#there is a lot of guilt in that. in wanting to just give up and end things because whats the Point?

[butyoudidthis4what]

Quiet

Widower!Jack Abbott x Widow Single Mom!Reader

19.9k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: sick baby; sick mom; mentions of needles; inaccurate medical knowledge/descriptions/tests etc.; reference to past pregnancy; reference to past miscarriages but no graphic descriptions, just a mention they occurred (reader does not actively experience one in the fic); Jack was in the army; reader's husband was in the army and died while deployed; discussions of IVs and needle sticks; reader gets an IV and is not afraid of needles; mild description of IV insertion; shy reader; discussion of possible peanut allergy; mentions of covid, influenza a and b and RSV; mom guilt; discussions of loss of spouse; lots of grief and self hate for a bit; Jack is vaguely suicidal and ideating at the beginning; healing; reader and jack are human and not perfect and make mistakes; reader can't cook; baby is a boy but is not named; DOMESTIC JACK

Summary: Widower Jack and widowed single mom Reader meet in the Pitt when Reader's baby gets sick. What follows is healing, patience and becoming ready.

A.N.: Inspired by this ask. This was so inspiring and I went totally off the rails. There will for sure be a part two. I really wanted to do something with Jack being a widower but was unsure of how to. This ask came in and the idea came to me and I felt like it was a good way to work with that piece of him. The beginning is quite emotional, I'm not going to say angst, there's just a lot of emotions and sadness and grief as we define Jack and Reader's reality. I PROMISE that the end gets fluffy and happy and (I hope) funny! Part two will be more fluff with a dash of emotion sprinkled in as we watch their relationship develop and the two get their happily ever after together!

You make it to about ten before you decide to go in. It’s not a long drive and by 10:15 p.m. you’re parked and walking into the ED.

You bite your lip and bounce just a little to help keep him asleep in your arms while the woman behind the plexiglass processes your insurance and co-pay. She gives you a warm smile, says to take a seat and it’ll be just a few minutes and they’ll get you back. 

Thanking her you grab your cards and do as she says. You’re surprised by how quiet it is. There’s a few people in the waiting room but it seems more like they’re waiting on people as opposed to be seen. Small mercies, you suppose. You’ll take what you can get. 

You can only imagine what you must look like right now, how bad you must look. You wish your husband was here. Wish he had been here for it all. He’d reassure you. Tell you that you were doing the right thing by coming in. Better to be safe than sorry. You can hear him telling you it. 

A call of your last name dissolves his voice playing in the back of your head. You follow a nurse back and get settled in a room. All the basics are done, everything you expected. And like you expected the second you set your son down so that his vitals can be taken he starts to cry. It makes you want to cry. 

Bridget reassures you that it’s okay, is quick taking his vitals so you can get him back in your arms and calm him. You know you must look like a mess, hair messed up, eyes reflecting how exhausted you are and the lack of sleep, wrinkled clothes that have at least one stain somewhere, probably more. And you’re sure that your face reflects how you feel inside, how frazzled you are, how guilty, how scared, how upset, how sad, how out of control you feel. 

Bridget dims the lights for you and leaves you to hold your son against you in the hospital bed. “I’ll have a doctor in as soon as possible.”

“Thank you,” you murmur, “and I’m sorry for being kind of a mess. Well, not kind of at this point.” 

She just laughs. “I understand, but trust me, you’re doing just fine.”

You manage to give her a small smile back and nod. She walks out and then it’s just you and your son. Like it always is. Your husband isn’t here, he’s never going to be here. His absence is pronounced as you lay in a hospital bed in an emergency room with your sick nine-month old. You do your best to not think about it because if you do, you’ll lose it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He’s missing her tonight, more than usual. Maybe it’s not so much that he’s missing her more than usual but he’s more aware of how much he always misses her. It’s more acute. Like some flareup of a chronic illness. Thinking in medical terms helps.

He knows he shouldn’t do that, try to understand it like it’s some illness he can study and understand. It’s just grief. It’s just there more than others some days. Sometimes he can articulate why and others he can’t.

Tonight he can’t. 

He bends his thumb inward and puts it on his wedding band, thumbs at it so it rolls around his finger. Nervous habit. That’s what he calls it now. When she was alive it helped ground him, reminded him she was there and he’d be going home to her, could make it through whatever was in front of him. And then she died. So now he tells himself it’s a nervous habit because he doesn’t know what the fuck else to call it. 

To those who don’t know him he still looks like a husband subtly using his wedding band to ground himself or remind himself of his wife or because he’s thinking about her and so he’s subconsciously playing with his ring. 

If only. 

Jack inches a little further and looks down over the ledge of the roof. The ground looks so inviting from the roof sometimes. It would be so simple. He could be reunited with her, if such a thing was real. 

Sometimes though he wants to be selfish and not care how she’d feel about it because she, unlike him, isn’t around anymore to feel fucking anything. Sometimes his grief comes out in anger because she got it fucking easy, she didn’t have to lose him, she doesn’t have to be here, doing all this feeling while alone. He always hates himself after that even though his therapist says it’s normal. But he’s stuck here and has to do the feeling because when he tried to bury the feelings he nearly self-destructed. 

So Jack stands on the roof. Stands and feels. And Jack is tired. Tired of feeling. At least like this anyway. 

He knows she’d hate it, hate him walking off the ledge of the roof so he doesn’t. Not tonight. 

Instead he slips back under the guard rail and leans against it, lets his head fall back and the chill in the air bring him back down. 

It’s too quiet, he realizes. Maybe that’s why his awareness of how much he misses her is so high right now. He likes noise. Keeps his mind quiet. The Pitt is too quiet. Even the City as he stands on the roof. And so his mind is loud. 

It makes him uneasy. There’s always a reason for silence. For quiet. It always means something. Always brings something. Rarely, if ever, is it good.

Jack lets out a heavy sigh and then leaves the roof, heads back down to the Pitt hoping to find something to do. He’ll take anything at this point. “There you are,” Bridget greets him as he walks back in. “Sick nine-month old waiting for you,” she nods at your room, tells him your son’s name, a general overview. “Baby doesn’t seem too bad. Mom is stressed.” 

Jack nods, says a quick “thanks,” as starts walking towards your room. 

He looks in and sees you through the glass and stops. You are beautiful. Strikingly so. And Jack hasn’t even met you yet but feels like he’s known you forever, is drawn to you. It feels like he just understands you, or maybe more like he knows you’re going to understand him. It’s the strangest feeling. 

You start to glance up from looking at your son and Jack quickly resumes moving, knocking slightly on the door since you’ve already seen him and walking in, shutting the door behind him. “Hi, I’m Dr. Abbot,” he introduces himself. 

And god, now that he’s in your space, in here with your energy it’s even more intense. It’s like he’s supposed to know you, supposed to have met you. Like some kind of palpable fate in his brain. He briefly wonders if he’s hallucinating because this is not shit he really believes in, not normally. 

Quiet, Jack thinks. It always brings something. Or maybe someone. 

“I hear we’re not feeling well.” He looks down at your son who is asleep in your arms, head on your chest. “Mom, right?”

You nod, tell him your name. Nearly trip over it because this man is so handsome it is unfair. Then you feel bad the second you have that thought. But then you start to feel pulled to him. He’s just comforting and you struggle to understand how because you don’t know him. It feels like you do, but you don’t. You’re drawn to him. You feel like you actually need to know him. Like he and you are here for a reason. 

You immediately chastise yourself for having those thoughts. Your husband, you remind yourself, your husband. He’d have wanted you to move on, to grieve and then find someone. You don’t even have to assume that or just think it. You knew it. You knew it because of that fucking video he left you that you were never supposed to have to see. 

You bring yourself back into the present. 

“What’s been going on to bring you in?” Jack asks as he logs into the computer and pulls up your son’s chart. He glances over at you and catches a look in your eye. Jack thinks you feel it too. Whatever is between you and him, the connection. It feels like you know it’s there too. Maybe that’s wishful thinking.

You tell him what’s been going on, symptoms your son is showing. Jack alternates between typing on the computer and looking at you. “I, um, I called the nurse hotline, you know, on the back of the insurance card before I came in, I really didn’t want to waste your time, I know you guys are so busy. She said that it’s probably okay to wait to get in with the pediatrician, but that if I was concerned I could go to the emergency room and I really tried to wait, I did, but I just, I don’t know. I felt like he sounded more wheezy.” You shrug at him, eyes round and showing how distressed you are, a hint of glass at them that suggests you’re close to tears. “It’s RSV season, you know? I mean I know you know. And god, I don’t want to be like, doctor WebMD or whatever, I trust you and your expertise, it’s just why I came in, they tell you about it so much at all the appointments and I, I don’t want anything to happen to him. But if you think this is too much you can just say and-”

“It’s not too much,” Jack cuts you off, nodding gently. “I promise. Better to be safe than sorry especially if you feel like he’s been a little more wheezy.” You nod at Jack who keeps looking at you intently. It makes you clear your throat and look away. But when he doesn’t say anything after a second you look back up at him. “You did the right thing,” he tells you when he catches your eye contact again. “Can I?” He gestures to your son. 

“Oh! Yes, yes of course! Here, let me get out of bed and lay him down.” You give a breathy laugh that reveals how out of sorts you are. You’re clearly thrumming with nervous energy, frenetic and flustered.

“No, it’s okay. You can stay, I’ll take him and get him on the end of the bed if that’s okay?” He holds his hands out to take your son. 

“Of course, yeah, whatever is easiest for you and best for him!” You gently pull your son from you and he starts to wake and fuss. “I’m sorry, he hates not being held right now and he hates being held by anyone but me it seems like sometimes, so he might not…” you trail your sentence off when Jack takes your son and he settles against Jack as they walk to the end of the bed. “Settle.” You sit up and cross your legs to give Jack more room. “I guess he likes you,” you laugh softly. 

“Good taste in people already,” Jack quips absentmindedly as he lays your son down. You give a soft laugh and the corners of his lips pull up. You get his humor. He likes that. Not everyone does especially when he executes it so stoically sometimes. There really is a draw there. 

Your son starts to fuss again and Jack can see you stiffen a little and start to look like you’re about to apologize. “It’s alright, little guy, I’ll have you back to mom soon.” He keeps a hand gently on your son’s tiny stomach and chest while putting his stethoscope on with one hand and rubbing the chest piece on the side of his scrub top for a few seconds to warm it up before putting it to your son’s skin. “I know, I’m sorry,” he murmurs in between listens, gently pulling your son up into a sitting position to listen to the back of his chest. “I’m the worst, I know, you can tell me all about it, won’t be the first or the last.” 

You sit there watching the whole interaction stunned. You don’t know why, you just never expected to get a doctor who would be so good with your son, with you. There’s something about him. Something you could never hope to articulate. You’re just drawn to him, he feels like some sort of kindred spirit which you tell yourself is crazy because you’ve known the man all of four minutes. 

Jack takes his stethoscope out and finishes his exam. “You have his clothes?” He glances up at you as you ask. 

“Hm?” You lean in a little towards him. Before he can repeat himself the words process. “Oh, yes!” You grab them from beside you. You’d taken them off earlier with Bridget so she and eventually the doctor could examine your son. 

“Thanks.” Jack grabs them from you and gets your son dressed again. 

“No, thank you. You… You didn’t have to do that.” The smile you give him almost reads embarrassed. 

“Least I could do for upsetting him so much by laying him down.” Jack picks your son up and brings him the few steps back up to you as you stretch your legs out again. Your son has already started to settle in his arms again. 

“So,” Jack reaches over for the rolling stool in the room and uses the pressure of his fingertips to slide it over to him before sitting down on it and rolling up to be closer to the midpoint of the bed so you can talk. “You’re right, he’s a little wheezy. Nothing terrible, but it’s there. His fever is still pretty low grade and I saw he’s about due for some acetaminophen, so we can recheck after we give him some more in a bit. Is RSV a possibility? Yes. So is a common cold. So is influenza A or B, so is Covid.” Jack can see you getting more panicky. 

“I…” You shake your head and look at Jack. “This is my fault.” Jack furrows his eyebrows at you and cocks his head a little. “I, I’m a single mom. It’s just him and I and I have to send him to daycare so that I can work and I don’t have any family around to help and I can’t afford a nanny, daycare is expensive as it is and I don’t want to have to send him to day care, even though I know that’s a normal thing and lots of parents do it and are good parents, are great parents, it doesn’t define how good of a parent you are, but I just think in this case, it’s me. I let him get sick. I exposed him. And I never wanted that, I really didn’t I just don’t have other options and it’s so hard and I spent months researching and touring locations to try and find the best one I could afford, but at the end of the day it’s still a cesspool of germs and I don’t know. I know that it’s mom guilt and daycare guilt and I shouldn’t feel that way, but I do and you know, nothing can happen to him.” You hold your son a little closer to you. You know if something happened to him you’d be gone within minutes. “Nothing can happen to him,” you repeat, a murmur. 

There’s a small silence and then you look up. “Oh my god,” you look at Jack horrified. “I just dumped that all on you and said all of that out loud. You’re a doctor. A busy doctor in an emergency room, you so do not have time for this, and god, fuck, it’s not even your job to listen anyway. I am so, so sorry.” You fight back tears because you are not doing this, you are not losing it here in an emergency room with your son in your arms. Because if one tear falls all of them will. 

Jack can see how you’re trembling. He noticed you were a little when he came in the room, noticed how chapped your lips were. 

“Hey, it’s all good.” Jack’s voice is soft and he tries to catch your eye to reassure you more but doesn’t force you when you avoid it. “I have time, you picked a good night, okay? And I know that nothing I can say will help with the guilt and I know you know but this stuff happens. They get sick. You did what you’re supposed to do, brought him in, called the hotline, monitored him closely.” You close your eyes for a second and take in a few breaths. He can tell you need to move on and not dwell here or something will open up that you can’t close and there is nobody who understands that better than Jack. “I don’t think anything is going to happen to him. I’m going to give you some choices, okay?” 

You finally look back up at him and nod, give him an apologetic smile. “Thank you,” you whisper. 

Jack nods. “First option is we give him some acetaminophen here and keep you guys here for a couple hours to monitor him and see how he does. That’s the least intensive option. Second option is the most intensive option. We test for RSV, rhinovirus, influenza A and B, Covid. That would be a swab test, one for all. We draw some blood and run a few tests just to check on everything. And then we do a chest x-ray to see if anything’s going on. Third option is a middleground. We start with the swab test. If it comes back positive for one we discuss more options. If it comes back negative then maybe we decide to do bloodwork. Choice is yours. None of them are wrong.”

You swallow hard. Your mind races as you try to decide. What if you make the wrong choice and something happens? 

“What would you do if he was yours?” You ask Jack, voice so, so small, so scared. Jack barely knows you but his heart aches for you. It’s like he understands you somehow even though he’s not a parent, has no reason to feel such a pull or connection to you. 

“Uh, wow, I… I don’t know,” Jack stutters a little because the question throws him so much. 

“I’m sorry if that was inappropriate, you don’t have to answer. I thought maybe you and your wife had kids and maybe that’s inappropriate too, god.” You cringe at yourself. But yeah. You’d noticed the wedding ring when he took your son from you. 

“No, no, it’s not inappropriate and we… I,” Jack looks almost pained. It’s familiar, the expression he wears. You feel like you know it well even if you can’t place it in the moment. “No kids,” he finally settles on, “I don’t have any kids. And I can’t say I’ve thought about… this, what I would do before.” He brings a hand up to his head and runs it through his hair before crossing his arms over his chest for a second before moving them back down to rest on his legs. “It’s hard,” he shrugs, and gives you an apologetic look. “The doctor in me who knows all of the possibilities says option two. But the doctor in me also knows that’s probably a bit overkill and that realistically option one is fine, and that option three is the best, that middleground.” He looks away from you and down at your son, studies your little boy whose small hand clings to your shirt. “I can’t say I’ve ever really tried to access the… paternal side of me,” Jack clears his throat, “not in a long time anyway. But I think I’d have to go option two, even though it’s overkill and involves a needle stick. I’d want the reassurance and to see the numbers and images.” 

You nod. “Yeah,” you say quietly and look down at your son. “Yeah, I think that’s what I want to do. I just needed, I don’t know. Not permission but… something.” You look back up at Jack and your eyes glaze over a bit. Something he recognizes, something he’s been told happens to him when he talks about his wife. His head tilts slightly at the thought. “Input.” You finally whisper. “I needed input.” 

Jack watches your bottom lip tremble and you bite it to stop it from doing so. 

Because you don’t have input. Your input is in the ground. Six feet in the ground. You never really got to have any input. Not from the one person whose input mattered most. 

And you don’t miss how you feel this connection to Jack and now he’s your input. Guilt and sorrow and grief and some vague flicker of anticipation slam into you. Anticipation is a new feeling, you haven’t had it since you gave birth. Even the way you phrased the question. Not what would he do with his child or if it was his kid here what would he do. No, you’d asked what would he do if your son was his.

You have to stop thinking about it.

Jack leans back a little and runs his palms down his thighs. “Okay, then that’s what we’ll do. I’ll go ahead and put in the orders for the tests and acetaminophen. You can go to x-ray with him and wait behind the door, the rest we’ll do in here. I can swab,” he says with a small smile as he grabs one of the testing kits they have out of the cabinet in the room. He quickly types an order into the computer.“But I’m going to have one of our nurses come and grab some blood. I’d do it but nobody wants that. They’re the best sticks in the place, I promise.” He gives you a small but reassuring smile. 

You can’t remember the last time you genuinely felt reassured by anyone’s smile. That’s a lie. You can. It was the last time your husband ever smiled at you. The thought makes the smile you give him in return falter a bit. Jack wonders if he did something. Said the wrong thing. 

Your son fusses a bit for the swab, but you’re able to help hold him still so that Jack can get it done as quickly as possible. He settles back easy enough. Bridget walks in with some supplies while Jack continues typing. 

Jack was right, Bridget is a fantastic stick and the needle is so small your son makes just a little whimper before resting on you again. You feel bad when you have to wake him a bit to give him the tylenol. His small hands rub at his eyes and he tries to move his head away but you coax him to it so easily, so naturally, Jack thinks to himself. “Thanks Bridget,” he says quietly as she walks out. 

“Alright,” Jack says through an exhaled breath as he finishes on the computer. “I’m gonna be honest with you,” he starts as he grabs some hand sanitizer, “I’m more worried about you, mom, than I am about the baby.” He turns to look at you as he sits back down on the stool, tilts his head at you. 

You blink at him, like what he said is still processing. “Me?” Jack nods. “I’m fine, I feel fine. I’m just maybe a bit tired because, you know, sick kid but… I’m fine.” 

Jack pushes his bottom lip out a little and pulls down, nods just a little. He doesn’t believe you. You know he doesn’t. “When’s the last time you ate?” 

You look at him again for a moment and for a minute Jack thinks he’s gone too far, overstepped, has been imagining everything he’s felt since he saw you. “Um,” you finally say. He realizes you’ve been trying to think when it was, not that he upset you or anything. “I, I don’t know, probably I had something for lunch, I’m sure.” 

“You’re shaking.” Jack points out. You furrow your brows, unsure if he’s right and if he is how he could possibly know that. “Hold out a hand.” You do as he asks and sure enough, you can’t keep it still. “When’s the last time you drank some water?” He gives you a look as he says it and tilts his head at you. “Your lips are chapped. It’s been a bit, I’d guess. You’re dehydrated.”

You look away from him, can’t decide if you’re uncomfortable with his scrutiny or if you kind of like it. It feels wrong to like it. 

“Listen, I’m not trying to be a dick, okay?” He goes to continue speaking and stops, what he just said hitting him. “I probably shouldn’t have said dick in front of a patient, so I apologize for that,” you laugh at that and shake your head telling him not to. “I can’t imagine how hard it must be doing this by yourself. But you have to take care of yourself for him, and again, I know you know that,” he holds his hands up, “I just wanted to say because I’m sure it’s easy to lose sight of, especially when he’s sick.”

You nod and let yourself look back at him. “Yeah,” you nod. “It is.” 

“So, game plan for you is to get some food and water in your system. What do you like to eat?” 

“Oh, wow,” you laugh a little. “Dr. Abbot, that is-”

“Jack,” he interrupts you to tell you, “call me Jack.”

“Uh, okay. Well, Jack, that is very kind of you but I’ll be okay, and I can grab something once we get home. I will grab something.” You try to give him a reassuring smile. “Promise.” 

Jack shakes his head and clicks his tongue. “No, you’re going to be here too long for that to be a deal. Between the x-ray and blood test results and monitoring him. Food and water or I’m going to create a chart for you and give you an IV.” He shrugs like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like it’s something he would do for any patient. 

You both know he wouldn’t. 

In part because having this much time is a rarity, beyond a rarity even. In part because any patient isn’t you.

You open your mouth to speak a couple of times and then close it again. “Okay,” you whisper. 

“Great,” Jack smiles at you. “What do you like to eat?”

You look at Jack and you look so overwhelmed he starts to feel bad. “Jack, I, honestly?” you laugh, “I have no fucking idea. Like none. I don’t remember, I don’t have the ability to even pick.” You’re still laughing because it’s so fucking ridiculous. A simple question. And yet you can’t answer it. 

There’s a sorrow to your laugh that resonates with Jack. It sounds familiar. Sounds like his laugh sometimes. 

“Alright, well,” Jack laughs a little with you, keeps it light, “I’d say I can work with that but I think it’s really more like I’m gonna have to work with that.” 

You shake your head and cringe at yourself. “You must think I’m a disaster. God, I’m sure I look like one.” 

Jack presses his lips together and squints a little, shakes his head. “I don’t think either, nor is either true.” 

Jack leans back and it stretches his shirt against his chest, pulls it tauter. The outline of two familiar pieces of metal and rubber silencers becomes visible, just for a second. You’d been feeling a little better. Now you’re about to be sick. About to lose it. 

Your smile falls, and Jack furrows his brows, goes to ask if you’re okay. 

“Do you have dog tags in your pocket?” You glance down at his chest pocket. 

“Uh, yeah, yeah I do.” If Jack had stopped right there you would have been fine. You would have been able to breathe through it, shut yourself down emotionally, and kept it all in. But he doesn’t. And you’re exhausted and your baby is sick and your husband is dead. 

Jack pulls them out of his pocket and flashes them at you. Quickly, but long enough.

Jack knows something is wrong based on the look on your face and the way you stare at his dog tags and then his chest pocket when they’re back away. You start shaking your head, squeeze your eyes closed. “Hey,” Jack starts softly. 

You shake your head faster, try to say something but all that comes out is a soundless sob as you devolve into tears. Quiet ones because your son is asleep in your arms but big wracking ones nonetheless.

It clicks into place. The draw to you. Feeling like he understood you and you him. Recognizing the way your eyes glazed over just slightly. The familiar sorrow to your laugh. 

You’re a widow too. 

And if Jack was a betting man he’d put a whole lot of money on your husband being deployed when you lost him. 

Jack’s up quickly, grabbing the box of tissues and setting them on the bed near you while reaching for your son wordlessly, only a nod and gentle motion of his hands to offer. You’re torn between whether having your son out of your arms will help or hurt, but you know it’s not fair to him and that eventually he’ll wake up because of your sobs, no matter how quiet you are. 

Jack takes him from you and sits back down in one of the chairs this time, pulling it over to be closer to the bed and kicking the stool out of the way. Your son stays asleep as Jack settles him on his chest. He feels a bit cooler too, Jack notes.

“I’m so, sorry,” you choke out quietly between sobs, “you can give him back and go, this is, this is not your problem to deal with.” Jack doesn’t reply, just nudges the tissues closer to you. 

And so you keep crying. And Jack keeps holding your son. 

Eventually you cry yourself out and are so numb you’re left with just shame and embarrassment for doing this here, in front of Jack and your son. 

As the sniffles stop, you try to look at Jack but are too embarrassed. “I’m so sorry,” you repeat. “I’ll take him back and you can go.”

Jack stands up and hands you your son back. A wave of relief and calm washes over you at having his familiar weight back in your arms and on your chest. But there’s a pang of sadness too, you really thought Jack might stay. You don’t know why you care.

But Jack surprises you, sits back down and pulls his phone out for a second, sends off a couple of messages. He turns his attention back to you. “I’m gonna stay for a bit. The uh,” he struggles to find a word that won’t jinx everything, “patient census,” he makes a face when he says it like he can’t believe he just said those words, “is low tonight. I have time.” He lets out a long breath through his nose. “And you have nothing to apologize for,” he shakes his head slowly as he speaks.

