay, full confession — I cried from the first word to the very last. Maybe it’s just me (I’ll admit, Caleb is my soft spot). Or maybe… it just hit something. Either way, I’d love to hear what you think.

The anniversary of Josephine’s death — and Caleb’s own — landed squarely on an unscheduled visit to Lincon City.

The admiral rarely returned. Not unless duty bared its teeth and dragged him back. Too painful. Too empty. The wounds too fresh, even now.

He had once been Colonel Caleb of the Farspace Fleet. Now, promoted to the soulless rank of Admiral, he moved like a ghost through corridors lined with medals and silence. But today… something clawed at him. A compulsion. A tremor from a buried place.

He bought lupines. Tall, excessive, dignified in a way grief never is. The kind you buy for someone who will never see them. And then he walked — alone — to the cemetery.

He had only been here once before. With you.

Josephine’s grave was strangely well-tended. No weeds. Edged clean. A vase of pink lilies — fresh, impossibly so — sat nestled against the stone like someone had just set them down and whispered something soft and final. Her favorite flowers. He remembered.

His first thought: the groundskeepers. Maybe the city did something for the dead on anniversaries. Some quiet bureaucratic kindness. But that didn’t explain the lilies. How would they know?

His eyes scanned the black headstone. “Josephine,” carved in solemn, obedient serif. A name, a dash, two dates, and silence. His grandmother. Gone six years.

She hadn’t died of age. The blast had taken her.

But you — you were different.

Five years. Five years since you vanished. Gone not like a candle snuffed, but like smoke ripped from the air.

He had never accepted it. Not really. Some part of him believed you were taken. That you had been forced to go.

Because the truth — the one that stared back at him in sleepless nights and shattered mirrors — was that you did leave. You walked away. No message. No farewell. Just absence.

The storm was building in the clouds above, heavy and low like judgment. Thunder sat unspoken just beyond the hills, crouching. Caleb stood still, arms at his sides, as the sky thickened.

Why?

It was a question that never left. A question with a thousand answers. Each one sharper than the last.

The scent of wet earth rose in the air. Ozone, crackling like something electric and cruel. His hand twitched toward his wristwatch. He was due back. His itinerary was brutal. The war waited for no one — not even the grieving.

He knelt, placed the bouquet down with the softness of ritual. A last gesture. A futile offering.

Then his eyes drifted. To his own gravestone.

There it was. Cold. Familiar. His name, etched beneath hers, waiting for its second date.

And something else. A white envelope.

Untouched by time. Unsullied by rain or rot. Resting gently, like it had grown there.

His breath caught.

The lilies. The letter. The impossible coincidence.

Then the first drop hit — heavy, warm — against his cheek. A second, on the envelope. Then more.

Drip. Drip-drip. Drip—  Draaip.

The kind of rain that doesn’t fall, but descends. Like judgment. Like memory.

Caleb stepped forward. One foot. Then another. His boots sank slightly into the earth, as if the ground resisted.

He reached out — hands trembling, trembling — like the time he pulled an FS-90 out of a death spiral back at the Academy, nose brushing the snow-capped ridges of the mountains peaks.

He lifted the envelope. It was light. Too light. But on it — one word, scrawled in handwriting he knew too well.

Caleb.

Nothing more.

He shoved it into the inner pocket of his uniform, as though it were explosive. As though it might burn through the fabric and into his chest.

And just like that — as if spurred by some instinct he couldn't name — he turned on his heel and walked fast, too fast, back toward the car.

His heart didn’t race. It pounded.

Like thunder.

The drive to the airfield felt like a lifetime, though the roads were mercifully clear. No evening traffic, no pointless delays. The driver, attuned to the admiral’s mood, pressed hard on the accelerator, but still — Caleb tapped his fingers against the armrest with restless urgency, the motion sharp and impatient.

The envelope continued to burn in his chest.

Rain traced thick, winding rivers down the window, a slow, rhythmic descent like tears he never shed for you. When you left, it wasn’t just his heart that broke. It was his soul, his body, his being. Everything cracked and caved inward — except his eyes. Those remained stubbornly dry.

Now, though… he was close. And that made him angry.

Furious, even.

It infuriated him that just as he had begun to stitch some version of his life back together — a life without you, without your voice, your touch, your name — you reappeared. Like a ghost. Too close to ignore, too far to hold.

If you had wanted to return, you would have come back. Not like this. Not through riddles and shadows and silence. You would’ve stood at his door, or on a tarmac, or behind him in some briefing room like the world hadn’t ended. And he — damn him — he would have forgiven you. Instantly. Because that’s who he was. That’s what you had always counted on.

And that was what made him want to scream.

He didn’t want to forgive. He didn’t want to read your damned letter, to parse your reasons, your pleas, your desperate little words asking to be understood.

He didn’t want to analyze your cruelty. He didn’t want to empathize with it.

For the first time in five years, Caleb felt like he could finally, truly erase you. Not forget — never forget — but cut you out like rot. And live with the absence.

The letter pressed against his chest like a bullet. He placed his palm over it, broad and unsteady, as though trying to keep it from puncturing skin. As if it hadn’t already pierced him, deep and final.

The only sane choice would be to throw it out the window. Let the wind take it, let the rain dissolve it, let the world carry it into the dark.

Maybe you hadn’t even meant for him to find it. Maybe this was a confession to no one. A whisper into the void. Maybe it wasn’t meant for him at all — just for yourself.

To ease the weight.

To breathe again.

Selfish.

Selfish to write it. Selfish to hope for release, when he was still walking in agony, flesh and blood wrapped around something broken.

He didn’t want you to breathe.

He didn’t want you to be free of the pain, not when he was still wearing it — every day, every night, every silence between heartbeats.

How dare you write to him?

It was beneath an admiral to take the controls.

But today, Caleb didn’t care.

Protocol could burn. Chain of command, procedure, rank — all of it. He needed to feel the illusion of control again, even if it came in the form of a military jet barely older than some of the crew still stationed on the tarmac.

He didn’t ask the pilots to stand down. He ordered them. One glance at his face, and none of them argued.

The rain was steady now, carving grooves into the tarmac like old scars. The cockpit smelled of steel, vinyl, and cold systems spinning up to life.

Caleb slid into the pilot’s seat. No ceremony. No reverence. Just quiet, deliberate motion. The envelope — that stupid, unbearable envelope — landed in the co-pilot’s seat like a stone slab. Heavy enough, he thought, to drag the aircraft down with him.

And maybe that would’ve been for the best.

He ran the preflight checks by muscle memory.

Fuel quantity. Sufficient. Confirmed crossfeed valve closed.

Hydraulic pressure. Green. Full.

Flight controls. Surfaces free and correct — elevator, rudder, ailerons.

Navigation systems. Online. INS aligned. No drift.

Avionics. Check.

Oxygen. Flow normal, regulators armed.

Engine start. Ignition armed. Starter sequence began. One engine, then the second — turbines spun up with that low whine that sounded too much like a scream if you listened the wrong way.

He couldn’t breathe. But he was going through the motions.

Flight clearance received. Tower approved for immediate departure.

The jet eased down the taxiway, engines rumbling like restrained violence beneath him. His hands on the throttle were steady. Too steady.

Takeoff checklist. Flaps set. Trim neutral. Brakes released.

He pushed the throttles forward.

The aircraft responded like it wanted to run. Acceleration pressed him back into the seat. Rain lashed the windscreen. The moment the wheels left the tarmac, the ache in his chest twisted tighter.

There. He was airborne.

And it didn’t help. Not like it used to.

Altitude climbed. Ten thousand. Twenty. Forty. Cruising.

He stabilized at 37,000 feet and did something he almost never allowed himself: he engaged the autopilot.

The moment the system took over, he tore off the harness with a sharp, frustrated motion. The metal buckle clattered against the seat.

His hand reached for the envelope.

It was still warm from being pressed to his chest. He turned it over in his fingers, letting the edge bite into his skin. He very nearly tore it in half.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he broke the seal, carefully, precisely — like disarming a mine.

And there it was. That handwriting. Your handwriting.

Messy. Crooked. Rushed. Impatient. Every letter a little too hard, as though you’d nearly punctured the page. You had always gripped your pen like it was the only thing anchoring you to the world. You hadn’t changed.

For a long moment, Caleb didn’t read. He just stared at the shapes of the words. The loops and slants. Like he was watching you from the other side of interrogation glass — close enough to touch, unreachable all the same.

And then he started.

Once. Again. A third time.

Each pass scraped deeper, like reading the report of his own autopsy.

His hand trembled. He didn’t even realize he was breathing too fast until the cockpit hissed a low-pressure warning. He ignored it.

He slammed the harness back across his chest and keyed the comms.

“Control, this is Delta-Two-Alpha requesting vector for immediate return.”

There was a pause.

“…Confirm that, Delta-Two-Alpha. Reason for return?”

He took the yoke again, flicked autopilot disengage with a sharp tap. The jet jerked slightly, now fully under his hand.

“Command directive,” he said flatly.

Another pause.

“Understood. Return approved. You’re clear for turn on heading zero-one-five.”

Caleb didn’t wait. He threw the aircraft into a steep bank, cutting through the clouds like a blade.

He knew where to find you. He had known before he stepped into the cockpit. He had known standing at the grave, the envelope still untouched.

But he hadn’t wanted to find you then.

Now?

Now he didn’t have a choice.

The viewing deck of the Linkon TV Tower was nearly empty.

Closing time was drawing near, but the rain had chased away what few tourists and visitors remained. You stood at the railing in a long lavender raincoat, hood pulled deep over your head. The fabric clung to your arms and back, soaked through. Your sneakers were long past wet, the chill of the concrete seeping into your bones. But you didn’t move. Didn’t shift. As if the weather had pinned you here in time, or maybe memory had.

The city below had disappeared — swallowed by fog, by stormclouds, by everything that refused to be seen. No headlights, no stars. Just the endless roar of rain and the cold sting of being the last one left.

Your fingers rested lightly on the metal bar. Your eyes were turned upward, into the vast nothing. Watching clouds drift across an invisible sky. You might have stood there till morning, if not for the footsteps behind you.

Slow. Measured. Not security. Too quiet.

“I would give a lot to know what you’re thinking right now,” said a voice too worn to belong to the man you once loved.

You turned slowly.

Caleb stood a few paces away, still in uniform. The rain hadn’t spared him. His hair was damp, the shoulders of his coat dark with water. But he stood like the storm couldn’t touch him. Like it wouldn’t dare.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” you said.

“I almost didn’t.”

You smiled — not from joy, but from pain that needed a face.

“I thought maybe you’d moved on by now,” you said. “Married. Found peace.”

“I’m not built for peace,” he said flatly.

“No,” you murmured, “you weren’t. But I hoped... maybe you’d become someone who was.”

He took a step forward, his boots clicking against the wet metal. “You hoped I’d forget you.”

“I hoped you’d survive me.”

The words hit. You saw it — the smallest shift in his jaw, the flicker in his eyes. But his voice stayed calm.

“You knew I wouldn’t.”

You didn’t deny it.

“I wrote the letter because I needed to say it. Not because I thought you'd ever read it.”

“You didn’t want me to.”

You hesitated. “No.”

“Then why leave it where I’d find it?”

Another silence. Then: “Because I wanted to believe you wouldn’t come.”

Caleb’s expression didn’t change, but his gaze sharpened. The air between you grew tighter, like a pressure drop before impact.

“I read it,” he said.

Your breath caught. “I know.”

“I know everything now.”

You nodded.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t accuse. But his voice was a blade dragged slowly across flesh.

“You could’ve told me. You could’ve stayed.”

“I couldn’t breathe, Caleb.” You didn’t mean to say it out loud — but the truth had a weight of its own. “You loved me like I was something to guard. Not someone to hold.”

“I was trying to keep you safe.”

“And I was trying to live.”

His lips parted, as if to argue — but nothing came. Because you both knew: you were right. And so was he.

You took a step closer, rain dripping from your sleeves.

“I didn’t want you to be there when it started. I didn’t want you to watch me fade.”

“And now?”

“Now it’s too late.”

Caleb looked at you like you were a puzzle he used to know how to solve. Like something once sacred that had rewritten itself in a language he couldn’t read.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” you said.

“Good.”

Your breath hitched — not from the cruelty of it, but from the honesty.

“I just wanted to see you again,” you whispered. “Once. Before...”

You didn’t finish. You didn’t need to.

He stepped closer. This time, the space between you nearly vanished. But he didn’t reach out.

“You always ran when it got quiet,” he said.

“And you never let anything rest.”

He didn’t deny it.

“I hated you,” he said, voice rough. “For five years, I hated you for leaving. For taking my soul with you and vanishing into nothing.”

You closed your eyes.

“And now?”

He hesitated.

Then: “Now I just hate that there’s nothing left to save.”

The rain didn’t stop. Neither of you moved.

But something broke, quietly — not between you, but inside you both.

And maybe that was the beginning. 

Or the end.

He stepped closer. Not to you — no. To the railing.

Leaning casually, almost carelessly, over the edge, he stared down into the city’s abyss. The lights below were blurred by fog, rain, and altitude — a slow-motion fall into nothingness. Even resting like that, shoulders relaxed, head tilted slightly as he looked down, Caleb seemed impossibly distant. Removed.

Admiral.

Not just a rank anymore. Not a role. It had consumed him — the strictness, the cold efficiency, the discipline etched into every movement. He was the title now. All calculation, no softness. All control, no warmth. A man weaponized by grief, then sanctified by command.

“Do you remember the last time we were here?” you asked quietly, your voice fragile, almost drowned out by the rain.

He didn’t answer at first.

You studied his face — the years had been merciful to him in the way they only are to men shaped by war. Just over thirty. A trace of silver at the temples. Skin clean-shaven, jaw locked, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass.

He looked like marble come alive. Cold, perfect, untouchable.

You wanted to reach out. Just to touch his face. To feel warmth. To remind yourself he was still made of skin, not armor.

“We saved a lot of people that day,” you added, almost to fill the silence. “From Wanderer.”

“I remember,” he said, his voice low. “On the train ride here, you fell asleep on my shoulder. There was some romantic song playing on loop — too sweet to ever be real.”

You smiled, barely. It hurt. “Caleb… would you still do it now? Jump like that? Into the void. As if death is something you can bargain with. Something you can command to pause.”

He tilted his head, still watching the city below.

“I can stop a fall. I can control flight paths. Bend gravity to my will. But not death. If I could…” He paused. His voice dropped lower, quieter. “I wouldn’t be here.”

When he turned to you, the change was surgical. A full turn of his body, attention locked on yours. His eyes scanned your face with precision, not feeling.

He looked at you like he was trying to remember.

Like five years had burned away not just the love, but the memory of it.

“Tell me,” he said, “do you think I’ll be able to save you this time?”

The question landed like a shard of ice in your spine. You flinched — not visibly, but inside, where it counted.

There was something wrong in his voice. Not anger. Not desperation. Just… wrong. Like he was rehearsing something he didn’t understand.

“I’m not asking you to save me,” you said. “I never wanted that. I never wanted to be your project. Your fragile rose behind glass — something that, if shattered, would take your whole world with it.”

He didn’t reply. But he looked away. Not down. Not up. Just… away.

And then — a sound behind you.

A door creaked. Footsteps, hesitant. The voice of someone too young, too aware.

“I— I’m sorry— sir— admiral— I didn’t— The tower’s closed, I—” The poor security guard stumbled over every word as he recognized the face that had appeared in military reports, field briefings, and news feeds. The ghost in the sky. The man who never fell.

Caleb turned slightly toward him, not quite sighing — more like resetting. 

“Where are you staying?”

You blinked. “Caleb—”

He raised a hand, not unkindly, but final.

“Where.”

You swallowed. “The Midland Motel. Down by the shuttle terminal.”

He said nothing, just nodded once and began walking. You followed.

You knew you shouldn’t. But you were too tired to argue. Too wet, too cold, too broken.

He didn’t offer his coat. Didn’t say a word. Just pressed the call button for the lift and waited in silence.

The car ride was quiet. The city blurred past in gray, streaked neon. His vehicle — black, sleek, military grade but dressed as civilian — moved like a shadow through the storm.

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t speak.

You kept your arms wrapped around yourself in the damp raincoat, your soaked sleeves sticking to your skin.

He brought you to a hotel you didn’t recognize. Modern, expensive, silent. The kind of place that smells like clean money and consequence.

At the front desk, he handed over a card — no hesitation — and said, “One bedroom suite. Highest floor. Immediate check-in.”

No questions asked.

The elevator ride was wordless. The carpet muffled your wet shoes.

He opened the door. The lights came on softly. Beige walls, minimalist decor, glass and brushed steel. Tasteful. Lifeless.

He handed you a folded robe from the closet. “Bathroom’s through there,” he said. “Go shower. I’ll order food.”

You took the robe with slow hands, staring at it for a moment too long.

Then, wordlessly, you turned and walked into the bathroom. The door closed with a quiet click behind you.

Warmth. Dry tile. A mirror.

And, for just a moment — silence.The kind that wraps around you like grief you haven’t cried yet.

The robe was too large. Too soft. Too warm.

You could have wrapped it around yourself three times and still gotten lost in it.

On the small round table near the panoramic window, a meal waited. Caleb hadn’t bothered to order anything you used to love. He remembered, of course — that was never the issue. He simply hadn’t tried. The selection was closer to a field ration than a dinner: high protein, complex carbs, dense fats. Efficient. Precise.

You weren’t hungry. You hadn’t been for a long time.

He’d removed the jacket of his uniform, now down to a crisp white shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbow. And still, something in the room made it feel wrong to sit without permission. He didn’t even look at you — just gave a practiced gesture toward the chair.

You sat on the very edge of it.

Your gaze lingered on the veins in his forearms, raised and defined — marks of control, of command. Of power. Hands that once cradled you through entire nights, hands that had trembled against your skin as if you were the only thing in the world keeping him human.

Now, all of it felt like a dream.

You broke off a piece of warm bread. Turned toward the rain outside. Watched the world bleed behind the glass.

“Did you see a doctor?” he asked.

Not worry. Not fear. Just curiosity. Clinical, detached. A data point to confirm.

You shrugged slowly. “Yeah. Dr. Zane was the first. Then came the rest.”

“And he didn’t tell me anything?”

“Doctor-patient confidentiality,” you said. “I asked him not to.”

“So I wasn’t worthy of the truth?”

You exhaled — sharp and stung, like you’d been slapped. “Caleb… do I really have to explain this? I was trying to spare you the pain.”

He laughed. Cold. Harsh. Suffocating.

The room, already dim, felt darker suddenly. As though the lights had dimmed in reverence to his bitterness.

“Spare me? Oh, brilliant. You really did a hell of a job. I didn’t suffer at all. You disappeared and I just breathed a sigh of relief, right? Out of sight, out of mind — that’s what you think?”

“It’s not the same.”

He slammed a fist down on the table. Plates jumped. Glass cracked under his hand.

“If you had died in my arms, at least I would’ve known. I would’ve known you didn’t leave because I wasn’t enough. Because I loved you too hard, too deep, too much. I would’ve known you had no choice.”

“You wouldn’t have let me die in peace!” you shot back, voice rising. “You would’ve torn the damn planet apart looking for a cure. You would’ve ripped through every system, Farspace tunnel, shouting that it’s almost over, that we’re so close, just hold on—”

He stared at you. Unblinking. Breathing slow.

The storm inside him didn’t explode. It collapsed, inward — contained by the vice grip of discipline. Of rank.

“If loving you with everything I had — completely, recklessly, overwhelmingly — was a crime…” His voice was low now. Not soft. Deadly. “Then yes. I’m guilty. You pronounced the sentence without a trial, Pip-squeak. And I served it. Five years, no parole.”

He stood, pushing away the untouched plate. The chair didn’t scrape. It moved like a blade being sheathed.

“But let me tell you something.” He turned his gaze on you like ice hardening in place. “Love, when betrayed and ground into dust, doesn’t always fade. Sometimes… it turns into contempt.”

The word hit like a slap across the soul.

You couldn’t speak. Your breath stalled in your throat.

“Eat something,” he said. “And get some rest.”

“And you—?”

“I have too much work to babysit you.”

“I don’t want to stay here!”

He paused by the door. Turned half toward you — not enough to be kind.

“Well, that’s a shame,” he said. “Because I do. Sorry, sweetheart, but tonight? You don’t get a choice. I may be, as you so astutely pointed out, a cold-hearted bastard — but even now, I can’t let you wander the streets in wet clothes, racing to meet your own end.”

With that, he slid back into his uniform jacket in one fluid, dismissive motion and stepped out.

The door closed behind him with mechanical precision. The lock flashed red. Like a warning.

Your only way out now was through the window.

You didn’t remember falling asleep.

Most likely, you just shut down — the body giving out where the soul had already emptied. There were no tears. No breakdown. Just the vast, aching silence of being done. As if the last thread tethering you to this world had snapped soundlessly in the night.

Caleb had been the only family you ever had. He didn’t want to be your partner anymore — that, at least, made sense. But now he didn’t even want to be your brother. Not your anchor. Not your history.

He had become a stranger. And you had made him that.

You had no one to blame. No one to curse. The damage had your fingerprints all over it — deliberate, cruel, irreversible.

You regretted it. You knew it was a mistake.

But what could you do now?

Five years ago, you walked away — selfishly, completely — leaving him alone with the bleeding wreckage of his own love. And you hadn't spared yourself either. You’d just taken the pain and buried it, hoping time would do what courage couldn’t.

And now, with the same selfish silence, you had come back. Uninvited. Unexplained. Unhealed. You didn’t know what you’d hoped for — redemption, maybe. A flicker of warmth. Or just… recognition.

But instead, you lit the same fuse all over again.

You knew, even before boarding the train, that he’d find you. Even if he wasn’t looking. Even if he didn’t want to.

And still — you came.

The knock at the door startled you. You shot up, heart hammering in your throat.

Room service? Caleb? No. Caleb wouldn’t knock.

A second later, the door’s lock blinked with coded lights, and a young man in a tailored aide’s uniform stepped in. He was polite enough to knock. But not enough to wait for a response.

Not Liam. Someone much younger.

“Good morning, ma’am,” he said with crisp formality, almost saluting before catching himself.

He tried — really tried — to keep his gaze level, but you could see the questions in his eyes. He didn’t know who you were, why you were important, or why the Admiral had seen fit to personally house you in a suite normally reserved for political dignitaries.

“I was ordered to bring you a change of clothes and arrange breakfast,” he said. “Admiral Caleb instructed me to return in thirty minutes and escort you to the hospital.”

You blinked. “Tell the Admiral that’s unnecessary.”

The aide offered a tight, apologetic smile. It didn’t reach his eyes. “He also told me to inform you that, if you refuse to come voluntarily, I’m authorized to use force.”

The words hit harder than you expected.

You swallowed, fighting the wave of humiliation. Of course he would go this far. You shouldn’t be surprised. And yet, it burned.

“I see,” you said quietly. “Then I’ll just have coffee.”

The aide hesitated. “Ma’am—”

“You’re not going to shove breakfast down my throat, are you?” you snapped, sharper than intended. “Fine. For the sake of compromise — coffee. And a yogurt. That’s it, Lieutenant.”

He nodded with practiced obedience. “Yes, ma’am.”

And then he left, leaving you alone with your rage and your helplessness.

The coffee tasted bitter. The yogurt was sour. Your taste buds had changed — everything had. Food had stopped being pleasure long ago. It was fuel now, nothing more. You absorbed calories. Not flavor.

Another memory — gone.  Another joy stripped from a life grown colorless. Another piece of yourself you hadn’t noticed was missing… until Caleb reminded you it was never coming back.

Some part of you expected they'd take you to Akso Hospital.

It would’ve made sense. Zayne knew your case better than anyone — your body, your history, the long and winding ruins of your health. But Caleb didn’t trust him anymore. Not enough to put your life in his hands.

Zayne had already failed him once — by keeping your secret.

Instead, they brought you to an unfamiliar place. Private, sterile, quiet. Too many white walls. Too much controlled light.

Caleb was already there, standing in the center of a vast conference room surrounded by doctors in crisp lab coats.

Even without a word, he commanded the space. In uniform, he looked taller than any of them. Broader. More permanent. Even the chief physician seemed to defer to him instinctively, as though gravity itself bent slightly in his direction.

You paused in the doorway, watching the way their attention latched to him — every word, every breath, every small flick of his hand. He wasn’t just giving orders. He was delivering truth.

And it made your blood boil.

With silent, focused fury, you crossed the room. Stopped too close. Closer than decorum allowed. Closer than memory permitted.

He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

“You’re doing exactly what I was afraid of,” you hissed, voice low and sharp, aimed straight at his throat. “I’m not a lab rat. I’m not your property. You don’t get to manage me. I have a right to my own choices.”

He looked you over slowly, without shame or apology — from your scuffed shoes to the oversized hoodie and jeans that hung loose on your frame. He’d remembered your size, but even so, they fit like clothes left behind by a body that used to be stronger.

“Fine,” he said simply. “You can leave.”

You blinked. Taken aback. Then pivoted sharply. “And I will.”

“Just know,” he said, his voice still maddeningly calm, “if you stay — I’ll stay too. If you stop running, you’ll have the chance… to live what time you have left not alone. Not in silence.”

You froze.

One breath. Another.

Your shoulders sagged. The sharpness in your spine dulled. And slowly, you turned back to him.

His face hadn’t changed. That same cold mask. Not unkind — just unreadable.

“You’d stay?” you asked, barely audible.

He exhaled, finally. A quiet thing. His fingers brushed the edge of a metallic button on his uniform — a nervous tic, barely there.

“We were family once,” he said softly. “No one should die alone.”

Your lips parted slightly, as if to answer — but no words came.

There was no sentiment in his voice. No drama. No heartbreak. Just a statement of fact.

Death wasn’t something that scared him. It was a language he knew fluently — one he had spoken too many times, in too many places, across too many battlefields. He’d seen it. Worn it. Come back from it.

Even now, he didn’t flinch from yours.

It was just another ending. Another line of code. A final set of coordinates.

No pleading. No shaking. No denial.

And somehow — that was exactly what you needed. Not mercy. Not hope. Just someone to stay.

For once, it didn’t matter what you deserved. It mattered that you weren’t alone in this room. Not anymore.

The carousel of tests spun you until nightfall.

Scanners, probes, bloodwork, neurological assessments — round after round until your skin felt bruised from inside out. You were growing irritable, frayed at the seams, more from the dread than the procedures themselves.

They weren’t just gathering data. They were preparing to keep you here. Not for a night. Not even for a week. You could feel it — that low hum of administrative inevitability, ready to steal your time in the name of preservation.

You hadn’t even tied the hospital robe back around your chest when the door hissed open again.

“Oh, do come in. Why not take a piece of my liver while you’re at it?” you snapped, not bothering to turn.

“Your liver’s fine,” came the reply.

Of course. Caleb.

You turned too fast — too defensively — forgetting the robe was still gaping open. Not exposing skin, no. That wasn’t the issue.

It was the mark.

A thick, black web, raised and pulsing, spidered across your chest, the origin rooted deep in the center — where the Aethor Core was housed. Where power should have blossomed. Where your strength was supposed to live.