You give him a slight smile at patient census and the look he pulls, a little nod and he doesn’t push for more. He gives you time. 

But after a while he puts it out there so you know that you can. “You wanna talk about it?”

You look at him and see understanding, feel like you’re really being seen for the first time since your husband died and you don’t know why Jack is the one. 

“I don’t know,” you whisper. Shrug at him with a watery smile. “I don’t know how to.” 

Jack nods slowly. Pauses for a moment and takes in a big breath he lets out, a little shaky. A shaky you feel like you recognize. “My wife died five years ago, so when I say I know what you mean, I promise I really do.” 

You shut your eyes and grimace as it all falls into place. The connection you felt with him. The pull. Why he makes you feel seen. 

“God I am so sorry, when I asked earlier, about kids and if you and your wife had any, I just thought with the ring, god I of all people should know better than that.” You shake your head at yourself. 

“You had no way of knowing,” Jack shakes his head. He looks down at his ring. Then to your ring finger which is empty. That deep set confliction and need to explain starts to rise. “I still wear it because… I think… It’s-”

“Hey,” you say softly. “You don’t have to explain. Not to anyone, and certainly not to me.”

Jack nods. You sit in the quiet for a few minutes. 

“I would probably still have mine on, but,” you sigh, “I guess it requires more backstory.” You pause to collect yourself. “Long story short is he was in the army. Scheduled to be deployed. Really short one. He was done after it too. Would have been out.” You take in another shaky breath. “We’d been trying for a baby for a while. I kept miscarrying. Little under two weeks before he was leaving I found out I was five weeks pregnant. And this one felt different. I had morning sickness. There was so much cautious optimism and he hated that he had to leave but he was supposed to be back in time for birth as long as everything went as planned.” You shrug. “He died when I was ten weeks pregnant.” 

Jack closes his eyes at that. His heart aches for you in the way only someone whose heart has been through that same loss can. 

“Yeah, pretty fucking sick of the universe. The one time I keep the pregnancy I lose the husband.” You wipe at your eyes with the tissue in your hand. “Anyway, late pregnancy my hands swelled up. Rings didn’t fit. I had to take them off. And once I had him and knew they would fit again I couldn’t bring myself to slide them back on. He was supposed to be the one to do that, you know?” Jack nods. He gets it. “So I think that’s probably the only reason I’m not still wearing mine.” 

“It’s not been five years though,” Jack points out. 

“There’s no timeline on when to be ready and take them off. I’m the newbie to the widow game here, but even I know that.” You give him a lopsided smile and Jack lets out a little laugh. 

“No timeline to any of it.” Jack offers. You raise your brows and lower them, nod as to wordlessly say true. 

You’re interrupted by Bridget bringing in some water and food for you. It’s obvious something has happened between the two of you and that you’ve been crying. “There’s an incoming,” she says quietly to Jack. “ETA four. We need you.” He nods. 

Bridget steps out and Jack stands up, puts the chair back and looks back at you, rolls his eyes. “Patient census comment coming back to bite me in the ass. Shoulda known better.” 

You let out a small laugh. “I thought it was very Scottish Play of you.” Jack smiles at you. “I’m sorry it didn’t work.” He walks over to the door and puts his hand on the door handle, pauses, thinking.

Jack turns back to look at you. “What’s done cannot be undone,” he says with a little smirk. 

You laugh almost properly at that. It makes you feel, maybe not totally happy, but okay. It’s been a while since you’ve felt either. 

“Oh wow, okay, well go get ‘em Lady Macbeth.” Jack laughs softly, more of just a smile with some air breathed out of his nose as he shakes his head a little at you. 

He doesn’t say to eat and drink the water and that he’ll be back to check on you. He doesn’t need to. You know.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A few weeks pass. Your son recovers without incident. You can’t stop thinking about Jack. Jack can’t stop thinking about you. He has to talk himself out of looking up your info in your son’s chart and going to stop by and make sure your son recovered okay. 

You get sick. Really sick. You finally get your son down for a nap and stare at the piece of paper Jack had given you as you left. 

“Here,” Jack hands you a slip of paper with his name and number written on it. “If you ever need anything, call me, okay? If you need help fixing something at home or someone to watch the baby for an hour so you can grab a shower, or for however long it takes you to get your hair done, or whatever. Don’t hesitate to call.” Jack swallows. He doesn’t know how this part is going to go. “Or, you know… just call me.” 

You look up at him wide-eyed. “Oh, wow,” you laugh nervously, “wow Jack, I am so flattered, truly. But I just,” you look away from him, suddenly somehow even more shy, like the man hasn’t seen you sobbing and snotty and is still interested in you. “I’m not ready. I don’t know when-”

“That’s okay,” Jack nods, “I just wanted to put it out there. But still. I want you to call if you need something, okay? I respect your answer and so if you call I’m not going to expect anything or badger you about it or try and force it on you. I just want to help.” He looks to the side for a moment and then back at you. “One vet helping an active.” 

You feel so bad about it, are so conflicted. But you could really, really use some help. So you text him, tell him it’s you. 

You - Are you at work? 

J - No. 

J - Everything okay? 

You - Did you just get off work? 

J - No, string of off days. 

You chew your lip as you pull up his contact and stare at the number. You just tap randomly at your phone and let the universe decide. If it calls him then it calls him, if it doesn’t then it wasn’t meant to be. 

It calls him. 

“Hey,” he picks up on the first ring, sounds concerned, “you okay? Baby okay?”

You clear your throat and he can already hear it, is already standing up to throw on some real clothes and grab supplies. “Baby’s great.” He cringes at how bad you sound. If you feel as bad as you sound he’s genuinely astounded by how you’re taking care of a now ten-month old while being so sick. “Me, not so much. You said to call and I… I didn’t want to and I know this is so unfair, but I don’t have anyone else and I could just really really use an hour to get a shower and tidy a few things up.”

You need more than an hour to shower and tidy up, you need to sleep for as long as you can, Jack thinks to himself. “Text me your address.” 

There’s a beat of silence. “You sure?” You ask him, give him an out. 

“Positive. I’ll be there as soon as I can, okay? Within the hour.” 

“Okay.” It’s so quiet he almost misses it. “Thank you.” 

“Of course. Text me, okay?”

“Yeah.” You hang up and do so. 

Jack stops by the hospital before he comes over, grabs a couple bags of saline, a couple of banana bags, and a few IV kits, tosses them in his backpack. Tells a raised eyebrows and confused Robby to tell Gloria to bill him for it and he’ll bill the hospital for the use of his supplies and tech during Pitt Fest before walking out. 

Then he stops by a grocery store, picks up some food and over the counter meds and then he’s on his way to you. 

The knock on your door startles you even though you know it’s just Jack. You open it and his eyebrows raise as he takes you in. You look like death warmed up. Maybe not quite that bad but Jack’s judgment of that is skewed because it’s you and he doesn’t like seeing you sick he has decided. 

“Hi,” you whisper as he walks in. “He’s down in his room, if you wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on the monitor while I shower and then I’d really love to just tidy up a bit.” You move your hand to reference your living room and kitchen, both visible with the open floor plan. “It’s a mess. I’m sorry about that too, it’s normally not this bad.” 

Jack takes the space in. It’s not even that bad. It’s very sick single mom with a baby. Not dirty, just cluttered. He notes the sparse decoration, wonders if you moved after your husband died. “It’s really not that bad,” he tells you softly and takes the baby monitor from you. “Come here.” 

He steps towards you and you freeze, not sure of what to do. He just raises his hand and puts the back of it to your forehead. Jack flashes you a concerned look. “You’re burning up. Easily 102.”

You try to laugh it off but it just triggers a coughing fit. “I’m fine, it’s okay-”

“No,” Jack says firmly. “It’s really not.” He walks over to your couch and sets his bag down, slides the baby monitor into the pocket of his jeans. He pulls out a forehead thermometer and nods at the couch, asking you to sit down. 

You hesitate for a second, feel like this is too much and he’s doing too much and you should say he can leave, that he should go. But instead you go and sit on the couch. 

Jack scans your forehead and frowns when he looks at it. “102.8.” His eyes flick to yours and he can see you going to say something, and he knows it’ll be something like you’re fine or it’ll come down. “Look,” he turns the thermometer around so you can see the reading. “The light is red. There’s a frowning face. So please don’t say it’s okay and you’re okay.” His words are firm but compassionate and he isn’t condescending at all. 

“Well, once you leave if he’s still asleep, I’ll try to grab some rest.” You give him a weak smile. “Promise.” 

“Oh no,” Jack shakes his head. “No way. If I wasn’t a doctor and didn’t have supplies with me, you’d be going to the ED.” He starts looking through his bag. 

“Jack, this is really nice of you but unnecessary.” His eyes snap back to yours when he hears his name come off your tongue. He likes it. Too much. You said no, that you weren’t ready. But Jack can’t help how he feels, only on how he acts on those feelings. 

He ignores your protests. “Plan of care is to have you shower if you’d like. Cool, please. And then I’m going to give you some meds, get an IV in you and a banana bag going and you’re going to go sleep.”

“I, I really think just a shower and some tidying will help me feel much better.” Another half hearted protest. It feels good to have someone want to take care of you. To have a man want to take care of you. To have Jack want to take care of you. Those are all feelings you haven’t felt in a while, and they’re from Jack Abbot. And a piece of you hates yourself for that, especially when your eyes wander to the folded American flag displayed on a shelf. 

Jack tracks your eyes to it. “I’m not trying to overstep,” he starts to explain, “just, you’re a lot sicker than you think.”

“No, no, I know that, and you’re not, I’m just not used to it.” You try to find the word but it’s hard. “The attention, I guess. Or maybe the help. Pregnancy and labor and birth and coming home with a newborn while recovering were all alone, so it’s just… strange.” 

Jack shuts his eyes and lets out a breath. His heart hurts because he knows what that kind of alone feels like. He knows how hard it can be to survive and live with. And he’s never had to experience alone everything that you have. He hates that you were alone. He’s even more in awe of you, honestly, that you were able to. There’s a sense of pride too, one he knows he has no business having. 

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, I really don’t-”

“I know that, Jack, I promise and you’re not, I’m just.” You shake your head and look away for a second. “A mess,” you laugh softly, manage to not trigger a coughing fit. 

Jack shakes his head a little. “You’re sick.” 

You shrug, take in as deep a breath as you can. “Okay,” you nod. He knows you’re acquiescing in his treatment plan. 

“Good.” Jack pulls his stethoscope out of his bag. “You mind if I listen to your lungs before you shower? Just to have a before and try to get a read on what it might be.” 

You nod at him. Jack places his stethoscope on your chest, is careful to hold it so that his hand doesn’t come into contact with you because he knows he already expressed interest and that you’re not ready and the last thing he wants is for you to think he’s using this as some weird chance to touch you or make you uncomfortable. “Deep breath.” 

Jack walks you through all the deep breaths he needs, frowning to himself a bit and not pressuring you when the deep breaths trigger your cough and he has to wait a minute to continue. The first time it happens his other hand automatically raises to go and rub your back but he catches it in time.

You don’t acknowledge it, don’t want to draw attention to it and in part don’t know how to react to it but you appreciate it more than he’ll ever know. He’s a gentleman. It’s nice and you really try to let yourself have that and let it feel nice without berating yourself over it feeling nice. But something feeling nice is so foreign and somehow feels so wrong. Like nothing should ever feel nice again because your husband isn’t here. 

“Yeah, those are junky,” he mutters as he puts his stethoscope back in his bag. “Wish I had brought a breathing treatment for you.” He looks like he’s thinking about how he could get one here. He pulls his focus back. “Shower?” 

You nod, stand up and start walking towards your room. “Hey Jack?” Jack looks up at you with raised eyebrows, body tensing just slightly like he’s ready to run towards you. “Thank you. And um, make yourself at home and help yourself to anything. I don’t know how much there is, but what’s there is yours.” You give a little nod and turn and walk off before he can say anything. 

Once he hears the shower running Jack takes a better look at the place. He finds it strange how certain parts feel like you but the overall place doesn’t in a way. It feels like someone scared to settle in, scared to make this space their own. It feels like his first apartment after his wife died did for a long time. 

He starts to tidy up, it’s really nothing major. He puts toys in the little toy bin you have, places the baby books on the floor on the bottom storage space of the table. He picks up the baby blankets and onesies laying around that he’s guessing need washed, sets them in a pile on a counter. He does the same kind of stuff in the kitchen, just picks up, wipes down. Again, nothing is dirty. It’s lived in. It’s a sick single mom with a baby who sets down an empty water bottle or paper plate and forgets to throw it away. He loads the dishwasher with the bottles and few plates and utensils in the sink. He’s not sure if what’s in there is clean or dirty but it’s fine, if it’s clean it can just get washed again. He waits to start it though, makes a note to do so later once you’re out of the shower and the hot water has had time to build back up just in case your water heater isn’t great.  

You let yourself stand under the water for longer than you probably should. You try to keep it cool like Jack said, but at some point right before you get out you let it get really, hot, just need to feel it, feel a little sterilized almost. You think about how Jack is here and doing all of this for you and what would your husband think and does this make you a bad wife. You try to get yourself to believe that your husband would be happy you’re getting help, would be happy Jack is a veteran and that you’re not a bad wife because your husband told you he wanted you to move on and find someone and it’s not like it happened yesterday. It’s been over a year. 

Once you’re out you slip on some modest pajamas, deal with your hair and put some lotion on your face, brush your teeth. You feel a little better, only because you feel clean, but still. 

Jack gives you some time once he hears the shower turn off. After a bit he knocks on your door and clears his throat. “Hey, um, I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to start the IV out here in the living room or in your room.” 

Your chest clenches for a moment. You hadn’t even really thought about what it would mean for him to start it in here, just kind of assumed he’d come in and do it. But it means there would be another man in your bedroom. A man who is not your husband. 

He gives you a moment to decide because he knows the magnitude of the question he asked. 

You’re at war with yourself, but you know it’ll be better to have him do it here and have him figure out a way to get the bag to hang. “Um, you can do it in here, I guess. Unless you’d prefer to do it out there.” 

“Wherever is best for you.” There’s a pause as Jack waits for you to come over and open the door. You’re so zoned out sitting on the edge of your bed you don’t even realize. “Should I come in?” He finally asks gently. 

“Oh! Oh yes!” The way you breathe in at surprise and almost startle at having your zoned out thoughts interrupted makes you start coughing, so Jack slowly opens the door, trying to give you time to change your mind, walks in and over to you with his supplies just as slowly. 

He sets some stuff out next to you. “Shower help?” He cringes internally the moment he says it, hopes it doesn’t make it seem like he was thinking about you in the shower. 

“Yeah. Feeling clean has helped I think.” You watch as he gets everything ready. He has big hands, long and thick fingers that should make working with small pieces of medical equipment a bit difficult but they’re so dexterous and he has so much control over them that it’s not. Once you catch yourself daydreaming about his hands you look away, shame and guilt washing over you. 

“Take these, please,” Jack says softly, handing you a few pills and holding an open bottle of water. You nod and do as he asks. “Good gi-” He stops before he can finish, some pink flooding his cheeks. It’s adorable, you think. He’s adorable and he’s trying so hard to respect you and just be here as a friend helping you out. You also think about the reaction you know you’d have had if he finished the sentence. More shame and guilt. 

“How do you sleep?” Jack asks as he finishes setting the supplies for an IV up and kneels in front of you. You furrow your brows at him. “So I can put the IV in a good spot!” He rushes to explain. “Like if you sleep on your side I’ll put it on the top arm.” 

“Oh.” You think about it and tell him. 

“Hand please.” He points to the correct one and you offer him it. “Hands hurt more but it’ll be the best for sleeping. I’m sorry you’re stuck with me doing it.” He pulls a pair of gloves on. They fit nice and tight. Once he gets a tourniquet in a slip knot nice and tight around your arm he has you make a fist. 

You shake your head at him as you watch those long and dexterous fingers run over and feel the back of your hand a veins beneath your skin. Satisfied he found a good one he opens the alcohol swab and wipes the back of your hand, lets it dry for ten or so seconds while he grabs the needle introducer. He feels for the vein again and looks up at you. “Ready?”

“Yeah.” You nod at him. 

He’s quick with it. You like the expression of intense focus he gets as he does it. “Okay,” he draws the word out a little, slips off the tourniquet. “Needle is out,” he places a tegaderm dressing over it, “and we’re good.” He looks up at you. “You okay?”

“Barley felt it,” you murmur. 

Jack gives a little laugh. “It’s okay, you can be honest. My pride can take it.” You just give him a look. “I’m gonna flush it. Some burning and maybe a weird taste.” He doesn’t explain much, knows you almost certainly had one when you gave birth. 

He does and then stands up, looks around near the head of your bed. “I think I still have a really old coat rack in the spare room,” you volunteer, knowing he’s looking for a way to hang the bag. 

“That would be perfect,” he nods at you. 

“Second door on the left when you walk out.”

Jack steps out. He already knew that through process of elimination but he doesn’t tell you that. He went to the bathroom while you were in the shower, placing his ear by each door to figure out which room was the nursery. Left one room to be the spare room. 

He brings it in and gets it set up. You offer him a hanger to place the bag on and he smiles at you. You give him a little one back. 

Jack puts on a different pair of gloves and sanitizes everything before spiking the bag and priming the line. He hooks it up to your IV and sets the drip rate, keeps it fast enough to get what you need into you but slow enough so that you hopefully won’t have to wake up to go to the bathroom for a while because he knows you’ll likely fight going back to sleep. 

“You need something to help you sleep?” He asks, a touch of concern in his tone. 

“I think I’ll manage.” You give him another weak smile. 

“Figured,” he nods. He grabs everything off the bed making sure to keep track of where the used needle is and then walks to your door. “Rest well.” He nods at you again and then steps out, closes the door behind him quietly. 

You let yourself settle into bed, feel your heart slam against your chest with every beat as emotions whirl through you. Guilt, for having some kind of feelings towards Jack, for asking Jack to do this, for not being there with your son, shame, grief, embarrassment, anger at yourself for quite literally everything, and the faintest glimmers of hope, happiness, contentedness and a kind of longing which are all new and in turn fill you with fear. 

You’re right though, you do manage to fall asleep. And fast. There are a few times you think you hear your son crying but it stops quickly so you don’t fully wake up. Another few times where you swear you hear someone in the room with you and them whisper “it’s just me, go back to sleep,” when they notice you stirring. If they’re real you let yourself listen to them and drift back asleep. 

Jack is surprised at how long you sleep. He thought for sure with all the fluids he has been giving you that you’d wake up to go to the bathroom, but that must be how tired you are. He lets you sleep. You need it. And for whatever reason he really, really cares about you and doesn’t like seeing you sick. It worries him, if he’s honest with himself. Seeing you sick. He worries about you. 

When you do wake up it is because you have to pee. You turn the lamp on to get there and close your eyes and flinch away from it until they adjust more. It starts to come back. The IV. Jack. Jack watching your son. You grab the bag of saline and go to the bathroom before walking out of your room. You have to stop at the doorway because it’s so fucking bright, let your eyes adjust. 

It makes you realize how fucked up your sense of time is. You have no idea how long you were out and you hope you hadn’t been keeping Jack a prisoner in your place for too long. 

When you walk into the living room Jack is on the floor with your son, some soft blocks knocked over the floor, your son on his back and cooing up at Jack, giggling like babies do at Jack every time Jack leans down over him and tickles his belly with one of Jack’s large hands and makes a funny noise at him. There’s a dirty diaper on the floor next to Jack, empty bottle on the table. 

“You slept well, didn’t you little man?” Jack sits him up and keeps a hand on him, your son pretty good at sitting up by himself but still getting the full hang of it. Small hands reach out for Jack, trying to pull him close. “Oh yeah, and now you’ve had a bottle and have even more energy to burn, huh?” Your son giggles again as Jack takes him into his lap as he straightens his legs and rests your son’s feet on one of his thighs so that he can bounce as Jack supports him to keep him standing. 

It’s the cutest scene. It’s so adorable your heart aches. It’s all you ever wanted for your son. And that’s why your heart shatters at the same time. Because your son doesn’t have it. Not normally. Your son doesn’t have a father. You don’t have a husband, the person you should be doing this with. This scene is a total one-off, a byproduct of you being sick and needing help. You appreciate Jack and all he’s done and how he’s being with your son but that’s supposed to be your husband. 

That’s supposed to be your fucking husband on the floor with your son and it’s not. 

It’s Jack. 

It’s Jack and you don’t hate it. 

Quite the opposite. You like the sight. Would like to see it again. Would like to see Jack again. And that makes you feel a little sick and a lot guilty. But you don’t stop liking it or wanting to see it and Jack again. You tell yourself you don’t though, that you don’t want to see it again and don’t want to see Jack again. You lie to yourself. The turmoil threatens to tear you in two. 

You wipe a few tears away silently and then sniffle to announce your presence. You can get away with it because you’re sick. “Hey,” you say softly, make a face and try to clear your throat. “I’m sorry I feel like I probably slept longer than I meant to.” Clearing your throat didn’t help. You still sound awful, your voice totally going. 

Your son squeals when he sees you, arms reaching for you already. You smile down at him. “Hi baby,” you greet him in the best voice you can manage, grab him from Jack. “How’s my boy?” You tickle his tummy because you don’t want to kiss him and get him sick and it makes him squeal again and babble at you. 

Jack stands up and you notice there’s something off about the way he does, just slightly. You wonder if he suffered a back or hip injury while serving. He clamps the saline bag all the way and removes it from your IV so that you’re free. “What time is it? I hope I haven’t kept you here too long.” 

Jack looks at his watch. “9:17.”

You blink at him for a moment. The sun filtering in through the curtains assures you he means in the morning. You make a face like you’re trying to pour through past memories. “What time did I make you come over? It must have been so early, I, I didn’t even realize I’m so sorry.” 

Jack smiles as he steps around you and goes to set the bag on the counter, throw the diaper away and the bottle in the sink. He turns back around and leans against the counter, holds onto the edge of it with his hands. He already knows you’re going to freak out. 

“First, you didn’t make me come over yesterday. Pretty hard for anyone to make me do something anymore. Second, I got here sometime around 4.” Your confusion deepens. “P.m. Yesterday.” 

“Yesterday?” You look at him, stricken. “Oh my god, Jack, I am so so sorry! You should have woken me! I genuinely never meant to steal this much time from you and keep you hostage here, I am so sorry, I-”

“Hey, hey,” he steps closer to you but doesn’t touch you. “It’s okay. You have nothing to be apologizing for. I know I could have woken you and I never felt hostage here. I was okay with it.” He gives you a reassuring smile. 

You shake your head at him a little. “God, where did you even sleep? That awful couch? I know how bad it is, I’m so- I feel terrible.” 

“Don’t,” Jack laughs softly. “I promise you I have slept on much, much worse. How are you feeling?”

“I don’t…” You trail off because you haven’t really stopped to evaluate that. “Better I guess. Still sick but not as bad, at all.” 

“Good.” He takes another step closer and holds his hand up, gestures to your forehead. “Can I?”

You nod, still lost in thought and shocked about how you could have slept that long. “Good, fever’s still down. It broke during the night.” Your son reaches for Jack’s hand, one of his small hands wrapping around one of Jack’s large fingers. Jack lets him keep it and play with it, but steps back a little. “Shit, I promise I only went in there to change your bag and take your temperature with the thermometer.”

“No, no,” you shake your head. You hadn’t even thought to care about him coming into your room when you were asleep, hadn’t even realized that could be a line he might have crossed. “I just feel so bad.”   

“Please try not to.”

“I have to, you have to let me at least make you breakfast or something! You just watched my baby overnight for me.” You nod. “Yeah, let me make you breakfast, please.” 

“I’d like that,” Jack nods slowly, face pulling into a knowing look with a little smile because you’re adorable and going to be upset. “But I don’t think that’s going to work,” he shakes his head and then gently nods at the refrigerator. You know there must be nothing in it.

“Fuck,” you sigh. You turn your head and rest your cheek on the top of your son’s head as you try and think. He continues to coo and babble away, at Jack now, whose finger he still holds on tight to. Jack makes a little face of surprise and noise at him and your son laughs.

“Let me order something then, yeah?” You offer. You watch as Jack argues with himself in his head. Part of him wants to say no, he should get it for you, for no real reason other than he wants to take care of you, and part of him wants to say yes because he knows it’ll make you feel better. “Please.”

“Alright,” he finally nods.