But it didn’t pulse with life. It cracked. You were coming apart, slowly, precisely, down the middle. Left from right. Light from shadow. Every beat of your heart was a fracture.

You covered your chest too late. He had seen.

He approached, unhurried. Unstoppable. The kind of step he used when nothing in the world could change his mind.

He pulled off one glove with a smooth, practiced motion and pressed his palm to the place where the damage burned hottest.

Right over your heart. Where it splintered loudest.

You closed your eyes. Pain hit like a detonator — sharp, white-hot, cellular. Like a memory of impact. A blade. A bomb. A scream that had never been given voice.

“At any moment,” you whispered, answering the question he hadn’t asked.

He nodded. No surprise. He already knew.

He knew what the Evol had become. That your body couldn’t carry what it was never designed to hold. That the Core — meant to empower — was now the source of slow, elegant devastation.

He knew you were made of chaos. Born to fracture. Destined to burn.

You, who had broken him. And so many others in your wake. Your love had never healed. It had only bled slower.

He didn’t flinch.

He pulled away from your chest, reached for the t-shirt folded over the back of the chair, and helped you slip into it. His touch was clinical. Gentle. Resigned.

Not cold. Not warm. Just necessary.

You swallowed against the lump rising in your throat. It didn’t move.

“Come on,” he said, voice suddenly softer. “Let’s go.”

You blinked. “More tests?”

“No. There's a fair. In our old district. Crowds, noise. Bad music. Terrible food.”

You snorted — just once — but held back the gallows humor itching to spill from your lips. Too early for jokes about death-day parades.

“All right,” you murmured. Pulled your hoodie over your head. Slipped on your sneakers.

You bent to tie the laces, but before your fingers reached them, Caleb was already kneeling before you.

Kneeling.

Your breath hitched.

Just like back then. Just like a lifetime ago.

You shifted your weight awkwardly, as if the floor had gone uneven beneath your feet. The moment was too intimate. Too real.

“An Admiral tying shoelaces,” you said with a weak smirk. “Now that’s more paradoxical than the Colonel ever was.”

He looked up at you. Fingers tightening the knot. A ghost of a smile pulled at his mouth — brief, boyish, and so devastatingly familiar it made your chest ache.

“Let’s agree I outrank your dignity today,” he murmured. “Don’t make me invoke protocol Alpha-Pip-Squeak.”

At some point, it started to feel like time had folded in on itself.

The sounds, the smells, the fireworks, the shrieking laughter of children, the curling smoke from endless food stalls — it all swirled into a surreal kaleidoscope of celebration. A world too alive.

 Too bright.

It felt wrong. Your heart was failing, slowly betraying you, yet the world kept spinning, singing, dancing without hesitation.

At first, it stung. The unfairness of it. The cruelty.

You didn’t want to die. You didn’t want to vanish into memory.

You had dreamt of children — your children — running through crowds with cotton candy bigger than their faces, covered in chocolate and ice cream. You used to see your future so clearly: a wide house with a garden and a swingset, and somewhere up in the attic, a claw machine you’d insisted on installing, turning the whole floor into a chaotic arcade.

Your eyes filled with tears.

You blinked them away, catching Caleb watching you. You smiled.

“Smoke,” you murmured. “Got in my eyes.”

He nodded. Didn’t believe you, but let you have it.

He wasn’t wearing his Admiral’s uniform anymore. Jeans. A T-shirt with a stupid graphic. A jacket. A cap. He looked familiar. Almost close. Almost yours.

You walked slowly, shoulders brushing occasionally, hands near but never touching. Neither of you tried to bridge the gap. It would’ve felt dishonest. And you were grateful for that honesty. Even if it hurt.

You took a few shots at the game booths. Your hands still remembered. When you won an oversized plush flamingo, you handed it to a girl with bright red ribbons in her pigtails. She couldn’t have been more than six.

You asked her name. Rolled it around on your tongue. You could’ve named a daughter that.

Caleb noticed when your steps started to falter. Without a word, he led you toward an empty table at the edge of the crowd.

While he went for food, you let yourself sink back into the chair, exhaustion tugging hard at your spine. Your eyelids fluttered, but you refused to let sleep steal this. This might not be happiness, but it wasn’t pain.

And that was enough.

He came back with a platter full of street food. You wouldn’t taste much of it. But you remembered. You knew. And for now, that was enough, too.

“It’s a clear night,” he said. “Wanna ride the Ferris wheel?”

You nodded. You’d say yes to anything that would delay the return to sterile rooms, to IV drips and ticking clocks.

The cabin swayed gently as it rose. Wind cooled your cheeks, carrying away the stubborn tears that kept threatening to fall. But you wouldn’t cry. You wouldn’t let grief ruin this night.

“Are you still angry?” you asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you still… hate me?”

He didn’t answer right away.

His gaze drifted over the glowing chaos below, where lights bled together into a gold-and-rainbow puddle of motion and life.

“No,” he said at last. “And I never did.”

He turned toward you, reached up, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“I said it in anger. I was too furious to mean it.”

“I deserved it.”

“You deserved my anger,” he agreed. “But not this. Not a slow, painful fade. Not the kind of desperation that makes you choose impossible things.”

“Caleb…” your voice cracked. “Please… don’t say goodbye yet. It’s not time.”

“I’m trying to be honest,” he murmured. His eyes dropped to your hands, folded like a small prayer in your lap. He looked like he wanted to reach for them — but didn’t. “I’ve learned what hiding the truth from the people you love can cost.”

You swallowed. “I’m… still someone you love?”

He nodded, steady. “There’s no one closer.”

“Then promise me—”

“No.” The word was sharp. Too fast. Too raw.

“No,” he repeated. “I won’t even try.”

“But you could be happy again. If you let yourself open up—”

“Could you?” he cut in. “Could you promise that if I go first, you’ll find someone else? That you’ll love another man? Hold his hand, kiss him, like I never existed?”

Your answer was immediate.

“No.”

Too quick. Too honest.

And he knew. You both did.

Whatever tied you together was deeper than flesh, deeper than time. You could peel away the skin, erase the past, burn the memories— but your soul would still reach for his in the dark.

And his would still be holding on. Waiting.

Until the next life.

He didn’t take you back to the hospital.

By now, he knew what you had understood five years ago. It was pointless. There was no cure.

You lowered yourself carefully onto the bed, curled up on your side. You looked at him — just a silhouette in the dark, and still somehow larger than life.

“Stay with me tonight,” you whispered.

He didn’t hesitate.

He slipped off his jacket, climbed in beside you. Didn’t touch. Just lay there — facing you.

You stared into each other’s eyes for a long time. Until they closed on their own. Until sleep claimed you.

And the nightmare followed.

The same one, always the same — your body splitting apart, bones breaking under pressure, your chest tearing open as the Core rejected you, gave birth to a creature that looked almost like you. But not you.

Black. Cold. Merciless.

Your body left behind, hollow — a deflated skin, a costume discarded.

You screamed. But you didn’t wake.

You thrashed, fighting against the blanket, clawing at your chest, trying to force the monster back inside, back into the dark where it belonged.

Hands. Strong, steady, familiar.

They caught you. Held you. Rocked you.

Lips brushed your temple. Words — soft, foreign — spoken in a language your heart remembered even if your ears couldn’t make them out.

“No… please…”

Caleb held you like a child, pressing your face against his chest.

Tears — hot, fast — fell onto your cheeks. Not yours.

His.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart. You hear me? You’re not alone. I’m right here. I’m not leaving. I swear to God, I’m not letting go. Come back to me. Please, come back…”

“Caleb…”

“I’m here. I’m here, baby.” His arms tightened, anchoring you in place.

“I’m so scared,” you whispered, fragile.

“I know, Pip. I know.”  His voice cracked — raw, guttural. “I’ll take it all. All the pain. I’ll kill every monster in your path. I’ll tear down the night itself. Just say the word, and I’ll burn this world to the ground to bring you peace.”

“I love you…” The words came with sobs now, spilling out, no longer held back.

His lips kissed your forehead. Your temple. Your cheeks.

“And I love you. My girl. My sunshine. My joy. My… Pip-Squeak.”

“I’m sorry I stole this time from us.”

He shook his head, still holding you like you might slip through his fingers.

“I forgave you a long time ago. How could I not forgive you? God, how could I ever stay mad at you? I’ll be here, right here, until your very last breath.”

He kept whispering. Murmuring softness into your hair. As if the five years of agony had never happened.

 As if you’d never left.

And slowly, gently, you drifted back into sleep. Held in his arms. Wrapped in his warmth. In his love.

With one thought cradling your soul: If the universe is kind — let me go like this. Let me go in his arms. Let me go loved.

All morning, Caleb didn’t let go of you.

Like he was making up for every moment of distance, he kept touching you — a fleeting kiss, a gentle brush of fingers, little gestures wrapped in warmth and care that tore your heart in half.

You didn’t want to let go of him either.

And when you loved each other, it wasn’t just love — it was desperation.

Through trembling limbs, through broken breath and quiet cries, the pain poured out. The guilt. The fear.

It wasn’t sex. It was absolution.

Then he drove again.

Said he wanted to show you something. You didn’t look out the window. You looked at him. Held his hand. Silence said more than words ever could.

You only grew uneasy when the car pulled up in front of a building — far too official to be anything like a park or a gallery.

“Where are we?”

“It’s… a military lab,” he said, with a small, apologetic smile. Then he kissed you again. “Just need to drop in. Work.”

You followed him inside.

A narrow, impersonal room. Cold lighting. The air too clean.

Caleb gestured to a chair. You sat. He knelt next to you. Kissed you again — too gently. Too long. Something about it felt… wrong.

“I’m sorry, Pips,” he whispered. “I just… I can’t do nothing.”

“Caleb? What are you doing—?”

You saw the glint of metal. Just before the needle plunged into your artery.

“CALEB!”

“Even if you hate me for the rest of your life, I have to try. You have to live, baby.”

You wanted to scream, to shove him, to run —  but your limbs turned to jelly.

You slumped into his arms. And everything went dark.

The lab was silent.

Sterile.

Lifeless.

Two rooms. One pane of glass between them — just wide enough for you not to miss a single second of the show.

You were strapped to a hospital bed. Wires trailing from your arms and chest. Your head throbbed.

Across the glass — Caleb.

“No. No, Caleb, stop! This is insane!”

 Your voice cracked, but your chest—  your chest was… light. The weight, the crushing pain — gone.

You began to thrash. The heart monitor shrieked in alarm.

You pulled at the restraints — raw, bloody skin tearing against metal cuffs.

You didn’t stop. Didn’t care.

Slippery with blood, your wrists finally slipped free — it felt like peeling flesh from bone.

You tore off the tubes. Fell from the bed.

Your legs wouldn’t hold you. So you crawled.

Crawled to the glass.

“CALEB!”

You slammed your fists against it, over and over again.

He lay on the other side — restrained. But the straps couldn’t hold the violent spasms. And the glass couldn’t muffle the sound of his screaming.

“CALEB! YOU PROMISED!”

You forced yourself upright, pounded your fists until your knuckles split open.

“You promised… you said you’d stay… you said you’d be there until my last breath— CALEB— !”

Your voice disintegrated into a scream.

You kept hammering. Like a moth caught in a jar, helplessly throwing itself against the cruel, unyielding glass.

Kept crying.

The door hissed open behind you. A man in a lab coat.

You lunged at him — knocked him flat. Ran.

Another body in the hallway — you shoved them aside.

You found the next door. Slammed your palm to the entry panel.

It opened.

“CALEB—!”

You collapsed onto him, draping your entire body over his, as if your weight alone could stop the process.

Black veins had begun to trace up his neck. The same pattern that once bloomed across your chest.

“How could you…?” Your voice broke into pieces. “You can’t leave me… you promised…”

For a moment, his eyes found yours. His hand twitched. Reached.

You seized it. Gripped tight.

Tried to unbuckle the straps.They didn’t give.

Hands grabbed you from behind. Dragged you.

You fought like a wild thing. Thrashed. Kicked. One of them fell — you crawled back to him.

Then two more came. You were screaming. Your throat raw.

“No! Don’t take him! DON’T TAKE HIM FROM ME!”

And just before you could lunge forward again—

Another needle.

Your body gave out. Everything dimmed. Collapsed.

But even in that final, spiraling moment—

You whispered one last time: “Caleb…  please… don’t leave me…”

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Your heart hadn’t beaten this steady in years.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

It would’ve been better if it had stopped.

You didn’t open your eyes. You didn’t ask where you were. You knew.

You were in a world where he was gone.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

You used to live with physical pain — you knew how to endure it. You knew how to die with it. You’d pictured your grave more than once — just beside the one marked “Josephine.”

The one where, for a time, they’d already carved “Caleb.”  Now they’d just correct the second date. As if it had all been a clerical error.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

“Shut up,” you muttered, ripping the sensor from your finger.

Beeeeeeeeeeeeep.

The monitor whined in protest.

You clamped your hands over your ears, buried your head under the pillow.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Beeeeeeeeeeeeep.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

“What the hell?!”

Another monitor?

You pulled the pillow away. Opened your eyes.

On the second cot, just a few feet away— Caleb.

Alive. Awake.

His monitor was singing the same rhythm. And on his lips — the hint of a smile.

“You bastard!”

You flung the pillow at him. He caught it.

“Did you mourn me?”

“That’s still pending! You—YOU!!! You took my Aethor Core?!”

You looked around for something else to throw. He raised his hands in surrender.

“Easy, Pip-Squeak. I didn’t take anything. Your precious Core is right where it belongs — in that merciless, vengeful little heart of yours.”

“I’m merciless? You made me believe you were—!”

You stopped.

Because you knew. God, you knew you would’ve done the same.

You slid off the cot carefully, clutching the IV stand for balance. Crossed the short distance to his bedside, testing each step. Sat down on the edge. 

You reached for his hand. Fingers trembling, unsure. But the moment you touched him — he was warm.

Not fading. Not cold. Not gone.

Warm, alive, present.

And it shattered something inside you.

“You weren’t dying because of the Core itself,” he said gently. “It was the energy feedback loop. The Core stopped syncing with your biopattern. Basically, your system crashed, and the power cell started pulling directly from your heart to survive. Which, you know, kinda fatal.”

“So what… you swapped our batteries?”

“In layman’s terms — yes.”

“And that doesn’t kill you?”

“My protocore’s a lazy old tank,” he grinned. “It got a nice boost from yours. Just enough to last me, I think.”

“You swear that’s the truth?” you arched a skeptical brow.

“I do.” He reached up, hesitantly, brushing your cheek.

You didn’t pull away.

“I told you I’d take your pain.”

“And you also promised you’d stay with me till my last breath,” you whispered, lips nearly brushing his.

“And I intend to keep that promise,” he said, pulling you close and kissing you. “And if you try to run again, just so you know — I’ve got a year’s supply of those sedative syringes.”

You let out a small laugh, nudged him gently, then climbed onto his cot, curling into his side, head on his shoulder.

“I’ll keep that in mind in case you pull another stunt like that. Admiral.”

His arm slipped around your waist. His grin widened — softer, familiar. Like the old days. Like he was just your Caleb again.

“Well,” he said, “those are consequences I’m willing to accept.”

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

His heart beat stronger.  And yours — yours found his rhythm. Matched it.

Perfectly. Just like always.

Because the truth was simple.

You couldn’t exist in a world where one of you was missing.

[sipthegossip-if]

SIP THE GOSSIP! is a slice of life IF rated 18+ for explicit language, skippable sexual content, substance abuse, extra marital affairs and more. Best to be avoided if romance, drama and angst are not your cup of tea.

✭ DEMO (TBA) ✭ FORUM (TBA)

You have had everything in the palm your hand since birth. Success kissed your feet, the billboards sang of your symphony and the public chanted your name.

Until they didn't.

After years of a blockbuster after a blockbuster— ignoring the fact they were all your uncle's productions— you found yourself tangled up in allegations that left your reputation in shambles.

You lost thousands of followers across all your social media accounts, all your endorsement deals and the industry turned it's back on you.

But you persisted. After things were resolved, you tried getting back on your feet. Starred in movies that had no connection to your dearest uncle.

But here's the thing : they all flopped. Badly, at that.

And you found yourself, once again, at the rock bottom. After some time of having disappeared from the public eye you have decided to make a comeback and do what you were always good at— use your connections to gain a spot in the upcoming romantic drama TO THE MOON AND BACK.

You will do anything to get your stardom back even if it means getting your pretty hands a little dirty.

✭ Play as male, female or non binary. Straight or queer. Customise your brand and appearance.

✭ Choose the article that destroyed the reputation you spent years building.

✭ Engage in a scandalous & fiery romance off and on set!

✭ Use whatever means you can to avoid being teared to shreds on the internet.

✭ It's been long since you have acted. You haven't forgotten how to bring those tear ducts to use, have you?

✭ Give interviews. Because isn't that what the blizz and bling all about baby?

✭ Engage with your fans. If they still haven't forgotten about you, that is.

✭ Escape or annoy the unrelenting paparazzi.

✭ Customise your public persona. Do things that transpire behind cameras differ from on camera?

✭ Choose the plot of T2MAB.

✭ THE BODYGUARD : Kai D'melio. [he/him or she/her]

Single and in early 30s. Stoic and all business. It's hard to get a read of them. They are a constant in your life.

Tropes : Bodyguard romance, extremely slow burn, quiet yearning from distance, "crush" route, steel armour— soft core.

✭ THE VETERAN ACTOR : Shiron "Shay" Hill. [he/him or she/her]

Married and in mid 40s, they continue to be a social media sensation to till this day. A friend of you and your uncle. They are the one who introduced you to the director and producer of To The Moon And Back and helped you score the lead role.

Tropes : Extra marital affair, steamy, age gap, forbidden romance, "married in name only," wedding band that feels like a chain and accidental touches that burn.

✭ THE DIRECTOR/PRODUCER : Victor/ia "Vic" Alvarez. [he/him or she/her]

Single, former actor and in mid 40s. An incredibly close friend of Shiron. They have been attached at the hip since the two first began working together in the industry. All their works have proved to be the public's favourites and you hope that is also the case with T2MAB.

Tropes : Work romance, steamy, commitment issues, power imbalance, age gap, says "We can't do this," and does it anyway.

✭ THE M/F LEAD : Alexis "Alex" Sinclair. [he/him or she/her]

Co-actor and in late 20s. Charming and titled 'Industry's Budding Star' by People's Magazine. They seem to have a tendency to flirt with whatever that breathes. It would serve you best to not get involved with them, judging from their messy dating history.

Tropes : idiots in love, hurt/comfort, emotional intimacy, himbo/bimbo, friends/co-workers with benefits, "I will break your heart or, will you break mine?"

✭ THE SECOND M/F LEAD : River Fox. [he/him or she/her]

Co-actor, singer and in late 20s. After having caught their now ex partner cheating on them, they seem to have a hard time trusting people. The fact that they dislike you for the means you used to get the role and the consequences it led to, doesn't help either.

Tropes : Slow burn, enemies-to-lovers, melting the ice king/queen, forced proximity, kind guy/gal who's mean to only you. "Your hurt recognises mine," in some instances.

✭ THE CAMERA(WO)MAN : Arlo Kent. [he/him or she/her]

Single loyal to you and in their early 20s. They get all starry eyed and overly enthusiastic at the sight of you. More often than not, you have caught them not so discreetly keeping an eye you. You can only hope they are merely star struck and nothing more.

Tropes : Stalker/yandere fluffy romance. "I have always been watching," that somehow turns romantic. "You'll love me eventually," kinda horror romance.

[sirfrogsworth]

So, I did know the basic psychology of this. Or I have a good guess at least. But I was too tired and just needed a way to end the post quickly. I am running on fumes nearly all the time and sometimes I just do whatever I need so I can publish something and feel like I accomplished a goal.

But a few people are having issues with what I said.

They mentioned that autistic folks find comfort in repetition and feel like I am calling that sad. I definitely see that as a possible interpretation and I appreciate them mentioning feeling that way.

But I just wanted to use a little bit of energy to address why I don't think I was referring to these normal, healthy coping mechanisms. I mentioned in a reply that my father actually needed to watch the same show over and over because he was too sick to concentrate on something unfamiliar. I get why it can be helpful.

Firstly, I don't know many autistic people who trap everyone they know at a party and play the same 12 songs over and over.

By and large, that aspect was what I found most sad.

But aside from that, I see this repetitive behavior as a very different thing.

In fact, I would say it isn't the behavior itself... it is the *reason* for the behavior.

I see Trump's repetitive behavior more as living in the past, stuck in his ways, being stubborn, and unwilling to try new things. Something I see a lot with elderly conservative folks. They yearn for a better time in the past when they forgot all of the shitty things and only remember happy times. They say music was better in the good old days and refuse to consider any good music could be created outside of that golden age.

Trump is stuck in the 80s and 90s. He was young and healthy and grabbing pussy and fucking models (with and without consent) and going to parties of important people. He was invited to celebrity weddings and was literally Regis Philbin's best friend. Society generally liked him. He was just the goofy rich guy with the hair and many of us thought he was really good at business. Something enhanced by The Apprentice which was heavily edited to make him seem like a business genius. He likes people thinking he is good at business more than he likes being president.

I actually think he hates being president and only ran this time to stay out of jail.

Trump is not well liked as he used to be. No matter how many cult members love and praise him, he remains deeply unhappy. His wife refuses to touch or even kiss him in public. She does this little hand escape thing every time he tries to hold her hand. And when he tries to kiss her she makes him do that French thing where he has to kiss the air near her head.

Every one of his current "friends" is just playing the game. They are hoping their fealty will help them climb the ladder. I doubt he has a single genuine friend left. Except maybe Rudy Guiliani, who turned into a fucking nutball.

He was traumatized from being inches away from death and I think that was the real reason he moved his inauguration inside. A life long New Yorker is pretty well adapted to the cold.

He probably has erectile dysfunction. He is said to need a diaper. People say he smells really bad. Getting old sucks for everyone, but it is devastating to a narcissist of Trump's caliber.

Trump is in a psychological prison of unhappiness and all he has left is his rallies and his parties where he tries to trigger memories of better times. He has the world's thickest nostalgia glasses.

Why do you think he says "Make America Great AGAIN"?

He says he is going to restore the US to its "former glory."

Almost every personal and political goal of his is based on restoring how things used to be. Which is why he so easily fit into the regressive Republican party despite being a New York Democrat for most of his life.

Trump has elderly nostalgia brain and he is stuck in a loop. He is desperately trying to recreate his glory days.

I get why people had an issue with the caption. And I should have waited until I had more energy to clarify.

In the end, this man is stuck in his ways and stupendously uncurious of new things.

And those are terrible traits for a president.

[pittrabbit]

warning: angst, fluff, resolution of feelings yay, kissing, a lot of smut, p in v sex, not proofread!!!!, age gap (think 28 and 49), horribly incorrect medical terminology, made up lore about jack's former wife.

summary: after finally snapping at jack, he does something he'd never done before: he grovels. finally allowing himself to let someone in, he chases after you in hopes of doing things right this time around.

word count: 4.3k

part 1

only a few days passed after that last, unfortunate, encounter with you before another harsh day made its way to the ER.

jack couldnt help but worry about you on the harder days at the job. you'd gotten to know each other well enough for you to know each other's coping mechanisms. you knew about his therapy, about his habit of coming in to work when sleep couldn't find him. and in turn, he knew of your loneliness, of your inability to decompartmentalize your emotions after a particularly difficult shift.

this worried him as soon as a massive casualty hit the ER. it had been a car crash. a blunder involving a drunk driver and a truck packed with a family of six. only one survivor — a six year old little girl. it had taken the entire day, with tireless attempts at saving the family, at saving the drunk driver and his passenger, but it was all futile.

you worked along each other, ignoring any issues between you as you attempted to save a young 12 year old boy with head trauma. it was grueling, an impossible case to deal with. and it all proved useless, resulting in the outcome jack saw coming within an hour of working the case. but he continued upon your insistence, realizing you were crashing out and wanting to be there to catch you.

after it was all said and done, he trailed after you, watching from afar just in case. he wanted to ensure you were fine, even if it was from a distance.

it was a selfish need, but he seemingly couldn't help his selfishness when it came to you.

it was surprising to him when you accepted princess' invitation to join the crew in some after-work drinks at the park. it meant he no longer had to keep his distance. it meant he could at least save himself from worrying about your mental state as you went home alone, that he could make sure you could decompress before heading home.

and so now he sat there, beer in hand as he actively avoided looking your way.

he didn't want to be obvious, didn't want to make you uncomfortable or like he kept you under close watch. he had already been scared that you'd leave as soon as you realized he was tagging along. so he wanted to keep his distance, or to at least make you think that he was.

one by one, people began leaving, all while you stood there, mostly quietly nodding along to people's jokes and commentary about the hard day.

in the end, it was only you, jack, robby, and collins left. the more people that left, the harder it was for jack to not zero in on you, to not want to go up to you and grovel, to take the chance that you were finally in his vicinity to make things up with you.

robby — a smart man — and collins — an even smarter woman — took his silent pleas into consideration, eyeing each other before getting up from the bench they were sharing with jack. collins went to give you a quick hug as a goodbye, insisting you take her seat on the bench. knowing you'd hesitate, she guided you despite your lighthearted objections.

robby was the last to say goodbye, offering his friend a subtle nod in encouragement before leaving you on your own.

the silence was heavy, creating warmth in the otherwise chilly atmosphere of the park.

jack remained silent for a few moments, still facing forward as he sipped at his beer.

"kid," he broke the silence, giving you space to speak.

"can we ... can we not talk? i just, i don't know if i can handle talking to you right now," your voice was broken as you said it.

it made jack's heart clench, in pain at the fact that today's events weren't the only reason why you were hurting. it was because of him too.

his body turned to yours on the bench, finding you shelled off, shrinking into yourself as your legs pressed together and you looked down at your lap. it took him a moment to realize you were crying, small sniffles leaving you before a sob escaped your lips.

"fuck, kid ... c'mere," he grabbed his leg off the bench, scooting to your side and wrapping his arm around you.

surprisingly to him, you leaned in, allowing yourself to nuzzle into his chest while he pressed kisses against your hair, humming in a comforting manner as he remained pressed into your hair.