“Okay, great!” You start looking around for your phone and find it plugged in and charging. It hits you then. How clean and tidy the place is. “Oh my god,” you mumble. 

“What?” The alarm in his voice is clear. 

“You cleaned.” You look around more. A laundry basket of folded onesies and blankets and other baby clothes on the loveseat. “You did laundry.” 

The realization sends you over some ledge you didn’t realize you were standing on. Your heart races. Your feelings are too conflicted. There’s too much turmoil. You know this is normal, have read about it, spoken to other widows who described what it was like to start dating again, start falling for someone. And you’re really starting to personally get it now. 

You don’t know what to do with it. And you know you’re not ready for it. But you can’t lie about it to yourself anymore and pretend that Jack doesn’t give you new feelings that you haven’t had in a long time and that you don’t want to let yourself feel them or at least try. Can’t lie to yourself that you don’t want to try and be ready for it. 

“I’m sorry if that was too much,” Jack says quietly, unsure of what exactly your reaction means. While he’s also a widow it’s a bit harder for him to put himself in your shoes. He didn’t have a baby to need help with while trying to grieve and find a new normal. 

“No, it’s not that.” Tears hit your eyes and you close them, hate that they’re happening. It’s the emotional overwhelm you tell yourself. The having someone do something nice for you. The having to accept help. The new feelings. So many new feelings from one man. 

But you know yourself well enough to know that it’s also the wanting, despite how much you try to bury it and lie to yourself. The wanting to let yourself give in to those new feelings. Wanting to let yourself enjoy the new feelings. Enjoy Jack. 

“Let me,” you hear Jack whisper, feel his hands get closer to you to grab your son who laughs in excitement at the prospect of being in Jack’s arms. 

You keep your eyes closed and then turn before you open them, walk over to get a tissue and dab at them. “It wasn’t too much.” You’re speaking to Jack but keep your back to him because you’re not sure how you’ll react if you turn around and look at him. “It’s just really hard. Everything is so fucking hard. Every second of every day is an emotion, every second requires feeling.” Jack understands that one too well. “And you get used to that. The emotions, the feelings become familiar. Because they’re constant. You know what they are, what to expect. You know the feelings. They hurt so, so bad, but eventually you realize that not having them would hurt more. Would be scarier. Because they’re your normal, they fill that void in your heart. What would you be without them almost controlling your life? And then one day a new emotion, a new feeling creeps in. And it’s paralyzing. You think it hurts worse in some way than not having the familiar feelings would, but you don’t know because you never get a second to not fucking feel. And it’s because it’s new and you don’t know what to do with this new feeling and it throws everything off and is another change and because it almost always feels so wrong, to let yourself feel something new, especially if it’s a good emotion. And I know you know this Jack, I know you know exactly how I feel, exactly what it’s like. I know you get me. I know you understand. And I like that. I think part of me needs that. To move on or whatever you want to call it.”

Jack’s heart rate ticks up. This is not at all where he thought this conversation was headed. 

You take in a deep breath and squeeze the tissue in your hand before turning to look at the unfairly attractive and smart and funny and caring and playful and stoic and dry humored and witty and kind doctor holding your son. 

“You make me feel so many new things Jack. So many things I never thought I’d feel again. So many things I swore to myself I would never feel again.” You swallow hard. “And I don’t know what to do with them. They paralyze me. Not for long because they send me straight back to guilt and shame and grief, right back to those familiar feelings. I don’t know how to have these new feelings you give me anymore. At some point I lost that. So I don’t know how to handle it. How to handle you.”

Jack’s numb. Frozen. He’s not sure what this means. He understands you because the first time he started dating and was attracted to someone he’d gone through the same thing. It was hard at first. To not feel guilty. To not revert back to the emotions you know well. He’s not sure what to say. He goes to say that he’s sorry and didn’t mean to cause you distress and will go but you start talking again. 

“But fuck Jack, I want to. I didn’t want to admit it to myself because it feels so wrong and because it’s scary and hard and makes me feel like a terrible wife sometimes. But I do. I want to know how to handle you and all the new feelings you give me, Jack.” His eyebrows raise slowly, his focus staying on you as your son starts to mouth on his finger getting saliva all over it, not phased in the slightest. “It’s just going to take time. I don’t know how much time. And I don’t think it’s fair of me to ask to wait for some unknown period of time.” 

“You’re not asking,” Jack says quickly before you can get out another sentence. “You’re not asking me to. I want to. But only if you want me to. You said that you weren’t ready, and I respect that. And you have to know that I didn’t come over here to help, or do laundry or tidy up because I was trying to pressure you or make you feel something or make you be ready or for anything other than just to help as a kind-of friend. You have to promise me that you know that.” 

“I do,” you tell him softly. “I promise.” You give a small laugh and little smile. “I think that’s actually the part that made me realize I couldn’t keep lying to myself that you didn’t give me new feelings and that I didn’t want to feel them. That I know you came here just because you wanted to help, help me, my son and my husband. And I know you did the laundry and tidied and stayed overnight to watch my baby so I could sleep just because you’re kind, and you saw it needed done so you did it, which is so army of you by the way, and not because you wanted it to mean something or make me feel bad for not being ready or pressure me or any other possible reason. You just… wanted to help.”

Jack smiles at that. Really, fully smiles and fuck if it isn’t one of the most beautiful things you’ve ever seen. You smile back at him. It’s clear that nothing more needs to be said. You both know that you’ll work on being ready and learn how to feel and how to handle it all and Jack will wait. 

“I never said I was army.” He smirks at you. 

“Didn’t have to.” You give him a small smile. Even after this you’re still so shy. 

You go and grab your phone. “What does that mean?” He asks, tracking you with his eyes. 

“What would you like to eat?” You ignore him. You know already that it’ll wind him up. 

“No, what does that mean? I have a tell?” You shrug at him. He narrows his eyes at you playfully.

“No,” you say as you hand him your phone so he can pick something and order and take your son from him. “It means you have a recognizable backpack.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Time goes on. You get better. You and Jack grow closer. You keep going to therapy, keep working on processing and figuring out how to handle the new feelings, how to stop feeling so guilty. Jack waits. Patiently. Never an ounce of pressure on you. He’s always so respectful, goes to great lengths to be so, immediately apologizes if he oversteps. And he does a couple of times because he’s human and nobody is perfect. But it’s okay.  

Jack’s injury comes out over breakfast that morning when he apologizes for having his shoes on in the house. You hadn’t even really noticed, too sick for it to register. He doesn’t tell you much about it which you respect and he’s grateful when you don’t push for more. That’s something he guesses he’s not ready for with you. Isn’t sure why though. He brings it up with his therapist. 

Jack is over more and more often. At first it’s to check on you and make sure you’re getting better because your cough lingers. And then somewhere along the lines it just became a thing. Normal. Normal for you to see him more days than not during the week. Normal for him to put your son down for the night. Normal for him to sleep in the spare room. Normal for him to cook for you and help feed your son. Normal for him to keep spare bottles of toiletries in a bin under the guest bathroom sink. Normal for black scrubs that didn’t get god knows what on them to be washed with onesies and blankets. 

Normal for him to bring five epi pens, multiple vials of epi, syringes with needles, an infant intubation kit and a cric kit to your house when you decide to introduce peanuts to your son. 

That one had gotten him an attempted, and skillfully dodged, third degree interrogation from Dana and Robby. 

You don’t touch. Not at all, save when your fingers brush if you hand each other something or when you take your son from him or vice versa. You’ll sit on the couch and Jack on the loveseat. There’s no flirting. It’s not that the attraction and draw to each other has faded, because it hasn’t. Not at all. It’s that you both know you need time and you both respect that. Jack perhaps more so than yourself, because you get mad at yourself about it sometimes. 

You do talk. A lot. About anything and everything because talking to each other is easy. It’s not work. Neither of you have to think of things to talk about or try and come up with something to keep the conversation going. It just does. And when it dies down the lull is comfortable. Then someone thinks of something or sees something on TV and it’s back. 

Eventually Jack is able to tell you a bit more about his injury, how it happened. The aftermath. He’s able to take his prosthetic off in front of you and leave a pair of crutches at your place for when he doesn’t want to put it back on. 

You talk about your spouses. Your therapist suggested it, thought it may help, to acknowledge both of your spouses and know about them. You approach Jack about it and tell him you don’t want an answer right away, you want him to really think about it and if he’s ready for that and willing to do that, and that he doesn’t have to say yes and that if he says no nothing will change. Both of you are aware it’s in a sense one of the most intimate things you’ll ever do with each other. 

Jack says yes though. And means it. He’s okay with it, comfortable with it. So one night after you get your son down you take the baby monitor, a bottle of wine and sit out on your apartment balcony and talk about them. You tell each other about them, what they were like, things they liked and disliked, funny stories. Jack tells you how he proposed and you tell him how your husband proposed. You talk about your weddings. 

You share photos you have on your phone, of your spouses alone and of the two of you together. You tell Jack his wife was beautiful, seems like an amazing woman who kept him on his toes and mean it. Jack tells you that your husband was handsome and knew how lucky he was to have you, that it’s obvious by the way he looks at you in the photos. You smile wistfully and get misty eyed together. But it’s nice, getting to know the other’s spouse, more about your past lives. It tells you a lot about each other too, as much as it does about your spouses.

You talk about how you each learned your spouse had died. There’s proper tears during that part, from both of you. It’s one time you do touch, and it’s brief, and you’re the one to initiate it, tentatively taking Jack’s hand and giving it a little squeeze when he gets a bit choked up. He squeezes back to let you know he’s okay with it. When you get choked up talking about your husband he holds his hand out over the armrest of his chair, just a little, just enough for you to know it’s there. You move yours over and let him squeeze your hand. 

You talk about moving after your spouses died. Jack tells you he just couldn’t do it. He needed space that was his own, where he couldn’t picture her in it and so he couldn’t expect to walk around a corner and see her. You tell Jack that you had to keep the curtain of the living room window closed all the time because the last time you looked out the window you saw that car pull up and two uniformed officers step out of the car, and just knew. And it made the place so dark it was bad for you so you sold the house and found this place. You admit that you haven’t been able to bring yourself to really unpack completely or decorate but aren’t sure why. The nursery being the only exception. Jack tells you that it actually reminds him a lot of how his apartment he moved into right after his wife died looked for a long time because he was scared to settle in and make a space without her because that wasn’t supposed to happen, he wasn’t supposed to have to do that. 

As more weeks pass you start asking Jack to help you hang things. At first it sends you flying backwards in your healing because you just asked another man to help you decorate your apartment. Jack doesn’t say anything for the couple of days you’re off with him because he knows and he knows you’ll work through it. He gives you the space you need without you asking for it. You work through it with your therapist and apologize to Jack who tells you not to, that healing isn’t linear, trust him, he knows. 

Jack watches your son for you sometimes during a string of off days so that he can spend a bit less time at daycare, especially if another kid is sick. Your son loves Jack, is enamored with him. And Jack is just as enamored with him. Is so incredibly good with him. It’s a place where you struggle a lot and that you and you and your therapist discuss frequently, how to cope with seeing Jack in that kind of fatherly role and acknowledge all the feelings it stirs up for you. 

One Monday, a holiday that you were supposed to have off, something comes up and you need to go into the office, but daycare is closed. You hesitate calling Jack because you feel bad asking him to do this, especially knowing he’ll be getting off shift and you’re asking him to stay awake even longer. You don’t even know if he’ll be able to, he might not get off on time, or he might have plans. But you call him much quicker and more decisively than you did when you were sick. 

Jack’s talking to Robby when he feels his phone vibrate. He thinks it’s weird to be getting called at 6:45 a.m. so he pulls it out to check. His heart drops when he sees it’s you and he walks away from Robby mid sentence. 

“Hey,” he answers on the second ring, “what’s up? Everyone okay?” 

“Yeah, yeah we’re fine. It’s just, work needs me to come in, not for too long, just a couple of hours, but I can’t bring him and daycare is closed with the holiday and I know this is such a huge ask because you’re getting off shift and will be so tired and I don’t even know if you’re getting off on time-” 

“Woah, woah,” Jack stops you. “Take a breath.” He can hear you do as he says. “I can watch him, okay? I’ll make sure I get off on time. And I often stay late so being up a few hours after my shift before he goes down is not going to be anything new.” 

“Okay. Yeah, okay.” You let out a breath. “You still have to let me cook or something for you.” 

“You don’t have to repay me.” 

“No I know, but still.” 

“Can I be honest with you?” Jack asks. 

“Of course.” Your heart races because you have no idea what he’s about to say. 

“You can buy me takeout. But you can’t cook.” You can hear the smile in his voice. 

You make a noise of offence. “I can’t believe you just said that! I’m offended. Genuinely offended.” But Jack can hear the smile you’re trying to hide in your voice and it just makes him smile harder to himself. 

“That I said it or that it’s true?” He’s smirking now. 

You huff and then there’s a pause. “That it’s true,” you admit begrudgingly, making Jack laugh. 

Robby has blindly swatted at Dana’s arm to get her to pay attention so that he doesn’t have to stop watching and so now both of them are staring and watching Jack go from extreme concern to laughing and smiling. It’s almost disconcerting. 

“I’m going to have to drop him off at the hospital to make it on time. Is that okay?” You’ve gotten quiet again. 

“Yeah.” Jack sounds a little unsure but not because of you, because of the two he can feel staring at him. “I’ll need a key. And I’ll give it back, I promise.” 

“Oh! Yes. You will need that, okay I’ll have to find the spare. And yeah, that’s fine, whatever is fine, I know you’re not going to use it randomly.” You breathe a laugh. “You’ll be okay with holding him on the subway? I wasn’t going to lug around the stroller, if that’s okay.” 

“We will be more than okay,” Jack assures you. 

“Okay.” You let out another breath in that way you do when you’re stressed but coming down Jack has learned. “Thank you Jack.” 

“Not a problem, you know that.” 

“Yeah, but still.”

“Text me when you’re here and come wait by the doors, I’ll open them for you, okay?” You’re thankful he doesn’t dwell. 

“Okay. I’ll see you soon. Bye.”

“Bye.” Jack hangs up and puts his phone in his pocket then turns and walks back over to Robby and Dana. 

“Everything okay?” Dana asks. 

Jack looks between the both of them. “Yeah. I’m leaving on time though.” 

“Ohhh,” Robby laughs. “Are you now? You just decided?” 

“Yeah. Did you notice how it wasn’t a question Michael?” Jack deadpans. “Just a statement of fact. I know these are big distinctions for you to make before you’ve had enough coffee.” 

“Deflection,” Robby hums, leaning forward a bit and still smiling like he can’t believe any of this even when he doesn’t know what this really is. 

Jack rolls his eyes at him and walks to a different computer to finish charting. Dana and Robby share a look but don’t push him. For now. 

Jack’s phone vibrates fifteen minutes later. You, saying you’re here. He walks over to the doors and pushes the button to open them, walks in with you a few steps, your son already happily squealing and babbling at Jack, reaching for him. Jack makes a surprised happy face at your son like he’s shocked to see him and takes him from you. 

Back at the desk Robby slowly removes his glasses as he watches the scene unfold, Dana peering over the top of hers like she does, everyone else slowly freezing once they follow Dana and Robby’s eyes to you and Jack.

“God, thank you so much Jack, I’m so so sorry.” You look stressed, frenetic and full of nervous energy that makes you even more unsure of yourself, not unlike the last time he saw you in here. He finds it adorable, so endearing.

“It’s okay. Truly. You’re going to have to believe me one day.” Jack gives you a small but reassuring smile. 

“No I know,” you breathe out. “I just… This is your work, I know. And I know you’re going to get a million questions based on the entire desk of people staring at us.” You shake your head a little as you try to find words. “And I know it’s hard to explain.” 

“Good job I don’t feel the need to explain it to any of them, then.” 

You laugh a little at that. “Yeah. Um, here.” You slide the backpack baby bag you have off and help put it on one of Jack’s shoulders. “There’s a key in the front pocket. He went down late last night and then I had to get him up early to get him ready to come here. Seeing you is the first time he’s smiled all morning. So he should probably nap earlier for you if I’m not home before then, and probably be pretty chill until he does.” 

“He’s always chill,” Jack smirks at you. “You know that.” 

“Let me make myself feel better, please,” you huff at him, clearly still flooded with nervous energy. 

“Alright,” he nods for you to continue but doesn’t lose his smirk. 

“He’s had a bottle, but that’s it, so he might be hungry when you get home, if he’s a little fussy.” You reach out and run your fingers through his soft baby fine hair to push it out of his eyes. “God he needs a haircut doesn’t he?” 

“Probably,” Jack nods. “But I’m sure-”

“That the thought of my baby needing his first haircut makes me want to sob because he’s growing up way too fast?” 

“Something like that,” he nods. 

“Yeah.” You run your hands through it and sweep it out of his eyes one last time, trying to calm some of the nervous energy that’s making you feel like you’re shaking. “Alright, I should go.” 

You lean up and kiss Jack on the cheek. By the time your feet return to the floor you’ve realized what you just did. 

Jack freezes, stunned, but not upset, not by any means.

“Oh my god,” you gasp quietly, holding your hands up in front of you to the side. “I just did that. Right here.” You close your hands into fists decisively, incredulous at yourself. “Okay, well,” you titter, “I’ve gotta go now, so thank you again so much, and let me know you guys make it home okay, and I’ll let you know when I’m on my way back.” You nod at a still stunned Jack, who then finally starts to relax a bit and lets a smile start to pull up. “Great. Okay.” You lean in and kiss your son’s face. “Bye baby, be good for Jack okay?” You give your son another kiss and pull back, immediately back to your nervous and incredulous demeanor. You pat Jack on the side of the arm holding your son and then cringe at the action. “Right,” you let out a breathy nervous laugh. “Bye.” You spin and walk to the doors and hit the button to be let out.

“Bye,” Jack calls back, still sounding a bit dazed. He takes a second and then looks down at your son who’s looking around the busy room and then looks up at him and smiles, grabs at his face. Jack laughs. “Yeah, bud,” Jack sighs, leans down and kisses the top of his head quickly, doesn’t even really realize he’s doing it, “you’re about to be the talk of the Pitt. We both are. And your mom.” He takes a deep breath in and looks down at your son and makes eye contact. “God help us all.” 

Jack turns and starts walking to the breakroom. He’d go to the lockers but he already knows what’s about to happen. “Not a word,” he says to Dana and Robby as he walks by. 

“Oh be for fuckin’ real Jack,” Dana laughs under her breath, already starting to follow him. 

“No, he’s right Dana, not a word,” Robby says as he starts to follow, “so, so many words.” 

Bridget walks up to the desk and looks at everyone quizzically. 

“A woman just came and dropped off a baby to Jack,” Princess tells her. 

After the words process a large smirk grows on Bridget’s face. “Oh did she now?” 

Jack sighs to himself as Robby and Dana follow him into the breakroom. He doesn’t want to do this but it’s borderline inescapable now and he’d rather it be here than out by the lockers. He slides the baby bag onto a chair. 

“First,” Dana says as she walks in, “let me see him!” She walks over holding her arms out to take your son from Jack. He leans into Jack for a couple of seconds, unsure, but then lets Dana take him. “Hello cutie! What’s your name?” Robby walks over to her and says a soft hi, gives your son his finger to hold onto while Robby looks him over, smiling at him as your son babbles some.

Jack tells her his name. “God, Jack, he is gorgeous. Look at that hair and those eyes!” 

She turns back to the baby in her arms. “Yeah, you’re handsome and you know it, don’t you? I bet you use it to get out of trouble sometimes, huh?” She winks at him. It makes him smile and giggle a little, as he drops Robby’s finger and brings a hand up to chew on. “Gettin’ more teeth in, are we?” Dana smiles at Jack as she rocks your son a little. 

“Yeah, I think so, he’s been real chewy and drooly the last two days,” Jack nods. 

“He yours?” Robby asks.

Jack’s head snaps to him. “What the fuck man?”

“Oh come on Jack, a random woman just showed up, gave you a baby, kissed your cheek and left. It’s not a far stretch. Nor is it a bad thing.” Dana looks at your son. “No it isn’t at all,” she says in a bit of a baby voice.

“And you’ve been different the last couple of months. I think you’ve only been up on the roof twice and even then you didn’t look like you were seriously considering jumping.” Robby points out.

“Oh my god,” Jack mutters under his breath. “No, he’s not mine.”

They both accept that. But it doesn’t quell their curiosity in the slightest. There’s a longer pause though, your son really the only one making noise as all three adults watch him. 

“Who is she?” Robby finally asks, looking up at Jack.

“Does it matter?” Jack shoots back quickly.

“I mean…” Robby laughs a little incredulously, “yeah, a little.” 

“Why?”

“Oh come on, Jack,” Robby draws out as he takes your son from Dana. “You’re telling me if a woman showed up and handed me a baby and kissed my cheek before walking out you wouldn’t have questions and want to know who she is? Or feel like who she is doesn’t matter?”

“Of course I would want to know, but who she was wouldn’t matter and if you didn’t want to say anything yet to keep things private I would respect that.” Jack raises his eyebrows at Robby and gives him a pointed look. 

“Jack, it doesn’t matter who she is really, if she’s in your life we’d just like to know. We want to support you and see you happy. And you clearly know and spend time with the kid, enough for mom to feel comfortable leaving him with you and to know he’s been teething for the last couple of days. You spending time at her house?”

Jack doesn’t answer for a moment but then finally gives in. “Yeah.” Dana’s eyebrows raise in an invitation for more. “Yes, I spend time at her house. I help her out. I sleep in her guest room sometimes, watch him some days. So what?”

“So she matters,” Dana smirks at him a little. “She matters and she kissed your cheek so clearly there’s something.” Jack grows a little more serious and Dana and Robby both know she just hit some sort of nerve there. “Who is she? Please. Let us be happy for you.” 

Jack takes in a big breath and looks at them for a second before resting his hands on his hips, slightly cocking one and looking down at the ground like he’s about to admit something. “My therapist.” He says it deadly serious and just loudly enough for them to hear. 

He doesn’t need to look up to know the expressions they’re wearing, but he does anyway because Robby’s face of incredulity and concern is too funny to miss. “Really?” Dana asks. 

“No!” Jack emphasizes the word with his head and a little brow furrow as he moves from his position to pace a little. “Of fucking course not! But thank you for this little exposé into what you think of me.”

“Hey, that’s why I asked,” Dana puts her hands up in defense. “I couldn’t believe it.”

“Yeah, you couldn’t,” Jack looks over at Robby, “but he sure the fuck could. And he knows my therapist is a man, we go to the same god damn one!”

“Well I didn’t know if you found a new one!” Robby says in his own defense. Jack rolls his eyes. “Are you gonna tell us? Anything? Or are we really wasting our time here?”

Jack stops pacing and sighs, looks at the baby boy in Robby’s arms. “It’s complicated,” he offers. 

“We deal with a lotta complicated here.” Dana reminds him. 

“Yeah well you’re not going to believe the truth,” he mutters. 

“Try us.” Robby looks at Jack with a little knowing smile and tilts his head before looking back down at your son and making faces at him to keep him entertained. 

Jack shakes his head a little and looks away as he tries to think about how to explain without giving away too much because he doesn’t want to totally destroy your privacy. “She’s a friend. Seriously. Just a friend who I help out because she’s a single mom with nobody in the area and she needs help sometimes. Her…” Jack debates on whether this reveals too much but it would explain to them why he’s so reticent to talk about you. “Her husband died while deployed. So, we have the widower widow thing in common and there was a kind of connection there, and yeah maybe it leads to more one day and maybe it doesn’t.” He shrugs at them. That’s all he’s going to say. 

There’s another moment of silence as everybody takes in what Jack just said, himself included.

“So this is what the five epi pens and vials of epi and infant intubation and cric kit were about. He’s who they were about.” Robby looks down at your son. “Yes. They were about you, weren’t they?”

“Oh, peanuts,” Dana nods, looking from your son to Jack, “you introduced peanuts after you brought it all home.” 

Jack just looks at the two of them and shakes his head. Some part of him wants to laugh at the way they went from pushing for information, to getting a little bit, to leaving it and not pushing for more and instead bringing up the supplies he took and fucking peanuts. He’s grateful for it. 

“Yeah, we did.” Robby and Dana’s eyes flash up at him and they both have little smirks. It hits him. “She did. She did, she introduced peanuts. To her son.” 

“With you there.” Robby’s smirk grows a little bit. “Ready to intubate.” 

“I think it’s very sweet,” Dana says, smiling at him. 