"i- i don't-"

"you don't gotta say anything. just stay here," he reassured, "i'm here, kid. i'm always here."

you stayed silent for a beat or two, "are you, jack? because it really hasn't felt like it lately," you pulled away just enough to look up into his eyes, finding them glassy just like yours.

his gaze averted, swallowing as he attempted not to let the shame show in his features. thing was, you had a point. jack was very well aware of how hot and cold he'd been with you, how little explanation he'd given you for it.

and though he'd been trying to make up for it, he had felt too ashamed to even try and be assertive about it all. communication, something he valued incredibly (specially after all those visits to his therapist), had failed him any time he tried to let himself get closer to you. he felt like a hypocrite telling robby all about therapy and letting himself be vulnerable, all while he did anything but.

truth was, it had been a very long time since he'd felt like this. it had been twelve years since the passing of his wife, an event that had altered his life beyond belief. it had only been a year since he'd stopped wearing the ring to work, advice given with some hesitation by both his therapist and robby. something about needing to move on, to stop being stuck in the past.

it didn't prove useful for a while. it certainly opened up doors for women flirting with him any time he found himself at a bar or outing with his coworkers, but he never really engaged with it, not feeling quite ready for it.

but then he met you.

the effect of meeting you had been almost immediate, he just hadn't realized it until later. and it was this realization that led to him ruining everything.

he cared about you far too much far too quickly. when he finally came to realize it, he knew he was in too deep and completely unprepared for his feelings. attempting to bring it up during therapy had been futile, as he had already made up his mind to let you go, to keep you at an arm's length even if it ended up hurting you both in the process.

you were too young, too new, too polished — and that was completely ignoring the fact that you were his subordinate. being with him would mean dirtying you up with all his issues, forcing all of his trauma on you, showing you the ugly parts of himself that had not seen the surface since his wife had passed. and even then, he'd only gotten worse with time, even more closed off. even his wife wouldnt have been able to handle the dark cloud constantly hanging over his head.

he kept it hidden. he told jokes, encouraged students, was there for his friends, but beneath the surface was too much for him to unravel in front of you.

but pushing you away clearly hadn't been the solution.

because now he found himself even more miserable than before. and even worse, he found you destroyed by his actions, crying as he held on to you late at night on a public park.

"i'm here, kid. i'm always here, you know that," he finally answered your question, pulling you even closer, perhaps more for his own sanity than yours.

you continued looking at him, a knot in your brows and a pouty lip sticking out, giving him the look of a petulant child.

"you can't do this, jack," you shook your head, correcting yourself, "i mean, doctor abbot. sorry, force of habit."

he shook his head slowly in return, lifting up a hand to your cheek and making you turn to him, "hey, it's jack to you, okay? none of that formality bullshit."

you scoffed, "how- how am i supposed to read you, jack? how do i know when you're doctor abbot to me or when you're jack? i'm ... i'm so tired of this. i don't think i can do this anymore," you paused, scooting back slightly so you could look at him better. you swallowed and looked away for a brief moment, as if you needed to build up the courage for what you were going to say next, "i applied at a hospital next town over to continue my rotation there. they, uhm, they called me yesterday. i just need to sign the papers and then-"

"what?"

he turned serious, harshly grabbing his prosthetic off the floor and putting it on before standing up with conviction. chuckling with bitterness, he ran his hand down his face, turning to you as he paced in front of the bench you'd been sitting on.

"you're, what, you're leaving? its- it's that easy for you?"

then you turned serious, anger invading your features before you got up and stood in front of him, chin tilted upwards as you spoke.

"easy? you think this shit is easy for me? i've been here for almost a year. i love everyone here, but you- god, you're driving me fucking insane. what do you even want from me?," you ranted, hands flying up and down as you spoke with conviction, "first you teach me, you take me under your wing, you treat me as your favorite, and you- you make me think that maybe you might even like me" you paused, looking away for a second with insecurity behind your eyes, "but you were too much of a coward to admit it to yourself and decide to shun me instead? you push me away, refuse to teach me, fuck, you acted like you hated me — no, but here's the kicker! when i do the same in return, that's when you decide to switch it back up on me? what am i supposed to do with that, jack? i can't deal with this anymore, i can't-"

jack had heard enough. truly, he had heard enough five seconds into your rant, but he'd never seen you speak with such emotion. he knew you needed this, to get all your anger for him out of your system so you could complete the cycle of emotions you were going through because of him.

it was just that he needed to get something out of his system too.

taking two determined steps towards you, his hands went up to your cheeks, engulfing almost the entirety of your face in between them before pulling you towards him.

kissing you had been the most decisive thing he'd done since meeting you. no overthinking, no faltering, just doing what he'd been too ashamed of even picturing for the past months in which he'd known you.

the kiss turned intense almost immediately, invading his every sense as he coaxed your lips open with his tongue before slipping it inside. you sighed, finally allowing him to feel your hands on him when you brought them up tot he back of his head, toying and pulling at his hair any time he'd suck on your tongue.

the sounds you released against his lips had him breathing in deep, almost as if buffering at the effect you had on him. his hands came down to your lower back, pulling you against his body, ensuring no space would be left between you.

admittedly, jack was not expecting you to pull away within mere moments of what he would've called a life-changing kiss. his lips chased yours for a few seconds before realizing what was happening, opening his eyes to find your eyes on his.

"n-no, jack! i can't do this, i can't just- i need something better than this. i deserve better," you reprimanded, but you didn't pull away. you stayed in his hold, with your hands now lying on his chest.

jack took a deep breath, giving himself a moment to enjoy the light breeze around you before zeroing in on your eyes. it was imperative to him to always look you in the eyes, to have his entire focus on you as he spoke to you.

"you're right. you deserve better," his hands went up and down your back in a comforting manner, "and i'll give you better. i'll give you anything you want."

"how am i supposed to believe that?"

you looked away, staring down at your feet due to the intensity of his gaze, but he wasn't having it. his hand went up to your chin, encompassing it between his thumb and his index finger as he lifted up your chin so you'd face him again.

"hey- hey, eyes on me. i- i cant explain what i feel for you, okay? i've been a fucking idiot, and i know i don't deserve another chance, but i do care about you. more than i can even understand," he began, not once leaving your eyes, "i did this all wrong. i didn't want you wasting your life with an old man like me, with someone who doesn't even know how to love anymore," his hand went up to trace your cheek with his thumb, "but i was wrong. and if you let me, i'll prove it all to you. what do you say, kid? will you give me another chance?", he practically pleaded, taking a deep breath before speaking again, "i love you, kid. i need you to at least know that."

you stayed silent for a few moments, scaring the fuck out of jack as you did so, but then you looked back up to him with a smile.

"you know, if we're gonna do this, maybe it's time you stop calling me kid, you old man," you nodded at him.

in disbelief, he laughed, shaking his head at you, "yeah? that's all you got out of this?," he laughed unlike he usually did, with jubilation that was unfamiliar to him, "hmm, how about 'baby,' then? huh? or 'honey'? 'sweetheart'? you gotta give me ideas here, kid. i don't know what the youth's saying nowadays."

laughing along with him, you nudged him in faux annoyance, "stop talking like that, you're not 70!"

he interrupted your teasing by burying his face in your neck, kissing it lightly a few times before reaching your lips, shutting up your laughter with his tongue in your mouth.

you fell into the kiss easily, moaning into his mouth when he deepened it and pulling him closer by twisting your fingers in his hair.

"hmm," you hummed when you pulled away, "i love you too, by the way. in case that wasn't completely obvious by now."

"i think i might need some proof, kid," he teased.

rolling your eyes, you scoffed, "again with the kid-"

but he interrupted you again with another kiss, this time heavier, this time more lustful. his hands traced your jaw, holding it in place so he could explore your mouth as he pleased.

your reaction to his touch, to his kiss, were nothing but euphoric to jack. you melted into him, humming and sighing at every swipe of his tongue against yours. jack pulled you closer by your hips, causing an incidental grace of your hips with one another. this pulled a groan from jack, who was already beginning to harden and knew he was a gone man upon the very first touch of lips.

"kid, i-"

"take me home, jack," you sighed, eyes closed and lips scraping by his own, not allowing him an answer before your tongue snuck out and licked at his top lip, sucking it lightly afterwards.

jack lost his sanity then, but he was fortunately well trained for such moments. he had a soldier's ability to remain stoic whenever necessary.

but the military didn't train him for how to deal with you.

so he caved.

"are you sure?", he tried to keep his composure, to think reasonably for the two of you.

your lips went south, reaching his jaw and then his neck as you kissed and sucked at it, moaning into his skin as if you were the receiver of the pleasure.

"please, jack," you reached his ear then, teeth scrapping his lobe, "i've been waiting for so long."

for the first time in more years than he could count, jack shuddered, a heavy exhale leaving him at your tongue suddenly licking at the shell of his ear. his hands gripped your hips, pushing you up against the hardness between you as he groaned.

"you want to kill me," he huffed, giving in.

"take me home so i can finish the job," you continued, relentless in ruining him.

he nodded, breathless, utilizing herculean effort to separate himself from you and grabbing your hand, leading you in the direction of his car parked a couple blocks away.

once in the car, you didn't want to keep your hands off him, pulling him in for another kiss before he could even fasten his seatbelt.

"you're going to make us end back at the ER, honey," he grumbled between kisses, hand on your wrist as you pulled his head towards you.

"fine, i'll calm down," you sighed dramatically as you pulled away (much to jack's hypocritical dismay)

౨ৎ

"you know, i always pegged you as someone a someone a little more shy," jack attempted to speak as you pushed him up against the wall of his apartment.

"yeah? you feel i'm taking advantage of you, doc?", you jested back, a cheshire cat smile on your slips as you had your way with him.

jack's hands remained on your waist, pulling you close while you peppered kisses down the length of his neck. they reached under your scrub top, feeling the warm skin at the dip of your back, groaning at the softness found there.

"take as much advantage as you want," he hummed after a few moments of silence, just taking in every touch you blessed him with.

your mouth creeped north reaching his ear, hands now under his shirt and tracing at the skin of his abdomen. breathing against his ear, you kissed it, whispering into it, "but what if i want you to take advantage of me?"

"fuck, kid ... you're going to kill me," but despite his words, his hands wrapped around you, nudging you up so you could wrap your legs around his waist.

it was a bit of a messy trek, but you made it to his bed in one piece, being settled down on it with gentleness. refusing to let jack get too far from you, your legs remained around him as he threw off his shirt, hastening in removing his prosthetic, shoes, pants, and leaving only his boxers on. he watched you intensely as he undressed, all while you made sex eyes at him, biting your lip and swallowing at every new sliver of skin uncovered.

"you look like you want to eat me," he chuckled, climbing the bed and kneeling on top of you, using his hands to lift himself up above you.

"there's a lot of things i want to do to you," you sighed back, lifting your head so you could steal a kiss, pulling him down by grabbing the back of his neck.

desperate for more, your legs fully wrapped around his back, pulling him down so your middles could connect. this earned a groan directly into your mouth along with a whine of your own. luckily jack took the hint, beginning to gyrate his hips against your own, giving you the desired friction despite your scrub pants and his boxers being in the way.

"oh, god, jack ..." you sighed, mouth open and allowing jack access to suck your tongue.

your hands became antsy, scratching at his back in anguish at the pressure you were craving in your stomach. meanwhile, his own hands slipped under your shirt once more, hesitant in pulling it up before you aided him in the act, lifting yourself up a bit in order to throw it off.

under it, he found a lacy bra, baby pink and contrasting against your skin perfectly. it was comfy, not too much, but it had a cute little bow in the middle, giving jack whiplash as he stared down at you dumbfounded.

"fuck, kid," he shook his head in disbelief, "i dont know if i can handle you," his lips lowered, kissing at your collarbones, dragging his kisses to your sternum and ending up at the top of your breasts.

"what, old man, you're gonna tell me you're out of practice?", you teased as you reached behind you to pull your bra off, making jack freeze against your chest for a second before allowing himself to look at your nude upper half.

"you're a fucking dream, kid," he huffed, voice in a complete state of incredulity. he then leaned down again, kissing at your breasts, licking and biting and sucking, taking in every moan that left your lips while his hips took on a slow and steady pace as they ground into yours, "don't even know where to start with you."

"just fuck me," you cried, pulling his head back up to your lips, "i want you so bad, jack."

he groaned at this, but even more so when he felt your hand reach down to his boxers, one hand slipping inside and gripping his dick while the other scratched at the hem, pulling down the fabric.

"you sure, baby?" he had to check one last time, though he knew he wouldnt be able to take it if you made him stop now. he had never felt this needy, like he'd die if he didnt get more of you.

you nodded with desperation, furrowed brows and pleading eyes staring up at him in a ruinous manner.

shuffling so you could remove your scrub pants and panties from under him, you finally ended up fully nude and ready, gasping when you felt his fingers run through the wetness between your legs.

jack grabbed at himself, positioning his dick right against your cunt and finally pushing in with a heavy grown.

dropping his head against your neck, he took a deep breath, groaning at the feeling of finally entering you.

"jack ... fuck, jack, you feel so good," you were delirious as you said it, nails already running down his back.

in the meantime, jack was in heaven. he hadnt felt so lightheaded in years. your mere touch already had his heart going a mile a minute and his brain turning off, but the feeling of you like this — warm, wet, welcoming — made every bit of misery in his life become worth it.

"fucking perfect ... that's it, baby, take it for me," he began moving, hips creating that slamming sound of skin that he'd grown so unfamiliar with.

the man above you lost himself in the pleasure, grunting in tandem with every thrust and wrapping his arms around your waist to pull you as close to him as possible, breathing in the natural scent of your skin.

and even though the pleasure was unimaginable, jack simply wanted more, wanted to have you louder, more broken for him. he'd always been a bit of an overachiever, after all.

softly, he pulled out, shushing you when you whined at the separation and getting you on your hands and knees. his hands massaged the skin of your hips, dipping your back lower so you'd arch it even more for him and groaning at the sight.

"look at you ..." he mumbled almost to himself.

then he entered you again, now deeper, heavier, adding more pressure to your belly and making you immediately wail at the feeling. that's when jack truly lost himself. completely drunk on the feeling, jack hammered into you, huffing and puffing at the overexertion of energy he was currently displaying.

"i'm gonna cum, jack, shit ..." you said with an uncharted desperation, only making jack speed up, knowing that the moment you came, he was gone.

and he'd been right. as soon as your climax took over you, you pulled him right down with you, forcing him to spill inside you without the ability to even warn you. you'd taken him by surprise as per usual.

there were, once more, complaints from you when he finally pulled out of you, leaving the warmth of your skin to clean himself up and wipe up any of his remains that spilled out of you. he just tutted at you, but still hurried himself up so he could finally lay down with you, have that intimacy he'd craved from you since day one.

side by side, jack felt offended by any amount of distance, pulling you as close as possible while his hands traced at the curve of your hips, grabbing your leg and throwing him over his waist so any distance would be eliminated. your hands played with his chest, fingers tracing figures at the expanse of it while you smiled shyly at him.

"how you feeling, gorgeous?"

you muffled a giggle by pressing your face into his chest, kissing the skin once, twice, before leaning up for a kiss on his lips.

"better than i've felt in a very long time. how about you, old man?", you hummed into his lips.

"never felt better."

"you just had to one-up me, didn't you?" you scowled falsely at him.

he tsk'd at you in fake annoyance, a very common display from him, "gotta keep you on your toes, kid."

note: did not know how to end it lol and its also not proofread but i hope you enjoy anyways!

[skyrigel]

Can you write an image in which Benedict is obsessed with Y/N and is always looking for reasons to touch her. However, Y/N knows that when it comes to women, Benedict quickly gets what he wants... sex. She keeps him waiting and doesn’t sleep with him until the wedding day.

Obsessed with you | I

Part 1 | Part 2

Pairing: Benedict bridgerton x afab!reader

Synopsis: Ton's most eligible bachelor is obsessed with the mystery lady in silver, and would do anything to have her

Warning: Reader's mother has issues, scandalous family, last name Rose for convience, Benedict being a smug bastard, some regency class differences, cute Polin, cute kathony, minor non-con touching, smoking cigar, lots of teasing and ofcourse obsessive and possession behaviour. Might be toxic! Benedict but please he's a cutie.

Dearest gentle readers,

While for sure we have seen former Rake now Kate's beloved whipped husband, and Colin bridgerton who is so smitten with his dearest wife that it will not come forward a surprise if he hasn't set foot out in all these days, but Benedict bridgerton is neither whipped nor smitten, he is, as the poets would whisper, obsessed. It will be amusing to know who this mystery lady is, with her dazzling silver gown and piercing eyes, sharp enough as she carved the gentleman's heart out.

Benedict was a man for art and muse so forgive him if he got so obsessed with you, the real question was, how could he not ? You were the most gorgeous woman he had ever seen, clad in your most dazzling blue dress that he wanted nothing but to take off.

" She exaggerates." Anthony pouted, he shouldn't know that he had but he's been pouting a lot lately, it's called 'kateffect'

" No, you've been domesticated brother, just admit it, Kate has tamed you." Colin peppered, sprawling down next to Anthony who greeted him with the most glaring glare.

" Like you're any better." Anthony smirked, setting his gaze on Benedict who read the index again.

" Penelope doesn't know her name ? " Benedict worried his jaw, looking between his brothers.

" I take that back, Penelope didn't exaggerate, you're really very much obsessed." Anthony remarked, Colin nodded.

" Oi, she would've known your mystery lady's full name and history but—"

" Don't complete that, I'll duel you."

" In the middle of a ball ? " Benedict laughed, eyes amused, Colin turned a crimson red.

" Rather tempting—"

" Oi! " Anthony raised his brow, his mouth curving in disdain, as Colin staggered away, leaving Anthony praying to lord behind like he was any better.

" Oh dear." Benedict smiled when once alone, thumb caressing the index, as if it was the mystery lady in silver blue gown, accused of taking away the gentleman's heart.

" Who are you ? " He whispered.

_

" Ma'am, would you like something else ? " Mrs. Turner asked once you were seated on your dressing, playing with several glassy bottles with colourful scenty substances.

" In yesterday's masquerade ball, I was dancing with a Bridgerton—" Mrs. Turner tutted softly," He's Benedict bridgerton, i assume."

" Yes, indeed, the only bachelor bridgerton boy of age." Mrs. Turner pulled the corset strings and you gasped, feeling your internals squeeze in the process.

You smiled, thinking about the way Benedict looked at you, all stars in his eyes.

" I..it is not my place miss but as your well wisher, i would say.." she worried her jaw.

" It's okay Mrs. Turner, you should speak your mind." You assured her, feeling her fingers stop at your back as she looked at your reflection in the mirror.

" Benedict bridgerton's a rake, unlike any other gentleman... he's known to engage women with class and wits...artists, musicians, and other dimplomacy that are odd amongst our sex."

" Oh." You nodded, feeling stupid enough to think those were meant for you, like they were of real affection.

" I wouldn't want you any harm, after your father's death and your inheritance affairs, you couldn't afford another scandal, for a good match—"

" My virtue should stay intact ? " You raised your chin, examining the stain of rose on your lips.

" Your sister was a good girl madam, so are you." Mrs. Turner smiled, her eyes crinkling with deepest concerns.

-

Benedict's eyes were searching for you everywhere, he has been waiting for you since so long. Despite anxious mamas forcing introductions and dances, he was looking only for you.

" Miss Rose." Benedict turned to see his sister in law, smiling a smirk, followed by her husband in tow.

" You wound me Pen, it's Benedict bridgerton! " He laughed, much to Colin's dismay.

" Oh well your mystery lady is Miss Rose, daughter of late Duke of Blair field and lady bloom." Colin was one step away from clapping.

" Wow." Benedict's mouth curved in a delightful 'o'.

" Oh well they are rather scandalous, her sister was rumoured to be not a virgin which deceased all of her prospects of marriages, her mother is rather protective of her."

" Pen, did I tell you how you're my favourite sister ? " Benedict perked his gaze towards the entrance, hoping for you to bless him.

" Don't let Eloise hear that." Colin said, outstretching his arm that Penelope held as they swirled between the crowd, laughing.

_

" You shall not be unchaperoned." Your mother had a faraway look in her eyes, her hand was trembling and you surged the desire to just hold it.

" I understand, mama." You bowed your head once, trying to forget the trembling of her hands.

" Don't engage in gossips dearest, better keep to yourself and..." She forgot what she was saying, her lips trembling along, you looked at Mrs. Turner with a pleading gaze.

" Ma'am, we must make haste." She simply said, your mother spared a glance to you, her mouth tightening around the corners.

" You look beautiful child." She looked away, you pretended not to see the tear that glistented down her cheek.

After securing yourself in the carriage, with your dress squeezing the life out you, you finally breathed.

" I envy Gissele." You said softly, caressing the uneven glittering fake diamonds.

" She would say the same." Mary mumbled, she was Mrs. Turner's daughter who rather got scolded every often for being too blunt. You liked her alot.

" Oh wouldn't it be so wonderful to just lay in bed, reading a book and wearing simple soft dresses." You perked up at the idea of a life like that, a simple homely cottage, filled with warmth and sweetness and books.

" But the society has it's own fun, look at you, pretty dresses, pretty shoes, and all those prince charming lords." Mary took your fan and mimicked the motion, you smiled.

" Well you could always borrow a dress, have some fun." Your eyes glinted, Mary shaked her head.

" C'mon." You grabbed her wrist, shaking them, up and down profusely.

" No, mama will kill me ! "

" But the fun ?! No one would know, they haven't seen me, they don't know me."

" Well i can't pretend to be you, what would happen if somebody caught us."

" Don't then, be yourself ! Mary Turner."

" Sounds like a bad idea." Mary said, her smile deceived her.

" Lord Turner of Riverdales, be their relative, no one hardly pays attention."

" Whistledown does." Mary narrowed her eyes, you looked out to make sure you haven't yet reached.

" Well she called me a mystery woman who apparantly took a gentleman's heart."

" Oh Mr. Bridgerton's a known gentleman." You scoffed at that, Mary's brow knitted together as she studied you.

" What ? He's a rake." You brushed the tingling away, feeling the way Benedict's gaze lingered on you, the way he twirled you around like you were the only real thing, the way he flushed and stumbled through his words, attempting to know absolutely anything about you.

" I highly doubt that, never heard anything about him."

" Presumably he has a longing for accomplised women." You finger quoted it with a scowl that was too unladylike, Mary bursted into fits of giggles.

" What ? " You poked her, she shaked with her guffaw, chortling in her way.

" You fancy him." She said, chuckling the ' him' away, you frowned deeply, heart leaping at the ton that was gathered outside lady Danbury's exquisite ball.

" Utter rubbish. Do you still want to have fun ? " You asked, Mary smiled.

_

Benedict gaze perked up when you and Mary stumbled through the ball, Mary was almost shaking and you were sure her clothes didn't fit much to you, you felt your back prickling with burning gaze and you turned.

" Told you he's a rake. Don't be friendly to him." You whispered to Mary who was about to run when Benedict dropped his conversation with lord White, swaggering towards you.

" What if he recognises you ? " She mumbled and your lower lip trembled, but that's not possible, your mask obscured your whole face except your lips and eyes and certainly he hadn't painted you in his mind, afterall he shouldn't be that obsessed.

" My lady." He bowed, his gaze locking in yours as he kissed the hand Mary very reluctantly gave him, he was amused when Mary mumbled a hasty greeting, her manners mimicked.

" You look exquisite, more than the ball itself." He was clearly flattered when Mary blinked hard, looking at you for help.

You rolled your eyes when Benedict too, looked at you with a similar pleading as Mary.

" Forgive me my lord, my lady is tired—"

" We haven't been introduced i remember, Benedict bridgerton." He grinned, he actually freaking grinned as Mary glanced at you with the corner of her eye.

" Lady Mariam Turner." She blurted it quickly, looking at you for approval, " A pleasure." Mary smiled, you nodded.

" Forgive me Mr. Bridgerton." You cleared your throat, Benedict's gaze penetrated through you, he was setting you on fire and you couldn't do anything but to burn.

" My lady is tired, you must excuse us." You felt your throat dry, your whole body withering when Benedict narrowed his eyes, lingering specifically on your lips and treading down slowly.

" Indeed, I must not keep you." He cocked his head to Mary, humming along as you strode past him. You were sure he only whispered the ' not ' out of curtsy.

_

" That was bloody brilliant ! " You giggled while Mary shaked her head, clutching her bossom. Your footsteps echoing in the abandoned corridor, stiffling back your giggles.

" That was bloody scary and I can't breathe." Mary heaved, her breath easing when you patted her back.

" Lady Mariam Turner." You teased, bumping your hip as Mary looked at you, gasping scandalously.

" Shut up. I almost died." Mary pulled her dress that sticked to her skin, trying to fan in some air.

" Do you think he recognised me ? " Your cheeks blazed at the heat of the memory of him, his teasing glances and amused smiles.

" I...I think it was rather amusing that we were messing up, did you see how I trembled? " Mary shaked her hand, as you laughed at the display.

" No, my lady." You said, once your giggles subsided, " You were exquisite."

Mary wacked your arm, her smile unable to hide through the twitch of her lips.

" So, shall we go home ? "

" Would you mind waiting in the carriage ? "

" Don't tell me—" Mary glared, you pouted with puppy eyes.

" Please, you know it's my only way."

" Smoking is bad." Mary declared, " and for men." She added grimly, you nodded along, grabbing her wrist.

" Please, please, please."

" Only if you give back my clothes, i miss them." She touched the soft cotton of her clothes that you were wearing, you perked up eagerly.

_

You took joy at the puffs of smoke that ridiculed the air, the night chill freezing it into clouds of silvery mist.

Mary was dozing off in the carriage until it was time to go home, so early arrival doesn't raise any questions and your mother fast asleep, her trembling lipped questions saved for the next day.

" I thought your lady was tired." You almost dropped your cigar, jumping up the swing as it creaked at sudden outburst.

" Don't drop it, i don't have any with me." His smile was too big and smug for his face, his nonchalance dripped as he took the swing opposite of you. You stared, for some reason cigar still burning in intricate yellow blazing circles, dropping to ashes.

" Forgive me my lord—" you just remembered you were no longer in Mary's clothes.

" That's the only line you grasped so far ? " Benedict leaned on his swing, catching your wrist as he dragged you to sit.

You sat down with a thud, swing jiggling with your weight as you processed his smile.

" I..." You stammered, flushing in heat as he inhaled you in, you were back in your clothes, the one you were supposed to wear. And Mary was right, you couldn't breathe.

" I would say you look beautiful, in everything, in anything..or—" in nothing.

" I should leave." You throat itched.

" Stay." He was soft, almost a whine, a plead.

" Please don't tell anyone." You tried your best persuading smile, it worked on Gissele all the time, your lips pouting and eyes shining with stars.

Benedict's mouth curved in a smile, he clicked his tongue as he attempted to speak but he found he couldn't. A pause, then—

" You love tormenting me, don't you ? " Benedict took the burning cigar from you, locking your eyes with his own as he brought it to his mouth, a sound escaped him as his lips curved around the warmness that belonged to you, he inhaled deeply.

" I don't know what you're talking about." You tore away you eyes from the erotic display of smoking, he hummed in a dry scoff.

" Ofcourse, you wouldn't." He offered the Cigar back, every word coated with sarcasm.

The breeze was so cold that you shivered, moon hanging low in the night sky and every star stared back, Sirius, Rigel, and all of them.

" I never meant to offend you." You took the cigar back, his fingers brushed, a electrifying wave rippling inside you, like the way he held your hand and danced with you in the masquerade ball.

You noticed his flexing but said nothing, heart beating too fast to be sane and alive.

" Miss Rose—" you gasped, how could he know your name, "—have you ever been kissed ? "

" I...Benedict..lord." you clamped your mouth shut, lips suddenly struck by a bolt as they buzzed.

He leaned as you felt your back touching the rope of swing, his face too close... would he kiss you ? Would it be as electrifying as the rest of his touches ? Would you survive it or simply burn like a pheonix ?

" It's okay, we would alot when we get married. " He took away the cigar and dropped it as it was so close to burn your skin, smiling all the while. Was that a proposal ?

" Go home, it's getting cold, Mrs-yet-to-be bridgerton." And he pressed his lips against your forehead, his smile caressing your heart.

Rigel's note 🪩: while I loved this idea especially the hilarious ' Benedict gets what he wants....sex ' but I needed to base it, so it doesn't come as pervy and non con as it might, to make it comfortable enough to write on my part, I have tried to break it into parts, this part is generally meet up and getting obsession with y/n ( no use in fic ) and other will be courting and marriage bliss. Gif not mine.

[joelsmeadow]

Forbidden Fruit [Part 2] - Joel Miller x AFAB!Reader

Summary: this is the fix it chapter. Joel and Reader are in an established relationship as he heals from his injuries, and the younger members of the family make a guest appearance for family movie night.

Contents & Warnings: spoilers for 2.02 but That didn't happen. Age gap unspecified but exists. Established relationship. Unprotected PIV. One (1) degrading pet name from Joel. Praise. One (1) spank. Mentions of traumatic injury. PTSD implied/briefly mentioned. Creampie/unsafe PIV. Reader is AFAB but no physical description beyond being able bodied (or at least moreso than Joel).

Notes: we can all collectively agree 2.02 was not a vibe, yes? Cool. I offer my contribution to the fix it stash.

Word Count: 2.7k. || Part 1 Here

- x. -

You've lost count of how many times you've thanked whatever God is still listening for Joel's life.

Having lived through and existing in the world of the outbreak, you thought you knew fear. Nothing could have prepared you for the sheer terror that had come with Ellie and Jesse riding back into Jackson after the blizzard, Dina half conscious with Ellie, and Jesse supporting a literally comatose Joel.

A group of five, they had explained. Military, maybe. Former Fireflies. One with a vendetta. She had beaten Joel half to death before Ellie and Jesse had arrived. Had had the element of surprise and sheer fucking luck on their hands.

He had been unconscious for the better part of a week, and you? You had felt frozen in time with him, barely moving from his side unless you had to, whilst the town doctor and medics moved around you like bees.

That was months ago now. Joel's eyesight was worse in one eye, it had taken him a while to recover from the concussion, and he walked with a limp - would walk with a limp for the rest of his life, if the doctor was right.

But he was alive. Alive and with you. Alive and reconciled with Ellie, who had not only managed to work out their issues, but had finally started calling him 'dad'. Joel hadn't made a huge deal out of it, but you knew it meant the world to him. More than the world.

He had expected you to leave; you're young, he had said. You didn't need to be saddling yourself with a broken old man, he had said. You had kissed him until he had shut up, changed the butterfly bandage on his forehead, pressed a featherlight kiss to his uninjured temple. And eventually he had realised you meant it. That you weren't going anywhere. That you, and Dina, and Jesse, were all a part of his family now.

The months ticked on; Jackson slowly rebuilt, Joel slowly healed, and you moved into his house. Every night that you fell asleep beside him, every morning you woke tangled together, and you didn't take a single one for granted.

Ellie wanted to make fun of you, wanted to tease in the way that only a young adult watching a parent fall in love could manage, but she had come so close to losing Joel too that any joke or comment about acting like it was the last day you'd get together seemed to hit a little too close to home.

The weather is warming, though it's still cold outside. Still a faint chill in the air. The day is slowly turning to evening, and you have a pot roast on the stove ready for later.

Dina has made coffee; everyone has a mug. Joel sits on the couch, his glasses a little crooked as he tips a spoon of sugar into his coffee cup. Ellie sits on one side of him, Dina with her head on her shoulder. You sit on his other side, leaning into him like you're one person instead of two.

All that's missing from this scene is -

"Fuckin' hallmark postcard in here." Jesse shakes snow off his boots on the porch and hangs up his coat as he walks in, ignores the middle finger he's given in greeting from Ellie.

"You're late. We were gonna start without you." Dina says, clearly ribbing him.

Jesse looks mock horrified, turns to Joel as if to clarify that such blasphemy would occur. Joel just offers the younger man a 'I just live here' sort of shrug and a grin.

You get up to fix Jesse a coffee, come back to him sprawled in the armchair, Die Hard loaded up on the television waiting. It's an old movie. A classic, really. The sort of thing you can all lose yourselves in.

Which you do, for the next few hours; the five of you lose yourselves in the action movie misadventures of John Maclane, quoting your favourite lines to one another back and forth over the dinner table long after the credits roll.

The five of you eat the pot roast, the strawberry tarts you made especially for movie night because they're Joel's favourite. It's close to nine when the girls - women, really, but they'll always be girls to you - retreat out to the garage for the night. You offer the spare room to Jesse but he just grins, says he has to be up early for a patrol anyway, and bids you goodnight.

You wash the dishes and Joel leans against the bench top to dry them, both of you packing everything away before you go up to bed for the night.

He's still a little slow on the stairs, much to his own chagrin, a step behind you with muffled cursing.

"Fuckin' leg. Bitch knew where she was shootin', dammit."

Wordlessly you stop so you can help him. Ignore the attempt to muffle the sigh he makes, because he hates needing help. Hates that he accepts it, even though he loves you dearly.

"I know what you're thinkin', that I'm damn lucky to still have my leg," Joel grouses as you reach the bedroom, help him with the flannel shirt that he's wearing.

"Actually, no." You say, as you hang up the well loved green and blue plaid, "I'm thinking I'm lucky you're still here, bad leg, complaints and all."

You turn around to see him shaking his head with an unreadable expression on his face.

"Make it fuckin' hard to complain about shit when you put it that way, sweetheart."

You sigh, worried you've upset him as you cross to the bed where he's sitting, wrap your arms around him.

"You can complain as much as you like. I'll be glad to listen. Because it means you're still here with me." You press a soft kiss to his mouth. Inhale the wood and gunpowder scent of him.

Joel wants to tell you that that's lame, that he's too old to be worthy of that sort of affection. But he doesn't, because he's been so close to death he can taste it, and if for some reason you feel the same way about him as he feels about you, well. That's your issue.

So what he says instead is:

"Sorry, sweetheart. Ain't getting rid of me that easy."

Wanting to make you laugh. Only, you don't. You manage a weak giggle, only your eyes well up a little and it makes him feel like shit, because while he's at a point where he can joke about how close to death he was, it still upsets the hell out of you and Ellie.

"Aw, shit. Don't cry, darlin', I'm okay..." he pulls himself up off the bed so he can wrap you up in his arms, pull you against his broad frame and let you feel the warmth of him, his steady breathing.

You bury your face in his chest and listen to his heart, strong and steady, until you don't feel like you're about to break into a million pieces or hyperventilate. Then and only then do you look up at him.

You want to tell him he scared the hell out of you, but what good is that? He knows that already, and it's not exactly his fault. So you go for something else instead, something equally true.

"I love you, Joel, you know that?"

His thumb brushes away a stray tear that's still on your cheek as he nods.

"Yeah, darlin', I know. I love you too."

Maybe before the incident at the lodge he might have taken your words less seriously, but now, with a far too close call under his belt, Joel knows how much he means to you. How much you mean to him.

How, as he had been sure he was going to die, he had hoped somehow you would feel that he loved you as he left the world. Only to come to a week later with you on one side, holding onto his hand like you thought he might disappear if you let go, Ellie on the other.

How the first words out of his mouth had been "my girls okay?" before you'd dissolved into relieved sobs and Ellie had begun berating him about how he'd scared her to death and was he stupid and how fucking dare he do that to them all, as if he had had any say in his own attempted murder.

"Joel-"

You barely get his name out of your mouth before he's on you, his lips covering yours, gathering you up in his arms again, because fuck if he isn't going to savour each and every one of these moments with you now.

The kiss is long, intense. Half because he doesn't think he'll ever get tired of kissing you, and half because he doesn't want to hear your protests about how he still needs to take it easy. He can take it easy when he's in his eighties and on his actual deathbed. Having been there before, he knows he's nowhere close at the moment, and nothing is going to stop him from being intimate with you.

"Joel, we have to - mm - be careful," sure enough, you get the words out as he pulls your shirt off, nuzzles into your collarbone and kisses the side of your neck.

"Fuck being careful." Joel growls into your skin, somehow soft even after the harshness of the outbreak and the weather. "Keep tellin' me to be careful I'll tie you to the bed and fuck you like the mouthy slut you're actin' like."

He's rewarded with heat rushing to your cheeks, the knowledge that he can toe the line between sweet and filthy just right without actually disrespecting you. Only -

"Your back would give out before you could, old timer." You tease, and he laughs, lays a heavy swat to your ass with his big hand.

He can't even be pissed about it because you're right. Twenty years ago he could have bent you over every surface in this house. Maybe even ten. But now, rough sex between you involves you on your hands and knees, maybe his hand around your throat.

He's become softer with age, more gentle in how he handles his lovers. Even moreso with you.

"Shut up," he mumbles, though he's still kissing your throat so you know you're off the hook this time as you thread your fingers through his soft curls.

Even between kisses and the slowness that comes with his damaged leg, you manage to get every layer of clothing between you off, tossed to the floor of the bedroom with very little regard for it. You'll probably grumble about it in the morning when you go to do laundry while he laughs at you, but for now it's the furthest thing from your mind as you collapse back onto the bed, tugging him with you.

He might still be recovering from an injury and older, but he's still strong, still able to prop himself up on one hand as he leans over you, cages you in.

Your hands wander, gentle, reverent almost, as you lightly touch each and every scar on his body. Less than a year ago, he barely let you see his torso, see the map of brutality time has left across his olive skin. Now he almost hums and purrs under your touch as your hands move back up to his face. Cup his cheeks as you lean up to kiss him, moan when he licks into your mouth.

His free hand moves between your thighs, finds you soaked for him already, just from a few kisses, a few touches. Joel doesn't think he'll ever get over that, that feeling of elation that comes with being so easily wanted by someone, without any sort of stipulations.

"Joel..."

He doesn't think he'll ever get over that, either. That soft, whimpering plea of his name that somehow manages to be so full of equal parts love and lust.

Normally you both make an effort with foreplay, take pride in it, enjoy it. Taking your time with one another. But there are times like this where you just need each other, need to become one too much to bother with anything beforehand. All he cares about in this moment is that you're wet enough to take him, and God knows you are.

He slides into you in a single, fluid motion, grunting with satisfaction as your tight heat welcomes him, your fingers flying to his curls and knitting there as you inhale sharply.

Joel loves that fucking sound. That sweet little intake of breath when he fills you up with his cock, knowing it's almost too big for you. Almost too much, and yet you're always begging for him to keep going.

"You good, sweetheart?" He knows you are, can feel your warm inner walls constricting around his cock, can feel how wet you are. Can see the pleasure on your face even without him moving.

Still, you nod, confirm your pleasure with him before he moves, rolling his hips against yours. He has to be careful, doesn't want to piss off his stupid damaged leg, doesn't want you to worry, so he goes for slow and deep rather than fucking into you hard and fast like he once used to.

You don't mind; find you prefer this pace anyway, the intimacy of it, of his broad frame caging you in as he moves above you. You draw your knees up so he can get deeper, moaning when he hits your sweet spot.

"Fuck, good girl, such a pretty sound-" he groans, runs his thumb over your lower lip before he leans down to kiss you.

Eagerly you lean up to return the kiss before you fall back against the pillows, settle yourself there as you pull him close. His mouth finds yours, before he kisses down your throat.

Pressing his cock in deep, he grinds against you, drawing obscene moans from your lips as his mouth finds a peaked nipple, sucks it into his mouth greedily. Only when you're trembling beneath him does he release it with a lewd pop before giving its twin the exact same treatment, still grinding against you, getting the entirety of his thick length deep inside.

He isn't playing fair, is pulling every single trick he knows to make you cum, and it's working. Before you even realise it, you're almost there, a whimpering, trembling mess as he devours your mouth in greedy kisses.

"Go on, sweetheart. Go on an' cum for me now."

It's that soft, still dominant demand that sends you. Your entire body trembles beneath his as your pussy tightens around him, fluttering and weeping around the cock splitting you open.

Joel doesn't last much longer, knows you don't give a shit whether he lasts three minutes or thirty, groaning and cursing as he spills inside you, using the very last of the stamina he has to prevent himself from collapsing on top of you.

It's only after, when he's rolled off of you and you're curled under the blankets together, his arms around you, that the thought strikes you.

"Do you think Jesse didn't take the guest room because he knew?" You ask.

Joel fixes you with a look that can only be described as amused.

"Yeah, darlin', I think he knew."

You dissolve into a fit of laughter, mildly horrified by the idea that the younger adults in your lives are, God forbid, aware you have a sex life.

He shakes his head, presses a kiss to your forehead as you curl into his side. Maybe tomorrow you'll go into town, trade some strawberries from your garden for something. Bread, maybe.

One thing is for certain. Neither of you take these little moments for granted, nor the love you have for one another and your strange little family.

[oceandolores]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐝����𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫 | chapter 3

Dbf! Joel Miller x female reader

"𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘭𝘶𝘦"

summary: After the incident, where past traumas resurface and threaten to unravel your fragile sense of security, Joel steps in as a protector. His presence becomes a beacon of comfort amidst the chaos.

warnings: 18+ only, Minors DNI, AU, No outbreak. (TW) mentions of substance abuse/alcohol use disorder, adult content, religion abuse, violence, blood gore, mentions of death, sexual abuse, sexual content, domestic violences, ped0ph!l1a, cann1bal!sm, human traff1ck1ng, r4p3, dad's best friend!Joel, HUGE age gap (i will not specify her exact age, but she's legal and Joel is 49), daddy issues, mentions of toxic family dynamic, Joel is widowed, Ellie is 16, angst, smut A LOT, forbidden relationship, soft and protective Joel, innocent and pure reader. your last name is Gibson. any other details will be explain throughout the story. inspired by the album Preacher's daughter by Ethel Cain and also mix with lana del rey vibes.

CHAPTER 3

masterlist of the series!

Previous | chapter 2

Next | chapter 4

The night when Jamie took your virginity by force felt like the moment the light within you was extinguished. It was as if the divine spark that once illuminated your soul was snuffed out, leaving behind a darkness that clung to you like a second skin. The purity you had cherished as a good Christian girl was shattered, and in its place, you felt an overwhelming sense of dirtiness. It was as if you had been marked, branded with an invisible scarlet letter that only you could see, yet you believed everyone else could see it too.

The past two months had been a relentless descent into a personal hell. You had become a ghost of your former self, your once vibrant spirit now a flickering ember. Physically, you were a shadow, your body wasting away as if your soul’s torment had seeped into your flesh. The weight of your violation bore down on you, leaving you with no desire to eat, to engage, to exist. Every day was a struggle against the ever-present feeling of disgust, the conviction that you were tainted beyond redemption.

In the eyes of others, you felt exposed, as if the sin of that night was etched into your very being. It was as if the words “dirty slut” were emblazoned across your skin, a silent condemnation that followed you everywhere. No matter where you went, the eyes of judgment seemed to follow, their silent accusations piercing your already wounded soul.

At school, you had withdrawn into yourself, a stark contrast to the lively girl you once were. You spoke to no one, even when you went to church, you avoiding Ellie, Tommy, and Maria. After class, you would rush home, seeking refuge in the solitude that had become both your sanctuary and your prison. Only Joel knew the truth of what had happened that night, and he had been your anchor in the storm.

After that night, you stayed at Joel’s. He had been nothing but gentle, his touch a stark contrast to the violence you had endured. He cleaned you up, gave you a bath, and ensured your privacy by standing near the tub with the curtain drawn, only intervening if you needed something. The care he showed you was the kind of protection you had longed for all your life. His presence was a balm to your wounded spirit, his protectiveness a shield against the darkness that threatened to consume you.

The morning after, you insisted on walking home, despite Joel’s offer to drive you. Your house was nearby, but in your daze, you had forgotten to inform your parents where you had been. As you walked through the front door, your father’s fury was immediate. "Where have you been?" he demanded, his voice a thunderous roar. "You didn’t tell us you were staying out. Do you have any idea how worried we were?"

"I stayed at Ellie’s," you lied, your voice barely above a whisper. "If you don’t believe me, you can call Joel."

Without hesitation, your father dialed Joel’s number. You stood there, heart pounding, as Joel answered. "Yes, she stayed with Ellie here last night," Joel confirmed, his voice steady. He kept his promise not to reveal the incident with Jamie, but your father’s anger was far from assuaged.

"Even so," your father raged, "you didn’t inform us. What’s next? You’ll become a whore, wandering the streets? Is that what you want?" His words cut deep, each one a dagger plunging into your already shattered heart. He berated you about the virtues of Christianity, reminding you of the sanctity of purity and obedience.

"You need to understand the importance of your faith," he lectured, his voice a relentless drone. "You must remain pure and obedient, not fall into sin like this."

You stood there, numb, the weight of his words adding to the already unbearable burden on your shoulders. The guilt and shame threatened to overwhelm you. Every word felt like another chain, binding you in your own personal hell.

"Take off your shirt and face the wall," your father ordered, his voice cold and commanding.

With trembling hands, you did as he said, the shirt you borrowed from Ellie slipping to the floor. You turned to the wall, feeling the roughness of the paint against your skin, a stark contrast to the softness you craved. Your father took his belt, the leather a familiar implement of punishment, and began to strike.

Each lash was a searing reminder of your perceived sins, each word of his condemnation a nail in the coffin of your spirit. "This is for your disobedience," he spat, the belt cracking against your skin. "This is for the whore you’re becoming."

You bit back your cries, the tears streaming down your face silently. You were too exhausted to scream, too broken to protest. The pain was overwhelming, but it felt deserved. In your mind, this was God’s punishment for your unholiness, a penance for the dirtiness you couldn’t wash away.

Your mother watched from the doorway, her eyes filled with helplessness. She didn’t intervene, just as she never had. Instead, she retreated to the living room, turning up the volume on the gospel music to drown out the sound of your father’s anger and your silent suffering.

With each strike, you closed your eyes, the pain coursing through you like fire. You envisioned yourself as a fallen angel, wings torn and bloodied, cast out from the grace you once knew. The purity you had cherished was gone, replaced by a deep, unending shame.

When it was over, you collapsed to the floor, your body trembling with the aftershocks of pain. You felt like a martyr, bearing the weight of your father’s righteousness, the gospel music a cruel hymn to your suffering. You were unworthy, unholy, and the punishment was your penance.

As you lay there, tears mingling with the cold floor, you prayed. Not for forgiveness, but for strength. "God, if You’re listening, help me endure this. Help me find a way to survive." Your prayer was a whisper in the storm, a desperate plea from a soul that had known too much darkness.

In that moment, you understood the depth of your isolation. Your purity was gone, your light extinguished, but a spark of defiance remained. You had survived this night, just as you had survived Jamie. And somehow, you would find a way to keep surviving, to reclaim the light that had been stolen from you.

***

The days that followed were a blur of silence and shadows. You moved through the house like a ghost, your presence barely acknowledged by your parents. Your father’s words echoed in your mind, a constant reminder of your perceived worthlessness. Every glance in the mirror revealed the invisible brand of shame you felt etched into your skin. You had become a stranger to yourself, lost in a labyrinth of guilt and self-loathing.

At school, you withdrew further into yourself, avoiding everyone’s gaze. Ellie noticed your absence, but you couldn’t bring yourself to explain. The weight of your secret was too heavy to share, the fear of judgment too great. You walked the halls with your head down, each step a reminder of the burden you carried.

A month had gone by, and now it was Sunday. The weight of another church service loomed over you. You had managed to somewhat regain a semblance of normalcy, but the shadows of that night continued to haunt you. Despite the slight improvement, you had been avoiding everyone, including Joel. His calls went unanswered, and you took alternate routes to avoid passing his house. The shame you felt was overwhelming. You had developed feelings for Joel, but you believed he would never want you now that you felt so dirty.

Joel, on the other hand, was deeply worried about you. His concern grew with each passing day. He would occasionally ask Tommy if he had seen you at church, but Tommy’s answers never provided the comfort Joel sought.

The night before Sunday, Joel decided to visit Tommy and Maria with Ellie, hoping to have a casual movie night. He needed an excuse to ask about you without raising suspicions.

As they settled in the living room, Tommy was setting up the movie. Joel took a seat next to him, glancing around at the familiar surroundings. Ellie and Maria were chatting in the kitchen, preparing snacks.

"So, how’ve things been?" Joel asked, trying to keep his tone light. "Busy with the kid, I bet."

Tommy chuckled, nodding. "Yeah, you know how it is. Little one keeps us on our toes. What about you? How's work been?"

"Same old, same old," Joel replied, leaning back in his chair. "Ellie's doing good in school, keeping me busy with all her activities."

Tommy smiled. "That’s good to hear. She’s a great kid."

Joel nodded, then took a deep breath, trying to steer the conversation. "Yeah, speaking of kids... you seen Gibson girl around lately? Maybe at church? Haven't seen her passing by my home."

Tommy frowned, scratching his head. "Yeah, now that you mention it, I haven't seen her at church either. And she's usually always around."

Joel tried to keep his voice casual, not wanting to raise suspicion. "Right," Joel answered, but his thoughts were far from the conversation at hand. He couldn't shake the image of you from his mind—the pain in your eyes, the way you had avoided him, the way your voice trembled when you last spoke. Every unanswered call, every sight of your empty path gnawed at him, filling him with a deep, gnawing worry.

He replayed that night over and over, the way you had clung to him, the way he had tried to provide comfort without crossing any lines. He had never felt so helpless, so desperate to protect someone, yet so unsure of how to do it. His heart ached with the thought of you suffering alone, believing you were dirty or unworthy.

"Joel?" Tommy's voice broke through his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. Joel blinked, realizing he had completely zoned out.

"Huh? What?" Joel said, shaking his head to clear the fog of worry. "Sorry, what did you say?"

Tommy gave him a curious look, tilting his head slightly. "I was asking if you wanted more popcorn, but you seemed a million miles away. Everything alright?"

Joel forced a smile, trying to mask the anxiety that churned within him. "Yeah, sorry just got a lot on my mind. But yeah, more popcorn sounds good."

Tommy didn't seem entirely convinced, but he let it go, standing up to refill the bowl. Joel watched him go, taking the moment to gather himself. He needed to find a way to reach you, to make sure you were alright without raising too much suspicion. The worry gnawed at him, a constant presence in the back of his mind.

As the movie continued, Joel found it hard to focus. His thoughts kept drifting back to you, hoping that you were finding some measure of peace, even as he felt his own slipping further away.

As the sun rose on Sunday, you prepared yourself with a painstaking precision. The morning light seemed to cast an unforgiving glow on your efforts, illuminating every detail of your attire and makeup. You adorned yourself in a soft yellow dress, a stark contrast to the stained white dress you had left behind—a symbol of a past tainted by invisible scars. Your hair was styled meticulously, and a light touch of makeup tried to mask the weariness in your eyes. It was as if you were trying to paint over the shadows that clung to you, hoping that the brightness of the yellow might somehow wash away the stains of your recent past.

Your father was adamant about you joining the service, and the pressure of his expectations weighed heavily on you. The town would be present, as it always was for these occasions, their curious eyes a stark reminder of your recent absence. You could feel their gazes, and you braced yourself for the inevitable scrutiny. The anticipation of stepping into the public eye once more was almost suffocating.

When you arrived at the church, you noticed Tommy and Maria’s car parked nearby, a sight that barely registered in your anxious state. But as you turned, your heart seemed to freeze. There, behind Tommy’s car, was a familiar truck—a vehicle you hadn’t expected to see in such a context. It was Joel’s truck.

Your breath hitched in your throat. Joel had decided to return to church after years of absence. The scene before you was a tableau of mixed emotions: the congregation’s whispers, the look of surprise on Tommy’s face, and your father’s exuberant welcome of Joel. The church buzzed with curiosity, and every eye seemed to turn toward Joel and the unexpected presence he brought with him. Your father’s enthusiasm was palpable as he greeted Joel, his gestures warm and welcoming. Tommy smiled, clearly pleased to see his brother, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You, on the other hand, felt an overwhelming urge to disappear. The thought of facing Joel was almost too much to bear. The last time you had seen him, everything had been different. The thought of him seeing you in your current state, a mix of shame and unresolved feelings, was unbearable. You moved swiftly to avoid his gaze, slipping through the crowd like a wisp of smoke.

Joel's presence was a silent declaration of concern and hope. His return to the church was more than a gesture; it was an effort to reconnect, to understand why you had vanished so abruptly from his life. He couldn’t risk coming to your house and questioning your parents directly, as that would have been too conspicuous. Instead, he chose this public setting, hoping it might offer a chance to see you, to gauge your well-being without drawing undue attention.

Tommy and Ellie had been startled by Joel’s decision to attend church after all these years. To them, it was an unspoken mystery, a puzzle piece that didn't quite fit with the past patterns they knew. Tommy’s curiosity was evident, though he kept his questions at bay, respecting Joel’s unspoken wish for discretion.

As the service began, the room was filled with the familiar hymns and prayers. The sounds of the congregation’s voices blended into a backdrop of solemnity and devotion. You sat through the service, your mind a turbulent sea of emotions, while Joel’s presence at the back of the church was a constant, heavy reminder of your own turmoil.

Joel, despite his own feelings of discomfort in this sacred space, kept his gaze low, trying to remain unobtrusive. His concern for you overshadowed the solemnity of the service, his heart aching with the desire to reach out, to offer solace, but restrained by the fear of overstepping. The echoes of the sermon, the rustle of prayer books, and the collective murmur of the congregation seemed distant, as if you were trapped in a bubble of your own distress.

After the Sunday service, the church transformed into a space of community and fellowship. Tables were set up with an array of homemade dishes, and the congregation gathered for a communal meal. The aroma of comfort food filled the air, mingling with the murmur of conversations and the clinking of plates. It was a time for members of the congregation to connect, share news, and strengthen their bonds.

You moved through the gathering with practiced grace, helping your mother and father arrange the food and interact with the attendees. Your smile was a well-practiced mask, concealing the turmoil that churned beneath. You greeted old friends and acquaintances, your responses polite but distant. The effort to maintain this façade was exhausting, but you felt it was necessary to avoid further scrutiny.

As you made your way to the storage room in the church, a quiet refuge away from the bustling hall, you found yourself alone. The clamor of the gathering seemed a world away, and the space was filled with the scent of dust and old paper. You were organizing a stack of donation boxes when you heard the faint sound of footsteps approaching.

Turning around, you saw Joel standing in the doorway. His presence was like a sudden storm cloud on an otherwise clear day—unexpected and overwhelming. He looked at you with a mixture of concern and apprehension, his rugged face lined with worry. The weight of his gaze was almost palpable, and it seemed as though he was struggling to find the right words.

“Hey,” Joel said, his voice low and gravelly. He took a hesitant step forward, his hands stuffed into his pockets. The usual gruffness in his tone was softened by the underlying worry.

You shifted uncomfortably, caught off guard by his appearance. “Joel,” you managed to reply, trying to keep your voice steady despite the emotions welling up inside you. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Joel looked around the small room, as if searching for the right way to start the conversation. “Yeah, well,” he began, his gaze falling back on you. “I’ve been—” He paused, trying to gather his thoughts. “I’ve been worried about you. Haven’t seen you around much. I wanted to see if you’re okay.”