“I think we need to get home before his mom calls in a panic. I said I’d leave on time and text her when we’re home, so.” He walks over to Robby and opens his arms, your son all but launching himself at Jack, making all three laugh. 

“He’s certainly a big fan,” Robby smirks. 

“Of course he is, he has excellent taste already. Though he liked you, so we might have to have a chat when we get home about why our standards are falling.” He says it in his typical deadpan demeanor. 

“I was being nice and then you ruined it.” Robby throws a hand up at him. 

Jack picks up the baby bag and slings it over his shoulder. “I didn’t ruin it, I spoke the truth.”

“You’re so mean to me.” Robby looks over at Dana as they all move towards the door. “He’s so mean to me.” 

“I am not mean to you.” Jack replies, stepping out of the door. 

“A little bit,” Dana agrees with Robby. 

“Thank you!”

“But he’s a little bit mean to you too, so it all evens out.” 

Robby scoffs. “I’m not mean to him!” 

“Just like I’m not mean to you.” Jack walks towards the lockers with your son. Robby and Dana stop at the desk, giving looks to everyone to tell them to go back to work. 

Jack swings by his locker and grabs his backpack. He pins it against the lockers with one hip so he can open it enough to shove the baby bag in it and zip it back up. “Alright bud, you ready?” He glances down to check on your son. Your son gives a little smile and then lets his head fall against the front of Jack’s shoulder, almost like he’s shy. Jack has to laugh a little as he walks back by the desk. 

“We’re out,” he announces to everyone, finding the way they all glance up and try not to look shocked or stare funny. “Say bye!” He says to your son, picks his little hand up and waves it. Your son smiles for a second before turning his head away, shying away from the attention. 

Jack looks at Robby and Dana. “Thank you.” He doesn’t have to elaborate. They know what he’s thanking them for. 

The two make it home easily and without incident. Jack texts you to let you know. 

J - Made it home and are having breakfast. 

He includes a picture of your son in his highchair eating some pancakes Jack made for him. When you get it the photo makes your heart squeeze, your boys. 

The world stops for a second and you get a little dizzy when you realize what you just thought. Your boys. 

Jack is not your boy. He’s not yours in any capacity. And that thought is one you know you would have had about your husband and son. That panic comes back, the intense shame and guilt. You try to think back on all you and your therapist have talked about, try to convince yourself that it’s okay. That it’s okay to have that thought. 

That it’s okay to like the thought and even to want the thought. 

You’re able to handle it much better than you were before and you know that means something. That you’re closer to being ready.

Once you’re not so lightheaded from all the emotions you reply. 

You - Thank you.

It’s odd, Jack thinks as he reads it. Almost clipped. Three dots appear. 

You - I’m sorry about this morning and the cheek thing. I know we haven’t discussed anything like that and I don’t really know what happened for me there in the moment, so I’m sorry. And I hope you can forgive me. 

He’s quick to respond. 

J - You have nothing to apologize for, so there’s nothing to forgive. I didn’t mind it at all 

He smiles to himself a little, especially once three dots appear. But then they go away only to reappear a couple of seconds later to disappear again. Shit, he thinks to himself, was that wrong? Did it cross a line? Fuck, was it suggestive? 

He tries to think of what he can say to apologize and let you know that he really didn’t mean for it to be suggestive or pressuring or weird. But then a message from you. 

You - Well good. I didn’t either

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A couple of nights later you sit on the couch next to Jack. It’s the first time you’ve sat next to each other like this. Jack was not the one to instigate it of course. 

You decided to watch a movie together. It’s not the first time you’ve done that. Not the first time you’ve made popcorn without asking if he wanted any. It’s the first time you don’t split it into two bowls, though. Instead you pour it all in one and come sit next to him on the couch. Not touching. But close enough to share the popcorn between you. 

He almost expects you to move once the bowl is empty and you set it on the table but you don’t. You just stay there, curled up in your blanket next to him as you watch, commenting to each other at times. He notices you comment less and less, are less responsive to his and are leaning closer and closer to him. 

He can see you falling asleep and when you blink back awake he points it out. “You wanna go to bed? We can finish later.” 

“No, no, I’m good.” You look at him and give him a smile so he knows you know how close you are to him. 

He nods and you keep watching. But twenty or so minutes later you slide a bit and your head rests against his tricep. 

Jack freezes. He doesn’t know what to do. Does he let you sleep? Does he wake you? Is it wrong if he doesn’t wake you? When he knows you might not be ready? But then the sleepiest, “s’okay,” comes from you like you knew what he was thinking. You’re out again so fast he wonders if he made it up. 

He knows you have trouble sleeping sometimes. Trouble falling asleep and staying asleep. So he’s hesitant to wake you from it when you’re getting it. You’d been so in and out of it with the movie he decides to just wait a bit, see if you wake up. 

But then Jack falls asleep on the couch with you resting on his arm. He wakes when he feels you stirring. “Shit,” you whisper, sit up and off him. “We fell asleep.” 

“Yeah,” he yawns. “I meant to wake you but must have fallen asleep before I could,” Jack says slowly as he wakes back up. “I wasn’t sure if you were okay with…”

“Oh.” You blink at him like the thought hadn’t occurred to you. “Yeah. No, yeah, it was okay, I’m okay. I, I hope you were. You definitely could have woken me if you weren’t!” 

Jack nods. “I know.”

You nod back, the magnitude of falling asleep on him hitting you even though you’re not sure it should really hold any particular magnitude. “Okay. Good.” You look around and check the monitor, chuckle a little and show it to Jack. He chuckles with you at the silly position your son is sleeping in. “Probably best to get to bed.” You give him a small smile. 

“Yeah, probably.” You stand up off the couch and toss the blanket onto it, grab the bowl and put it in the sink to deal with tomorrow. Jack stands too and stretches a little. “Are you going?” You ask, almost sound a little sad at the thought. You are a little sad at the thought. 

“I wasn’t going to,” he shakes his head. “I was just going to head to the spare, but I can if you’d prefer.”

“No! No.” You shake your head. “No, I was going to say it’s late and so you should stay and not try and get home at this hour. It’s not safe.” 

Jack gives you a little smirk and you have to look away. “After you,” Jack calls your attention back, sweeps his hand at the entry to the hallway leading to the rooms. “You want me to take him in the morning?” Jack asks as he follows you. You know he’s talking about the monitor. 

“Oh, no. You have to work tomorrow so you should sleep as much as you can.” You’ve learned his schedule. The reality of that hits you both at the same time. You clear your throat. “Good night, Jack.”

“Good night,” Jack replies, smiling to himself as he walks into your spare room. You know his schedule. Jack realizes he knows yours too.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A week or so later you ask Jack if he has a certain day off, as if you don’t already know that he does. And he knows you know. 

“Yeah,” he answers, looking up from the floor where he’s playing with your son. 

You nod. “Well, so.” You try to start but stumble. You’re nervous. Flustered in that way you get. Like both times you were at the hospital. “That’s his birthday,” you look at your son with a smile, “and I was wondering if you’d um, if you’d like to, you know, spend the day with us?”

Jack doesn’t realize he’s doing it but he stares at you for a few seconds. You just asked him to spend the day with you and your son on your son’s first birthday. 

He nods. “Yeah.” He nods a little faster. “I would love that. If you’re sure. I know it’s a special day and-”

“No, I’m sure. And I know he’ll love it.” You look at your son fondly and then back at Jack. The fondness in your eyes doesn’t go away. “He loves you.” 

Jack flushes a little at that and it makes you get butterflies. Jack Abbot is blushing in front of you. Doesn’t matter why or what you said. He’s blushing and you’re swooning like you’re a teenager. And, you realize, you don’t hate yourself or feel guilty about it. You just feel it.

“Well,” Jack laughs a little, looks down at your son and brushes some hair out of his face. You still haven’t brought yourself to get it cut but you really are going to have to here soon. “I lo-” Jack stops himself. You can see him trying to think of what to say instead. 

“It’s okay,” you say quietly, understandingly. “You can say it, Jack.” 

Jack nods and swallows. “I love him too,” he says just as softly as he looks back down at your son. 

When Jack finally builds up the courage to look at you he’s greeted by your smile. The one that really meets your eyes and makes them sparkle a bit. The one that he’s seen more and more recently. The one that gives him butterflies. 

Jack Abbot blushes again. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The three of you spend all day together. Your son is one, so the day is more for you than anything. 

You decide on the zoo. Your son loves animals, it’s a weekday so it’s not super busy, the weather is perfect. And you can take it at your own pace. 

Lots of pictures get taken. Of your son. Of you and your son. Of your son and Jack. Of you, your son and Jack. That one threw him a little when you first brought it up and asked a stranger to take a photo of the three of you. 

Jack is patient and would never pressure you and very deliberately does not ask where you’re at in healing or if you’re feeling like you’re closer to ready or anything of the sort. He lets you lead, lets you set the tone and the pace. He knows if and when you’re ready you’ll communicate that. 

You and Jack sit in the aquarium when your son needs a nap and falls asleep in his stroller. You talk about your upcoming weeks and Jack tells you stories of patients he’s had recently that he hasn’t had the chance to tell you about. 

“Have you… had to explain anything about him and I? At work.” 

Jack’s eyebrows lift slightly and he shakes his head. “No. I’m sure they’re all dying to know but like I said, I don’t feel the need to explain anything to them.” He shrugs. “Well, actually,” he lets out a little breath. “The day you came in I told Robby and Dana. Not a lot. Just that you’re a friend I’m helping out because you’re a single mom and don’t have anyone here.” He bites his lip and looks at you. “I told them that you lost your husband while he was deployed, so we had the widower widow connection. I’m sorry if that was too much.” 

You laugh a little and shake your head. Jack has talked to you enough about Dana and Robby to know that Robby is his best friend and effective brother and Dana is his second best friend and like the Pitt mom. “It’s not.” 

“Dana said he’s gorgeous.” Jack doesn’t know why all of this didn’t come out once you got home that day but he was asleep when you did and then life was just busy and moved on. And now you’re talking about it. “He actually liked Robby, so he and I had a little conversation when we got home about bringing his standards back up.” 

That makes you laugh, properly. Jack thinks he could get lost in the sound forever. Spend the rest of his life chasing it. He tells himself to get a grip. You’re just friends. Nothing more. 

“Well,” you smile at him before looking away and shrugging. “Maybe one day I can meet them. Judge for myself.” 

Jack pauses for a second only because he wasn’t expecting it. “Uh, I mean yeah. Of course. Dana will lose it if she gets to see him again.”

“He is the cutest and best if I do say so myself.” You smile down at your sleeping one year old. “God, I can’t believe it’s been a year.” It’s been over a year and a half now since your husband. “He’s so big,” you whisper. “He was so tiny, fit on my chest so nicely. And I love watching him grow up and see him do new things and learn and thrive, but damn it’s hard.” 

Jack gives you a little hum of empathy, not entirely sure what to say. He notices how big your son has gotten and he’s only been in your lives for three months. 

“Will you come with us when I get his hair cut finally?” 

Jack looks over at you, a little confused. “Yeah, course.” He presses his lips together and shakes his head once. “Any particular reason why?” 

“To be my shoulder to cry on.” You say it so simply, like it means nothing when you both know it means something. You both know you’re inviting him to another thing your husband and your son’s dad would probably go to with you. 

And Jack gets stuck on it a little. To be my, you had said, you want him to be your something, even if it’s just a shoulder to cry on right now. “I suppose I can manage that.”

You share a little laugh about it. “Thanks, Jack,” you murmur. 

“Any time.” 

Once your son wakes back up you finish walking around the zoo. Jack buys him too many toys at the gift shop, all the stuffed animals he so much as glances at, much to his delight. You make your way back home together in Jack’s truck. Jack’s truck that now has a carseat in it. 

But you don’t go inside, instead you decide to leave the stroller and walk around the City. You find a place to eat and it’s weird to think about. To all the people walking by and seeing the three of you, you probably look like a family. And even though you feel some guilt, especially on your son’s birthday, you don’t completely hate yourself or let that guilt consume you. You like the idea. A lot. So you let yourself feel it.

After dinner at dusk you decide to take your son to the park for some swinging before heading back and getting him to bed. He loves to swing. You take photos of him and Jack and Jack takes them of the two of you. 

You’re so involved with your son and swinging and making him laugh that you don’t notice Jack slip away for just a second. Your son yawns. “Aw,” you give him a little sad laugh. “Tired baby? You’ve had a big day.” He reaches up for you and you pull him out of the swing, hug him close to you and kiss his head. 

When you turn around Jack is back and standing where you assumed he would be but he’s holding a single rose. You stay where you’re at, almost frozen but not in a tense way. And Jack is just as nervous that this is crossing a line when he doesn’t mean for it to be.  

“Day’s about you as much as it’s about him,” he calls to you. He starts walking towards you and you meet him halfway. “You did all the work a year ago today, mom.” He offers you the rose. “We should acknowledge that.” 

You look at the rose and then back up at him again, a bit stunned still. It’s so incredibly sweet and kind. It’s so incredibly Jack. And you know for sure then. 

You take the rose from him and give him a sappy smile. “Thank you, Jack. For everything. The rose and today and the last three months.”

“Don’t mention it.” He gives you a small smile. 

“Accept the thanks.” You give him a pointed one in return. 

“Alright, alright.” Your son has started to fall asleep in your arms. “Want me to take him?” 

You nod. “Sure, yeah. You only need one arm to carry him still. I need two now.”  You bring the rose up to your nose and smell it, smile to yourself about it. Let you and the butterflies in your stomach swoon. 

The three of you start walking home, your son fully out on Jack’s shoulder within a couple minutes. You walk back in silence. It’s a comfortable silence, a comfortable quiet. And while quiet hasn’t been as foreboding to Jack since he’s met you sometimes it still is. Like now. 

This quiet, while comfortable, is thick. There’s something about it that feels anticipatory. Last time the quiet felt like this, made him feel like this, this uneasy, it brought Jack you. 

Something about that makes him even more uneasy. Because Jack knows there’s always a reason for quiet. It always means something. Always brings something. Rarely, if ever, is it good. And he got good last time and Jack doesn’t trust the world or lightning to strike twice. 

He worries this time the quiet will bring something else. Something worse, like it always does. 

But before he can completely spiral and become even more hypervigilant than he always is, Jack feels your fingers brush against his for a second before they disappear and then come back, your fingers playing with his like it’s nothing, and then, in the quiet as you walk back to your place, you lace your fingers together and you’re holding hands and you give him a little squeeze that tells him you mean it. That you’re ready.   

Quiet. It always means something. Always brings something. 

This time it meant you were working up the courage. Is bringing the start of something more than just friends. 

Lightning strikes twice. 

Jack stops walking when you squeeze his hand and you stop with him, looking up concerned and a bit panicked, ready to draw your hand back. 

“You ready for this?” Jack asks, genuine concern in his voice as his eyes dart around your face, looking for the slightest sign of hesitation. But you can see it there too, the excitement, the happiness. The hope. “And by this I mean this,” he squeezes your hand. “Nothing more. Not until you’re ready for more. Not until you tell me you’re ready for more.”  

You bite your lip as he talks because he’s so cute when he’s concerned and he’s such a good man, wanting to make sure you’re ready and know he doesn’t expect more. And the smile that’s slowly pulling up on his face as you look at him and nod is so adorable you could scream. “Yeah. I’m ready for this.” You squeeze his hand back. “And maybe a little more.” You pull on his hand and start walking again, lean into him a little. “But only with you.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If you made it this far thank you so much for reading and I hope it was okay and got fluffy and funny!!

You can find my Masterlist here for more Jack! Requests are open!

Taglist: @moonshooter @whiskeyhowlett-writes @smallcarbigwheels @hawkswildfireheart @blackwidownat2814 @yxtkiwiyxt @viridian-dagger @generalstarlightobject @andabuttonnose @beebeechaos @pear-1206 @starkgaryan @travelingmypassion @marvelcasey05 @daydreamingallthetime-world @millenialcatlady @iamcryingonceagain @loveyhoneydovey @a-stari-night @acn87 @moonpascal @lostfleurs @thelightnessofthebeing @beltzboys2015-blog @pouges-world @tinyharrypotterkpopfriend @roseanddaggerlarry @pearlofthepitt @niamhmbt @thefangirllife10 @star017 @marvelousmissmaggie @misartymis @clem9216 @distantsighs @rocker-chick-7 @mayabbot @taylorswifts-cardigan @sammiib444 @livinthevidaloca-ish @morallygreymaniac @woodxtock @shaydawgsblog @deadneverlander @imonlyhereformemes14-blog @sleepingalways @generalstarlightobject @dudewithastick @thatoneawesomechicka @rebeccasaurusrex

[orimuraa]

• Me and my girlies - PSH ↳ ┊: perfect night - le sserafim

꒰ 𝔖𝘺𝘯𝘰𝘱𝘴𝘪𝘴 ꒱┆sunghoon being a girl-dad ⨾

۶ৎ husband!sunghoon x fem!reader┆fluff┆petnames, mentions of pregnancy, hoonie is so whipped hehe┆wc 377

⤷ 𝐲𝐞𝐣𝐢’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: hehe here’s another girl-dad fic 🤭 thank you to the anonnie who requested it !! sorry it took so long TT i was just taking a small break but i’m back now!

꒰ঌ ℬℴℴ𝓀𝓈𝒽ℯ𝓁𝒻 ໒꒱

everyone always thought sunghoon would be a boy-dad. he always seemed like he wanted to see a younger version of himself grow up again, re-living his memories that he didn’t have as a kid.

but the day you told sunghoon you were pregnant, he started manifesting a baby girl.

it shocked you, your mom, and his members. sunghoon wanted a baby girl??? that was new.

sunghoon had said: “i want to be able to take care of her. i live with the guilt of leaving yeji behind and i want to prove that i will be better as a father of a sweet girl.”

when you were out running errands, sunghoon took it as a chance to have “father daughter” bonding time.

he would crouch down in front of the crib, cooing at his beautiful daughter and smiling to himself.

he was so proud of you for being able to give him this happiness. your daughter had your eyes and sunghoon’s nose. just enough resemblance to make sunghoon’s smile bigger.

he didn’t even hear you come in through the front door as he was too lost in thought.

“hoonie? you alright?” you asked, setting down the groceries and walking over to your husband and baby.

“oh! hi darling,” he jumped a bit, before realizing it was just you and kissing your temple as a greeting.

“just thinking,” he hummed, his hand subconsciously finding a spot on the small of your back.

“yeah? well i hope they’re good ones,” you giggle, leaning your head on his shoulder as you both stare lovingly at your daughter.

and that’s how these quiet moments went. lots of comfortable silences and just good presence.

as your daughter grew everyday, sunghoon absolutely loved playing dress up. he never minded all the clips in his hair, or the crazy nail polish was more on his knuckles than his actual nails. he loved it.

he felt like he made up for all the lost years of being an older brother. he had always resented himself for leaving yeji behind to grow up on her own, but now? he got a second chance in life. a chance to take care of his two lovely princesses. and he was not going to mess that up anytime soon.

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ 𝐉𝐢𝐣𝐢’𝐬 𝐓𝐚����𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @vmpivory, @yuvany, @seozii, @pinknjm, @greentulip, @jomisu, @nxzz-skz, @ancnymcnzjy, @hyukabean, @annybah, @ijustwannareadstuff20, @chaeneu, @17ericas, @firstclassjaylee, @riribelle, @right-person-wrong-time, @cheruphic, @woniefication, @melodiessvy, @soona-huh, @kiwicup, @yuuuraaa

[aeristudios]

see you, space cowboy

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: With a bounty on your head, you are determined to get your revenge at all costs… even if it means losing the man that you love. .𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: bounty hunter!Wonwoo x bounty hunter!reader, mentions of other members (Jeonghan, Soonyoung and Mingyu) .𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: angst, sc-fi, smut, lovers to enemies to ???, cowboy bebop elements, space au, established relationship, betrayal, dark themes, neo-noir, dystopian-ish if you squint .𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: PLEASE READ ALL THE WARNINGS! heavy angst, very strong language, mentions of murder/attempted murder, gun violence (for revenge and they're bounty hunters so), familial death, morally grey characters, grief, emotional manipulation (not by Wonwoo or the reader), drugging (not for sexual purposes), toxic family dynamics, gaslighting, graphic violence (reader gets into fights defending herself), guilt/self blame, mentions of black market dealings, kissing, oral (giving and receiving), nipple play, fingering, nail digging, unprotected shower sex, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, hair pulling, throat grabbing, creampie. lots and lots of yearning .𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 16.7K .𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𝐀𝐍: It's finally hereeeeee. Reader has a nickname "Silver", which is explained why and she will be referred as that for the most part. I was inspired by Cowboy Bebop and as a 90s anime enthusiast , I dreamed this up when I was doing a rewatch and I had to make this happen. I want to give a huge thank you to @starlightkyeom for reading this, putting up with me sending long ass voice notes agonizing over this story and reassuring me that what I had was good. I feel like we have gotten closer because of this 😭 Also thank you to @hobeemin, @hannieween, @neoneun-au and @straylightdream for reading as well and letting me bounce off ideas. It helped me a lot when I was stuck and need another opinion. Also thank you Beezy @hobeemin for the cool ass banner.

visual concept #1 visual concept #2 playlist

You see him coming to your door, gun drawn with his finger on the trigger, ready to shoot. You duck behind the bookshelf, the only place you can hide in this small room. Creeping low on the ground, you clutch your own pistol in your hand as your breathing slows. Your heart beats a million times a minute, adrenaline pumping through your veins as you wait for him to come in. Despite having a million-dollar bounty on your head, you are determined to get out of here alive, even if it means losing the man that you love.

“Silver, I know you're in there.”

Hearing Wonwoo’s voice is like a shot to the heart. You love him with every fiber of your being. He is your morning sun, the Heart Nebula to your Soul Nebula, and anything you could say to describe a love that fills you deep in your soul and makes you whole. He is the one for you, and it’s fucked that you are on enemy lines. You never thought it would be you against him. It was always supposed to be you and him till the end of time.

But you made it this way.

If this were another situation, you would be flattered that your life was worth this much to anyone. Unfortunately, you didn’t achieve this by being a damsel in distress, but by taking a shot at the head boss of your Organization, Aeron— and you almost succeeded. You were so close, narrowly missing his head by a centimeter and marking his ear instead. Wonwoo, your fiancé and his adopted son, was his saving grace as he knocked the gun out of your hand at the last minute. You should feel conflicted, as the man raised you as one of his own and trained you personally to be the top bounty hunter. He even gave you your nickname, “Silver,” due to the thick strand of silver hair you were born with, a signature trait passed down from your mother’s side of the family. He was a family friend, and you loved him like an uncle, and in a way, you still do. That’s why this hurts so much.

“Baby, open the door… I just want to know why you did it.”

The deep anguish in his voice twists your stomach into knots. You promised him that you would never hurt him and be honest with him, even if it meant breaking his heart. You’ve kept your word until now, and you hope that when the dust settles, he will understand.

The door creaks open, and you move towards the wall as the loud creak muffles your foot movement. His shadow is darker, moving closer to you, and before he can see you, you grab a heavy book and throw it at his head as a distraction. Wonwoo is quick, knocking it out of place and kicking down the bookshelf, forcing you to scurry out of the way. A small table separates the two as you face each other for the first time in months.

“Hey there, space cowboy.”

You aren’t sure why you were expecting him to crack a smile at the nickname you gave him long ago. You stare at each other, his stern stare enough to scare anyone away. His eyes are heavy with an unspoken pain that you caused, and it eats you alive. You know he didn’t want to be the one to bring you in, but you both know if it were someone else, they wouldn’t stand a chance.

“Silver, I don’t want to fight,” Wonwoo warns. “But you know what will happen if I don’t bring you in.”

“Well, tough shit,” you spit. “You know what will happen to me if I return to the Nova District. So you’re just going to have to bring me in dead.”

Another moment of silence hangs between you two, your fingernails digging into your palms as you prepare for a fight.

“One day, you’ll understand why I did it.”

Wonwoo doesn’t answer immediately; you can see the gears turning in his mind as he wrestles with your words, the pain etched on his face.

“Why can’t you help me understand now?” he pleads, desperation creeping into his voice. “Why did you try to kill him? Why didn’t you talk to me about this?”

“He didn’t tell you?”