His words were simple, yet they carried the weight of his genuine concern. Joel was a man of action rather than words, and his struggle to articulate his feelings only highlighted how much he cared. He took another step closer, his eyes searching yours for a sign of how you were really doing.

“Joel,” you said, your voice trembling slightly, “did you come to church just for this? I’m fine. Really.”

Joel’s expression softened, but his concern remained palpable. “I’ve been tryin’ to reach you, and you’ve been avoidin’ me. It’s not like you to just disappear. I need to know—are you really okay?” he said, his voice tinged with a hint of frustration.

His words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of his worry. You looked away, struggling to find the right response. “I’ve just been dealing with things,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I needed some time.”

Joel’s eyes narrowed slightly, his concern deepening. " You’ve been missin’ from school, from church, from everythin’. And don’t think I haven’t noticed how you’ve been keepin’ your distance."

You felt a pang of guilt at his words, the truth of your situation pressing heavily on your heart. “I'm fine, Joel” you said, struggling to keep your composure.

Joel’s gaze remained steady, a mixture of frustration and concern etched into his features. “Why’ve you been avoidin’ me?” he asked, his voice a blend of urgency and care. “You can’t keep runnin’ away from this. You keep pushin’ me away.”

You felt a sharp pang of guilt at his words, your heart twisting in your chest. The shame and the weight of your feelings made it difficult to meet his eyes. “I just—” you began, your voice faltering. “I didn’t want you to see me like this. I didn’t want you to see how... broken I am.”

Joel’s expression softened, his eyes filled with a mix of sadness and tenderness. “What are you talkin’ about?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re not broken. You’re still you. You don’t have nothin’ to be ashamed of.”

His words were a balm to your wounded spirit, yet the weight of your shame still felt suffocating. You shook your head, tears blurring your vision. “But I’ve changed,” you said, your voice cracking. “I feel like I’m not who I was before. I feel... dirty. Like I’m not even me anymore.”

Joel’s eyes softened as he noticed the tremble in your voice, the tears that began to fall. Without a second thought, he closed the distance between you, wrapping his arms around you in a tight, reassuring embrace. His touch was warm and steady, a stark contrast to the cold grip of your shame.

As he held you, Joel let his guard down, something he rarely allowed himself to do. The strength in his arms was a shield against the world, a sanctuary where you could momentarily escape the torment you had been living through. The gentle rise and fall of his chest, the steady rhythm of his breathing, provided a grounding comfort. This was more than a physical embrace; it was a silent promise of protection, akin to the way he had once shielded Ellie and Sarah.

“It’s alright,” Joel murmured into your hair, his voice low and soothing. “It’s not your fault, it's not your fault. Everything's gonna be alright, babygirl."

His words were like a balm to the raw wounds of your spirit, yet the weight of your emotions still felt heavy. You could sense the sincerity in his voice, a quiet strength that contrasted sharply with the tumult of your inner world. In his embrace, you could almost imagine the weight of your shame lifting, if only for a moment.

After a while, you slowly pulled away from Joel’s comforting hold, grateful for his presence. “Thank you, Joel,” you said softly, wiping away the remnants of your tears. Joel, ever the pragmatist, decided to lighten the mood with one of his characteristic jokes.

“You know,” he said with a crooked smile, “cryin’ like that might just mess up your makeup. And we wouldn’t want you lookin’ like a raccoon now, would we?”

His playful jest brought a genuine smile to your face, a rare and fleeting moment of joy. Joel’s eyes softened as he saw you smile, his own expression a mix of relief and affection. “That’s right, like that, doll,” he said, his voice warm.

He gently cupped your face, his rough fingers brushing away the last traces of tears. “You’re stronger than you think. Just gotta give yourself some credit. You ain’t broken, not by a long shot.”

Before you could respond, the sound of footsteps approached, and your mother appeared at the doorway of the storage room. Her cheerful voice cut through the tension. “Sweetheart, what’s taking so long? Did you find everything?”

You and Joel quickly pulled away from each other, making a show of straightening up and wiping your faces. “Umm, yes mother, I-I found it,” you said, trying to sound casual.

Your mother’s eyes fell on Joel, her eyebrows lifting in surprise. “Joel? What are you doing here?”

Joel cleared his throat, trying to mask the unease in his voice. “Hey, Evelyn, I, uh, just looking around the church again. Almost forgot how it looks from the inside, you know? It’s been a while.”

Your mother, ever the bubbly personality, clapped her hands together. “Oh, that’s wonderful! We’re so glad to see you back. You know, you should come more often. It’s always nice to have you around. It’s been such a long time!”

Joel nodded, his eyes flicking back to you with a hint of concern. “Yeah, I’ll think about it. Just felt like catching up with old times.”

Your mother beamed at Joel, her enthusiasm unwavering. “Well, that’s fantastic. You must join us for some of the refreshments afterward. It’s a potluck today, and there’s plenty of food. Everyone’s been asking about you.”

Joel gave a polite smile, trying to hide his discomfort. “Sure thing. I’ll stick around for a bit.”

As your mother continued to chat with Joel, her cheerful demeanor filling the room with a lightness that contrasted sharply with the earlier tension, you took the opportunity to discreetly collect yourself. You adjusted your dress and smoothed out your makeup, trying to regain your composure.

Joel, noticing the change in your demeanor, shot you a small, reassuring smile before turning his attention back to your mother.

Your mother excuse herself to go out but lookback to you, “Oh, sweetheart, I almost forgot. We need help with the setup for the refreshments,”

You quickly nodded. “Yes, I’ll take care of it, Mama." and she went to outside.

You and Joel moved outside too, where the atmosphere of the church’s potluck was in full swing. The laughter and chatter of the congregation filled the air, mingling with the scent of freshly baked goods and savory dishes. Joel, despite his unease, tried to adapt to the social scene, engaging with the women who flocked to him. He was a striking figure, with his salt-and-pepper beard and intense brown eyes that had a rugged charm to them. The women, clearly drawn to his distinguished appearance and the success he embodied, tried to catch his attention, though Joel’s discomfort was palpable. He offered polite smiles and brief responses, all the while his gaze frequently wandered back to you.

You moved among the congregation, offering refreshments and engaging in small talk, your presence like a breath of fresh air amidst the busier, more boisterous interactions. To Joel, you appeared as a serene vision—an innocent beauty despite everything. There was something ethereal about you, a delicate grace that made you stand out among the crowd. Your yellow dress seemed to shimmer with a soft glow, as if capturing the very essence of spring's first light.

Joel’s eyes lingered on you, the sight of your genuine smile and the way you interacted with others tugging at something deep within him. You were like a lone daisy in a field of wildflowers, untouched by the wilting sun. His admiration for you was undeniable, though it was mingled with concern and protectiveness.

Suddenly, as you were handing out refreshments, he noticed a boy approaching you. He moved with a kind of familiar swagger, and Joel’s heart skipped a beat as he recognized him—Jamie Lee. The sight of Jamie sent a shiver down Joel’s spine, and a protective instinct surged through him. He watched, tense and alert, as Jamie neared you.

Jamie’s presence was like a shadow falling over your radiant light. Joel’s gaze hardened, his focus narrowing. He could see the unease in your posture, the way you instinctively took a step back. The fear in your eyes was palpable, and it made Joel’s fists clench at his sides.

Joel, unable to stand idly by, started making his way towards you. His movements were deliberate and calculated, every step driven by a fierce determination to protect you.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your emotions before turning back to Jamie. The confrontation had left a bitter taste in your mouth, and you approached him with a cold, composed demeanor.

Jamie, noticing your icy response, shifted uncomfortably. “Hey,” he started, his voice trying to sound casual but laced with an apologetic tone. “I didn’t mean to, you know, I was just—”

"Get off from my face," you said quietly doesn't want to make a scene.

amie’s face twisted into a desperate mask of fear as he took another step closer. “Look, I’m really sorry,” he said, his voice trembling. “Just... just listen to me. I didn’t mean to—”

“Get off from my face,” you repeated, your voice barely a whisper but sharp as a blade. Your hands trembled slightly as you tried to push him away, but Jamie persisted, his fear morphing into a desperate, unsettling urgency. “Please, just leave me alone.”

Jamie’s panic grew. He began to reach out, trying to grab your arm. “You don’t understand. I need you to—”

Before he could touch you, Joel’s imposing figure appeared, his presence radiating a quiet, intimidating authority. His eyes narrowed as he assessed the situation, the protective instincts within him coming to the forefront. “What’s goin’ on here?” Joel’s voice was steady, yet carried a dangerous edge that made Jamie freeze.

Jamie’s eyes widened in recognition. “Mr. Miller!” he stammered, backing away slightly. “I—uh—”

Joel’s gaze shifted to you, noticing the fear and distress on your face. He took a step closer to you, his body language radiating both calm and control. “Gibson, you alright?” he asked softly, his voice a reassuring balm amidst the tension.

You nodded, though your face was pale and your eyes betrayed the turmoil within. “Yes, I’m fine. Just... I need to go," You trying to gave Joel a smile and then walk away continue what you were doing.

Joel watched you walk away, his protective instincts still simmering beneath the surface. Once you were out of sight, Joel turned his full attention back to Jamie, his expression hardening.

“Hey, Jamie,” Joel said, his voice low and controlled. “How’s your old man? Still keepin’ busy with the firm?”

Jamie seemed to relax slightly, though his eyes still flicked nervously between Joel and the direction you had gone. “Uh, yeah, he’s doing alright,” Jamie replied, trying to sound casual. “Still busy as ever. You know how it is.”

Joel’s gaze was unwavering, a subtle intensity in his eyes that Jamie seemed to sense but couldn’t quite place. “And what about you? What’ve you been up to lately?”

Jamie fidgeted, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh, just... you know, school and stuff. Nothing too exciting.”

Joel nodded slowly, maintaining a calm exterior while his mind worked through his options. “Right, right. Well, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you around. Thought I’d come back to the old church, see how things are goin’.”

Jamie’s eyes darted nervously. “Yeah, it’s been a while,” he said, his voice faltering. “So, uh, what brings you back? I thought you hadn’t been around for years.”

Joel’s smile was tight, the warmth of it not quite reaching his eyes. “Just felt like it was time to reconnect. Thought I’d check in on the old place, you know?"

Jamie seemed to relax a bit more, although his discomfort lingered. “Yeah, well, it’s good to see you,” he said awkwardly. “Things are... different, but you know how it is.”

Joel’s gaze remained steady, a quiet storm of thoughts behind his calm facade. “Yeah, I know how it is,” he said, his tone measured. “Well, Jamie, I’m glad we had a chance to catch up. I'll see you around,"

Jamie’s face was a mask of confusion and relief as he nodded quickly. “Yeah, see you around, Mr. Miller.”

As Jamie walked away, Joel’s eyes followed him, a thoughtful frown settling on his face. He knew there was more beneath the surface, and he was determined to uncover it, but for now, he kept his thoughts to himself.

Joel took a deep breath, his gaze returning to where you had disappeared. He knew that protecting you and making sure you felt safe was his priority now. The façade of casual conversation was just that—a façade.

Joel watched you slip away from the crowd, a cloud of worry settling over him. His thoughts were a maelstrom of concern and determination, but before he could follow, he was waylaid by several familiar faces. They were eager to catch up, their questions and greetings a barrier he couldn’t easily cross. He tried to be polite, nodding and offering half-hearted responses, all the while his mind remained focused on you.

Meanwhile, you navigated the church grounds with a heavy heart, your steps driven by a desperate need for solitude. You approached your father with a feigned urgency. “Papa, I need to leave early. I have a test tomorrow and I need a book from the library,” you said, your voice trembling slightly but with a determined edge.

Your father, engrossed in the after-church festivities, waved you off with little more than a distracted nod. “Alright, just be back before dark,” he called after you, his attention already shifting back to the conversation he was engaged in.

With a sigh of relief, you made your way to the edge of the church grounds, your thoughts a tangled mess of despair and shame. The path to the lake felt like a journey through an emotional wilderness. Each step seemed to echo the emptiness inside you, the trees and underbrush closing in like the walls of your own confinement.

As you walked, the weight of your thoughts felt like an oppressive fog, obscuring any sense of clarity or peace. The forest surrounding the path seemed to mirror your inner turmoil—dark, tangled, and impenetrable. The chirping of distant birds and the rustling leaves became a muted symphony to your solitary reflection, their sounds like distant whispers of a world you felt disconnected from.

Reaching the lake, you sank down onto the grassy bank, the weight of the past weeks pressing heavily on your shoulders. The water’s surface was a mirror of your own fractured soul—rippled and distorted, reflecting the tangled mess of your emotions. You fished out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a flask from beneath your jacket, your hands shaking slightly. The cigarettes were a crutch, a way to cope with the stress that had become almost unbearable.

Lighting a cigarette, you took a long drag, the smoke curling up into the air like a wisp of your own troubles being released. You retrieved the flask, unscrewing the cap and taking a swig of the whiskey you had managed to sneak away. The warmth of the alcohol spread through you, a fleeting comfort in the midst of your turmoil. It was a bitter solace, a way to dull the sharp edges of your pain, but it never truly erased the deep ache within.

The lake, now dimming in the encroaching twilight, seemed to embrace your solitude. Its surface reflected the last rays of sunlight, shimmering like scattered fragments of hope amidst the darkness. You leaned back, the grass beneath you soft and cool, the calmness of the lake providing a deceptive sense of tranquility.

As you looked out over the water, your thoughts drifted like the gentle ripples across the lake’s surface. The recent events played out in your mind like a series of shadowy figures, each one a reminder of how your life had spiraled into this moment of isolation and despair. You clung to the fleeting moments of numbness provided by the whiskey and smoke, trying to drown out the crushing weight of your reality.

Joel, meanwhile, managed to extricate himself from the crowd of well-wishers. His concern for you was a constant pull, a magnetic force guiding him towards you. As he scanned the area around the church, his eyes caught sight of your disappearing figure, and he felt a renewed urgency to follow.

The lake stretched out before you, its surface a placid mirror reflecting the fading light of day. The gentle rustle of leaves and the distant calls of birds seemed like distant echoes compared to the chaos in your mind. You lay on the grass, feeling the cool, damp earth beneath you, and the weight of Jamie Lee’s presence still heavy on your soul. Each ripple in the lake's surface seemed to mimic the turbulent waves of your thoughts—crashing, receding, only to rise again with relentless force.

You had managed to slip away from the crowd, the world around you feeling far removed from the comforting isolation you sought. As you stared out over the lake, the thoughts of Jamie’s unwelcome reappearance, the haunting memories, and the crushing fear of being trapped in this endless cycle of pain and shame twisted through your mind. You were desperate for a way out, a new beginning, a place where you could shed the weight of your past and start anew. But for now, all you could do was lie there, the whispers of the forest around you a faint consolation against the storm within.

Then, breaking through the oppressive silence, a voice reached you. "Thought I found you here."

The sound of Joel’s voice was a stark contrast to the turmoil you felt inside. You turned slowly, your heart pounding as you saw him emerging from the trees. His presence was a tether to reality, grounding you amidst the chaos. His gaze was soft but intense, filled with a concern that seemed to pierce through the veil of your anguish.

Joel walked over to you with deliberate steps, his expression a mix of determination and empathy. He settled beside you on the grass, his body language a silent promise of protection and understanding. The familiarity of his presence was both a comfort and a reminder of the stark contrast between your own inner darkness and his unwavering support.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice gentle but laced with genuine worry.

You didn’t immediately respond, the weight of your emotions rendering you almost speechless. The silence stretched between you, a fragile bridge spanning the gap between your fractured state and his steady presence. Joel’s eyes, dark and intense, held yours with an unwavering focus, as if trying to read the secrets written in your sorrow.

“I don’t know how to make it stop,” you finally said, your voice trembling. “Everything feels like it’s falling apart, and I keep trying to run away from it. But every time I think I’m getting away, it all just catches up with me.”

Joel’s expression was a mix of deep concern and frustration as he watched you struggle to keep your composure. “I’m here for you,” he said softly, his voice carrying a weight of earnest reassurance.

As Joel reached out to place a comforting hand on your shoulder, you flinched as though struck, your body reacting involuntarily to the touch. Joel pulled his hand back, a flash of confusion crossing his face. “Hey, what’s goin’ on?” he asked, his tone gentler now. “What’s wrong?”

You quickly shook your head, trying to mask the truth. “It’s nothing, Joel. I’m fine,” you insisted, though the tremor in your voice betrayed your distress.

Joel’s eyes narrowed with concern. It was clear to him that there was more to your reaction than you were letting on. “You’re not fine,” he said firmly. “You're hidin' something, let me see your back,"

“I’m fine, Joel,” you insisted, trying to back away from him. Your voice was steadier now, but your heart was racing.

Joel’s face was set in grim determination. “No, you’re not. If you don’t show me, I’m gonna keep pushin’. I can see it in your eyes—you’re in pain, and I need to know why.”

When you continued to resist, Joel’s frustration reached its peak. “You gotta trust me,” he said, his voice harsh but filled with a desperate edge.

Unable to bear his insistence any longer, you shouted, “Joel, stop! I said I’m fine!” The raw pain and fear in your voice were undeniable, and Joel’s eyes softened for a moment, but his resolve remained unshaken.

Joel’s expression hardened. “I’m not lettin’ this go,” he said firmly. He gently but firmly reached for the hem of your dress, pulling it down further to expose the scars on your back. His movements were deliberate and careful, but his eyes were filled with a cold intensity that brooked no argument.

As he revealed the cruel marks etched into your skin, his anger became more apparent. His gaze swept over the scars—long, angry lines, some still raw and others faded but no less painful. Each mark told a story of suffering, and Joel’s jaw clenched in response.

Joel’s eyes darkened, his voice strained with barely controlled rage. “Who did this to you?” he asked, his tone growing colder with each word. “Who did this to you?"

"It's... It's my father," you replied, your voice barely more than a whisper. The confession felt like a stone lodged in your throat, its weight choking you.

Joel closed his eyes momentarily, fighting to contain the storm of anger threatening to erupt. His fists clenched at his sides, his jaw working as he muttered curses under his breath. The fury simmering just below the surface was palpable.

“How long has this been goin’ on?” he asked, his voice hoarse with emotion. “How long have you been dealin’ with this?”

“Since forever,” you said quietly, your shoulders sagging under the weight of your admission.

"Does your mother know?" Joel asked, you nodded.

“My mother knows, but she’s too scared to do anything. It’s... ironic, really. Just a few months ago, he was giving advice to Tommy about parenting, acting like some holy figure, but he's nothing but a hypocrite.” You try to lighten up.

Joel’s face contorted with a mix of disbelief and disgust. He stood abruptly, his movements sharp and decisive.

You scrambled to your feet, desperation gripping you. “Joel, where are you going?! please,” you said, your voice trembling. “Don’t do anything. Please, just let it be. This is my fault. I made him angry. I deserve this. Please, don’t make it worse. I can’t handle more trouble.”

Joel’s gaze was intense, his anger still visible but mixed with concern. “Are you fucking crazy?!” he shouted, his voice echoing across the still lake. “This ain’t your fault!” His outburst was raw, his frustration spilling over.

You flinched, your body instinctively drawing back from the intensity of his anger. The sudden surge of emotion was overwhelming, and you could feel the fear rise in your chest, a cold shiver racing down your spine.

Joel’s expression softened as he saw your reaction, his own anger faltering in the face of your fear. He took a deep breath, trying to regain control. “I’m sorry," he said, his voice rough but gentler now. “I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s just... seeing what he’s done to you...”

You took a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself. “I know, I know, Joel,” you whispered. “I just don’t know how to handle this. I’m scared, and I feel like everything’s falling apart.”

Joel’s eyes, usually so guarded, now reflected a rare vulnerability. “You don’t need to be scared,” he said, his voice softer, like a steady hand in the darkness. “I’m here for you."

The night air felt colder, but Joel’s presence was a warm, unspoken promise. His rough exterior hid a well of compassion, and though he struggled to find the right words, his actions spoke volumes. He gently pressed his forehead to yours, their breaths mingling in the space between them. “I’ll keep you safe,” he vowed, his voice a low murmur. “I promise,"

The contact of his forehead against yours was a silent, grounding connection. It was a gesture filled with the weight of his resolve and the depth of his commitment. The orange sky seemed to hold its breath, the world narrowing down to the two of you in that fragile moment of solace.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked softly, your voice tinged with confusion and vulnerability. “Why are you helping me like this?”

Joel pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes searching for the right words. He honestly didn’t know, not really, why he felt this way. Why the protective instinct was so strong, why his heart ached with a depth he hadn’t felt before. This wasn’t like his feelings for Ellie or Sarah; it was different, an enigma wrapped in the folds of his hardened exterior. He was trying to piece it together, to make sense of the emotions that seemed to defy all his usual defenses.

Inside your head, the sensation was equally foreign but profoundly powerful. It was as if, for the first time, you were standing on the edge of a cliff, gazing at an ocean of comfort and care you had only ever dreamed of. The feelings you had longed for, the protection and the tenderness, were now here, enveloping you like a warm, protective cocoon. The stark contrast between this new sense of safety and the pain you had endured made the emotions even more intense.

Joel’s presence was like a lighthouse in a storm, a beacon that cut through the darkness of your fears and insecurities. The connection between you was electric, a thread that wove itself into the very fabric of your being. It was as if every touch, every glance, was an echo of a deep-seated need for solace and understanding. In his gaze, you found not just protection but a promise of something more, something you had never allowed yourself to fully believe in.

As the sky deepened around you, the intimacy of the moment became undeniable. You wanted to close the distance, to feel the warmth of his lips against yours, to make this bond even more tangible. But there was a hesitation—a barrier of years and experiences, a chasm you weren’t sure you could or should cross. Joel was older, a figure who had always seemed out of reach, yet now he was the focal point of a desire that was both thrilling and terrifying.

In your mind, the longing was like a fragile flower blossoming in the dark—a tender, delicate thing that had been waiting for the right moment to bloom. You felt a pull toward him that went beyond mere comfort; it was a magnetic force that drew you closer, promising a kind of connection you hadn’t thought possible.

You wanted to kiss him, to bridge the gap between what was and what could be, but the uncertainty lingered. Would he reciprocate, or would the age difference and the complexities of your feelings stand in the way? The desire was there, shimmering like moonlight on still water, but you were unsure if this was a path you should walk or a dream too fragile to grasp.

Joel's presence was an anchor, grounding you in a moment of clarity and vulnerability. The depth of what you felt for him was new and frightening, like navigating a starless sea in search of a shore you hoped existed. In the silence that followed, you could almost hear the unspoken questions hanging in the air between you, a testament to the complex dance of emotion and need that neither of you could fully understand but both could feel.

Driven by the raw need to bridge the chasm between what was and what could be, you made a sudden, bold decision. You leaned in, closing the distance between you with a desperate and trembling kiss.

The moment your lips met his, Joel’s eyes widened in shock. He had not expected this, and for a heartbeat, he was paralyzed, caught between instinct and confusion. It felt like an electric jolt had surged through him, awakening something deep and primal. His heart raced, and his breath hitched as he processed the reality of your kiss.

But as the shock wore off, something else stirred within him—a burgeoning need that mirrored your own. The kiss, so raw and honest, ignited a flame that Joel had long kept buried under layers of grief and stoicism. He felt the world narrow to just the two of you, a universe where the complexities of age and propriety faded into insignificance.

Without fully realizing it, Joel responded with a fervor that surprised even him. His hands cupped your face gently but firmly, drawing you closer. The kiss deepened, becoming more urgent and passionate, a dance of newfound desire and connection. It was as if each touch, each movement, was a revelation, a discovery of a shared longing that neither of you had fully acknowledged until this very moment.

Joel's kiss was eager, almost desperate. The way he pulled you closer, the intensity of his touch—it was as if he was trying to anchor himself to this fragile but profound connection. His initial shock gave way to an overwhelming need to reciprocate, to explore the emotions that had been unearthed by your bold move.

For both of you, this kiss was a turning point, a leap into a new realm of intimacy and understanding. It was more than just physical; it was an acknowledgment of the depth of feeling that had been building between you. The night around you seemed to hold its breath, as if waiting for this moment to solidify into something undeniably real.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, your faces flushed with a mix of exhilaration and uncertainty. Joel’s gaze was softer now, his eyes reflecting a blend of awe and desire. He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, his touch tender.

“Doll,” Joel said, his voice a rough whisper as he pulled back slightly. “I’m sorry, Joel.” The realization of what had just happened washed over you like a cold wave, leaving you feeling vulnerable and uncertain.

Joel shook his head gently, his gaze steady and reassuring. “No, it’s okay,” he said, his tone firm yet tender. “It’s okay. you're alright, you'll be fine, I promise."

You nodded, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to fall. The sky was growing darker, the first hints of night casting long shadows across the lake. You knew you needed to head back before your father’s anger took a new form, a punishment you feared more than the quiet storm that had just passed between you and Joel.

Joel’s hand lingered on your shoulder, his grip warm and steady. “Do you want a ride back?” he asked, his concern evident.

“No, it’s alright,” you replied, shaking your head with a small, weary smile. “Just… go back to the church. Say goodbye to everyone, Joel.”

Joel hesitated, his expression a mix of reluctance and understanding. “Alright,” he said, but before turning to go, you couldn’t help but add a touch of humor to lighten the mood.

“Hey, are you gonna become a regular at the church again?” you said, forcing a grin. “You’ve been MIA for years, and now you show up just to connect with me? What’s next, a testimonial about divine intervention?”

Joel chuckled, the sound a rare and genuine escape from the weight of the moment. “I wouldn’t hold my breath,” he replied with a wry smile. “But maybe I’ll drop by once in a while, if only to make sure you’re still alright.”

You both shared a brief, understanding smile. It was a fleeting but comforting connection amidst the chaos of emotions and revelations.

Before parting ways, Joel gave you a warm hug, his embrace firm yet tender. He pulled back slightly and placed a soft kiss on your cheek, a gesture that carried more warmth and affection than words could convey. It was a promise, a silent vow of protection and care, even if he wasn’t entirely sure of the depths of his own feelings.

“Stay safe,” Joel said, his voice gentle but earnest. “I’ll see you around.”

As Joel walked away, his figure blending into the shadows, you turned and began your journey back home. The cool night air brushed against your skin, a stark contrast to the warmth that Joel had left behind. The path ahead was dimly lit by the moonlight, each step resonating with a mix of hope and uncertainty.

In your mind, the night’s events replayed like a vivid dream. The touch of Joel’s hand, the tenderness of his kiss, and the tangled emotions you felt were all swirling together, creating a new and unfamiliar reality. You felt like you had crossed a threshold, where the lines between safety and danger, affection and fear, had become blurred.

The lake, once a silent witness to your sorrow, now seemed like a distant memory. It was as if you had left it behind, stepping into a new world where the echoes of the night and the promise of something different lingered like a soft whisper.

As you entered your home, the weight of the night’s revelations settled heavily on your shoulders. Each step felt like a delicate balance between the pain you had known and the uncertain hope that now lay ahead. Today had ended with its own kind of twilight, a space between the darkness of the past and the uncertain dawn of the future.

[lila-lou]

✨His true fate - Part 42/42✨

Summary: Jensen hasn't been happy for years. But it seems almost impossible for him to escape. After another nasty argument between him and his wife, he decides to visit his ´former´ best friend for his birthday. Back in Austin, an encounter awaits him that will turn his life completely upside down.