He shakes his head, and you sigh heavily, your shoulders hanging low in exhaustion. Of course, he didn’t tell him, and you shouldn’t be surprised. Being honest isn’t exactly Aeron’s strong suit, and now you have to explain everything. The lies and secrets are how you ended up here in the first place. But today isn’t the day for that—you must get out of there and hope that one day, Wonwoo will be able to forgive you.

“I don’t have time to explain now,” your voice cracks. You're angry and tired all the same. “You just have to trust me.”

“Just like you trusted me before you shot at Aeron?” His words are laced with a venom that incinerates your chest. He’s hurt, and you know he’s right, but there is no time to dwell on that.

Taking Aeron’s life was necessary, even if you failed, as he lied to you for years about your family. You became an orphan when you were twelve, watching your family’s house blow up on a hill while you were painting. You were always told that it was a gas leak, and you believed that until you received an ominous email with documents and recordings that proved it was a lie. Aeron was in love with your mother, and they had been having an affair for years. Seeing the pictures of them embracing, exchanging longing looks, and kissing… it was hard to look at.

“I know this isn’t fair, but please, believe me.” The ache in your torn heart that you’ve been ignoring rears its ugly head, bringing you to tears. “I don’t want to bring you further into this.”

“I’m already in it!” Wonwoo raises his voice, the gun trembling in his hand. “My fiancé shot the man who raised me. Took you in. I’m already knee-deep into this shit, Silver!”

He lunges at the table and throws it against the wall, catching you off guard. Aside from your jobs as bounty hunters, he has never gotten aggressive towards you. He’s warm and gentle and would worship the ground you walk on. Seeing him in turmoil, a pain that you caused paralyzes you momentarily, allowing him to cross the room towards you, pulling you close to him. Your knees almost buckle in close proximity to him, and you have half a mind to call all this off and go back with him. Figure all this shit out. Your heart bleeds for him.

“Talk to me,” he whispers, his eyes peering into your soul. “Why did you do this?”

You rest your head against his shoulder, ready to lay down your burdens and reveal the truth. “He’s responsible for my family’s death.”

You feel him stiffen, his breathing tempered as you wipe away your tears, regaining your composure as you explain what happened. “He planned all of it. The gas leak, my house blowing up. All of it because he was in love with my mother.”

You explained how you received the evidence via email and Dropbox, which is typically used for work purposes, and how your own investigation followed afterward. You didn’t believe it at first, and you almost deleted everything, chucking it up to someone trying to fuck with your head and take your spot from being the top bounty hunter on the planet. But with that email came a delivery of something precious, making it seem like maybe it was the truth after all: a picture of your mother wearing a locket. A silver heirloom passed down resembled a peony covered with red jadeites. It is a rare gem that doesn’t exist in this galaxy, and your mother always had it tucked away, promising that one day it would be yours as the oldest child.

Even though you were far from the house, the force of the explosion knocked you off your feet, and you hit your head; you blocked out your memory, and your doctors all say it’s due to trauma and all of the related stuff. You started to forget about the locket, and eventually, your family’s memory became distant. That same locket, however, Aeron kept in his possession all these years in a glass container. He said it was his most “prized possession” that he won after a “tough” job, and despite the familiar feeling you had whenever you were near it, you believed him. Never again.

“The affair with my mother wasn’t just some secret,” you say, your voice filled with rage and sorrow. “He had been obsessed with her for years. They were childhood sweethearts, and she was forced to marry my father in an arranged marriage that turned into real love.” You grab his hands and study his eyes, hoping to find a flicker of hope that he believed you and that you didn’t just fly off the handle. “She tried to end it for years, and he wouldn’t let her. Now look what’s happened.”

The transcripts and phone call recordings showed she wanted to end things with Aeron and be faithful to your father. Your mother was beautiful and had an elegance and grace that turned every head in the room. You don’t know how the affair started, but you know your mother wanted to be free from Aeron, and he wouldn’t have that. So instead of letting her go, he killed her and everyone that you loved in that house. Your parents, your little sister, and your cat Dipper. All gone with a boom. He didn’t count on you not being in the house, so he tried to cover his tracks by taking you in. Raising you with Wonwoo, training you two together to be the best hunters in the galaxy. He watched you two fall in love and bragged about how much he loved his family. He talked about how much he loved you. It’s sick.

Wonwoo’s eyebrows furrow as he processes your words, shadows of doubt flickering in his eyes. “How do you know what was sent was the truth? You could’ve come to me, and we could’ve—”

“Could’ve done fucking what?” You cut in sharply. “Gone to him and had him tell us the truth? He wouldn’t have done that if you were there. That’s why I went alone.”

You feel anger building in your chest, and you want to scream into the void. Betrayal doesn’t even begin to describe how you feel; it’s as if someone is tearing your heart apart at the seams. You can feel every rip, every piece of you being pulled away, and it just won’t stop.

“I know I put you in an impossible position, and I’m sorry,” you search his eyes for understanding and comfort. “I love you. So fucking much. And I know he means a lot to you, and he meant a lot to me, too, but he has to go—”

“Baby, stop,” he pleads. “Don’t do this.”

“I have to. I’m sorry.”

You lean in, capturing his lips in a desperate kiss, your heart racing as he pulls you closer to him. His taste evokes nostalgia and comfort, reminding you of happier times when you lay in bed together and talked about your future, planning your wedding, and discussing jobs you'd take together. Your whole lives were mapped out for the taking, and you could’ve had it all. Maybe you still can, in another life.

You quietly pull a powder called Dreamshade out of your back pocket. It is a bag of fine, shimmering dust that glimmers with deep violet and midnight blue, mixed with the endangered plants of blooming nightshade and wild lavender. A tear trickles down your left cheek as you know what you have to do next, breaking your kiss and sprinkling the dust across his face. You watch his expression soften, confusion clouding his features as he slumps to the ground, unconscious. You pull him until his back is against the wall, your heart twisting painfully as you betray his trust for the second time.

With one last lingering glance, you slip into the night, the vision of the last day your family was alive fueling your resolve. You had to eliminate Aeron, even if it meant losing everything.

Wonwoo remembered the first time you met. 

You were brought home from the hospital, where you spent a few weeks unconscious from the blast that destroyed your home. Aeron told him you were coming to stay with them and that it was his job to protect you. He didn’t know what the hell he meant by that; he was just a scrawny fifteen-year-old pickpocket living on the streets before he was found. He was born and raised in the Lutum district, poor, with two parents who passed away when he was ten years old from a plague that took over his city. He only knew how to take care of himself. Why was it his responsibility to care for someone he didn’t know? 

Wonwoo was a shy and quiet kid, but he knew that you meant a lot to Aeron, and he would do anything to please the man who took him in. You two didn’t talk much at first; his job was to protect you, not be your friend. But the more time you spent together as you navigated your new reality,  the closer you two became, and he got to see you for who you were. You were half a year younger than him, but you never let it show, as he found you fearless and driven, sometimes to the point that you were reckless. He always had your back, even if you were in the wrong, and Wonwoo wasn’t afraid to call you out on your shit. 

“Do you really have to start a fight everywhere we go?”

You were both nineteen, and you were dragged out of the club in Adamas City for punching a girl who got too close to your “date,” if that’s what you wanted to call it; more like your flavor of the month. You didn’t know the man had an on-and-off girlfriend, nor did you know she would show up to the place and start screaming at you, calling you every kind of whore, and how your parents were ashamed from the grave to have a daughter like you. But you did know she had to be taught manners, and before Wonwoo could stop you, the girl was knocked to the floor with a bruised right eye and a chipped tooth.

“Wonwoo, stop.” You snatched your hand from him. “I’m fine.” 

“Yeah, no shit, Silver,” Wonwoo retorted, running his fingers through his hair. “Why can’t you be normal for once?”

“Because,” you adjusted your jacket. “That’s fucking boring.” 

You frustrated him to no end. You were wild and resilient, and despite the hellfire you brought, you had a sharp wit and knack for adapting to any situation you were in. You also made him curious and brought a spark to his chest whenever you were around, and he found you more attractive as time went on. He noticed how your eyes squinted when you read, and how your silver hair shone brightly in the sun and moonlight. You sparkled like the stars in the night, a nuclear fusion of many components that made you beautiful to him, that kept him grounded.

Deep down, Wonwoo knew what that meant. It’s not like he hasn’t had crushes before, but you were different; you made him feel alive. Seeing you date these guys, who wouldn’t last longer than a few weeks, bothered him. You need someone you could rely on at the end of the day and be comfortable with; you needed someone who felt like home, and he wanted to be that for you. 

Wonwoo swore he would protect you with his life to Aeron, but he didn’t realize falling for you was in the cards. 

Aeron wasn’t pleased to hear what happened in the club, and he made you both start training to become bounty hunters for the Organization. He said you needed discipline and structure, and let you get away with acting out for far too long. Wonwoo didn’t fight it; he knew he was right, and it was time for you to grow and become an adult. You surprisingly took everything in stride, attending all the necessary training and adhering to the daily regimen implemented for you throughout this process. Later on, Wonwoo asked you why you didn’t fight it, and you said something clicked with you— you could either party and fight anyone who got in your way, or you could do something with your life and be taken more seriously. Amid everything, you wanted respect.

You two trained together with Aeron personally and became even closer. You tended each other’s cuts and bruises, vented about each other’s day, and, late at night, shared secrets about your fears and what you wanted for your future. You didn’t share much about your childhood, but Wonwoo shared about his life before Aeron, and he was okay with that. He saw you coming into your own, making him grow fond of you even more. Sometimes, he wondered if what he felt was love or if he just liked you a lot. But he kept to himself, as he didn’t want to rock the boat with Aeron, and he didn’t want to mess up this dynamic he had with you. 

A year into training, you both had to take a series of mental aptitude tests to strengthen your minds against any emotional factors that could affect your jobs. He knew bounty hunting wouldn’t be just bringing people in alive or collecting treasure— it also meant possibly taking people out of equations, permanently. On the last day of the test, he met with you on the rooftop of the Hightower, the building where the Organization was located and where you both lived. The test was rigorous, and it forced him to think of his parents and the pain they suffered from the sickness that killed them, and he just wanted a quiet moment to process that. He missed them.

After midnight, the stars formed different constellations in the dazzling dark sky, and you leaned on the balcony, lost in thought as the wind flowed slightly to the East. Wonwoo knew something was wrong; you never want to be this still. He was usually the quiet one and listened to you talk. It was his favorite thing to do at the end of the day. 

“Are you okay?” 

Wonwoo placed a supporting hand on your shoulder, watching you slowly come back to reality and regain your focus on him. Your eyes were red, and your face was tear-stricken, and it hurt him to see you upset. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you sniffled, wiping your face with your shirt sleeve. “The test just really sucked.”

“Yeah, I know,” Wonwoo agreed, leaning against the rail. “I’m glad it’s over.” 

“Is it?” You let out a shaky breath, gazing at the sky. “We will be doing jobs soon, which means we will be doing some tough things. What if we come across a dead family or a child without their parents?”

He watched your bottom lip tremble as you burst into tears, quickly covering your face and turning away from him. 

“What if I am not cut out for this?”

Wonwoo pulled you into a warm hug, letting you sob on his shirt as he rubbed your back. He had never seen you break down like this, which nerved him. You’ve always made it a point to never let anyone see you cry, yet you felt so vulnerable and trusted him. It pulled at him heavily, and he wanted to take your pain away. 

“Hey,” he lifted your chin slightly so your eyes met. “You’re stronger than you think. You’ve been through a lot, and you’re still here. You’re a force of nature, Silver. I believe in you.” 

You nodded softly as he wiped the remaining tears from the corner of your eye. Wonwoo will always be there to protect you; as long as he is alive, no one else will ever make you cry again. 

“Wonwoo,” you whispered, gazing into his eyes. “I’m going to do something that you’ve been too nice to do.” 

Before he could respond, you pulled him into a kiss, catching him off guard. His pulse quickened as he understood what was happening, but he kissed you back, the heat radiating between you two on this chilly high tower. He needed you, but didn’t know how to tell you; however, he would surely show you, grabbing your waist and pulling you closer. Your kiss deepened, a mix of yearning and relief in the air as if he knew you felt the same way. 

You finally pulled apart, breathless and content. Wonwoo’s heart was pounding; he wanted more but didn’t want to rush things. In due time, it would happen. 

“Well, it’s exciting to know you feel the same way, space cowboy.” 

“You are never going to let that nickname go, will you?”

“Never.”

A slight grin spread across your face, and you stepped back, looking at the night sky again. Wonwoo came behind you and wrapped his arms around you, wanting to feel your warmth again. If it were up to him, he would never let you go. He stood there in silence, watching the beautiful person in front of him finally have a moment of peace, and it was because of him. 

At that moment, Wonwoo knew he was in love, and despite being ordered to protect and save you, you also saved him from a lifetime of loneliness. 

It took you a few hours to get to Merchara, an industrial planet dominated by towering factories and sprawling cities. The sky is a permanent rust orange, filled with smog that suffocates without the proper mask. It’s ironic that you are going to a place where you can barely breathe on your own after what you did to Wonwoo back there, leaving him slumped on a wall. You haven’t stopped crying and haven’t been able to breathe easily since a tight knot settling on your chest as each hour goes by; you don’t deserve him.

“Let’s do this shit,” you muttered. 

Settling behind a building in the city of Theodian, you wipe the remaining tears off your face and regain focus. You took a ship common enough to blend in with others in the galaxy that would let you go undetected. You registered with an alternate login no one knew, which gave you enough time to disable the GPS and turn into a ghost, hence its name, Umbra. People only come to this planet if they are hiding out or are involved in the black market. Fortunately, the person you need to see fits both criteria, and he may be the only person in this galaxy who will not rat you out the second you step into his establishment: Yoon Jeonghan. 

You met him on a job when you were tasked with a group of other bounty hunters to raid his building and eliminate anyone who got in your way. The job was messy and ended with unnecessary casualties, and you suspect that Jeonghan was targeted because he dabbles in black-market weaponry and tech. The only reason why you spared him, despite him attacking you on sight, was because he was protecting a little girl, his sister. Despite him being good at fighting, you had the upper hand, and you were ready to get rid of him, but then you saw her crawl from behind the table, wild-eyed and shaken. She stood behind him with big brown eyes and clung to his shirt, and it reminded you of the little sister you lost, and you didn’t want to be the reason you took her family away. 

You spared his life, and because of that, he became your most trusted ally, second only to Wonwoo. Jeonghan would supply you with weapons at a cheaper rate as a token of gratitude, and eventually, you would become friends. His sister, Sohee, was wary of you at first, and you didn’t blame her; you almost killed her brother. But she came around, and now she refers to you as “Aunt” Silver when you come around.

“Hello?”

Your knuckles rapped against the door while you waited for a response. The door slowly creaked open with little effort, causing your body to tense as you became more alert. Hesitating, you quietly pushed the door open, greeted by the coolness of the living room. Your heart quickened as you scanned the room, looking for anything out of place. You’ve known them a long time, and it’s not like them to leave their doors unlocked. 

You hear shuffling from the back corner, and you quickly pull out your gun, only to be met by Jeonghan, holding a basket of fruit. 

“Well, hello,” Jeonghan greets you, eyeing your gun.

“Don’t worry, Hannie, I come in peace,” you say, raising your hands slowly.

“Yeah, I don’t think you have much of a choice, Miss Million Dollar Bounty,” he smirks as he sets down his basket. You relax and put the gun back in its holster.

“You heard about that, huh?” you sighed. “I imagine the news is probably all over the galaxy.” 

“Fresh on the ten o’clock telecasts,” he remarked. 

“Shit.” 

“Yeah.”

You sit on one of the barstools, your head in your hands as everything hits you all at once. Finding out the truth about your family, attempting to kill Aeron, Wonwoo… fuck, Wonwoo. The thought of him lying there all alone feels like a knife twisting in your gut. 

“How is Wonwoo taking all of this?”

You slowly look up at him, your eyes blurry from the tears that you managed to repress for a short time. “Not good,” you sniffle. “I broke his heart.”

Your chest feels heavy, like a weight pressing down on you as you unravel, releasing all the frustration and hurt you've experienced over the past twenty-four hours. You thought Aeron was one of your last living connections to your family, and learning that he had a hand in severing that bond makes you feel sick to your stomach.

Jeonghan quickly pulls you into his embrace as you cry, unable to keep your jar of emotions shut. You’re not a crier; you view it as a weakness and never want anyone to see you that way… but you can’t help it. Your heart aches for the family you lost, Wonwoo, and for everything that has transpired since then. It feels like the last fifteen years were a lie—a facade created for Aeron to cover his tracks.

“He hates me, Hannie.” Your voice trembled. “Wonwoo is never going to forgive me.”

“Shhh, don’t say that,” he shushed you. “If I know anything about Wonwoo, you are his sun and moon and all that other cliche stuff. From what I have seen, that man is too deep in love with you. I’m sure he’ll understand… just give him some time.”

“I don’t know,” you sniffled again. “I really knocked him out the last time I saw him.”

Jeonghan raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Dreamshade.”

“Oh, Silver,” he clicks his tongue. “You were always a sneaky one.”

He hands you a napkin, and you wipe your face in the mirror. Your eyes are rubor red and you lack sleep. You look worn down and defeated; even your silver hair is dull and no longer full of life. 

“You need to sleep,” Hannie says suddenly. “Go up to Sohee’s room and take a nap.”

“No, no,” you shake your head. “I gotta keep moving. Where is she anyway?”

“School,” he says, taking the bananas out of the basket. “You do know what time it is, right?”

You glance at the digital clock on the wall; it reads nine o'clock AM, its bright blue lights glowing prominently. The adrenaline that has fueled you for the past twenty-four hours is fading, and fatigue and hunger crash over you like wildfire. Your back aches, and your feet are sore. As much as you want to leave, you know Jeonghan is right: you are completely exhausted.

“I just really need to re-up on some supplies,” you say wearily. “I’ll be out of your hair soon. I don’t want to risk you and Sohee’s life any more than I am being here.”

“Silver, you saved our lives even when you didn’t have to,” Jeonghan said firmly. “I will always have your back.”

He pointed toward Sohee’s room. “You should rest first. I can give you what you need when you wake up. But if you keep going like this, you will exhaust yourself, and I won’t be able to help you.”

You sigh heavily, running your fingers through your hair. “Don’t you want to know why I did it?”

Jeonghan pauses momentarily, giving you a once-over before coming around the corner. “Not if it’s going to get me in trouble,” he smirked. “But seriously, whatever reason you did it, I’m sure it was justified.”

You don’t have the strength to argue anymore; your eyes grow heavy with each passing second. You let him lead you to her bed, where he untucks the covers. You slowly crawl in, the scent of lavender lingering on her pillow.

“Sleep,” Jeonghan says softly. “I’ve got you.”

You nod, too tired to think. Your body succumbs to fatigue, and you drift into a deep sleep.

Wonwoo dreamed about you. 

It was an old memory, but it’s one of his favorites. You two were at the Sanctuary, a blip on the map outside the city, kept a secret from the public. You two discovered it accidentally after finishing a mission on the planet Glacius, which became your secret getaway. Very few people know about this place, and it provided the privacy you both craved when you grew tired of being in the public eye. The weather was always warm, with a tropical element reminiscent of the beaches on old Earth.

You had only been dating officially for several months, but Wonwoo was deeply in love. You were fire and ice and an enigma all at the same time. You made his soul smile when you touched him, and he was in awe of your bravery and the lengths you were willing to go to protect him on each mission. You weren’t the heavy emotional type, but he knew how much you cared about him. It was the little things— the way you talked to him softly like no one else could, the way you kept contact when Wonwoo spoke, and by gods, the way you kissed him. He felt it, knew you loved him too. But you haven’t said it out loud yet. 

“Wonwoo… I think I am ready to take the next step.” 

You two were lying on the blankets on the beach, letting the sun kiss your skin and melting the cold away from the other planet. Wonwoo lifted his head up, his glasses slightly askew and his heart racing as he replayed the words in his head.

“W-what step?”

You raised an eyebrow and threw him a look, and he got your message crystal clear. “Oh… I mean, are you sure?”

“Yes,” you nodded, now sitting up. “I want to do this with you. I’ve never been in love before… and I want to know what it’s like to do it with someone you love.”

Wonwoo’s eyes softened, sitting up and moving closer to you. “You love me?”

“Yes, you dolt,” you giggled. “Do you need me to say it?”

You leaned closer to him, your lips barely touching his. “I love you, space cowboy. More than you know.” 

Wonwoo never acts on impulse. He always thought ahead and planned for every scenario, but this time, he wanted to live in the moment with you and forget all his inhibitions. So he kissed you. Hard.

There wasn’t a place in the galaxy hotter than you two. Passion and lust flowed through each other at the simple but profound eight-lettered phrase. His heart was beating out of his chest, adrenaline pumping through his veins as he laid you back on the blanket, tasting vanilla on your lips. 

“You are a man of very few words, Wonwoo,” you teased him. “I take it you love me too?”

He gave you one last, lingering kiss before gazing into your eyes, seeing a vision of love in front of him. 

“You consume every thought that I have. You make me feel open and alive. I love you, Silver—”

Bzzt! Bzzt!

Wonwoo’s world started to crumble, the Sanctuary slipping away with you in it, forming into a dark, blurry room with four vibrating walls. 

Bzzt Bzz!

Wonwoo stirred slowly, his right jeans pocket buzzing incessantly as he opened his eyes. His vision was blurred, a sign that the eye drops he had used to clear his eyesight had worn off. He reached into his left jacket pocket, pulled out his glasses, and carefully slipped them on. A dull ache throbbed in his head, and he felt groggy as the events of the previous day flooded back to him.

“Alright, alright,” he grumbled, digging into his right pocket.

He looked at the screen and groaned when he saw Aeron's call from his private residence. He rarely used the private line unless it was a matter of serious concern.

“Yeah?” he answered.

“State your location,” Aeron’s voice responded gruffly from the speaker.

It took Wonwoo a moment to answer; the effects of the Dreamshade were still holding him back. “I’m at the Portalis.”

The Portalis was a small area in the Nova District with a portal that transported people to other planets. There were a dozen rooms where individuals could conduct business, rest, or do whatever they wanted, much like a motel. Wonwoo knew that you would go there after the attempt on Aeron’s life; he would have done the same.

“Have you captured her?”

He envisioned your face, your soft lips pressed against his, before everything went purplish-blue and black. He should be angry at you for running off instead of sticking together; you are a team. But his love and longing for you supersede any anger he might feel. He was made for you, you need him, and he is determined to see this through. 

“No,” he pushed himself off the ground. “Not yet.”

“What do you mean not yet?!” Aeron snapped. “Did you forget what that bitch did?”

“That bitch is Silver,” Wonwoo defended, dusting off his jacket. “She isn’t some stranger on the street or a temp for hire. She is family. My fiancé.”

“Family doesn’t try to kill each other, Wonwoo,” Aeron said plainly. “She went against us. You know what happens when you break the code.” 

Wonwoo stilled, leaning against the wall as the effects of Dreamshade finally started to wear off. He knew very well what happens when you break the code, and never wanted to meet that kind of fate. Let’s just say he would rather have his death swift and to the point, instead of floating around in space. 

“Aeron, what Silver said you did… is there any truth to that?”

There was a momentary silence thick with anticipation; he almost thought Aeron hung up. 

“Are you questioning me, boy?”  His voice roared through the speaker. “Understand something. If I tell you to skip, you ask how many times you hear me? You would still be in the streets if it weren’t for me. Bring her to me NOW, or you will die right next to her.” 

The call ended with a hard click before he could respond, and he just stood there, motionless and angry. Aeron has never talked to Wonwoo that way, and he could feel his heart beating through his ears. Who does he think he is? Wonwoo didn’t need him. He didn’t ask to be saved. The Organization would be nothing without him and Silver, and he knows that. Is this how family treats each other?

He exited the room and slammed it shut, frustration seeping out of him as he climbed into his ship and turned on the engine. He would deal with Aeron later, but he had to find Silver before it was too late.

“Aunt Silver, wake up.” 

You feel a little hand softly nudge you awake. Your mouth opens, and tiny drool drops come out of the corner of your mouth. Your eyes regain focus, and you stare at little Sohee, with pigtails in her hair and a clean school uniform. She beams once you recognize her, giving you a tight hug that touches your heart. 

“Jeonghan told me to wake you up. Dinner is ready.” 

“Dinner?”

You look at the time plastered on the wall—it was quarter past seven. Shooting out of bed, you hurriedly put on your socks and laced up your boots, kissing Sohee on her head as you walked out of the bedroom. 

“No, Jeonghan said you must stay and eat with me.” 