Pairing: Jensen x Reader

Warnings: Language, age gap, ANGST

Word Count: 8059

A/N: English isn’t my first language, please be lenient. 💙

Silence settled over the house for a moment. You let out a slow breath, your stomach still twisted in knots from the entire night. Jensen, still standing there, ran a hand over his face before finally pushing off the wall.

His eyes flicked to you. His green eyes filled with something unreadable—concern, exhaustion, maybe both. But his tone was flat, almost distant. “You okay?”, he asked, his voice low. “Your stomach acting up again?”.

You knew he’d heard you running to the bathroom earlier. Knew he’d probably been aware of it the whole time but hadn’t said anything until now. And for some reason, that just made everything worse.

Your chest tightened, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. You were tired. Tired of feeling like this, tired of being dismissed, tired of feeling like you were in this alone. So, instead of admitting the truth—how nauseous you still felt, how much Danneel’s words had cut, how badly you wanted to just collapse—you said, “I’m fine”.

Curt. Cold. Dismissive.

Jensen’s jaw ticked slightly, his hands sliding into the pockets of his jeans as he studied you for a moment. He wasn’t stupid. He knew you weren’t fine. But he also didn’t push. Didn’t care enough to press the issue.

That hurt more than anything else.

Over the last few weeks, things between you had shifted again. The initial comfort you’d found in LA had faded the moment you’d come back to Austin. Distance had crept back into your relationship, and even though you were here together, it still felt like you were alone.

Because Jensen still didn’t want the baby.

No matter how many times he called to check in, how many nights he held you when you were feeling sick, there was still a wall between you. A thick, invisible barrier that kept you from fully breathing around him.

You could feel the resentment growing, even if neither of you had spoken about it directly.

Jensen shifted his weight, exhaling through his nose. “Okay”, he said finally, his voice just as clipped as yours. That was it. No pressing, no reassurance. Just okay.

And that—that was what made your stomach twist the hardest.

The tension sat heavy between you, unspoken words filling the space. But before either of you could say anything else, Zeppelin’s voice cut through the silence.

“Can we watch a movie?”, he asked, looking between you and Jensen, completely oblivious to the way the air had thickened.

Arrow glanced between you two too, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly like she sensed the shift but didn’t fully understand it.

You swallowed hard, feeling the sting of tears burning the back of your eyes. The weight of everything—the tension, the loneliness, the way Jensen looked at you like you were just another obligation instead of his partner—was too much. You needed to get away before the dam broke.

“I’m heading to bed”, you said abruptly, voice tight. “I’m exhausted”.

Jensen’s brows furrowed slightly, his lips parting like he was going to say something, but you didn’t wait. You turned on your heel and walked away, leaving him standing there.

You knew exactly what you were doing. Leaving him alone with the kids—his three kids—when he wasn’t used to handling them by himself. And you didn´t care.

Because right now, you could feel yourself crumbling. And you refused to fall apart in front of him. Not when he barely looked at you anymore. Not when every interaction between you felt like he was just tolerating you instead of choosing you.

You barely made it up the stairs before the first tear slipped down your cheek. By the time you reached the bedroom and shut the door behind you, your hands were shaking. You climbed into bed, pulling the blanket up to your chin, curling in on yourself as silent tears slipped down your face. You wanted to talk to him. You wanted him to look at you the way he used to, to reach for you, to tell you he was in this with you.

But he wasn’t.

And right now, you didn’t have the strength to pretend that didn’t hurt like hell.

Somehow, Jensen had managed to get the kids to bed. Way too late, judging by the faint sounds of giggles and shuffling feet you’d heard through the walls earlier. He wasn’t used to handling bedtime alone, and honestly, a small part of you was glad. Let him feel the exhaustion, the weight of responsibility—even if just for one night.

Meanwhile, you had laid in bed, awake for hours.

You hadn’t even moved much, just stared at the wall next to you, one hand resting on your stomach. The quiet pressed in around you, heavy and suffocating, your mind running in circles, replaying every little moment from the night. Danneel’s cruel words, JJ’s dig, Jensen’s nothingness—all of it swirling inside you like a storm you couldn’t escape.

Your fingers absentmindedly traced small, slow circles over your belly. The bump was still barely noticeable, but you felt it. You knew it was there. Knew that inside you, there was a tiny, growing life that had already changed everything—whether Jensen wanted to accept it or not.

You swallowed hard, your throat thick with unshed tears. You weren’t sure how much more of this distance you could take. Every day, it felt like Jensen was slipping further away, like you were holding onto something that was already halfway out the door.

The sound of the bedroom door creaking open made you stiffen.

You didn’t turn to look. You just listened as Jensen walked in. He didn’t say anything at first—just stood there, probably watching you, debating whether or not to speak.

Finally, he sighed, low and tired. “They’re finally down”, he muttered.

You didn’t respond. A beat of silence. Then another.

The bed dipped slightly as Jensen sat on the edge, his weight shifting the mattress. “You’ve been up this whole time?”, he asked, quieter now.

You swallowed, still staring at the wall. “Couldn’t sleep”.

Another sigh. You could feel him looking at you, waiting for you to say more. But you didn’t. You wouldn’t—not this time.

Because you were too tired of being the only one trying.

Jensen hesitated, his hand hovering for just a moment before he finally placed his palm on your blanket-covered hip. The touch was light, almost cautious—like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed anymore.

But the second he made contact, you flinched.

It wasn’t dramatic, but it was enough. Enough that Jensen felt it. Enough that his chest tightened, his breath catching as his fingers instinctively pulled back.

You hadn’t meant to do it. It wasn’t like you didn’t want him to touch you. But after weeks of nothing—no intimacy, no affection, no connection—his touch felt foreign, almost jarring. And that realization alone made your heart ache even more.

Jensen exhaled heavily, rubbing a hand down his face as he sat there, his body still angled toward yours. His shoulders tensed, like he was wrestling with something internally.

He hadn’t slept with you in weeks. Hadn’t kissed you, hadn’t really touched you in any way that felt like him since coming home from LA just yesterday.

And now? Now, the space between you felt like a canyon.

Jensen let out another slow breath, his voice quieter this time. “Are we really at this point?”, he murmured, almost to himself.

You blinked at the wall, swallowing hard. Your throat felt tight, clogged with words you weren’t sure you could say without breaking.

But instead of answering, you simply closed your eyes, keeping your body still. Because if you spoke, you might just fall apart.

"Baby…”. His voice was barely above a whisper—low, raw, and so full of hurt that it shattered something inside you.

You lost it.

A sharp, broken breath escaped you, and before you could stop it, tears started slipping down your cheeks, silent but relentless. Your shoulders trembled, your body curling in on itself as if that could somehow contain the weight of everything you’d been holding in.

Jensen’s breath hitched. You felt him shift beside you, his hand hovering again, unsure, unsteady. But this time, he didn’t pull away. This time, his touch landed.

His palm flattened over your hip, gripping you gently, his warmth seeping through the blanket like he was trying to ground you, to tether you to him. His fingers curled slightly, squeezing—not demanding, not pushing, just there.

“Hey…”. His voice cracked, and it wasn’t just concern—it was fear. Like he knew he was losing you. Like he was suddenly terrified that maybe, he’d already lost too much.

“Talk to me”, Jensen urged again, his voice lower now, rougher. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

But Jensen wasn’t going to let you shut him out—not this time.

You heard him move. The shift of the mattress, the creak of the floorboards. And then, after a brief moment, you felt his presence directly in front of you.

Jensen had rounded the bed, sinking onto the floor, his legs bent, forearms resting on his knees. His green eyes were locked onto you, unwavering, waiting.

You couldn’t handle it.

Without thinking, you pulled the blanket up, hiding your face behind it like a child trying to disappear. Your hands gripped the fabric tightly, shielding yourself from his gaze, from his pity, from his guilt.

For a moment, he said nothing. The room was filled only with your shaky breaths and the distant hum of the house settling.

Then, his voice came, softer this time. “Baby, please…”.

There was no frustration in it now. No defensiveness. Just pure, raw pleading.

You sniffled behind the blanket but didn’t move.

Jensen sighed heavily. “You really think I don’t care, don’t you?”. His voice was quiet, but there was something almost broken in it.

You didn’t answer.

Because what were you supposed to say? That yes, it felt that way? That no matter how many times he told you otherwise, his actions screamed something different? That every time he didn’t reach for you, didn’t touch your stomach, didn’t show even an ounce of excitement, it chipped away at you?

He exhaled again, rubbing a hand over his jaw. He didn’t sound frustrated anymore—just tired.

“I don’t know how to do this”, he admitted finally, the words falling from his lips like a confession. “I don’t know how to be better at this”. His voice cracked slightly.

Jensen sighed deeply, his fingers rubbing over his jaw before settling, his palm pressing into it like he was trying to physically hold himself together. His gaze drifted sideways, avoiding yours, as if looking at you would make everything feel too real.

“I know I’m treating you wrong”, he whispered, the words barely making it past his lips. His voice was raw, thick with something you couldn’t quite place—guilt, maybe. Shame. Something heavier than frustration.

He exhaled again, his fingers flexing where they rested on his knee. “I know I should be out there, getting the room ready, getting the…”. He couldn’t say it. His throat closed around the word, like forcing it out would make this all permanent.

Instead, he swallowed hard and pushed forward. “…getting stuff done”, he mumbled, even quieter now. His voice was distant, like he wasn’t even talking to you anymore—like he was talking to himself, trying to make sense of the mess in his head. “I just…”. His jaw tightened, his body stiffening as he forced himself to admit, “I can’t”.

That broke something inside you.

You weren’t sure what hurt more—the fact that he finally admitted it, or the fact that you already knew.

You lowered the blanket slightly, just enough to see him sitting there, his fingers curled into his palm, his whole body wound tight. He looked lost. Completely and utterly lost.

And for the first time, you realized—he wasn’t just pushing you away. He was drowning too.

You hesitated, your chest tightening like a vice around your heart. The ache was unbearable, twisting deep inside you, making it hard to breathe. But you had to ask. You had to know.

“Jensen”, you whispered, your voice so quiet, so fragile, you barely recognized it as your own.

His eyes flicked up to yours, something flickering in their depths—shock, confusion, maybe even fear.

You swallowed hard, your fingers curling into the blanket as you forced the words out, even though they tasted like poison on your tongue. “Do you… want me to move out?”.

Jensen froze.

The air in the room shifted instantly, thickening, pressing in on both of you like the weight of your own words had shattered something between you. His entire body went rigid, his breath catching in his throat as if you had just knocked the wind out of him.

“What?”. His voice was hoarse, almost like he didn’t trust that he’d heard you right.

You forced yourself to keep looking at him, even though it hurt. Even though everything in you wanted to shrink away, to protect yourself from the answer you feared was coming.

“You don’t want this baby”, you whispered, voice raw. “You barely look at me anymore, let alone touch me. You don’t talk to me about anything that matters, and every time I bring it up, you shut down. I feel like I’m suffocating, Jensen. And I can’t—I won’t—keep pretending this is okay”.

His lips parted, his expression cracking for the first time, and for a split second, you thought you saw real, unfiltered panic in his eyes. “I never said I wanted you to leave”, he said quickly, his voice tight.

“You don’t have to say it”, you shot back, your breath hitching as fresh tears threatened to spill. “You act like it”.

Jensen scrubbed a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. “Jesus, (Y/N), that’s not—”. He cut himself off, shaking his head like he was trying to physically clear his thoughts. “That’s not what I want”.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, watching him carefully. “Then what do you want, Jensen?”, you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He let out a slow, uneven breath, his jaw clenching as he finally, finally met your gaze head-on. His green eyes were stormy, conflicted, like he was waging a war within himself.

Jensen’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his fingers pressing into his temples like he was trying to physically hold back whatever was clawing its way to the surface. His jaw was tight, his whole body wound so tense you thought he might snap in half.

“I want…”. He let out a breath, his voice raw. “I want everything gone”.

Your stomach twisted violently, your hands clenching the blanket tighter around you as you stared at him, barely breathing.

Jensen exhaled sharply, shaking his head, his words coming faster now, more desperate. “Danneel, our fights, the stress, the—”. He cut himself off abruptly, his mouth snapping shut like he realized what he was about to say too late.

Your heart plummeted.

"The baby?", you whispered, your voice barely making it out past the lump in your throat.

Jensen flinched. Flinched. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t deny it. Didn’t tell you that wasn’t what he meant.

And that was all you needed to know.

More tears slipped down your cheeks, your breath coming out uneven, broken. “You still don’t want it”, you said softly, voice trembling.

Jensen squeezed his eyes shut, exhaling slowly through his nose. His hands curled into fists on his knees, and when he spoke again, it was barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to want it”, he admitted, and somehow, that hurt even more.

You let out a shaky breath, your body feeling impossibly small under the weight of his words.

“You don’t have to know how”, you whispered, shaking your head. “You just have to try, Jensen”.

His eyes opened then, and the rawness in them nearly gutted you.

“I am trying”, he said, his voice thick. “But every time I do, all I see is everything I’m losing”.

The words hit you like a freight train.

Because as much as you wanted to be angry, as much as you wanted to scream at him for still not choosing this baby, for still not choosing you—you finally understood.

Jensen wasn’t just afraid of having this child. He was grieving the life he thought he was supposed to have. And right now? He didn’t know how to do both.

The silence sat between you like a thick fog, suffocating and unmoving. You could hear Jensen breathing, steady but heavy, as if the weight of his own words had settled deep into his chest. Neither of you spoke for what felt like forever.

Until you did.

Slowly, you sat up, pulling the blanket away as you crossed your legs, facing him fully. Your hands rested in your lap, but your fingers curled tightly into the fabric of your shirt, like holding on to something tangible might stop you from falling apart.

You looked down at him, your heart pounding, your throat tight. And then, you asked the question that had been burning inside you for weeks.

“If you don’t want this baby… this life… then how can you still say you want me?”.

Jensen’s head snapped up, his green eyes locking onto yours in an instant. His lips parted, his breath catching like he wasn’t expecting that. Like the thought had never even occurred to him.

But to you, it was everything.

Because that was what it all boiled down to, wasn’t it? He said he didn’t know how to want this, didn’t know how to accept the reality of what was happening. But how could he want you—the person carrying this baby, the person who was already a mother, whether he accepted it yet or not—if he didn’t want the one thing that was now a part of you?

Jensen’s jaw tightened, his hands clenching into fists on his knees before he let out a slow, uneven breath. “(Y/N), that’s not—”. He stopped himself, shaking his head. He scrubbed a hand over his face, exhaling sharply before looking up at you again. “That’s not the same thing”.

You let out a hollow laugh, blinking away fresh tears. “Isn’t it?”.

Jensen’s expression twisted, something flickering in his eyes—panic, frustration, something deep. “I love you”, he said, like that was supposed to fix it. Like saying it should be enough.

But it wasn’t.

“Then act like it”, you whispered, your voice breaking. “Because right now, all I see is a man who regrets me”.

Jensen’s face fell.

He looked wrecked, like you had just ripped the air straight out of his lungs. “That’s not true”, he said quickly, voice shaking. “That’s not true, (Y/N)”.

You swallowed hard, wiping at your cheeks. “Then what is true, Jensen?”. You met his gaze, searching. “Because I’m carrying our baby, and I’m doing it alone. And if that’s how it’s always going to be, then maybe I should go”.

Jensen shot up so fast that it startled you, his presence suddenly looming over you. His hands planted firmly on either side of your body, pressing into the mattress as he boxed you in, his breath ragged, his green eyes wild with something between panic and determination.

“No”, he said firmly, his voice rough and final. “You’re not leaving”.

Your breath caught in your throat, your pulse pounding as you stared up at him. His whole body was tense, his jaw clenched, his chest rising and falling like he was physically trying to hold himself together.

But you weren’t backing down. Not this time.

“Then give me a reason to stay”, you whispered, your voice trembling but steady.

Jensen’s lips parted, but no words came out at first. His hands curled into fists against the sheets, his entire frame shaking slightly as he sucked in a sharp breath.

“I can’t lose you”, he admitted finally, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes burned into yours, desperate, pleading. “I won’t lose you”.

You swallowed hard, your fingers digging into the fabric of your own shirt. “Jensen, that’s not enough”, you said softly, shaking your head.

Jensen flinched, his eyes flickering down to your barely-there bump before snapping back up to your face. “I—”. He cut himself off, his throat working around the words he was struggling to find. “I don’t know how to do this”.

Your chest tightened. “Then learn”, you whispered. “Because I can’t carry this—us—on my own”.

Jensen let out a breath that sounded almost like a plea. He closed his eyes briefly, then, before you could stop him, he sank down onto his knees again, his hands gripping your thighs, his forehead dropping against them.

“Just… don’t go”, he whispered, his voice raw.

Tears welled in your eyes again, your heart breaking at the sight of him—this man who had always been so strong, so put together, now unraveling in front of you.

You exhaled shakily, your hands hovering over his shoulders, uncertain, hesitant. You wanted to touch him, to hold him, to believe that this was the moment where he chose you, where he chose this baby.

But you weren’t sure if it was.

So instead, you whispered the only truth you had left.

“I don’t want to go”, you admitted. “But I can’t stay if I’m the only one fighting for this”.

Jensen’s grip on your thighs tightened slightly, his breath shaky against your skin. And when he finally lifted his head to look at you, his green eyes were glassy, tormented. You saw the war inside him. The part of him that wanted to want this. That wanted to love this baby the way he loved his other kids. The part of him that was terrified of failing, of losing himself, of losing you.

But was it enough? You weren’t sure anymore.

Jensen's grip on your thighs remained firm, his fingers pressing into your skin as if grounding himself. His eyes, filled with turmoil, searched yours, but he still didn’t say the words you needed to hear. Instead, all he could manage was a hoarse, broken whisper. "I don’t know how to be what you need right now".

Your breath hitched. That was the thing, wasn't it? He knew he wasn’t giving you enough, knew he was failing you, but he still didn’t know how to bridge the gap between you. And maybe that was the most painful part of it all—because you couldn’t fix this for him. "I am trying", he insisted, his voice raw. "I swear, I am".

You shook your head, emotion clogging your throat. "No, you're not". Your hands trembled as you reached for his, gripping them gently but firmly. "Avoiding it isn't trying. Acting like this isn't happening isn't trying. You say you don’t know how to do this? Then figure it out. Because I can’t keep waiting for you to catch up. I can’t keep feeling like I’m—like we’re—some kind of mistake".

Jensen's face cracked at that. His fingers tightened around yours, his breathing uneven. "You’re not a mistake", he said, almost like he needed you to believe it. "You and this ba—".

But he stopped himself before he could finish the sentence, and that hesitation hurt you more.

You swallowed hard, nodding to yourself as you gently pulled your hands away. "See?", you whispered, forcing a hollow laugh. "You can't even say it".

Jensen's eyes flashed with something—frustration, regret, fear—but he didn’t argue. He didn’t try to force the words out. And that silence? That told you everything.

Tears slipped down your cheeks again as you let out a shaky breath. "I don't know how much longer I can do this", you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Jensen's entire body tensed. "Don't say that".

"Then do something", you choked out, your fingers curling into fists. "Show me that you want this. That you want me. Because right now, all I feel is you pulling away".

Jensen swallowed hard, his hands dropping to his knees as he ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "I don't know how", he admitted, his voice barely audible.

And that? That was what broke you. Because if he didn’t know how to want this—if he still wasn’t choosing this, choosing you—then what were you really fighting for?

You wiped at your tears, nodding to yourself. "Then maybe I need to figure out if I can do this".

Jensen’s head snapped up, his expression panicked. "What does that mean?".

You exhaled shakily, standing up from the bed. "It means I need to think, Jensen. Because I can't keep waiting for you to decide if you're in this or not".

And with that, you turned, grabbing the nearest sweatshirt and pulling it over your head as you headed for the bedroom door.

Jensen scrambled to his feet, his voice urgent. "Wait—where are you going?".

You paused in the doorway, not turning around as you whispered, "I don’t know yet".

Then, without another word, you walked out, leaving Jensen standing there—staring after you, looking more terrified than you’d ever seen him.

Jensen had barely made it a few steps after you when a door creaked open behind him.

“Dad?”.

His whole body froze as he turned to see JJ standing in the dim hallway, tears in her eyes, her small hands rubbing at them as she sniffled.

“Fuck”, Jensen muttered under his breath, raking a hand through his already-messy hair. His instincts screamed to go after you, to fix this before it shattered beyond repair—but his daughter needed him.

And he couldn’t ignore her.

You were already gone.

Jensen let out a sharp exhale, forcing his voice to soften. “What’s wrong, bug?”.

JJ hiccuped, wiping at her cheeks. “Had a nightmare”, she mumbled, barely looking at him.

Jensen cursed silently to himself, glancing down the hallway toward the front door—toward you. But you were already gone, and JJ was standing there, needing him, her face crumpling in that way that made her look like she was six years old again instead of twelve.

So he pushed down the panic in his chest, the way his hands itched to reach for his phone, and sighed. “C’mon”, he murmured, motioning for her. “Let’s go get you back to bed, okay?”.

The next morning was a disaster.

Jensen was running on zero sleep. He’d spent most of the night trying to settle JJ, but every time he’d stepped out of her room, he’d gone straight for his phone—texting you, calling you, anything. But every message? Every call? Unanswered.

And now? Now he was struggling to get breakfast together, the twins were only half-dressed, JJ was barely speaking to him, and his phone was buzzing again.

Jared: Dude, what the hell did you do to?

Jensen froze. His stomach dropped. His fingers hovered over the screen before he quickly typed back.

Jensen: What? What do you mean?

Jared: (Y/N) showed up here last night. Didn’t say much, but she was crying. So, again, what the hell did you do?

Jensen’s heart pounded in his chest. You went to Jared’s place.

Jensen exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. The house was chaos behind him, the kids bickering about cereal, but all he could focus on was the fact that you had left the house. Left him.

Jensen: Is she awake?

His leg bounced impatiently as he waited for a response, his pulse hammering in his ears. The kids were still arguing behind him, but it was nothing more than white noise at this point. All he could focus on was his phone.

Jared: No.

Jensen exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair before typing again.

Jensen: Wake her up. I need to talk to her.

It took less than a minute for Jared to respond, and when he did, Jensen could practically hear the irritation through the text.

Jared: Not happening. Not until you tell me what the hell is going on.

Jensen clenched his jaw, gripping his phone tighter. He didn’t have time for this. He just needed to hear your voice, needed to fix this before it spiraled even further out of control.

Jensen: Jared, come on, man. Just wake her up.

Jared: No. She barely slept. She showed up crying and wouldn’t even talk to Gen. So you tell me what happened, or I’m not waking her up.

Jensen let out a sharp breath, his frustration boiling over. He could already picture Jared, arms crossed, standing his ground. He wasn’t going to let him near you unless he earned it. And honestly? Jensen wasn’t sure if he even deserved that chance right now. But he couldn’t let this sit. His fingers hesitated over the keyboard before he finally typed back.

Jensen: I fucked up.

Jared: Yeah, no shit. What did you do?

Jensen’s throat tightened. He exhaled slowly, shaking his head, before finally answering.

Jensen: she’s pregnant

The moment he sent it, his stomach twisted, his hands clammy as he waited for Jared’s reply.

And when it finally came, it was instant.

Jared: Jesus, Jensen.

Jensen clenched his jaw as he stared at Jared’s message, his grip tightening on his phone. He knew what was coming—of course Jared was going to have something to say. Jared knew him too well, knew exactly how he felt about kids, about more kids, and Jensen wasn’t naive enough to think he was going to get a free pass on this.

A few seconds later, his phone buzzed again.

Jared: Are you fucking serious?

Jensen: Yeah.

Another pause.

Jared: I tought after the twins you were done. That you weren’t doing this again. Ever.

Jensen: I know.

Jared: Then what the fuck happened?

Jensen hesitated before answering.

Jensen: I wasn’t expecting this. Neither of us were. And I… I don’t know how to want it, Jare.

There was a longer pause this time.

Then—

Jared: Well, congratulations, you’re officially the biggest asshole I know.

Jensen huffed, shaking his head.

Jensen: Thanks, man.

Jared: No, seriously, Jensen. Do you even hear yourself? She’s pregnant. With your baby. And she had to run to me last night instead of you? Because what? You’re being a selfish piece of shit about it?

Jensen squeezed his eyes shut. He deserved this. He fucking deserved every single word Jared was throwing at him.

Jensen: I never said I didn’t care about her.

Jared: Oh, yeah? Well, guess what? That’s not enough. Loving her isn’t enough if you’re making her feel like she’s in this alone. And from what I saw last night, you’re not just treating her like shit. You’re treating your own kid like a mistake before it’s even here.

That one hit Jensen in the chest like a hammer.

Because he knew Jared was right. That’s exactly what he was doing. That’s exactly why you had left. And Jensen had no idea how the fuck to fix it.

Jensen sat there, staring at his phone like it might somehow give him the answer he didn’t have. The weight of Jared’s words pressed down on him, suffocating in a way he couldn’t shake. Because Jared was right—and that was the worst part.

He was treating his own child like a mistake. And in doing that, he was pushing you away.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard, his thoughts scrambled, but before he could respond, another message popped up.

Jared: She cried herself to sleep last night, man.

Jensen squeezed his eyes shut, his stomach twisting.

Jared: She wouldn’t even talk about it. Not to Gen, not to me. You know how bad it has to be for her to shut down like that?

Jensen: Yeah.

He knew. Fuck, he knew. He ran a hand through his hair, his knee bouncing anxiously as his thoughts spiraled.

He had never meant to hurt you. Never meant for it to get this bad. But somewhere along the way, his fear—his goddamn, pathetic, paralyzing fear—had built a wall so high between you that he hadn’t even realized how far apart you’d gotten.

And now, you were gone. Not just emotionally. Physically.

And for the first time, Jensen realized—really realized—that if he didn’t do something, if he didn’t fix this, he was going to lose you.

For good.

His phone buzzed again.

Jared: She’s still sleeping, but I’ll tell her you called.

Jensen: Tell her I’m coming over.

Jared: You sure about that?

Jensen: Yeah. I am.

Jensen slipped his phone into his pocket, his mind racing as he turned toward the chaos that was breakfast. Arrow was still half in her pajamas, Zeppelin was spinning in circles like a damn tornado, and JJ was perked up at the mention of Jared’s name.

Trying to keep his tone casual, Jensen cleared his throat. “Hey”, he said, getting their attention. “What would you guys think about seeing Uncle Jared today?”.

Zeppelin’s face lit up instantly. “Uncle Jared?! Can we? Can we, Dad?!”, he shouted, nearly knocking over his cereal bowl in excitement.

JJ, despite her best efforts to look indifferent, had a small smirk tugging at her lips. “I mean… yeah, I guess that’d be cool”, she said, trying to play it off, but the way she sat up a little straighter gave her away.

Jensen let out a slow breath, forcing a small smile. “Yeah? Well, let’s get dressed then. We’ll head out in a little bit”.