“I can’t, sweetie,” you say, frantically looking around the house for your weapons. “I have somewhere to be and shouldn’t have stayed here this long.”

Little Sohee folds her arms and stands in front of the front door. “Jeonghan says he will be back and to stay with me and eat.”

This makes you stop in your tracks, and a slight panic starts to kick in. “He left?”

“Yes,” she nods. “He says something about you needing 'supplies' and he will be back.”

Then it clicks. Jeonghan must have gone to get you more weapons, and he doesn’t want you to leave Sohee alone. Jeonghan, if nothing else, is a tricky bastard.

“Okay,” you sighed, walking to the kitchen. 

Laid out on the table was an arrangement of foods in bowls, steaming hot, accompanied by a rare tea that grows only on this planet: hibiscus. You sit in view of the front door to see when Jeonghan or anyone else comes. Despite your eagerness to get out of there and your stomach pains of hunger, you reluctantly sit down, grab a bowl, and fill it with rice and braised chicken.

You observe Sohee as she happily fills her bowl with miso soup, accompanied by a side of grilled fish, with not a care in the world. You miss being at that age, when you only had to worry about whether your mom would let you play outside or if you remembered to fill Dipper’s food bowl. Sadness and a hint of envy prick at your heart, and you think of your past life and what you could’ve become.

“How’s school?” 

“It’s fine, Aunt Silver,” Sohee responds, slurping her soup. “We are learning about planets in the Milky Way and how they differ from those in our galaxy.” 

You listen to her shoot off random facts about Earth, Mars, and all the other planets in the solar system in awe. You’ve heard the story a million times about how Earth became inhabitable and how we had to travel through galaxies to get here. But hearing Sohee tell it, happy to share the knowledge she is learning, warms your heart. This is partly why you wanted to leave; you care about Sohee so much and want her to have the life your sister could’ve had. 

You mostly eat silently for the rest of dinner, and Sohee has already packed food for you to go before she wakes you up. You hear the door creak, and you instinctively grab for your gun, panic setting in when you remember it isn’t in your holster.

“Don’t worry, it’s just me.” Jeonghan’s voice rang out, calming your nerves. “I come bearing gifts.”

You meet him in the living room as he pulls out the weapons, more Dreamshade, clothes, and other things needed to protect you while you’re out there. You pick up a magazine, the cool metal feeling familiar in your grip, and begin attaching it to your gun with practiced efficiency. You secure your other weapons and powders that would affect you without gloves. You glance at Jeonghan, who gives you a soft smile and places a supporting hand on your shoulder. 

“You and Wonwoo will find your way back to each other. Do what you have to do.” 

You nod, put on your mask, walk out of the back door toward your ship, and place your bag behind your seat. Taking deep breaths, you are determined not to cry again as you head to your next destination for more answers.

“WAIT!”

You look to your left, and Sohee runs towards you, holding the packed food you forgot to grab. 

“Here,” Sohee shoved it into your hands. “I also put some hot buns in there, in case Uncle Wonwoo wants some.” Hearing his name left a painful reminder that struck your heart, leaving you momentarily lost in the memories you don’t want to revisit.

“Aww, come here, kid,” you say, shaking off those feelings, putting everything aside, and pulling her into a tight hug. 

“Aunt Silver, I don’t care what the people on TV say. You aren’t a bad person. I know it.”

Fresh tears threaten to break through, and you don’t want her to see that. Sohee is sweet, pure, and full of light. You hope she never changes.

“Thank you, Sohee,” you manage to say. “It means a lot to me.”

You wait until Sohee is safe before booting up your ship, soaring high in the galaxy, and heading to your next destination. 

The trip to Glacius was the longest twelve hours you have ever had to sit through. You’ve been on longer trips, but you were never alone—you at least had Wonwoo and other crew members or bounty hunters with you. The silence is the hardest part to sit through, the crippling thoughts in your head and considering your current mental state, it’s hard to turn off. All you can do is grieve; you mourn the life that you lost and the one that you are about to lose again, because of Aeron. There isn’t a hell in this galaxy you won’t send him through, and you will see to it that he suffers a satisfying death. 

The temperature drops significantly the farther you travel from the sun, and a turquoise planet with cloud rings around comes into view. Glacius is a planet with icy terrain throughout its surface. From the outside, there is nothing but snow for miles, and the forest is filled with Glaceons and other wild animals. However, only a few know about Zoie, the underground city with just over fifty thousand people. Scientists and researchers mostly live here, and the only place besides Merchara where you have another ally you can turn to at the drop of a hat.

You park your ship and suit up to brace the freezing cold. It is your luck to come here in the middle of the storm, but what other choice do you have? You exit the ship, fighting against the wind until you reach Zoie's hidden entrance. Three taps from your foot alert to your arrival. The ground shifts, and you are lowered through a glass tube, with illuminated lights being your only source of light in the darkness. Eventually, you reach the entrance to the city, met by bodyguards circling around as the glass lifts. 

“State your business here,” the agent with toad-like skin gruffed. The other guards took your bag and body searched you, digging through your bag in hopes of finding incriminating evidence. 

“I’m here for Dr. Selene Ardyn,” you say, eyeing one of the guards with porcelain-like skin sniffing your hot buns. 

“Wait here.” 

You awkwardly stand there while they finish searching your bags, your eyes twitching as they unfold the clothes you had packed and throw everything back unceremoniously. You would think that being in a place renowned for technology would instill more manners in people, but alas, not everyone possesses class. 

“These hot buns, you don’t want them, right?” The guard pulls one out and eats it in front of you. 

“Nope,” you roll your eyes. “Have fucking at it.” 

You shake your head, looking away at the greasy man smearing minced meat over his face in disgust. Your thumbnail instinctively digs into your palm, and you slowly count to ten as you try to keep your annoyance at bay. 

“What’s wrong?” He goads, stepping closer to you. “You don’t like it when people take your things?”

“You’re awfully perceptive.” You stand your ground. “I guess the worms in your brain have finally mellowed out.”

The other guards snicker at your remark, and you look straight ahead, waiting for the toad-like guard to return. The porcelain guard’s face turns tomato red, and before you can react, his hand grabs your throat and slams you against the wall. 

“You bounty hunters think you are tough shit and are better than the rest of us,” his words spit on your face. “You probably can’t even fi—”

Before he could finish his thought, he was already on the floor, thanks to a quick head butt and a kick to the left knee. It’s been a long day. You are tired and hungry, and the ache from missing Wonwoo eats at you more and more. You could’ve let his words slide and waited for the doctor, but unfortunately for him, you were having a bad time. 

Turning him over, you place your foot on his back and grab both of his arms, pulling them back until you hear a tear and a blood-curdling scream that makes you satisfied. “You were saying?”

“What’s going on here?”

You look up, facing Dr. Selene Ardyn, watching the scene before her with an eyebrow raised. She was all but five feet two, with smooth caramel colored skin and thick hair wrapped neatly into a bun. Dressed like the typical scientist, complete with a white trench coat, she folds her arms while waiting for an answer. 

“Your guard ate my food and put his grubby hands on me,” you grit through your teeth. “So I was teaching him some manners.”

“Silver, is that necessary?” Selene asks, looking annoyed. “Let him go, and I’ll take you back to my quarters. I’ve been expecting you.” 

You tug his arms one last time, dropping them unceremoniously, grabbing your bag, and walking around the injured guard. The other three move away quickly as you storm by, the red you saw slowly dissipating. 

“Guards?” You hear Selene call out. “Take Brutus to the medics and tell them I sent him.”

Selene Adryn is one of the most renowned scientists and engineers in the galaxy, specializing in the research of bioweapons. You have worked for her several times, gathering plants and resources from all over the galaxy, and have grown somewhat close. You’ve seen how she interacts with her employees, and though she hasn’t explicitly said it, you knew you could go to her if you were ever in trouble. 

The click of her heels against the glossy floor is almost melodic, calming your nerves as you pass the different quarters. Zoie City is not your typical city; besides being underground, it mainly comprises engineers, other scientists, and researchers from various fields. Everyone stays to themselves or congregates in the main halls for meals or other relaxing areas. Glancing at your watch, it’s a little after 10am, and everyone is bustling with scientific talk that you quite understand. 

“We’re here,” Selene announces as she stops before two sliding doors. “Let’s hurry inside.”

Placing her hand on the scanner, the machine beeped and gradually opened the door, revealing a sprawling condo with enough space for three houses. Her place was nothing less than high-tech, with housemaid Androids tidying up on each floor. 

“Take off your shoes and give your coat to Bob.”

You already knew who Bob was: her oldest butler, also an Android. He was built to look like a real person, and to someone who doesn’t interact with them often, you would think he is the real thing. But a stark difference always stood out to you—they always looked soulless in the eyes. It unnerved you. 

Sliding off your shoes, you hand your coat to Bob and follow Selene into the living room, where she sits on her sectional sofa. You gaze through the tall picture windows as the storm rages outside. The wind howls, lifting the snow into a wild, swirling dance, throwing it around as if it were nothing. 

“Thank you for seeing me on short notice,” you say, returning your focus to Selene. “I’m sure you saw the news.”

“Yeah, I did,” Selene confirms with a nod. “Seems like you’ve been busy.” 

“Yeah,” you clear your throat. “Being on the run and all, I don’t exactly have time to sit around and linger.” 

You look down at your beaten hands, twirling the ruby and diamond infinity engagement ring that Wonwoo proposed to you with. He knew red was your favorite color, and he always said you were more precious than rubies and diamonds, which are rare in this galaxy. God, you miss him.

“So, you say you were expecting me?” you ask, pulling yourself out of your sadness.

“Yes, I was,” Selene replies, walking toward the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink?”

“No,” you shake your head. “I want to know how long you’ve known.”

Selena hesitates slightly as she grabs a mug from the counter. If it were anyone else, they might miss it, but after years of bounty hunter training, you have learned to read people’s body language without asking questions. It’s one of your special skills.

“What do you mean, Silver?” she asks.

“I mean,” you get off the couch and approach her in the kitchen, “how long have you known about my family?”

Selene clutches the handle of her hug, sighing heavily before turning around and facing you. In all the many years you’ve known her, you are actually seeing her— the delicate wrinkles on her forehead and the faint shadows beneath her eyes. It feels like her mask has slipped off, and she is finally revealing who she is. 

“Silver, I…” Selene’s voice falters. “How did you figure it out?”

“I didn’t,” you reply softly, trying to keep your emotions in check. “But you just confirmed it.”

When you started receiving the documents about the truth of your family’s death, you knew it had to be someone who had access to your Dropbox. It’s not easily accessible to the public, and though you couldn’t track the IP address exactly, you knew it had originated from far beyond your planet. The first two numbers indicated that you were this far in the galaxy, and you decided to apply the process of elimination. You knew this was a huge gamble, showing up here with accusations that may have been unfounded, but you had to trust your gut, and it rarely steers you wrong. 

“I don’t want to have to ask you again, Selene,” you warned. 

“Okay, okay.” 

She gestures back to the couch and urges you to sit, while you settle opposite her, on guard. Selene had known about you for so long and never said a word… You really can’t trust anyone, except for Wonwoo. 

“You remind me of your mother a lot.” 

Your head ticks at her words, unsure if you heard her right. “What do you mean, I remind you of my mother? How do you know her?”

Selene settles into the sofa, twiddling her thumbs on her lap. “She was my best friend.”

You look at her incredulously, the woman you respected, keeping this secret from you all this time. It all makes sense now; It all clicks now—why she was constantly requesting you for missions and would sometimes let you stay in her home overnight instead of sending you off when the job is complete. Sometimes you’d hear her hum a song your mom used to sing to you to sleep, and you thought it was a coincidence or the song was popular across the galaxy. You’ve just been a fool. 

“Wow,” a bitter laugh escapes your lips. “I can’t fucking believe this.” 

You turn away, looking at the window as the storm still rages on, the chaos mirroring what you feel inside. You're a tempest, brimming with anger and ready to wreak havoc on everyone who has played you like a fool. 

“Selene, you would be dead if I didn’t respect you so much.” 

You turn around and face her, your nails digging sharply in your palms. “You let me believe this lie… this fallacy that Aeron planted all these years. You were my mother’s best friend, supposedly, right? Why didn’t you take me in? Why did you leave me in the hospital for weeks and not visit me ONCE?”

Your chest heaved as you lay it all out. “Why Selene? WHY?”

“I detect elevated voices, is everything al—”

“For the love of Gods, Bob, shut the fuck up!” 

You overflow with anger, reaching behind your back and pulling out your pistol. Cocking the lever, you aim to shoot—

“Y/N, STOP!”

You freeze, slowly gazing at Selene as she runs over to Bob, covering the android with her body. No one has called you by your real name since you were a kid... Since you came to live with Aeron. “Don’t shoot him, please.” You study her, watching her chest heave, panic and fear wild in her eyes. “I’ll tell you everything you need to know. Just… don’t hurt him.”

Reluctantly, you lower your weapon, choosing to keep out instead of putting it up. She whispers something to the android, who nods, bowing to her slightly and leaving the main room. The other androids follow on cue, and it’s just you and her. 

“You said you would tell me everything I need to know.” Your voice is low and tense. “So start talking.”

She sits on the couch, shifting around until she is comfortable, before she begins. “Like I said earlier, your mother and I were best friends. We attended the same girls' school and were roommates, so naturally we became close.”

“So you knew Aeron then as well?”

Her eyes briefly go dark at the mention of his name. “Yes, I knew him. He attended a brother school and would often follow her around. I hated him. I thought he was so weird, but your mother… she was sweet. Always saw the good in people. So, eventually, they fell in love.”

“Her family, your folks, weren’t close, and she thought she could convince them to accept Aeron, and they would get married and start a family. Aeron could’ve been your father.” You grimace at that thought. 

“But,” you cut in. “She was forced to marry Dad, right? “

She nods. “Yes. Your family was a very powerful people, and whatever they said went. So if your grandpa said you had to marry someone, there was only so much she could say or do before bending to their will. Aeron was obviously unhappy with it, but what could he do? He was just a boy who loved someone he could never truly have.”

“Don’t make excuses for him,” you say bitterly. 

“Oh, trust me, I’m not,” Selena waves her hands. “He’s a bastard who didn’t deserve your mother. I will hate him until the day I reach Valhalla.” 

You smirk at her statement, feeling slightly relieved that you two are on the same page. “So you knew my mother, my dad, I assume? How come I never saw you?”

“I used to come around a lot more when you were younger. You probably don’t remember, but I used to visit and bring you stuffed animals. Your favorite was always a lamb.”

You think back to your childhood, when your room was surrounded by stuffed animals of many species. You always found comfort in your little white lamb. You used to sleep with it and named it Boop, which smelled like rose petals. Maybe you were too young to remember her exactly, but your gut doesn’t tell you she’s lying. 

“I couldn’t visit much anymore when I became the head of bioweapon research, and I hadn’t seen your mother in almost ten years. We talked weekly, though, and I saw pictures and videos of you and your sister growing up.” 

A slight pang grips your chest, and your eyes water at the memories of you and your little sister that you could reclaim. She was full of sunshine and life, and she dreamed of exploring the cosmos, of discovering the wonders beyond the stars. She deserved to live, and if you could trade your life for hers, you would do it without a second thought. 

“Your family’s death devastated me,” Selene’s voice trembles. “It still does. When I heard what happened, my heart sank. I went to the morgue, identified the bodies, and started the process of formally taking guardianship over you. You needed someone, and I wanted to be that.”

“So what happened?” you demand, your voice cracking as tears stream down your cheeks. “There were no records of you trying to take guardianship or even visiting me. Why did you leave me there?”

“Aeron threatened me outright,” Selene discloses, shocking your heart. “He said if I tried to take you in, if I got in his way, he would see to it that your life would be a living hell. See, he knew I would eventually discover the truth about the accident. Just because I work mainly with diseases doesn’t mean I have forgotten about regular science. The day I visited your house after the explosion, I knew it wasn’t a simple gas leak.”

“My gods, he is truly a bastard.” You rub your temples. “So you managed to collect all the evidence and kept it hidden? Is that why you personally requested me to run missions for you?”

“Yes,” Selene nods. “It was the only way I could check on you without tipping off Aeron. If he knew we were having this conversation now…”

“To be frank, I don’t care if he knows we’re talking,” you sniffle. “Next time I see him, he will be dead.”

Silence comes over you, and you look to the windows again, watching the storm finally pull back as the snow finally settles. You hear Selene enter the other room and return with a white box engraved with beautiful drawings of bows and flowers. She hands it to you, slowly lifting the top, revealing pictures of your mother and her as kids, as well as pictures of your dad and mom before you were born. 

“I was keeping these until the time was right, and there isn't a day that goes by that I don’t miss your family. Please forgive me for lying to you.” 

Selene breaks down in front of you; all you can do is watch silently. The woman you’ve always seen as composed and put together now shows raw emotion and deep grief, which is unusual for you. Just 24 hours ago, you had no idea that anyone even knew about your family.

“I… I don’t hate you, Selene,” you draw breath. “I can’t say I just move on overnight, but understanding who Aeron truly is, I get you were in a tough spot.” 

Selene manages to calm down, her feelings reeling in slightly as she gazes at you, her eyes red and tear-stricken. “Let me take you to the spare room. I’m sure you want some time alone.” 

You have a lot more questions, especially about your mom’s side of the family, but you decide to table it for another day. You follow her as she takes you into a different room, where you’re used to staying. It’s smaller, but cozier, with a round window next to the bed that gives you the perfect outside view. You look at each other and nod; there is nothing more that needs to be said as of now. 

Gently shutting the door, you undress, settling into bed wearing just your shirt and underwear. You look through the box filled with photos—pictures of your mom and Selene at the all-girls school, moments from dances, and a few happy snapshots of your dad and mom together. For the next few hours, you immerse yourself in every photo, document, and memorabilia that captures your family's life before you were born. As you do, you feel a connection to them, their memories coming alive once more, burning brighter in your heart than ever before. For the first time in a long while, you feel a sense of peace and drift off to sleep.

…

“HEY! WHAT’S GOING ON IN HERE?!’

“BRING HER TO ME NOW!—”

You stir in the soft sheets, believing you are asleep and it’s a part of your dream. 

“SELENE, I WILL GO IN THERE AND GRAB HER MYSELF AND YOU DON’T WANT THAT.”

“Wonwoo, please don’t—”

You shoot up; the mention of his name constricts your heart as you hear shouted voices outside your door. Grabbing your pistol, you quickly leave the room, pointing it toward the voices until you see him: your Wonwoo.

You lock eyes with him, and his expression shifts, displaying a mixture of longing and sadness. It's the first time you've seen him since you left him behind in Portalis. You'll never love anyone as much as you love him.

“Wonwoo, I—”

“Put your clothes on and let’s go,” he commands, his face hardening. “You’re coming with me.”

Wonwoo hated this. He hated all of this. If someone had told him last week that his fiancée would be on the run for attempting to assassinate the head of the Organization and his father figure, he would’ve asked what they had been sniffing. 

It was the first time he had seen you in days, and he was almost breathless at the sight of you. You made his heart race, and all he wanted was to kiss your lips and tell you that everything would be okay, that you could get through this together. But he also remembered how you had left him in the dark during your quest for revenge, and that hurt him deeply. It felt as if the past fifteen years meant nothing; after all this time, you still couldn’t trust him. 

“Silver, let’s go,” he said bitterly. “We don’t have all day.”

You came out of the room shortly after, duffle bags in hand and suited to brace the bitter cold weather outside. He watched as you gave a longing look at Selene, who returned it with a teary nod, watching in sadness as Wonwoo placed the handcuffs on your wrists. 

“Come on, Wonwoo, is this really necessary?” Selene pleaded. “This is your fiancé we’re talking about here.”

“The same fiancé who knocked me out with Dreamshade?” Wonwoo scoffed. “I know better than to underestimate her.”

He shot a glare in your direction, and in response, you looked down at the ground in shame. “I’m sorry, Wonwoo.”

“There seems to be a lot of that going around,” he shook his head. “Let’s go.”

Wonwoo's footsteps echoed against the cold, hard floor as he led you away from the quarters, earning shocked and disapproving stares from the patrons. He didn’t care what people thought was happening; he just wanted to get out of this place and think. And talk to you. 

Reaching the entrance, only one guard was waiting, who gave Wonwoo a curt nod before placing you in the tube, raising you slowly to the outside world. 

‘Wonwoo, my ship—”

“Has already been taken care of,” he interrupted. “Did you forget I’m the one who taught you how to navigate an Umbra ship?”

He pulls you onto his ship, the wind howling furiously behind him as another snowstorm starts to commence. He sits you down on one of the chairs, strapping you in tightly across your chest and shackling your feet at the bottom. His heart is pounding heavily in his chest, a drumbeat of anxiety as he fights the urge to return your gaze while he is so close to your face, your lips. 

“Wonwoo,” you said weakly. “I’m really sorry.” 

“You’ve already said that,” he muttered. “I’ve heard it enough.” 

Moving swiftly, he closed the doors and booted up the spaceship before settling into the commander’s seat. The melodic sounds of the buttons being pressed momentarily distracted him as he focused on safely lifting off the ground and into the galaxy. Usually, he would have his usual crew of Mingyu and Soonyoung with him, but this was a mission he wanted to undertake alone. You were intelligent, quick, and a skilled shooter, and he didn’t want to take the risk of you hurting someone else and escaping again. It pained him to think of you that way.

Once you were safely in the air, he set the ship on autopilot and kicked his feet up on the dash as it navigated through the dark blue sky. Within a day's time, they would be back in Adamas City, where you would have to stand in front of Aeron and answer for what you did. This whole situation was gnawing at him; the family he found was being split apart, and the only reconciliation could come through death. Wonwoo hadn’t felt this kind of pain since his parents died, and he shuddered to think about life without you in it. You were his sun, his moon, and a world without you in it wasn’t something he could bear. 

Instead of talking to you, baring his feelings and putting everything on the line, he remained silent, watching the planets go by while he nursed a broken heart. 

“Where are we?”

16 hours have passed since you left Glacius, and the ship doors open to a planet that is not Galaxia. It is small, round, and rocky with multiple pit stops, restaurants, and a main hotel that stands higher than the planet, if you had to guess.

“East Eaoros XII, specifically Requim,” Wonwoo responds. “You haven’t been here before, but this is where you go to refuel your ships and rest before you go to your next destination.” 

“Oh…” you nod. “I see.” 

Wonwoo pulls a blanket over you, assumingly to cover your handcuffed hands to not draw attention to you. You catch a whiff of his cologne when he wraps it around your arms, his close proximity sending butterflies fluttering in your stomach. For a brief moment, your eyes meet, but he quickly looks away. His brown eyes are filled with sadness, yet they still radiate love for you.

“I think we should rest… You know, before we go back to Adamas City.” 

“Okay.” 

He leads you out of the ship and closes it with the remote in his pocket, walking towards the hotel. It is a ten-story building with nothing special about it, resembling a regular hotel. The interior was no different, with the typical mahogany-colored walls and shiny white floors that were supposed to exude luxury. You stood silently as Wonwoo checked into his reservation, listening to the conversations of the guests that walked by, oblivious that they were standing next to the most wanted person in the galaxy. 

“Let’s go.” 

He shoves the room keys into his pocket, and you follow him to the elevator, watching as he presses number ten on the pad. You passed each floor with a hum, the tension between you two thick and suffocating. You have so much to say, but your throat tightens every time you start. If today is truly going to be your last day in this galaxy, you want Wonwoo to know the truth, and no matter what, you love him deeply. 

The elevator dings on the tenth floor, opening to a grand suite that overlooks the city. Expansive picture windows, a spacious living room with a luxury kitchen, and two rooms that were presumably where you would be sleeping tonight. Wonwoo slips the blanket off of you, throwing it over his shoulder and walking you to the living room. For your last night of freedom, he went all out. If anything, you expected a standard room with two twin beds, a TV, and, if you’re lucky, a mini fridge.

“This was the only room they had left,” Wonwoo stated, as if he were reading your thoughts. “And I really need the rest… and so do you.”

You gaze at him, your words caught in your throat and keeping you from saying how you truly feel. You took a deep breath, sliding one of the dining room tables with your foot and sitting down, your head cocked back as you take in the A/C. You feel his presence nearby, his shadow looming over you as goosebumps rise on your arms. He takes your hands, unlocks the handcuffs, and briefly rubs your wrists before letting go. You know you’ve hurt him, and it’s your cross to bear whatever he throws at you, but he still took the time to take your pain away. 