An hour later, Jensen stood in front of Jared’s house, looking like hell. He hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten, and his nerves were frayed to their breaking point. The exhaustion wasn’t just physical—it was everything. The weight of last night, of the past few months, sat heavy on his chest.

But he was here. And he had all three kids in tow. Zeppelin bounced eagerly on his feet, gripping Jensen’s hand. “Ring the doorbell, Dad!”, he urged, practically vibrating with excitement.

JJ, standing next to him, crossed her arms and gave her dad a look. “You look like shit", she muttered, unimpressed.

Jensen sighed, not even having the energy to argue with her. “Thanks, JJ”.

Just then, the front door swung open. Jared stood there, leaning against the frame, his expression unreadable. He took one look at Jensen, at the bags under his eyes, the tension in his shoulders, the kids bouncing around him, and sighed. “Jesus, man”.

Jensen exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah. I know”.

Jared’s gaze flicked down to the kids, who were already pushing past him, eager to get inside. Zeppelin bolted in first, yelling Gen’s name excitedly, while Arrow and JJ followed at a slower pace.

That left just Jensen and Jared, standing there in the doorway, neither of them saying anything for a long moment. Jared folded his arms. “She’s still sleeping”, he said flatly.

Jensen’s jaw tightened. “I need to see her”.

Jared didn’t move. “And what exactly are you planning to say, Jensen?”.

Jensen clenched his fists at his sides, his breath uneven. “I don’t know. But I have to see her”.

Jared studied him for a second before finally stepping aside. “She’s in the guest room”.

Jensen nodded once and walked inside, his heart hammering as he made his way down the hall. He didn’t know what he was going to say. He just knew he had to say something. Because if he didn’t, he was going to lose you. And that? That wasn’t an option.

Jensen moved down the hallway like a man walking toward his own reckoning. His steps were slow but deliberate, his pulse thrumming in his ears as he reached the guest room door. He hesitated, hand hovering over the doorknob, his chest tightening with something heavier than nerves. Fear.

What if you didn’t want to see him? What if last night had been the breaking point? What if he had already lost you and just hadn’t realized it yet?

He exhaled sharply, shaking off the thought, and turned the knob.

The door creaked open. The curtains were drawn, blocking most of the morning sunlight, casting soft shadows over the bed where you were still curled up beneath the blankets. Your breathing was slow and even, but your face… God, your face.

Even in sleep, you looked exhausted. Worn down. Like the weight of everything had settled deep into your bones.

Jensen’s chest ached at the sight.

He took a slow step inside, letting the door close softly behind him. For a moment, he just stood there, watching you, unsure if he should wake you up or just let you rest. But the truth was—he didn’t deserve to just watch you from a distance. Not after everything.

He had to fix this.

“(Y/N)”, he murmured, his voice low but rough, carrying the weight of everything he hadn’t said.

You stirred slightly, a small frown pulling at your lips as your body shifted. Slowly, your eyes fluttered open, squinting against the dim light. When they landed on him, there was a flicker of surprise—before it was quickly masked with something else.

Exhaustion. Hesitation. Maybe even a little pain.

Jensen swallowed hard. “Hey”, he said, forcing his voice to stay steady.

You blinked at him, your gaze guarded. “What are you doing here?”. Your voice was hoarse, like you’d spent the night crying. Like he had done this to you. And fuck, if that didn’t feel like a punch to the gut.

Jensen let out a slow breath, stepping closer but keeping a safe distance. “I needed to see you”, he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

You didn’t say anything. Just stared at him, waiting.

Jensen’s throat tightened. “I know I’ve been a selfish bastard”, he started, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I know I’ve hurt you”. His voice cracked slightly. “And I know I don’t deserve for you to just forgive me overnight”.

You sat up slightly, adjusting the blanket around you but saying nothing.

Jensen took that as his cue to keep going.

“I don’t have an excuse, (Y/N)”. His eyes flickered to yours, desperate for something—for anything that told him he hadn’t completely lost you. “I’ve been scared. And I let that fear make me into someone I don’t wanna be”.

A silence stretched between you.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, you finally spoke. “So what changed?”. Your voice was quiet, but there was a bite to it, like you needed to know this wasn’t just guilt talking. That this wasn’t just another empty promise.

Jensen exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. “You left”.

Your lips parted slightly, caught off guard by the raw honesty in his voice.

Jensen shook his head, his expression crumbling. “I woke up this morning, and you weren’t there. And for the first time, I realized that if I don’t change, if I don’t fight for this, I’m gonna wake up one day, and you’re never gonna come back”. He let out a shaky breath. “And I can’t fucking live with that”.

You stared at him, your hands curled into the blanket, your knuckles white.

“I don’t know how to do this”, Jensen admitted, his voice breaking. “I don’t know how to just be okay with it overnight. But I know I don’t wanna lose you. I know I don’t wanna wake up every day in a house that doesn’t have you in it”. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “So tell me what to do, baby. Tell me how to fix this”.

Your breath hitched, your walls threatening to crumble—but you weren’t ready to let go that easily. Not yet. “Jensen”, you whispered, your voice wavering. “You have to want this. I can’t beg you to love our baby”.

Jensen’s eyes squeezed shut, his body shaking with the weight of your words. He took another slow step forward, his hands itching to reach for you, to touch you, to pull you back from the distance he’d created.

“I don’t wanna lose you”, he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. “Please don’t make me lose you”.

You swallowed hard, watching him, waiting—for what, you didn’t know. But one thing was clear. This wasn’t just about you anymore. It never had been. And now? Now Jensen had to prove he was ready to fight for all of it.

Jensen looked wrecked. His green eyes glassy, his shoulders hunched like he was carrying the weight of his own guilt. And maybe he was. Maybe he should be.

Because the truth was, you wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that this meant something. That he had finally seen what you had been feeling for weeks, what you had been screaming in silence while he shut himself off.

But words weren’t enough. Not anymore. Your throat felt tight as you whispered, “What if you do lose me, Jensen?”

His whole body stilled. You saw it—the flash of panic in his expression, the way his jaw clenched like the thought physically hurt him. “No”, he said immediately, his voice hoarse. “No, don’t say that”.

You exhaled shakily, blinking away the fresh wave of tears threatening to spill. “I’m tired, Jensen”, you admitted. “I’m tired of feeling like I’m in this alone. Tired of wondering if you’ll ever look at me—at us—and see something worth fighting for”.

Jensen took a shaky breath, stepping closer. “I do see it”.

“Then why has it taken this long for you to say that?”. Your voice cracked, and that was when you saw it, the realization in his eyes. The gut-wrenching, too-late realization that he had already let you slip too far away.

“I was scared”, he admitted, shaking his head as he ran a hand down his face. “Fuck, (Y/N), I’m still scared. But losing you? Losing this?”. He swallowed hard. “That scares me more”.

A lump formed in your throat, your hands tightening in the blanket draped over your lap. “And the baby?”. You forced the words out, even though you already knew the answer. “Do you want our baby, Jensen?”.

He flinched—actually flinched. You exhaled sharply, your heart sinking even lower. That told you everything.

Jensen let out a heavy breath, his hands trembling at his sides. “I—I don’t know how to be excited”, he admitted, his voice quiet but raw. “I don’t know how to want this the way you do”.

You swallowed back the lump in your throat, your fingers curling around the edge of the blanket like it could somehow keep you steady. “Then what the hell are we doing?”, you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Jensen saw it then. The last bit of fight you had left slipping away. “No”, he said again, this time more desperate. “Please, baby, don’t do this. Don’t give up on us”.

Your breath hitched. “I don’t want to”, you admitted, voice breaking. “But I can’t do this alone, Jensen”.

Jensen stared at you, his entire body trembling with the weight of everything unsaid. He opened his mouth like he was going to say something, beg you to stay, maybe, but no words came out.

Because he didn’t have an answer. Not yet. The silence stretched between you, unbearably thick.

Finally, Jensen let out a broken breath. “I need time”, he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I just need—fuck, I just need time to figure out how to be the man you need me to be”.

You swallowed hard, lowering your gaze to your lap before forcing yourself to meet his eyes again. “I think I’m leaving for a few days”, you finally whispered, your voice barely steady. “We both need to get our heads straight, Jensen”.

Jensen’s face fell. His breath hitched, and for a moment, he just stared at you, like the words physically knocked the air from his lungs. His hands twitched at his sides and his jaw clenched. “(Y/N), don’t—”. His voice cracked slightly, and he had to take a breath before trying again. “Please. Don’t leave”.

You closed your eyes for a second, willing yourself not to break any more than you already had. “I have to”, you murmured. “For both of us”.

Jensen took a sharp breath, his hands running through his hair in frustration. “You think leaving is gonna fix this?”. His voice was tight, strained, full of something close to desperation. “You think distance is gonna change how I feel overnight?”.

“I think staying like this will break us”, you shot back, your voice stronger this time. “And I don’t want to hate you, Jensen”.

That landed.

He sucked in a breath, his face falling, his shoulders slumping like the weight of your words had just crushed him.

You pushed the blanket off your lap, forcing yourself to stand even though your legs felt shaky. “I don’t know what else to do”, you admitted, shaking your head. “I need to be somewhere where I don’t feel like I’m drowning”.

Jensen swallowed thickly, his hands still clenched into fists like he was physically holding himself together. “Where are you going?”.

You hesitated for a moment before saying, “My parents’.”

His whole body tensed. He hated that idea, you could tell, but he didn’t argue. He just stood there, staring at you like you were already slipping away.

“I’ll be back”, you reassured him softly. “But I need time, Jensen. And so do you”.

Jensen exhaled shakily, nodding once, even though it clearly killed him to do so. “Yeah”, he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. “Okay”.

The silence stretched between you, heavy, unbearable. You turned toward the door, your heart cracking with every step. But Jensen’s voice stopped you.

“Do you still love me?”. It was barely a whisper, so raw and broken that it sent a sharp ache straight through your chest.

You turned slowly, your breath trembling as you looked at him.

“Of course I do”, you whispered. “But that’s not enough if you don’t love this”. Your hand rested gently on your stomach. “If you don’t love us”.

Jensen’s lips parted slightly, his throat bobbing, but he had no words. So you left. And this time? He let you go.

———————————

A/N: Alright guys, unfortunately, I have to put an end to this for now as well. BUT, there will be a continuation here too. In fact, I’m already working on writing it. However, I will only publish the sequel once it is fully completed. When that will be, I can't say just yet.

Love, Lou

-

Sequel: "Beyond his true fate"

-

Taglist: @cheynovak @chriszgirl92 @jenniferr0323 @angelbabyyy99 @cevansbaby-dove @muhahaha303 @jackles010378 @suckitands33 @n-o-p-e-never @mayafatimakhan @ladysparkles78 @viviandarkbloom06 @jassackles @evasmlp @acklesaddict67 @mostlymarvelgirl @emma1998sblog @mishaesque @headinthemoon87 @hobby27 @winchesterwild78 @impala67rollingthroughtown @manicjk @kr804573 @zaratahir @djs8891 @winchesterwild78 @jamerlynn @whimsyfinny @libby99hb @deansimpalababy @deans-queen @kawaii-arfid-memes @faephoria @stoneyggirl2 @fitxgrld @luvr4miya @yikeschoices @lyssalvus @soab1967 @luvr4miya @didi0666 @impala67rollingthroughtown @cheekygirl2309 @kamisobsessed @deansimpalababy @magnificientgirl @ @dulcescorderitas @mandee7 @jensenacklesballsack @star-yawnznn @headinthemoon87

[lobselvith8]

Regarding Gaider's "Modern Elves are Partly to blame for their own oppression"

In a conversation with Christina Gonzalez and a few other people on twitter, David Gaider, the former headwriter of Dragon Age, mocked fans of the Dalish. I took issue with his statement and pointed out why people are critical of how he and the other writers handled the Dalish in Dragon Age (while Allan Schumacher of Epic Games had nothing of substance to say in response). The Dalish are nomadic as a consequence of Andrastian societies violently attacking them if they stay too long in one area. The Andrastian Chantry outlawed their religion, making them criminals as a consequence of their faith. Andrastians will threaten the Dalish with violence in an attempt to force conversion to the Andrastian faith. Templars will hunt down the Dalish, and will even torture children. Andrastian elves also suffer from Andrastian oppression as Andrastian humans can massacre all of them, down to the children in an orphanage.

Gaider postulates that one could discuss how the ancient elves were "partly to blame" for their enslavement (let's keep in mind that being slaves is what he's talking about, even though he's careful not to put that into his tweet) or how "modern elves are partly to blame for their own oppression" which is essentially what we are told throughout the whole of Inquisition and the DLCs that accompanied the game (even JoH tries to romanticize the genocidal tyrant Drakon and place all of the blame on the Dales for the elves not trusting the tyrant who was invading their neighbors, forcing conversion, and massacring the people who would not convert - like the peaceful pacifists known as the Daughters of Song).

Inquisition even rectonned previously established lore on the Dalish in order to have characters like Iron Bull denigrate the Dalish. It's a game that will side-step Celene burning thousands of elves alive in Halamshiral while it will demonize the Dalish for wanting to maintain their autonomy from what's essentially a group of colonizers who want to rule over them and force them to convert, and the white Canadian writers (who are from Canada, a place known for its long history of horrific treatment towards Indigenous people) are firmly on the side of those who think that the Dalish (who, as Gaider himself once said at the Dragon Central forums before the release of Origins, were modeled after "Northern Native Americans") are wrong not to subjugate themselves to white Andrastian rulers.

Andrastian elves similarly face hardships because of Andrastian rule. In Ferelden even the efforts of the Night Elves fighting to free the nation from Orlesian rule didn't the elves any greater freedoms once Maric came to power. The Boon of the City Elf faces a number of dire consequences unless the Warden assumes control themselves as the new Bann. Inquisition ignores the plight of the elves of the Dales entirely to focus on a white human noble as the focus of the storyline in the Dales, and you can potentially help chevalier Michel de Chevin (a white man with blonde hair who is part of the chevaliers, a group who murder innocent elves as part of their initiation rite, although this isn't properly addressed in-game) while Briala's role is marginalized in-game despite being the leader of an elven rebellion across Orlais (and she strangely became white despite her in-book description making it clear she's a woman of color, which accompanying artwork confirmed).

Whether you're talking about the slavery of ancient elves or the 'modern' oppression of Andrastian elves and Dalish elves, I don't see how you can blame either the victims of slavery or the victims of racial (and in the case of the Dalish religious) persecution for the oppression they face. And Gaider doesn't seem to understand that at all, which explains the inherent problems with how the plight of the elves is framed within Dragon Age.

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

High Stakes (1) | Yanderes x reader

The sound of your commander’s neck snapping was a lot less gory than you expected. Grateful that the only image you will have attached to this experience was their crumpled body on the floor. The culprit stared apathetically at you—who was bowing in acknowledgment. 

“You. Will be the new commander of this shuttle.”

“Yes Sir.”

There was nothing more to say as your superior angrily stalked out of the room, their cape and the scent of burned flesh left in the remaining breeze. Along with him, your new co-workers rushed after, purposefully avoiding your gaze as they stepped over your old boss. Hearing the air-tight doors seal shut you finally inhaled, delighting in the much-needed breath of air. Forcing yourself to breathe, although the tension in your body was about to be at an all-time high. 

The stakes were monumental. 

They are your life.

______________________________________________________________

After your former boss’s demise, you were able to adapt to your role. Successfully carrying out five years of managing a law-abiding, rebel-free, cargo ship. According to the contract you were demanded to serve for a total of six years before you were allowed to retire. Living frugally with room and board provided by the government you were more than prepared for an early retirement. The stressful atmosphere and sleepless nights were far too much for you to do this as long as the last guy. 

But of course, in your last months, it just wouldn’t be that simple.

“Commander (L/N)! We’ve captured two stowaways in the cargo bay!”

“Not unusual we give them the usual treatment and send them on a prison transport.”

“These two, are the recently caught rebels. Escapees from…his prison.”

“....I see. I’ll confirm their identities shortly.”

There was a 1 in 60% chance that your ship would be an unlucky vessel for trouble-seeking rebels. And with their recession on behalf of the newest supreme officer hard at work, you thought you’d have the privilege of not being in such an unlucky position. Eager for the last thing you hear not to be that dreadful snapping of bones.

You locked your office before heading to the brig. Passing by multiple armed guards marching on patrol. After having learned of the rebel’s presence you doubled the guards, even if you had yet to confirm it was them. Better safe than sorry.

The door opened with a hiss, your lieutenant officer especially red in the face as she turned from the cells. The cells were made of electric titanium, glittering as clear hexagons. An upgrade the new Supreme officer had made—saying even the most powerful rebels were slaves to its power. You were grateful you had them updated. 

“Commander this Rebel Scum, matches the description perfectly,” she huffed handing you the tablet that showed the recently taken mug shots of the prisoners.

The prisoner on the right was a lean fellow but the muscles he displayed were obvious. The tattoo of a prisoner marking his exposed upper shoulder, the sleeveless body shirt fashionably clashing against the tied jumper around his waist. The dull, dirtied gray jumpsuit evidently matched the standard issue for high-value prisoners. He was doing push-ups, seemingly for a while now— he had a darker complexion, sheened with the glow of a measurable amount of sweat. His hair, short and curly, remained unaffected bouncing in tandem with his vertical rhythm. Going up and down and up and down. He spared a look at you, brown eyes housing odd speckled flecks of gold.

This was he. 

Matthew Roche—a Human male, age 25, 210 cm, convicted of conspiracy, Assault of Multiple Officers, Treason, Shipment of Illegal Weaponry, and Sabotage.

Notes: Well-behaved in proximity to Prisoner #600 also known as “Ruu”, atypical human strength; give no utensils or any object that can deal damage with blunt force. 

“Like what you see? I’ve picked a fine man haven’t I?”

The coy and accented voice that rings out is muffled, coming from the adjacent cell. In there is the other convict. Skin a light pink and purple hair so dark you might’ve mistaken it for black, is a smirking fiend. Leaning against the wall closest to the other cell, he has a much shorter build. Barely a shred of muscle on his body and the tattered remains of a red jumpsuit hanging off his shoulders. You recognized that suit. 

“Did you kill and take the suit of one of my mechanics?”

“Ah recognize it do you? I took some creative liberties to maybe match my style a little.”

You didn’t relent, still waiting for him to answer your question. The convict pouted puffing his lips and crossing his arms. Scleras black and pupils red, pretending to squint with fake tears. You didn’t appreciate how long he was taking to answer. The furrowing of your brows, was all your lieutenant needed eagerly grabbing the remote control on the side of the cells. On the little panel connected by a wire to the cells, there was a lock for a key to release and eight buttons meant to depict the levels of electric energy. Your lieutenant eagerly clicked on the third button. Immediately the flash of light goes off, bolts of electricity dancing within the cell. The inmate within writhing in agonizing pain.

“Aaaagh!” 

Matthew banged the clear wall, seemingly unbothered by the numbing agent infused into it in favor of silently demanding she stop. You didn’t need to watch the prisoner writhe anymore, unbelievably feeling guilty for their obvious pain. 

“Yuki, please.”

She didn’t seem all that willing to listen but one look and she turned the effect off. The prisoner slumped into the wall reeling from the pain they were in. Still, they looked up at you with a smirk, with slow agonized breaths.

“I didn’t kill anyone…they’re just…sleeping it off in your oil garage.”

The lieutenant looks at the communicator on her wrist, quickly alerting the coworkers in that department. Next, she pulled up the hidden camera in the garage of the naked employee among the barrels proving that statement to be true. 

“Commander that statement appears to be true. They are still breathing.”

You hum, finally exhaling, and you officially check the tablet. The picture matches the defeated inmate in the cell, still rocking the same wide smile

This was Rumakia Hintoth Yeward colloquially known as “Ruu the Ruthless”-a Diagalos Male, age 134, 145 cm, convicted of Genocide, Murder of Multiple Officers, Treason, Conspiracy, Maiming, Public Indecency, and [REDACTED].

The following notes are also redacted the only words in big letters: NOTIFY SUPREME UPON CONFIRMATION. Sending a look at the recovering Diagolos, there was no doubt this was the rebel they so desperately were after. You’d have to send a call to the Supreme immediately. 

“Commander should I–?”

Turning to Yuki and her concerned face, speaking more than any words. You appreciated her offer, certain your previous authority would have taken it in a heartbeat but you were not him. Patting her on the back, you shook your head; purposely ignoring her worried expression and hand reaching out for you. 

“Prisoners, you’ll be dealt with in a day’s time. Please get your rest.”

The sentiment was a minor courtesy, almost one you made with pity in your heart. For who they were meeting with next would not be so merciful to stop at the third electric shock. You hoped for your crew’s sake the prisoners would be the only ones receiving that kind of attention. 

______________________________________________________________

You could smell the sweat of your crew. Their nervousness was all too palpable to you. You hoped your mask of apathy was of some comfort. Unless any of them spoke out of turn the only one with their head on the chopping block is you. 

“Supreme One, it’s an honor to have you here.”

The new Supreme was younger, the wrinkles on his face few and far between. Tastefully on the side of his mouth; similar to smile lines—though that was unlikely. He was donned in the usual black, the typical cape lying only on his right shoulder. Hands in gray gloves that were curled into fists at his sides.

“The pleasure will be all mine when I have my escapees.”

“Of course.”

With another bow, you walked alongside him. Leading him and his personal army of trained guards to the brig. Along the walk you could feel his burning gaze on…you. As unsettling as it was this was your superior in every way, as far as you know he could do anything he wanted. You wouldn’t be able to stop him anyway.

“I’m surprised,” his voice was smooth and sultry; the kind you would have liked a partner of yours to have if you had the time. “To think they employed someone as young as you. I thought I was the only one.”

You didn’t answer. Only nodded. 

What were you supposed to say?!

Continuing to walk alongside him, your comfort was placed on the prisoners. At the very least any unwanted attention would be siphoned from you to them the second he had the rebels in his grasp. All you needed now was for that to come to pass.

The wail of the alarm made you want to cry. 

Yuki’s voice rang out on the loudspeaker; your stomach further twisting on itself

“T-the ah–the prisoners have escaped! They’re headed for the docking bay, proceed with extreme caution. One is a Diagolos! Act accordingly with the emergency protocols–”

Her struggled warning, made it all too real.

Along with the blaring siren and the red emergency lights, you began to direct your guards. Splitting them off with intentions to funnel the prisoners into airlocks. The plan being if all else failed to jet them into space.

Amid your running mind, you felt a tight grip on your arm. It belonged to the Supreme One, pulling you along as he made his way to the airlock. Leading instead, it amazed you how he’d memorized the outline of a small-time cargo ship under his reign. 

“You come with me!”

You followed the best you could, surprised by the detour he was making. Truly curious as to what he had in mind.

“Sir this isn’t the way to the airlock shouldn’t we–”

“They’re going to split up, you might get one to go that way but you won’t get the other.”

With your help, the Supreme One made it through. Your hand and memorized codes made for an easy route for him to eventually come across a bloodied hallway. The emergency light coated the room in a dim red, terribly lighting the surmountable corpses on the ground. At the end of the hallway was Ruu holding a guard intimately, leaning their body against his knee. From afar it looked as though he was placing a passionate kiss on their neck. But alas the light revealed the exact opposite: where his pink lips were on their neck so were the elongated round fangs sucking the man’s blood and some of his organs out. In an instant the man shriveled up, their body deflating before being tossed to the ground alongside the other corpses. Above him stood Rumakia a bloody and wide smile on his face as he danced over his various meals.

“Well hello there dear Supreme it seems you found my jailer! How lucky am I that the two humans of interest are right in front of me!”

The Supreme One’s stoic face stretches into a smile—a twisted, wicked smile, you’re sure is worthy of a man ruling the government. He unsheathes a sword of light and electricity, illuminating the room much better. 

By now you felt it was time you excused yourself. As willing as you were to take the fall for your crew, dying in the midst of a battle of the most violent beings on the ship was not your forte. You tried to run, turning to where you originally came but were stopped. Like you weighed nothing the Supreme One had pulled you into his chest with his un-moveable grip, holding his electric sword in the opposite hand he started to laugh. 

“Come now, Rumakia! Attack me with my commander,” he’s holding you so tight but you refuse to move the memory of your commander’s crumpled corpse plaguing your mind. 

The irony of your similar fate, you fail to realize the specific way you’ve been pulled into the man behind you. Practically no space between you both; his breath, smelling of ashes tickles the side of your face. His nose sensually runs along your cheek as he taunts the fanged prisoner across from him.

“So lovely! I see why you traveled so far for this lifeblood,” the Supreme dares a lick to your sweating neck, “I can’t wait to enjoy them once I kill you!”

The alien across the way shrieks an ear-piercing howl, their hair widening in tandem. A fact about the Diagolos was that their thirst for blood was at its highest or in times of great stress invoked another ability than great strength—-the use of tendrils. So small and weak they mimic hair like any other species but within a specific set of circumstances their tendrils grow and act as additional limbs. That was exactly what was happening now and for Ruu with lusciously long hair meant a web of extra problems for the Supreme One.

Satisfied, the man holding you lets out a whistle, someone of his personal guard appearing behind him in an instant. With his electric sword cutting at the reaching tendrils, your superior twirls you throwing you into the arms of his guard—that doesn’t release you despite your struggling.

“Take the Commander to my ship. Kill anyone that gets in your way.”

The guard only nods before dragging you away, this time you don’t fight as another shrill cry echoes down the hallway. You let the guard lead you, so you can replay the moments before. It was puzzling to try and imagine what exactly was the competition. It couldn’t be you….could it? It’d be bizarre to believe that a prisoner who’s sustenance was blood traveled across the vast galaxy to find you. More than likely you just happened to have a blood type he was interested in…it had to be.

“Move!”

The aggressive pushing from the guard broke you from your thoughts. Passing by the corpses of the same soldiers you’d sent away made you pause. The guard groaned before lifting you up, carelessly tossing you over their shoulder to trudge over their bodies. Your memories with the people they were replay and you feel an overwhelming sense of guilt. 

A commander should go down with their ship, right?

You attempted to leave, tearfully reciting the exact thing, hoping to appeal to the person behind the mask. And for a moment they pause seemingly taking your ask into consideration.

“Didn’t want to do this.”

They were swift, unsheathing an electric zapper and jamming it into your side. The force of the jab—painful and the electrocution—burning. You're left to writhe with the resounding pain as the guard moves to pick you up again. Securing your limp body on their shoulder they plan to continue on their way.

“H-hey let them go!”

The pain is paralyzing and you struggle to lift your head much further but you recognize the voice. It’s Yuki. Hardly able to look you note the stance she’s in, the growing crimson puddle beneath her, and the way she leans against the wall. She’s hurt. You want to call out to her, but any attempt to get her attention is thwarted by the guard turning around. Forced to look at the blackness of their uniform you feel them chuckle and pull out a weapon. It doesn’t click the way the zapper did. 

It clicks the way guns do.

“With your condition, I doubt you’ll survive this. Not really one to be making demands.”

A shot rings out and she screams. 

She’s not dead but you can smell that familiar smell of burning flesh.

“Any regrets?”

“Just that…I can’t promise you it’ll be any better with them, (Y/n)...but I hope it’s better than with him..”

“What?!” 

You’re moving again despite the aches in your body. You move to look up, finding your poor lieutenant with a ghastly paleness on her face covered in blood. A shot rings out and her final words ring loudly in your ears. 

Who could she mean by they?

She couldn’t possibly mean...?

“What a waste of energy that bi–” your retainer was halted by the baffling sight of a hand sprouting from the front of their chest. Looking down and blankly trying to hold the hand sticking out of him, their mouth fills with blood as the hand retreats. Finally, you’re released, awkwardly catching yourself with aching legs as they descend to the floor. Above them is none other than Matthew.

“You! But why would you—?”

“We have to leave now. Do you need me to carry you?”

The voice that leaves his lips moves something in you, you’ve rarely felt moved before. So consumed with work you never could begin to think of anything romantic with anyone, But hearing his voice and being grabbed by the sturdy hands attached you felt a need like never before. Perhaps it was the electricity, influencing you to lose your inhibitions as you failed to register any of the words coming out of his mouth. Only when his lips stopped moving and he tilted his head did you begin to think maybe you should reply but then you’d have to remember what was said. And that just wasn’t possible.

“What?”

Unlike the guard before he didn’t sigh exasperatedly, just bent down and picked you up. Holding you in that forbidden carry, cradling your back and thighs. Something must be wrong. So very wrong. Despite all your knowledge of the horrors that had been committed by the man holding you, your hands still reached for his face. Squishing what little fat remained of his cheeks and rubbing your thumbs over those delectably plump lips. This felt like there was something terribly wrong. But you also couldn’t stop.

“Have you always been this pretty?”

The stoic face that was oh-so focused on his unannounced mission, looked at you in surprise. Then like the moon coming out on a cloudy day, he smiled. It made this unfamiliar part of you swoon, demanding you lean and nuzzle into the neck of a criminal.

“So sappy, I was worried I wouldn’t make it in time.”

It was Rumakia, even more bloody than you when you had left him, wearing a form-fitting body suit with a cape that dragged on the floor—a trophy from a battle won with your superior no doubt. Skipping over more fallen companions of yours but for some reason, you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Leaning into the alien’s touch he held your face in his hands, making eye contact with his red eyes. For some reason, you felt significantly hotter. 

“Who would’ve thought our pheromones would take into effect now? During our little coup…but I’m not complaining. I’ve been waiting far too long for this.” 

His kisses were like ice cubes in an intense Earthian Summer, refreshing and addictive. They continued trailing from the corner of your mouth to the veins of your neck, an oddly cool feeling of a sickled tongue going up and down and up—

“W-what’s going on? What’s happening?”

Ruu giggled the clutch on your face trailing to your jaw with a focus on your neck. More kisses and the grazing of something sharp–like the flat side of a blade threatening to turn over any moment. What should have incurred your fear, instead incited your heartbeat to increase in excitement.

“This is what I was after for so long. Letting myself get captured and roughed up when I easily could have massacred them all.”

With not a second wasted Rumakia plunged his fangs into your neck and began to suck at your blood. Feeling your energy drain should have been terrifying, thinking of the guard you saw literally being sucked to death. Instead, you felt a pooling heat below your waist, causing you to uncomfortably shuffle. Ruu was moaning and you felt inclined to join registering how you were being brought to the ground from your elevated state. The light weight of a body being positioned on top of you and those hands fondling every part they could. It felt good but so confusing.

The loss of energy already drained from the stress of the Supreme One’s visit.

The weird heat burning beneath your clothes.

And the inviting touches of the alien above you. 

It was too much. 

And then it stopped.

The only thing remaining was that unbelievable heat as the fangs left your body and you looked up at Ruu. His lips and chin coated in your blood, looking down at you with a dark pink blush overtaking his face. Behind him was Matthew looking upset…but not in the way you would be if anyone was having their life sucked from them in front of you. No, it was more of a pout. Ruu followed your gaze to look at the man, tilting his head.

“I would have liked you to do this on our ship,” he looked around the room, the floor practically covered in corpses—the corpses of your friends and coworkers, “I doubt when they come to their senses they’ll appreciate having their first with you here...among all of them.”

Enjoying your clearer conscious, you agreed with him. But you still had so many questions. 

Ruu scoffed flipping some of his hair off his shoulder, that wide smile returning as he looked at Matthew.

“Hmph so? They don’t get a say anyway, they're my human! Why should I even care what they think about these lessers? If they’ve got the headspace to be thinking about anyone but us than we clearly aren’t satisfying them enough.”

Matthew sighed shaking his head, as he extended his hand to Ruu. Pulling him up and hugging, you once again got to see that rare smile on his face. Sharing a peck between them, Ruu was the one who pulled away easily picking you up and balancing you so that he was cradling you. 

“Come on then let’s get to the ship then! I’ve been waiting so long for this.”

Matthew let out a laugh, taking you from the alien resuming his princess carry. Inviting you to rest on his shoulder as he walked alongside Ruu, casually making conversation about the crew your crew they murdered. 

“Were you the one to get rid of that annoying lieutenant? They were so annoying! Kissing up and then daring to electrocute me just for joking!” 

“I started to but in the end, they proved to be useful.”

“Hmph, I wish I could’ve been there. To see the light fade from her eyes would have been a dream!”

“But you got the Supreme pest, right?”

“I did. That vermin actually touched them, can you believe it? I know he’s half Diagolos and their blood type is nice but the sheer audacity was nauseating.”

“Maybe we can get the rebellion to…thank us.”

“Hm, and that ‘thank you’ can come in the shape of a moon all to ourselves.”

“That’s very unlikely.”

“...Money wouldn’t be too bad, then.”

A wave of exhaustion struck you harder than any you’ve felt. Reluctantly given into sleep fully leaning into Matthew. Eyes closed and your consciousness fading you felt warm lips lovingly brush against your forehead. 

“Rest easy, my love.”

“You’re where you belong.”

______________________________________________________________

Matthew shot a hand straight through the enemy’s head, uncaring of the way it lifelessly flopped in front of him. Moving onto the oncoming soldiers coming around the corner he did the same thing he always did: disarming the obstacles and clearing the path for his clients. Checking over his shoulders he listens to them gush about the information they received with one another. He doesn’t sigh, but he does throw the last obstacle at their feet. Startling them and regaining their attention.

“Time to move. We still have to meet the others at the rendezvous point.”

He was glad he mentioned it, their eyes lit up and they moved a lot quicker. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the predictability, he centers himself. As a human, his ability to sense others wasn’t incredibly complex but if there was anyone he could find in an instant it was his love. With a tad more urgency Matthew runs through the clean and industrial halls of the Grand Empire's Ship. 

Their latest clients weren’t his favorite group to work with, considering it always involved dabbling with the oligarchy regime. But it wasn’t his decision, it was his partner’s. In Matthew’s opinion an incredible privilege for such a bodacious operation. If it wasn’t for the one gift, his love had been given they’d have no allegiance to the ragtag group. 

“Nice to see you all in one piece.”

The familiar voice made Matthew swoon, resisting the urge to smile. Settled to stand behind Rumakia as he spoke with the rebels. All smiles and light speech; Matthew let him do the talking since he didn’t bother sugarcoating anything. 

“Thank you for your help Rumakia sir!”

“You know I’m only here to repay a debt. After this gig, I’ll take my payment and go.”

“Of course. Let’s take the drives and cruise out of here with the trash as our cover!”

Like any other mission the entire group retreats to their ship, floating away with the trash dumped before the enemy ship jettisons back out to space. As they drifted with the debris collectively watched several cargo ships dock. It’s then that Matthew is finally compelled to watch the 5th cargo ship slot into place. 

A sweltering heat made him sweat, his body suit clinging to his skin tighter than before. His heart beating impossibly loud he held his hand over his peck as if to muffle it. Heavy breathing and some unneeded rush of adrenaline drying his mouth. 

“Hey, what a find! That’s the cargo ships transporting the hyperdense generators! Highly explosive and probably what’s fueling their latest weapons….”

“We should circle back and blow those up. If we can impede their operations for only a month that’d help us the most.”

Matthew felt a small hand on his lower back, slightly soothing with Ruu’s cold fingers. It grounded him more than he’d admit to--hearing his voice.

“We wouldn’t mind taking the mission to get on that ship. Say one of those generators might save us another job or two.”

Matthew was amazed at how well Ruu could keep his cool. Of the many conversations they had about their bonding, the Diagolan confided in him what it felt like to first be aware of Matthew. Apparently along with the intense heat, there was an overwhelming need to feed—an animalistic drive to get through all obstacles to get to his mate. Seems like the second time he’d gotten better at managing it. 

“To put you on the ship would be unnecessary but if you were really eager to get one of the generators that can be arranged. There is a transferring of their mechanics from the prison to the cargo ships though that route…”

The rebel trailed off, their face twisting into a grimace that made Matthew worry. It made Ruu impatient.

“OUT WITH IT! *ahem* What about it?”

The rebel’s eyes widened at the intensity before coughing up an answer, “The prison that switches mechanics is from HIS private prison…our records indicate they do more than just monitor your every move.”

Matthew wasn’t against dealing with torture. He’s done that before. It seemed the issue was the time constraint. On a mission with quick timing, he’s sure he could appease Ruu. Sucking his blood and sex would be sufficient, but enduring a prison sentence, torture, and being separated? That would be a feat.

“We’ll do it.”

“Huh?!”

“You heard me, HUMAN! We’ll do it.”

“But the stakes are so high! There’s no guarantee you’ll survive if HE catches wind that you’re after a generator.”

Matthew couldn’t help but agree this could be even more dangerous if that thing knew what they were actually after. And being detained under that one’s supervision could be fatal when it comes to torture.

The stakes were high.

Ruumakia knew this too, his elongating claws scratching into the leather padding of his seat.

“We’ll do it,” Matthew spoke this time, slipping a hand onto the thigh of his lover. 

They had to.

Because you are their life.

Sequel maybe? 🖤🖤🖤🖤

[forthelostones]

𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚏𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 ➺ 𝚓𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚢 #8

anderson construction and landscaping had been parked outside your door since you returned home from university. as if the summer couldn't get any hotter, the business owner works overtime in your area. anderson is collecting new, loyal clients of your neighbors, cementing her permanence in your life for the next few months. what's to come of your girlish crush when she keeps showing up?

𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜. 18+ (mdni); age-gap, young!reader, older!abby, butch!abby, slow-burn, suggestive language, thoughts of infidelity, ellie ft, smoking/drinking, mentions of parents, nickname: sweetheart, and modern au.

𝚊𝚗. guys, you're awesome that's for supporting me. i've recently stopped using grammarly for a more real writing experience. so if things are wonky, just know thats why! no more ai help.

♫ 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝. want me by chloe x halle ♫

You stumble through Ms. Anderson’s living room to find a spare blanket hidden somewhere in the darkness. With the terms you and Ellie are on, it wouldn’t be wise to have her pick you up tonight. Especially since you hadn’t told her you were hired by Abigail as her assistant. Not that she had outwardly admitted she had issues with Abby, but you knew Ellie more than anyone else — she was jealous. It was going to come up sooner or later considering you will have to see her on site but for now, you just needed to sleep.

You check in the corner near the massive bookshelf to find an ottoman hiding a fluffy black comforter. You creep through the house to search for the bathroom but not before you check on her. So, as the door opens and you see a snoring Abby sprawled out messily on her large bed, hair flaring on the silk pillowcase, mouth open and one arm hanging off the bed. You walk to close her curtains and take her now empty water glass with you out of the room. You handle it carefully and set it on a countertop. You wanted her. You craved her differently than you did Ellie. It was foolish but when her eyes hovered over your body today, you knew she wanted something from you. You don’t think she even knew what it was, if it was sex, companionship, or both, it was something. Something you had to find out.

This often happened, you thought, a mature woman could increase your curiosity easily and swiftly. They forced you to compare your relationship with Ellie to them and wonder how was it truly to fuck someone who knew exactly what they were doing. And Ms. Anderson knew exactly what she was doing. Staring at your curves so intently, and piercing your soul with those heavy eyes every chance she got. It felt good to watch the handsome woman admire you and possibly reminisce about her former self. Suddenly warm, you linger on to find her bathroom and flickered on the light. 

The tiling was navy and white hexagons layered up and down the length of the room. On the left just as you entered was a wall with five inch deep shelving embedded in it. She was so organized, items sat in small matching boxes, not overfilled but just enough. It amazed you. All black boxes sat on three shelves neatly labeled with their contents: medical, personal, and hair. You close the door softly and pick through the first two baskets, trying to not disturb their contents. Beside the shelves on the opposite wall is a small window that is slightly open, probably to help with the moisture and it’s covered in privacy film. Her neighborhood was noisy with a variety of buzzing lightning bugs and cicadas.

Next to it is the wide shower encased in reflective glass spanning almost half of the rooms size. Inside were waterproof shelves holding more of Abby’s products and a wooden showering bench. Finally, you turn to the mirror that faces the shower directly and begin to wash your face off in the sink. The summertime was unforgiving and you started to feel it — sticky neck and a damp back was motivation enough to risk a shower and have her realize you never left. 

Your fingers trace Abby’s usual products, not that you were shocked but you did crack a smile at the common theme of vanilla. You fold your clothes and place it on the sink and begin to lather a small dollop of her body wash into your skin. The water pressure was lush and the heat alone was hotter than you were used to but it felt so soothing, so right.

What would it be like to shower with Ms. Anderson on the days you’d spend the night? Her wide, wet hands tracing against your spine and wrapping around your waist to pull you into her needy body. Spreading warm, bubbly soap over your breasts and gently wrapping her fingers around your neck. A soft sigh escapes you as you fantasize about the woman who owns this house — who practically built it. You could slip into her bedroom right now and confess. 

But what was there to confess to Abby? That you had a crush on the woman? Or that you saw how easy it was for her to lead and how much that turned you on… ridiculous. This wasn’t unusual, you had crushes in your life and you thought that was normal. The girl from Chemistry, the TA in Philosophy, or your English professor, it was interesting to see people differently and fantasize. But there was a different level with Abby, you thought about her, not just in the moments you see her but after. Pondering on the what-ifs, you wanted her to see you differently than she did now. 

You finally turned the water off and stepped out onto the fluffy shower mat, mirror evenly steamed up and a creeping realization that you were standing naked in your new boss’ home. The comfort was over and now the feeling became intrusion, you were out of your mind. A creaking noise outside of the door awakened your senses further, the noise in your head was your heart. Air-drying would have to do. Back in your clothes and in her living room asylum was found under the down-feather cover. It shouldn’t feel this good doing something this bad, staying without invitation, but you knew she wouldn’t mind. To wake up to a relaxed, totally open you on her couch because your safety was her main priority. 

A warm morning sun welcomed you out of a slumber of fantasies and one of reality. You were inside Ms. Anderson’s house, lying down as if you were at a sleepover. You sat up immediately once you heard a familiar step pad down the hallway to empty into the living room. Abby rubs her eyes awake and stretches. That tight, white shirt pressed against her body deliciously, exposing her frigid nipples that were punctured with rings. You blink ferociously, hoping you were awake and not dreaming. The protruding metal laid perfectly flush against the fat of her breast, outlining a small circle on each nipple. The sensation filling your mouth could only be described as mouthwatering. 

“Oh, hi?” She yawns. 

“Good morning, I slept here bec—” 

“It’s alright, I know. It was nice what you did,” she leaned on the door frame. “I don’t deserve it but I’m thankful, so thank you.” 

You begin to fold the duvet, your clothes were tucked in awkward positions, exposing thigh and shoulder, a chill carried over you. “It really was not problem, I wanted to make sure you didn’t miss your meeting this morning that you told me about, remember?” You flush. 

“Right,” 

The woman took a hand through her hair to clean herself up. Her stomach popped a bit over her waistband revealing lingering sprawl of light hair towards the center of her belly. Those thighs filled out her boxers wonderfully and you couldn’t pull your eyes away from them, hoping one day you'd be able to be crushed in between —

“Technically you don’t start until next week.” Abby covers her chest with her forearms suddenly feeling insecure. 

“I know but seeing you last night made me worry that you wouldn’t wake up this early.” You smiled. 

Abby just nodded her head, unsure of what to say next. 

“I’m sorry for that, it was completely unlike me.” 

The distance between you both felt vast, like you were on two opposing continents, like you did something wrong. 

“Clearly, you have a lot on your mind.” You mutter gently. 

Abby directs you into the kitchen where she opens up her small windows to air the house out and start a fresh pot of coffee, her gray fuzzy house shoes scratching against the hardwood. 

“Why don’t you come along with me today, to my client meeting? It’ll be training.” 

You stood with your back against her cool fridge and peered down at your current attire. It would be much better than walking around the neighborhood today with mom and a potential argument with Ellie festering. “That could be perfect but I need to wear something more up to par with you.” 

A laugh bellowed from Abby’s plump belly. 

“I wear ten year old cargo pants and tee shirts but whatever you say. You want a cup?” 

You just nod at the pure persuasion of the fresh, hot coffee infiltrating the air. 

“I haven’t brushed my teeth yet though.” 

“Right, um I left one in the bathroom for you, extras from the dentists should do the job.” 

꒰ঌ ໒꒱

It hadn’t slipped out of your mind that Abby said her clients mom was interested in meeting her daughter. Abigail appeared as if she had fought a million hangovers before in her life, she was glowing. Her farce about cargo pants and t-shirts went out the window this morning when she slicked her hair in a low braid, perfectly french-ed onto her scalp. Although the outfit was a bit outdated, she looked as daring as ever, dark green button down top with cropped sleeves and black chino pants. She was actively trying to looking good. She was kind enough to take you back home to change and get ready for the day. It all worked out since she had to check up on the current project. 

“I really appreciate your family for thinking of me yesterday. It’s rare that clients think so highly of us construction workers. The most we get are drinks but no one thinks about the actual energy that we exert and how high our food intake is.” 

How were you to tell her it was mostly you, not your parents, they were just the willing party. 

“Of course, I’m glad you enjoyed it, seemed like you really need it.” 

Abby’s posture changed but her eyes stayed forward. 

“You’re a great chef.” She turned slightly to connect with you. She needed you to understand how deeply she admired how you took care of her, since the first interaction. She wanted to be clear about what her words meant, they weren't empty, or so you hoped.

“Thank you, hopefully I can cook for you again.” You say, poking an already anxious bear.

[sl-ut]

sugar and spice

modern!alicent and her sugar baby/younger gf

warnings: semi nsfw, age gap (alicent mid-40s, r early-mid-20s) mentions of drugs and alcohol, mentions of alicent trying and failing to be a good mom sometimes, viserys being a bad dad and husband, probably bad description of what it’s like to be rich bc im #poor

alicent really shouldn’t even give the girl a second glance

she’s more than twenty years younger than her, and even worse, she was the former best friend of her own second youngest child, aemond

alicent could remember her being around their unnecessarily large home, but she never paid her much mind

she was usually busy running the multi million dollar company she’d married into (her ceo husband’s health was failing), while also juggling pr issues after one of aegon’s nights out, or doing her best to keep helaena relatively stable (all the girl really needed was a stable childhood, therapy, and maybe some light meds, but it was wayyy past that point), or defending herself against the scandalous rumours and defamation in the media (almost all started by daemon and/or rhaenyra)

aemond and daeron were her least problematic children

aemond was a self-sufficient machine and genius who had decided he did not need his mother’s help to be successful, while daeron turned his mommy and daddy issues into becoming a star footballer and white boy of the month for three consecutive years straight

she was glad enough that they were able to find their own support systems—daeron in his career and large group of close-knit friends, and aemond in his best friend

they’d met in secondary school, attached at the hip ever since. she was from an upper middle class family, only able to attend such a prestigious school on a scholarship, whether it be entirely through school or also through sport, alicent was unsure

aemond had considered her to be the only other person at that school who was not a complete fool and was worth his time

alicent did recall her being present on a few family vacations, which were usually more focused on forcing her children out of london and into an unfamiliar and enclosed area for a period of time to keep them out of trouble

she noticed that she had stopped coming around shortly after their first year at college, after aemond’s very first instant of needing some the help of his family’s pr team

he’d admitted his deep and profound love for his best friend rather publicly, at a birthday party he’d organized for her at one of his family’s homes in the country

after she had let him down (both argue whether or not it was gentle or not) there was a bit of a blow up regarding some very passive aggressive tweets and insta stories aimed at one another (one of aemond’s may or may not have included a comment about her sexuality)

his followers (which was infinitely more than her own) flew to her comment section to torch her for being a gold digger, for leading him on, while the rest of the world turned on him for publicly outing her and also blaming her for her disinterest in him due to her sexuality

after that, there were no public interactions between this middle-class girl and the targaryen family

she had become somewhat of an influencer in the years to follow, but was relatively off of alicent’s radar once everything had blown over

that is until they were photographed leaving a club together, both of their lipsticks smudged and suspiciously smeared—almost as if they’d been mixed together

alicent had been there as her son’s guardian, overseeing a business deal with the owner, his first since succeeding his late father as ceo

daemon had gotten to rhaenyra during her father’s sickness, convincing her to begin their own rival company and leaving the seat open for aegon

after realizing that the meeting was nothing more than a reason for them to get plastered and creep on girls who were far too drunk to know any better, she decided to excuse herself in hopes of making a quick exit

cue her bumping into someone, spilling her glass of wine over the front of their outfit

she was surprised to actually know the person, after a slight reminder from the girl herself

the next thing she knew, she was pressed against the door of a bathroom stall, the younger woman meeting her in a fight of passionate kisses

she made an effort to have the driver meet them at the back door, but of course it did nothing to stop paparazzi from catching them climbing into the car together

she woke up the next morning in her own bed, naked with the younger woman tucked into her side, a throbbing headache, and a dozen angry messages from aemond

her initial instinct is to do some major damage control, to rush to her office and call her publicist

but as the woman next to her began to stir, eyes fluttering open and a smile crawling onto her face, she began to change her mind

she ordered breakfast for them, a seemingly endless spread of pancakes, eggs, bacon, fruit, yogurt, coffee, and baked goods all courtesy of her private chef, served to them on the terrace of her penthouse overlooking london

alicent was sure to fill the girl in on the pr nightmare that had come from their night together, but was clear about where they would go from here

they would lay low for a while and try to let the scandal blow over; it wasn't exactly great for her image as president of targaryen industries that she was sleeping with women more than half her age less than a year after her husband's death

alicent was very upfront with her; they could either go their separate ways and never speak again, or they could continue this arrangement (in secret, ofc)

neither of them formally discuss the arrangement but its very clear to both of them

alicent tells her in the beginning she isn't looking for anything serious for the time being, especially considering that this relationship in particular would cause her issues within her own family

it didn't really stay secret for long, more of a situationship that everyone knew about but also no one knew about

i'm thinking it's like a tom and zendaya situation, everyone knows but the pap pics confirm a few months later

their time together is usually limited to weekends or late nights, but usually once every few months alicent is able to get away and take her on little trips to a more secluded and private place where they do not need to worry about being seen

she loves taking her to the countryside, which she initially referred to as her late husband's "cottage" but is actually more like a small castle

sugar baby once woke up after alicent left for work to find her assistant helping another woman set up a tailoring station in the living room

the woman was a seamstress that alicent had asked to take her baby's measurements so she could surprise her by sending her custom clothing and lingerie that may or may not match some of her own

loves seeing her baby in green

she liked to send her baby gifts when she had to be away for work for a few days

also sent her an "allowance" of a minimum 5k a week

encouraged her to move into one of her spare condos

sometimes was a little overbearing about how her baby went about things but can you blame her for being a control freak with the family she has?

realises that she actually loved her after she broke down in front of her for the first time, and her baby simply held her and encouraged her to let it out rather than to compartmentalise her emotions

after that she felt like it was more of a relationship than an arrangement

when they finally go public, its totally unintentional and chaotic

alicent's baby is up for a big award in her field and alicent plans a little private celebration for the two of them

one of her bitch ass assistants snitched and the paparazzi showed up

this time around it was pointless to try and do any more damage control over the situation if she was gonna continue to have a relationship with her baby

their relationship caused some backlash, all on her baby's part

alicent was a millionaire and the president of one of the most influential companies in the world, she was basically untouchable

her baby, however, was a masters student with less than a million followers; just famous enough that people cared enough to both know her name and send her an endless stream of hate

the final straw was when some of her haters showed up to her school's awards banquet and caused a scene

after that alicent was determined to stop it by issuing a public message and having her lawyers get involved

it was bad enough that they were facing criticism from alicent's own family (esp aemond) so she was not willing to let any harassment to her baby slide

at this point alicent no longer considers this to be a sugar mommy/baby relationship and asks her to move in with her

officially moves out of the red keep (their personal building of condos) and into one of her own homes outside london and has her baby move in with her so she can be better protected

aemond doesn't speak to her for anything non-business related for months after they go public

alicent does try to speak to him, but understands that this situation will not be brushed over so easily

it finally blows over when aemond comes face to face with her baby and they fight it out

she apologises for dating his mom but also reveals to him that she was basically exiled from her own family after he outed her and had also lost her only real friend; alicent was the only person who seemed to genuinely care about her since they stopped being friends several years ago

he's still mad, but he makes an effort to let them be and eventually he gets used to it

he also likes that she is able to actually make his mother happy; she was not always there for them as she should have been, but he knew the person that she had become were a result of the environment she'd been forced into by her father

aegon thought it was hilarious that his prim and proper mother had subjected herself to such scandal, but also appreciated that she was less uptight when she was with her baby

he also thought alicent's baby was very funny and enjoyed trying to get her drunk at family dinners

he would be secretly refilling her glass whenever she wasn't looking and alicent would only notice when her baby was suddenly all giggly and sentimental

helaena was just glad that the drama was over, but also enjoyed spending time with her mother's new woman

she did help her with some forced exposure; she often encouraged her to join them when she and alicent went shopping or out to lunch just to get her out of the house

daeron isn't home much due to his football career, but he does follow her on instagram and comments something vaguely friendly whenever she posted something with or regarding his family

rhaenyra and daemon def use the scandal to their advantage in the media

she's suddenly being included in magazines and celebrity news pages every time she's spotted in public

especially when they catch sight of the big rock on her finger after a year or two

when they do finally tie the knot it's a super private ceremony and dinner at one of the hightower estates before leaving for a month-long honeymoon in the mediterranean; she does not want to use her late husband's money or assets to begin her new marriage

100% willing to financially support any of her baby's career decisions

she's wanting to start a small business? sure thing. she's beginning a new research project? consider it funded. she wants to make a career change? she's more than ready to take over all of the bills and expenses

since she spends so much time at work, she likes spending all of her free time with her baby

if her baby is going to get her hair or nails done? she's in the chair next to her. going to pilates? she's got her spandex on. going out with the girls? alicent will let her go alone but is on-call to pick her up and bring her home as soon as she texts her

alicent isn't a heavy drinker but def can pound back a glass of wine after work like no other

loves when her baby has it ready for her when she walks through the door

would prefer to stay in together than go out, but she's all about compromise here is her baby wants to be taken out

is a little guilty of having her assistant remind her of important dates or will have them run to buy anniversary/birthday/apology gifts

but its mostly in the beginning when there's a lot of drama and scandal surrounding their relationship

this might have all been me self projecting my dream relationship with my dream woman but ohhhh well i love this pairing smmmm