“How do you know I won’t run?”

He studies you, putting the handcuffs and keys in one of the duffle bags. “If you wanted to run, you would’ve been out of the cuffs without my help.”

Your lips slightly twitch, knowing that once again, he is right. “Touche.”

Wonwoo hands you your duffle bag full of clothes, pointing to the bathroom in the room on the left. “You should go ahead and shower while we’re here.”

You nod slowly, walking into the bedroom and shutting the door. It had a king sized bed and soft satin sheets, a couple of fake plants in the window for personality and a large chess drawer with a mirror in front. You hear Wonwoo shuffling in the living room for a while, a light harmony escaping his lips that softens your heart. 

You remember when he sang soft lullabies in your ear, thinking you were sleeping, his raspy vocal tone soothing to your soul. You miss your late nights and late mornings, when you were either in his arms or underneath him. You miss his intimacy, his protection, his raw love, which he showed you in different ways that made you want to stay and live. Wonwoo is your whole world, your lifeline, and you're proud to say you’ve never loved anyone before him, and it's an honor to be loved by him in return. 

You step into the bathroom, turning on the shower, wincing as you slowly undress. The straps from the belts on the ship were too tight, and you felt them tightening against your skin as each hour passed. It’s left you with bruises across your chest, nothing too serious, but enough to feel when you move. You didn’t complain, you’ve had worse injuries before, and it seems so minuscule compared to the pain that you’ve caused. The only thing that mattered was being here with him and making the most out of it. 

“Wonwoo,” you call out, inhaling the steam quickly filling the bathroom. Your heart beats a drum of suspense, overriding your head, and what could blow up in your face. You can’t think straight, your thoughts are jumbled, and above all, you don’t want to be alone.

A few seconds later, he rushes into the bathroom, his eyes full of panic. 

“C-can you just hold me please?” Your voice trembles. “I know you hate me and I really fucked up but I don’t want to be alone.”

His gaze softens at your words, and he slips off his glasses, undressing without hesitation. Wonwoo is a muscular man with his own scars and battles, and you could recall how he got each one.  Stepping into the shower stall with you, he noted your bruises, his eyes welling up as he examined each one. “Did I do this?”

“It’s okay, you didn’t know—”

“NO, it’s not okay!” His raised voice makes you jump. “God, Silver, it’s like you don’t trust me anymore.”

His words pierce your heart, triggering a cascade of tears you can no longer hold back. You’ve been strong all this time, running throughout the galaxy to complete your last mission alive and eliminate Aeron. But your soul is tired, and Wonwoo is one of the few people you can depend on, and yet you keep hurting him. 

He pulls you into his arms as you continue to cry, the warm water from the shower head beating over both of you. You feel protected and safe, as if you are finally home and can lay down your burdens. You don’t regret trying to kill Aeron, and you would do it again in a heartbeat, but you regret not including him in on this. You will forever be sorry about it. 

“I don’t deserve you,” you blurt out, gazing at him. “You deserve someone who isn’t fucked up like me—”

Wonwoo kissed you ravenously like a starved man. He didn’t intend to go in so strong, but hearing you talk down about yourself, he hated it. He just wants to kiss your pain away. 

“I couldn’t hate you if I tried.” He whispered. “I love you, okay? Nothing will ever change that.”

You were beautiful to him, with many layers and flaws that he didn’t care about. Yes, he was upset that you hadn’t trusted him, but he also knew YOU, and understood you wouldn’t have acted that way without proof. He was hopelessly and deeply in love with you, and his heart was telling him to trust you. You had grown up together and had seen every side of each other. There was no way he would ever give up on you, Aeron or not.

He kissed you again, and he found himself caught in a rapture of love, his hunger and need for you superseding any logical thought or need. He touched you like he was trying to reclaim all the time you had been apart. Your nails dug into his back when he sucked your neck, leaving you more bruised. 

“Sorry, baby,” he said in between breaths. 

“Don’t be sorry,” you shook your head. “Do what you want.”

He felt himself hardening against your leg, and he instinctively started stroking himself, sending electric jolts throughout his body. His lips slightly parted, the thought of being inside of you and feeling your warmth around him, cumming for him over and over almost sends him into an abyss. 

You slowly get on your knees, moving his hand, rubbing his shaft, and giving his tip a soft kiss. Wonwoo watched as you took over, bobbing your head back and forth as you sucked him inch by inch, never breaking eye contact. He loved the way you twirled your tongue around his cock, the wet slurping sounds coming from your pretty mouth was music to his ears. It made his toes curl, turning him animalistic as his hands grasped your head and pulled it tightly. 

"You feel so good baby", he muttered against the wall. "I missed you."

You nodded fervently, increasing your pace and skillfully deepthroating him while he was in ecstasy. Watching his cock go in and out of your mouth, drops of spit coming out of your mouth was a sight to see. You sucked him earnestly like you owed him, and he felt that. But little did you know, Wonwoo is the one who owes you, for keeping him alive all this time.

“Get up,” he gritted his teeth, reluctantly pulling you off of him. 

He helped you off the ground and pressed your back against the tiled wall, the warm water hitting your breasts and falling on the curves of your stomach. The smell of vanilla on your skin is intoxicating, stirring in his chest a need for you and your taste. His fingers brushed against your nipples, your sensitive buds hardening at his touch. He sucked on them softly, his tongue swirled around each nipple, earning a hard moan from your lips. He loved the way your body responded to him. You were like a siren, your moans enticing to him as he sucked on them harder and putting him under your spell. 

“God, Wonwoo,” you whined. 

“I know, baby, I know.” 

His lips traveled lower to your abdomen, leaving a trail of kisses on your soft stomach as he made his way to your center. His mouth salivated as he saw your flowering bud, bringing back memories of his tongue inside of you for the first time at the Sanctuary. You were creamy and tasted like heaven, and he’s been addicted to your sweetness ever since.

“You’re so beautiful.” 

He dived in without any warning, sucking on your clit and spreading your legs. He was on his knees, devouring your center like this was the last time. He yearned to feel your cum on his tongue, to swallow everything that you had to offer him. He was a desperate man in love, and willing to do anything to make you satisfied. 

“Shit,” you sighed, your hands caressing his hair. “You feel so good.”

Wonwoo grinned against your folds, giving your clit another kiss before hiking your leg up, slipping two digits inside of you. He watched as you bit your lip in anticipation, slowly working his fingers in and out of you. HIs lips found your clit again, fingering and sucking you while your hips slow whined into a seductive rhythm. He loved watching you lose control, your legs shaking and your stomach tightening as the pressure built up in your abdomen. He didn’t slow down when he knew you were cumming, instead he increased the pace, wanting to see you explode over his face and fingers. 

“Wonwoo, I...”

Your sentence ended in a high-pitched moan, your fingers grasping his hair tightly as you erupted. He slowly slipped out his fingers, drunk on your sugarness, as he slurped everything you had to offer him. He didn’t stop until you lightly slapped his face, your unspoken yellow light when you needed to catch your breath. Standing up from the shower, the warm water hit his back as he faced you, pulling you into another kiss. Your lips curved into a smile, your eyes shone brightly into his as if nothing more needed to be said. 

But he said it anyway. 

“I love you.” 

You nodded slowly, bringing your hand down and stroking his cock near your entrance. His eyebrows raised, and you smirked, kissing his face lightly before turning around and pressing your chest against the wall. “You know what to do.”

His hands found your hair, wrapping it around his fist as he slid the head of his cock inside of you. He entered you slowly, knowing you were still ripe with overstimulation, despite your body saying otherwise. You pressed your ass against him, goading him to go keep as possible. Your hips rolled in a way that made Wonwoo’s cock twitch, and with one grunt he place his hand on your left hip and started to fuck you. Hard. 

“Please.” 

He knew exactly what your body craved, hitting you with deep, long strokes that made you quiver, your hands reaching for him and digging into his legs. You didn’t want to be handled like a princess tonight; you wanted to be fucked until there was nothing left. He felt your hunger, your ache, your eagerness to make your pain go away. He loved the way your walls tightened around him when he kissed the back of your neck. Wonwoo has studied you for a long time, and he knew exactly what you needed. 

He lets go of your hair, sliding his hand down to your throat and tightening his grip. Your body began to shake, and he thrusted into you harder, your wet skin slapping against his as you moved in harmony with each other. Your moans turn into a sirenic scream, your warm essence drowning his cock as you shudder, your eyes rolling in the back of your head.  Wonwoo didn’t last long after that, letting out a long mewl before emptying himself inside of you, coating your walls with his load. You’re both breathless, the water still warm as ever as it rinses away the mess that was made. Kissing you on your shoulder, Wonwoo pulls you off the wall, turning you around and moving a part of your silver hair out of your face. 

“We need to talk,” you muttered, looking down at the floor. 

“I know,” Wonwoo nodded, feeling his chest constrict at the dreaded conversation. “Let’s get cleaned up first.

A few hours later, you were sitting on the couch, watching the shooting stars go back and forth outside the window. After your shower, your energy was gone, and so you took a nap, promising to get up in an hour. Wonwoo let you sleep in and, at some point, laid in bed with you, as you woke up with his arms wrapped around your waist.  His light snores were peaceful, and you wondered if he dreamed like you did, where you were happy, without the threat of Aeron looming over your shoulder with a wedding ring on your finger and a baby in your stomach. Maybe in another life, you can get this back. 

“Hey.”

Wonwoo walks into the living room with sleepy eyes and messy hair, unfolding his glasses and sliding them on. He takes a seat next to you, pulls you into his arms, and gazes at the stars together. For the first time in days, you finally feel at peace, able to breathe easily with the limited time you have left.

“I can’t believe this is the last time I’ll see this,” you say solemnly.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

You turn to him and hold his hand tightly. “You know Aeron isn’t going to let me go alive.”

Aeron is a pitbull with a grudge that could go on for a thousand years. You’ve seen what he’s done to people who have pissed him off for less. You aren’t going to believe in some miracle or the greater good; you know better than that. He’s never laid a hand on you as many times as you’ve disobeyed him growing up, but you’ve never tried to kill him either. God, you wish you didn’t miss. 

Wonwoo rubs your shoulders, and you can tell he is thinking of a way to get out of this and take care of you, like he always does. “Who sent you the files and the evidence?”

“It was Selene,” you disclosed. “She was best friends with my mother, and she knew Aeron growing up as well.” 

You explained everything that Selene told you, even down to the box of mementos that was left in her quarters. Wonwoo listened, never interrupting and taking in everything you said. You saw anger flash in his dark eyes, and you are thankful you aren’t the reason behind that. 

“He created this whole, elaborate plan just to keep himself from facing judgment, from facing me,” you pointed at your chest. “He has to know that I would’ve killed him if I found out.” 

You think back to Glacius, looking at the photos of your mother’s childhood, happy and oblivious to the future she faced. You remember sleeping happily to your mother’s framed memories and waking up to Wonwoo pulling you back into reality… how did Wonwoo know where you were?

“Hey,” you say abruptly. “How did you know where I was?”

A fleeting look of shame crosses Wonwoo's face, prompting you to withdraw your hand as an eerie feeling coils in your chest. “Jeon Wonwoo, I swear to God—”

“Your ring,” he blurts out, looking at your left hand. “I’ve been able to track you with your ring.”

It didn’t hit you right away. You looked down at your engagement ring, a symbol of love and a promise of your future together that he gave you on the last day of the year, down on one knee at the Sanctuary. There is no way he would taint that memory with a lie, right?

“You must be talking about another ring…” Your voice trails off. “Surely you aren’t talking about this ring on my finger?!”

“Silver, let me explain—”

“Really, Wonwoo?!” You leap off the couch, yanking the ring off your finger while he watches wide-eyed. “It’s bad enough I have Aeron lying to me, but I would never think in a million eons that you would be capable of this, giving me a fake ring—” 

“Silver, STOP!”

His voice roars through the suite, sending chills down your spine. The heat of anger and betrayal that had fueled your fire suddenly evaporates. Anything else you wanted to say dies in your throat, your lips pressed tight in a mix of confusion and disbelief as you wave your hand, urging him to continue.

“That ring was made from the finest jeweler in the Nova District, and I personally picked out the stones in the lab. I would never, EVER, give you a fake ring, and I’m really offended you would think I would do that.” Wonwoo motions for you to sit down, and reluctantly, you sit. 

“Remember when we had the mission in the Xaros Forest and we were attacked by the wild boars there? Remember when we got separated and I couldn’t find you for days?” 

You think back to that particular mission from a year ago, as you were sent there to bring in a wanted fugitive and were met with the wild beasts. While fending them off, you were cut by one of them and almost died, bleeding out in the field. A native of that land saw what happened and stopped the bleeding in their cave, leaving you separated from Wonwoo and the rest of the hunters for seven days. Eventually, that native led Wonwoo to you, and you had never seen him look so terrified; the agony etched on his face upon seeing your condition was unforgettable.

“Those seven days were the worst days of my life,” Wonwoo laments. “I didn’t know if you were dead, alive, but held captive, and I never wanted us to be in that position again. So I placed a tracker on the band of the ring, so if you disappeared again, I would find you.”

You search his eyes for any hint of deceit, but deep down, you know he was telling the truth. Wonwoo could be a lot of things, but a liar he is not. The truth is, this Aeron situation has made you go out of your mind. If someone you looked up to could lie to you like that, or the scientist you did jobs for knew secrets and kept them from you, what’s to say Wonwoo wouldn’t do the same?

“I just wish you had told me, talked to me first,” you sigh heavily. “I would’ve done anything you wanted.”

“I don’t think you should be lecturing me on trust, Silver.”

His words hit you like an arrow to the chest, and you had no comeback for that. He was right. 

“Put your ring back on, please,” Wonwoo says softly. “If you want me to take off the tracker, I will.”

You study him for a moment, the familiar look of pain you keep causing on his face. You slowly slide the ring back on your finger, feeling like shit. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says, getting up and pulling you into a hug. “I should’ve talked to you about it first. You’re right.”

You nod on his chest, listening to his heartbeat drum against your ear as the living room falls silent, sans your loud, grumbling stomach. 

“We have room service here. Go ahead and order something.”

He kisses your forehead and untangles himself from you, going into the other room and quietly shutting the door. You go into the kitchen and browse the menu, settling on two burgers and fries with drinks, since you know Wonwoo is going to want the same thing. After you enter your order, you sit at the table, alone with your thoughts and everything that has happened. Shortly after, Wonwoo exits the room, his face red with anger. 

‘What’s wrong?” You get up slowly. 

“It’s Aeron,” he said bitterly. “He wanted to know if I captured you.”

You feel your heart sink into your chest, collapsing back in your chair. Reality is setting in, and tonight will be the last day you will be alive. But at least you will have your day to confront him in person, to look him in the eyes and make him confess to everything he did. 

“The way he’s been talking to me every time I bring up what he did… It’s like I don’t matter. Just another body under The Organization.”

Wonwoo looks dejected and hurt, like a boy who's lost his father. You wrap him up in your arms, letting him squeeze you tight in the solace that he needs. 

“Baby, I have a plan,” he says, “And it may not work, and it could get us both killed. But I need you to trust me.” 

You release him and gaze into his eyes, placing your hand across his heart. “I trust you completely. What are you thinking?”

The rain pours as you land in Adamas City, and the wind is violent like it knows what today is: your judgment day. 

The last twelve hours you spent with Wonwoo on East Eaoros XII all seem like nothing but a memory now, the anxiety eating at your stomach as you face the unknown about your future. Wonwoo was careful leading you out of the ship in handcuffs, meeting Soonyoung and Mingyu at the doors before heading inside The Hightower. Soonyoung and Mingyu give you sympathetic looks, walking you to the elevators and standing on each side as you walk in. Wonwoo swipes his badge and presses the button to floor 77, where Aeron awaits you both. 

“Are you ready for this?”

You look at Wonwoo, and despite his calm demeanor, his brown eyes reveal that he is worried. You lean in, quickly kissing him and interlocking your pinky with his. “I’m as ready as I can be.” 

The elevator dings at 77, the doors opening to Aeron’s office, a swanky 7000 square feet of space that held business meetings, promotions, and if you were on his bad side, your last breath. 

“I’ve been expecting you.” 

Before you could react, a fist connected to your left cheek, sending you flying into one of the tables. You stagger, facing the 6’5” man with olive skin, a muscular build, and piercing eyes ready to kill. 

“You thought you could shoot me and get away with it?!”

He swings another punch, but you're nimble, ducking just in time. Your eyes catch a bottle of dark liquor on his desk, and with a swift motion, you hurl it at him like a Frisbee. Aeron raises his arm to block it, the glass shattering and slicing into his skin, shards splattering across his face. You see Wonwoo reach for his gun, but you shake your head, determined to be the one to send him out of this world.

You search wildly for anything that could free you from the cuffs, adrenaline surging as you fight for your life. You don’t hear Aeron’s approach until it’s too late; suddenly, you’re lifted off the ground and violently slammed down, the impact knocking the breath from your lungs. With merciless fury, Aeron unleashes a torrent of insults, calling you every foul name imaginable while you struggle to gather your thoughts on the hard, unforgiving carpet.

“And I bet it was that bitch Selene who tipped you off,” he spits. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of her next.” 

“Leave her out of it,” You croak. “She had the guts to tell me the truth, and not hide behind my mother’s memory like some little bitch.”

Aeron’s roar could be heard several floors below. He marched over to your direction, but he was cut off by Wonwoo, standing squarely in front of you. “Enough, Aeron.” 

“Boy, get out of my way,” Aeron growls, rolling up his sleeves, attempting to go around Wonwoo. 

Wonwoo stood his ground, pushing him out of the way while giving you a chance to sit up and catch your breath. Aeron’s head tilts in disbelief, but instead of going after him, he saunters over to his desk, pulling out a cigar from his drawer. “I could use a break anyway.”

Slumping into his chair, Aeron lights up his cigar and takes one long puff, his eyes fixing on Wonwoo as he examines your swollen left cheek. 

“Are you okay?” Wonwoo asks softly. 

“I’m fine,” you assure him. “It’s going to take a lot more than this to take me out.”

“You were always pussy-whipped,” Aeron chuckles at his desk. “She could ask you to leap into traffic, and you would do it, no questions asked.”

Wonwoo didn’t respond, instead looking at the time on his watch and moving to your right side. You would be a liar if you said you weren’t in pain. You haven’t sparred with Aeron in years, let alone a real fight. He caught you off guard, and you underestimated his strength, and now you have a sore back and limbs to show for it. It’s not like he got away scot-free, the cuts of glass being the only blow that you could land while handcuffed. 

“Why did you do it, Aeron?” you speak up. “Why did you kill my mother? My family?”

You watch him as he takes another puff of his cigar, exhaling the thick smoke out of his mouth. 

“She was supposed to be mine, always,” he reveals. “I’ve loved your mother since the first time I laid eyes on her. She loved me too, ya know. Our love transcended time, and we would be happy together if she didn’t get married to that father of yours.” 

“I know about the affair, and she wanted to end it.” Your voice is low. “Why didn’t you just leave her be? Why did we all have to die? Why fake a gas leak?”

His hands twitch, fingers curling into fists before releasing. “Because she broke her promise to me,” his voice trembled. “She was only supposed to love me. We were going to figure out how to get her out of her marriage so we could finally be together, and I would raise you as my daughter. However, she fell in love with that man and wanted to make it work with him.” He gazes back at you, eyes wild with a mix of pain and fury. “I just couldn’t have that.” 

“So instead of moving on, you decided to kill us?” Your voice wavers, a lump forming in your throat as tears begin to blur your vision. “You were family to us, Aeron! How could you?”

“How could she? How could she love someone else? No, she did it to herself. Your family’s death is on her. I just facilitated the leak, that’s all.”

You stare at him incredulously, your body shaking in anger. You lost your family because Aeron couldn’t handle the thought of your mother being happy with someone else. He’s a bitch and a punk, and you can’t wait to put him down for good.

“Fuck you.” 

The telecast’s screen suddenly turns on, showing a livestream of the office and the three of you in it. The recording replays of Aeron assaulting you on entry, watching you fly across the room with a thundering smack to the face. You pinpoint how it was recorded, noting the camera moved every time Wonwoo did, realizing the pin Wonwoo was wearing was actually a hidden camera. Aeron’s eyes are wide with shock as the telecast is shown on the main public channels for everyone to witness. 

“What the hell is this?!”

Wonwoo silently releases the handcuffs while Aeron is distracted, whispering in your ear, “Do what you have to do.” 

Without hesitation, you grab Wonwoo’s gun, firing a shot into Aeron’s knee. He howls in pain, and without mercy, you shoot the other one, witnessing his face contort in agony and surprise.

“Those two? Are for Dipper and Umi,” you declare, your voice laced with vengeance. 

The gun recoils in your hand again, sending a bullet into Aeron's stomach. “That was for my dad, who was ten times the man you ever were.” 

With a perfect aim, you shoot one more shot, a fatal blow to his heart. “And that is for my mother, you piece of shit.” 

You watch the life leave his body, his eyes glassy and his tongue rolled out of his mouth like the dog he is. The alarms suddenly start blaring, the lights in the office flashing red. 

“We have to go.” 

Wonwoo pulls you out of the office and into a hidden stairwell, racing up to the roof where the helipad is located. When Wonwoo told you about his plan, you weren’t sure he could pull it off, as it involved many moving pieces. But just like you had friends in different places, so did he. Mingyu and Soonyoung were in on it, standing guard and making sure no one got in the way. Conveniently, they would also be the ones to sound off the alarm to cover up their tracks. He planned to have you leave the city while he cleaned up this mess, publicly and behind the scenes. Since Aeron is dead and Wonwoo is his adopted son on paper, Wonwoo is now the head of The Organization. 

He opens up the door leading to the roof, and there awaits a ship, ready to go. What he didn’t tell you was who was going to be navigating the ship, and you have never been happier to see your best friend. 

“Happy to see me?” Jeonghan smirked in the commander’s seat. 

“Always a pleasure,” you say, looking around the ship. “Where’s So—”

“She’s… with a friend,” Jeonghan finishes your sentence. “We need to leave now before the guards come.”

You nod sharply and turn to Wonwoo, who’s looking at you with a mix of awe and sorrow. The realization hits hard: this might really be the last time you see him until things chill out. All those moments you fought for just to end up on the brink of another goodbye—it feels so wrong. Frustration bubbles up inside you. It shouldn’t be like this; none of this is fair. You should be together, not caught in this mess, forced apart when all you want is to hold on.

“Remember what I told you at the Hightower when we passed our tests?”

You could never forget anything about that day. It was the first time you kissed him, and one of the best nights of your life. “You said I was a force of nature.” 

“That’s right, baby,” he says, tears welling up in his eyes. “We’re going to get through this together, and I will find you, okay?”

You point at your engagement ring, and he nods, and he meets your gaze, leaning in to kiss you deeply. A flood of emotions washes over you, your own tears spilling out of your eyes, as you draw him in tighter, breathing in his scent one last time. 

“I’m sorry to cut in here, but we have to go,” Jeonghan calls out from his seat. 

Reluctantly breaking away, you leave him with one last kiss, wiping his tears away and letting go of his hands. 

“I love you, Silver.”

You nod as he exits the ship, your heart feeling lighter with the resolve that you will see him again. Instead of saying goodbye, you leave him with a promise: 

“See you, space cowboy.”

Thank you for reading 🥹 if you would like to be tagged in any more of my future works, sign up here.

tag list: @lovetaroandtaemin @shadowkoo @hannieoftheyear @cristy-101 @mrsjohnnysuh @quokkacore @everyonewooeverywhere @livelaughloveseventeen @keyrecsfics @asasilentreader @gyupremacy @superpietom @heechwe @bibibimbs @fancypeacepersona @yoonia @c-oupsie

[monicfever]

dd n punisher characters with a hypersexual/overly hormonal reader? of course if you're not comfortable with this type of stuff you don't have to write <3

hypersexual!reader 𝜗𝜚 daredevil & punisher hc’s

r e q u e s t e d ♡

characters used ᝰ .ᐟ matt murdock / frank castle / foggy nelson / karen page / elektra / ben poindexter / billy russo / dinah madani / james wesley / muse

⏜︵ MATT MURDOCK. 𐂯

matt pretends to be unbothered by how forward you are, but he absolutely notices every suggestive comment, every lingering touch, every flirtation. it always gets under his skin more than he lets on. he’ll smile that smug little half-smile, tilt his head like he’s trying to read you, and say something like, “you really don’t hold back, do you?” — but it’s always a little breathless.

he’s always listening. you think you’re being sneaky when you touch yourself in the other room, but matt hears everything. every breath, every rustle of sheets, every quiet whimper. it drives him insane. he’ll usually let you keep going for a while (just to hear it). eventually he’ll show up in the doorway, arms crossed: “having fun?” and the moment you smile at him, it’s over.

he likes the chase. you being constantly turned on doesn’t bother him, but he enjoys making you wait. you’ll try to crawl into his lap when he’s doing paperwork or patching himself up, but he’ll smirk and say, “you want something?” like he doesn’t already know.

he has rules, but you’re the exception. matt tries to set boundaries. “no distractions before patrol.” “not while we’re in public.” “not when i’m bleeding.” yet, somehow, your lips on his neck or your hand creeping under his shirt makes him forget every one of them. you’ll hear him groan out, “you’re gonna be the death of me.” while pulling you closer.

you fluster him more than he’ll admit. you’ve whispered things to him in church before. at nelson & murdock while foggy’s in the other room. across a dinner table while he's pretending to focus. every time, you catch the faint pink in his cheeks, the way he adjusts his posture like he’s suddenly uncomfortable in his skin. “you’re incorrigible.” he’ll mutter. and then he’ll kiss you like he’s punishing you for it.

sometimes, when you’re being especially over-the-top — dropping innuendos in public, texting him filthy things while he’s in court — he’ll give you that warning tone. quiet, dangerous, voice low and right at your ear.

when you’re feeling particularly needy, he’s infuriatingly good at switching the roles. “oh, now you want my attention?” he’ll murmur, catching your wrists as you crawl into his lap. “you seemed just fine earlier.” he knows exactly how to drag it out until you’re the one begging, and when he does finally give in, it’s intense, focused, and a little overwhelming in the best way.

aftercare means a lot to him, even if you’re the one instigating all the time. he’ll kiss your shoulder, your knuckles, the top of your head. he’ll ask, “you okay?” even if you’re giggling and glowing. “again? insatiable.”

on a heavier note, sometimes your intensity stirs something deeper in him. his own guilt, his conflict between pleasure and penance. there are moments when he’ll gently pull back, not to reject you, but to steady himself.

sometimes he worries he’s not enough. he knows you’re intense, that your needs don’t exactly quiet down. even though he’s more than capable of keeping up, there are nights where he wonders if he can keep satisfying you.

⏜︵ FRANK CASTLE. 𐂯

notices everything. every suggestive glance, every teasing touch, every time you slide up beside him wearing next to nothing. he won’t always react — not right away — but you’ll catch the slight tilt of his head, the shift in his breathing. he’s got that stillness that says don’t push me unless you mean it. and you always mean it.

he’s not one for words, especially not when it comes to sex. so when you’re being flirty, constantly on him, slipping innuendos into everyday conversation, he mostly just hums or raises a brow. when he does speak, it’s in that rough voice — something like, “you keep talkin’ like that, you’re gonna find out how far i’ll take it.”

he holds back for a while. you’re always testing the line, always touching, always turning things suggestive. he plays it cool at first, lets you push and push. once he gives in, he doesn’t hold back. it’s intense, fast, physical — he grabs, lifts, pins. after he’s quiet again. catching his breath. wiping his hand down his face like you’ve just unraveled him.

tries not to act like he cares about how much you want him, but the truth is it gets to him. you wanting him like that, so openly, so often; it gets to him. there’s something healing in it, something anchoring. sometimes when you’re curled up next to him afterward, he’ll press a kiss to your forehead and murmur, “you’re trouble.”

he doesn’t judge. never once makes you feel like you’re too much. your neediness, your teasing, your constant desire doesn’t scare him, doesn’t annoy him. if anything, it pulls him in. you’re real, alive, shameless about what you want. frank’s been in the dark too long not to be drawn to that kind of light.

he tries to ignore you when he’s focused, but you are relentless. sitting in his lap while he’s working on something. whispering, “wanna take a break?” with your fingers ghosting over his chest. he doesn’t look at you at first — keeps his hands busy — but his jaw tenses and his breath slows, like he’s trying to pray his way through it. “i’m tryin’ to get this done.” he’ll rasp. you smirk, “i’m trying to get you done.”

he doesn’t like being teased when he’s busy, so when you push him too far, pressing against him while he’s fixing something or whispering filthy things in his ear when he’s trying to clean a gun - - he’ll give you a warning. just a look. if you ignore it? he shuts the whole world out and shows you exactly what happens when you don’t listen.

when you’re being dramatic about needing him, he’ll act annoyed, but deep down it kills him in the sweetest way. “frank,” you’ll whine from across the room, “i’m bored and horny and you’re ignoring me.” and he’ll sigh like you’re exhausting — but then walk over and manhandle you into his arms without a word. picks you up and lays you out like he’s been waiting for you to ask.

he worships your body in private. all that heat and teasing you throw at him gets returned in full once he’s got you alone. he takes his time, holds you still, tells you exactly what he’s going to do in that deep, steady voice. “you want this?” he’ll ask, even though he already knows.

but he’s also so soft after. runs his thumb along your cheekbone like he’s checking you’re real. presses a kiss to your shoulder, your forehead, the curve of your hip.

⏜︵ FOGGY NELSON. 𐂯

he is constantly flustered. like. constantly. you’ll say something absolutely filthy with a straight face while he’s drinking his morning coffee and he’ll choke every time. stammering, red in the face, eyes wide. “you — you can’t just say that while i’m holding hot liquid!”

he brags to matt. not in detail (he’s respectful, okay), but he definitely walks around with that post-you glow, hair messy, tie a little crooked, sipping coffee like he’s untouchable. matt raises a brow. foggy just shrugs. “what can i say? i’m being thoroughly appreciated.” — casually mentions to karen that he “had a very energetic weekend” while sipping his fourth cup of coffee.

he pretends to be shocked, but he loves it. he lives for it. he’ll say things like “you are so inappropriate” while his hand is already on your waist, pulling you closer. he’s not fooling anyone, not with that little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

he loves making you feel good. your neediness doesn’t put him off, he’s just thrilled to be the one you want. he takes his time with you. he listens. and when you’re breathless under him, gripping the sheets and begging for more? he looks at you like you hung the stars.

you make him feel like a king. you’re bold about it. you want him, loudly and often, and foggy melts. literally melts. “you want me that bad?” he asks, half in disbelief, half smug. and when you say yes without hesitation? he gets that cocky little glint in his eyes.

you make him nervous in the best way. like, this is a guy who can argue a courtroom into submission, but the second you lean in at the office and whisper something filthy in his ear, he loses all ability to function.

public teasing turns him into a mess. you run your hand along his thigh under the table, whisper dirty things while you’re walking beside him, and he’s just trying to not combust. “can you not?” he hisses through a grin, but there’s no real protest. he’s into it.

he calls you a menace all the time. lovingly. half-scold, half-swoon.

he tries to retaliate. he’ll flirt back. maybe even whisper something filthy of his own, thinking he’s got you now. you double down. he immediately regrets it in the best way. “okay, okay, you win,” he laughs, hands up. “you’re dangerous.”

he’s an aftercare king. gets you water, fluffs your pillow, runs a bath. holds you close while you both come down. if you so much as hint at being ready for another round he’ll fake-complain (“you’re trying to kill me!”) while already kissing down your neck.

when he tries to keep up with you, it’s adorable. you’ll say something filthy and he’ll try to match you with a slick comeback; but the timing’s off, or he blushes halfway through, and it just ends up being the cutest thing you’ve ever heard.

he’s a cuddler with no shame. after you’ve exhausted him (and let’s be honest, you do), he’s all tangled limbs and sleepy kisses. “you’re insane,” he mumbles, burying his face in your shoulder. “i love it. don’t stop.” his voice is warm, a little hoarse, completely smitten.

he can’t keep secrets. not real ones. if he’s been thinking about you all day, he’ll tell you. “you left me like that this morning and expected me to go to work like a functioning adult?” he texts you during court. you send back a selfie in something slightly obscene. he slams his phone face-down on the desk and mutters “i’m in hell” with a dazed smile.

“no more sending suggestive photos while i’m at lunch with matt’s priest friend.”

he loves you exactly the way you are. loud, needy, bold, inappropriate — he eats it up.

⏜︵ KAREN PAGE. 𐂯

she tries to be professional. she’ll be typing up a story, dead focused, and then you saunter in, leaning over her chair, whispering something that should absolutely be illegal. her jaw tenses, her eyes stay on the screen. “i’m working.” but she’s already shifting in her seat, biting her lip.

she has a secret mouth. when she wants to, she’ll say something so filthy it stuns you into silence. usually in a whisper. close to your ear. “you gonna beg for it, or just keep looking at me like that?” and then she just waits. calm. still. eyes on you, daring you to do something about it.

you flirt like it’s breathing, kiss like it’s urgent, touch like you need her; it leaves her reeling. she’ll try to keep her cool but you’ll catch the way she exhales a little too hard, or stares at your mouth a second too long.

she teases right back. once she’s comfortable with you, you’re in trouble. she’ll wait until you’re the one trying to focus, then lean in and say something devastating in that soft, matter-of-fact voice. “if you keep looking at me like that, we’re not making it to dinner.” and then just walk away. smirking.

but you also unravel her. she’s used to bottling things up, being composed. you’re all touch and need and hunger and affection. it pulls something raw out of her. when you’re whispering her name, clawing at her shirt, telling her how good she makes you feel, she loses her edge.

she’s fiercely attentive. your hypersexuality doesn’t scare her, doesn’t make her pull away. if anything it makes her want to understand you better. know your needs, meet them fully, love you through it. she’ll read you like a book — figure out exactly what makes you tick — and then use it.

she absolutely uses your energy to distract you. when she wants your attention, she’ll give you that look, chin tilted, eyes sharp, and say something devastating in a calm voice. “get over here.” and suddenly you’re the one undone, aching and obedient.

she knows when you’re trying to seduce her and lets you. she’ll play along like she’s unfazed, arms crossed, head tilted. “you think you’re being subtle?” she’ll say while you’re practically crawling into her lap. but the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth? the way her eyes darken just a little? yeah, you’ve already won.

she does not shy away from intimacy. your neediness doesn’t embarrass her, it draws her in. she’s not here to shame you or play coy. she wants to be wanted like that. to be touched like she matters. when she gets overwhelmed, she clings. yeah, you’re the hypersexual one — but when she finally lets go, she gets wrapped up in it too. hands in your hair, lips on your throat, whispering your name like it’s the only thing that matters.

she absolutely teases you in public. she’ll press up behind you at the grocery store, whisper something obscene with the most innocent look on her face, then walk off like nothing happened. you’re the one standing there stunned, clutching a box of cereal like it just said something inappropriate.

gets handsy when she’s tired. maybe it’s after a long day, maybe it’s when she’s half-asleep on the couch, but her hands start wandering, slow and lazy and full of intention.

⏜︵ ELEKTRA. 𐂯

absolutely thinks it’s amusing. from the start, she watches you with that signature, smug little smile every time you throw yourself at her like a live wire. her eyes are dark, hungry, like she’s daring you to want her more.

she matches your energy with terrifying ease. you flirt to fluster — she flirts to destroy. you say something filthy and she just smiles, leans in, and whispers something ten times worse in your ear while touching you exactly where it counts.

you don’t scare her. she welcomes all of it. feeds off of it. where others might pull away, elektra leans into it. and when you beg? her grin gets sharp.

she teases you to the edge of madness. she’ll touch you under the table during dinner, drag her nails over your thighs when you’re trying to focus, kiss your jaw and say, “you’ll behave, won’t you?” in public — knowing damn well you won’t. she wants you to break. that’s the game. taunts you when you’re needy. you’ll whine, cling, kiss her like you’re begging for something, and she’ll laugh — low and wicked. “you’ll have to earn it.” she’ll purr, dragging her fingers down your back.

she owns the aftermath. after you’ve lost your mind on her, desperate and clinging, she turns soft. unexpectedly so. hands gentle, voice low, fingers brushing your hair back as she says, “look at you. i do love how pretty you are when you fall apart.”

she lives for your attention. she won’t admit it, at least not easily, but the way you’re always reaching for her, needing her, dragging her in like you’re starving for her? it feeds something in her. reminds her she’s wanted.

she doesn’t believe in moderation. so you being constantly touchy, constantly turned on? she meets it with equal force. doesn’t ask why you want her again, just laughs, low and cruel, “on your knees, then.” like it’s the most obvious answer in the world.

she gets mean when she’s turned on. in that smirking, dominant, slightly dangerous way. “what’s the matter, sweetheart?” she’ll say when you’re writhing under her, voice honey-sweet and mocking. “this is what you wanted, isn’t it? all that begging…”

she tests how far you’ll go. she’ll push you in public, press a hand between your thighs under the table, kiss your neck just a little too long, and ask in your ear, “going to behave, or make a scene?” and when you shiver, grip her wrist, beg for more — that’s when she grins like the devil. “that’s what i thought.”

watches you like prey. doesn’t matter how many times you’ve kissed, or how many times you’ve begged her to take you apart, she always looks at you like she’s deciding where to sink her teeth next. you flirt with her in front of someone else? challenge her in that low voice? she’ll take you home and ruin you.

when you come onto her in a bad mood she melts. she could be fresh off a mission, furious, bloodied, but you crawling into her lap and saying, “let me help”? she softens instantly. not in a weak way, in a worshipful way. like your desire grounds her.

⏜︵ BEN POINDEXTER. 𐂯

at first, he doesn’t know what to do with you. you flirt like it’s breathing, kiss him like it’s urgent, touch him in casual greedy little ways that short-circuit his brain. he tries to act normal, tries to hold himself together, but you catch him clenching his jaw, fingers twitching, chest rising a little too fast.

he gets obsessed fast. the second he realizes how much you want him — how openly, constantly, shamelessly — you flip some hidden switch in him. he wants more. needs it. suddenly he’s tracking your every move, memorizing the way you kiss him, the way you look at him like he’s the only thing on your mind.

he follows instructions like they’re oxygen. “sit.” “stay still.” “hands behind your back.” you say it, and he does it. instantly. without blinking. it’s instinct at this point — his body reacting before his mind catches up. the second he obeys, he’s looking up at you, waiting for approval, wide-eyed and aching for your praise.

he’s dangerous when you rile him up too far. you flirt too much, grind against him when he’s trying to behave, whisper something filthy in his ear when you’re supposed to be focused, and he snaps. drags you somewhere private, presses you against the wall, and just takes. it’s quiet, intense, almost reverent. “you drive me crazy.” he groans, forehead to yours.

he doesn’t know how to handle being needed. you tell him you want him — again and again and again — and it undoes him. makes him shaky. makes him cling. sometimes after you’ve worn each other out, he just holds you too tight and buries his face in your neck. like he’s afraid if he lets go, it’ll all disappear.

he gets flustered in the cutest, darkest way. you say something explicit and he freezes — eyes dark, jaw clenched, pulse ticking in his neck. he doesn’t laugh it off or blush. he stares. silently. like he’s deciding how many rules he’s willing to break right now. spoiler: it’s all of them.

he’s so good at ruining you in return. the minute you start pushing him he gives it back, tenfold. pins your wrists. makes you beg. says nothing for most of it, just stares at you like you’re the most perfect thing he’s ever seen. when you come undone he whispers, “look at you… look at what you let me do.”

your neediness makes him feel safe. he doesn’t always say it. but knowing you want him that much? that openly? it quiets the noise. the guilt. the rage. he touches you like you’re salvation. holds you after like you’re the only thing keeping him on the edge of sanity. you are.

he spirals when you tease him and then act innocent. you’ll straddle his lap, whisper something obscene, kiss his neck, then just walk away like it didn’t happen. dex sits there, frozen, jaw clenched, staring at the wall like he’s trying not to snap a pencil in half. by the time he finds you again, he’s feral. “you think this is a game?”

he thrives when you lose control. the moment your composure cracks — the moment you beg, or whimper, or grab at him like you can’t take it anymore — his whole demeanor shifts. his lips curl into this possessive little smirk.

he's insatiable once you’ve broken the seal. if he’s gone too long without touching you he gets ravenous. rough, shaky hands. kisses that don’t stop. taking you again and again, like he’s trying to make up for all the hours he went without you.

he doesn’t know how to take it when you praise him. he stares at you like he doesn’t know how to absorb it. like part of him doesn’t believe he deserves that softness. but he needs it. and when you say it again, gentler this time, he kisses you like he’ll die without it. he adores being praised. when you tell him he’s good, or strong, or perfect, his whole body trembles, just a little. his breath catches. it’s like he’s hearing it for the first time, every time, and it shakes him to his core. “you like that, don’t you?” you’ll tease. and he’ll look at you with this raw, desperate expression. “say it again,” he’ll whisper, voice hoarse, “please.”

he gets needy in the best way. the more you touch him, the more you praise him, the more desperate he becomes. the man who usually has all the control suddenly becomes weak for you. he’s a mess when you praise him during sex. when you tell him he’s good in bed, that he’s making you feel good — that’s when he absolutely falls apart. his hands go slack, his body goes rigid, and he’ll mumble, “don’t stop.” over and over. every word that spills from your mouth is like a drug, and it’s ruining him in the best way possible.

he loves when you take control. push him down. tell him not to move. give him orders like you expect them to be followed — because he wants to follow them. he wants to earn your touch, your words, your love. when he gets it he’s panting, melting, gripping the sheets like it’s the only thing keeping him from floating away.

his obedience isn’t about power — it’s about love. he doesn’t kneel for you because he’s weak. he kneels because he trusts you. because he knows that when you give him orders, you’ll also give him affection. and that means everything to him.

⏜︵ BILLY RUSSO. 𐂯

tries to be cocky about it at first. smirking while you straddle him, talking shit like, “gonna take what you want, baby?” but the second you actually do — grab his wrists, grind down, whisper “be good for me” — his whole body shudders. the smirk fades. his jaw clenches. and he’s whispering, “fuck… okay. okay.”

he gets jealous of your attention. not just who you give it to — but when you withhold it. you tease him, flirt then walk away, or spend more time on your phone than in his lap, and he’s immediately pressing up behind you, voice low: “what, you done using me already?”

you catch him off guard constantly. dragging him into the nearest room, climbing into his lap during meetings, whispering something unholy while he’s trying to concentrate. and he plays it cool, sure — but the way he grips the edge of the table or clenches his jaw? oh, he’s losing it.

he becomes so obedient under the right pressure. you tell him stay still and he does. every muscle tight, breathing uneven, eyes locked on you like he’s waiting for his next instruction. he looks cocky, but that tension in his body? that’s need. he wants your praise. needs your permission.

he thrives off your desire. knowing you want him all the time, that you’re always thinking about him — it makes him feel powerful. desired. worshipped. he’ll tease you for it —“you really can’t keep your hands off me, huh?”

but the more you want him, the more needy he becomes. it stops being a game and starts being obsession. now he’s the one touching you constantly, dragging you into bed at all hours, whispering, “just one more time, baby. can’t stop thinking about you.”

he’ll let you use him. no ego, no fight — just “tell me what to do.” if you’re extra desperate, pulling at his clothes and grinding on him like you’ll lose your mind without it, he lets you take it. lets you pull his belt loose and ride him breathless. hands on your thighs, eyes locked on you like you’re holy.

he melts for praise but tries to hide it. you call him good and he lets out this shaky breath, head dropping back, hands fisting the sheets. “fuck,” he whispers, like he’s embarrassed at how much it affects him. you tease him for how much he likes it. “look at you,” you’ll purr, dragging your nails down his chest, “mr. billy russo. ceo. soldier. killer. begging for my approval.” and he groans. because yeah. he is. and when you call him your pretty boy, your sweet thing, your favourite toy — he thrives. eats it up. all of it. he follows instructions so, so well. you train him without even meaning to. tell him how to touch you. when to stay still. where to put his hands. he gets desperate for your praise. he’ll push himself to the edge trying to make you feel good, looking up at you like a starved thing. “you feel good?” he pants.

he wants you to ruin him. not physically — emotionally. he wants you to strip him down. take all the masks off. make him yours in a way no one else ever has. when you say, “mine,” and grip his chin so he has to look at you? his body goes limp. he nods, quiet, obedient.

he’s competitive about keeping up. you want it again? again? oh, he’s rising to the challenge. he won’t back down — won’t let you think for one second he can’t handle it. but by round five, he’s on his back, breathless, hair damp, muttering, “jesus christ— what are you trying to do to me?”

he starts scheduling around your sex drive. literally moves meetings, delays calls, closes his office door and texts you a simple: now. and when you show up already knowing what he wants? he just leans back in his chair, unbuttons his shirt, and smirks — “i knew you couldn’t resist.”

but the second you get needy? oh, he crumbles. you press up against him, whine a little, tell him how bad you want him — and suddenly the smug façade shatters. he’s flustered, hands already on your hips, murmuring, “yeah? tell me what you need, baby. i’ll give you everything.”

he keeps things on him just in case. backup condoms. lube in his desk drawer. a change of clothes. because he knows you — knows you’re unpredictable, insatiable, always two seconds from crawling into his lap and making him lose every ounce of professionalism he has left.

he talks a big game but loses it so fast. he’ll say shit like “you gonna ride me like you mean it?” or “hope you can handle what you’re asking for”— and then you do, and suddenly he’s gasping, clutching at you, swearing under his breath like his whole body’s going haywire.

your appetite breaks his composure. you get him worked up in public, and suddenly mr. smooth-talker is stammering. distracted. flustered. he’ll pull you aside, grab your face, and growl, “you need to stop or i’m gonna fuck you in the nearest locked room.” (spoiler: you don’t stop.)

⏜︵ DINAH MADANI. 𐂯

slow mornings where you can’t keep your hands off her while she’s brushing her teeth, trying to read case files, trying to drink her coffee — she doesn’t stop you, just mutters “insatiable” with a smirk. late nights on the couch with your legs tangled over hers, your fingers tracing the scar on her side, whispering everything you want to do to her — she listens quietly, then pulls you into her lap.

you call her detective when you're being flirty — she pretends to be annoyed, but the flush in her cheeks always gives her away.

she’s the calm to your fire, but when she snaps, when she lets go — you learn that she’s been holding back so much more than you thought. your need for touch grounds her; sometimes it’s the only thing that pulls her out of her head after a long day.

she’s not overly verbal during sex, but you are — and she loves it. loves how uninhibited you are, how you make her feel wanted in a thousand ways. sometimes she doesn’t say anything at all — just looks at you with that heavy gaze, hands on your hips, and you know exactly what she needs.

you send her texts during work: i need you, thinking about your hands, wear that button-down tonight — she leaves you on read, but always shows up exactly how you want.

she’s the type to make you wait. edge you for hours just because you’ve been too much all day and she wants to remind you who’s in control.

she sets boundaries with you early on — not because she wants distance, but because she knows your appetite could swallow her whole if she let its “you don’t get to touch me just because you’re needy,” she says, low and measured, her hand firm on your wrist — but she never pushes you away, not really.

she gives you rules. no touching without asking. no teasing when she’s on the phone. and god help you if you break them — she doesn’t yell, she disciplines. when you push too far, she doesn’t lose her temper — she goes cold, calculated. “take your hands off me. now. you don’t get me when you’re acting like a brat.” she uses your hypersexuality to train you — gets in your head, turns your hunger into obedience.

you test her constantly, and she lets you — up to a point. then it’s “knees. now.” and you’re on the floor before your brain can catch up. she loves that you want her all the time — but she makes sure you need her on her terms, not yours.

⏜︵ JAMES WESLEY. 𐂯

he’s amused by how needy you are — not mocking, just indulgent. “insatiable little thing, aren’t you?” he says without looking up from his glass. he doesn’t initiate in public, but you can feel it in his stare across the room — the promise of what he’ll do to you later if you don’t behave.

he makes you ask. always. “use your words.” and if you whine or pout? “that’s not asking. that’s begging. i haven’t decided if you deserve it yet.” his discipline is precise — never cruel, always controlled. he doesn’t punish out of anger, but out of principle.

you learn very quickly not to touch him without permission. not because he doesn’t want you to — but because he enjoys denying you just enough to keep you desperate.

“if you can’t sit still through dinner without thinking about my hands, maybe you don’t need dessert tonight. or tomorrow.”

he knows your body like a weapon — keeps you right on the edge with barely a touch, just his voice, just the way he looks at you when you’re squirming in his lap. he buys you luxury — lingerie you’re not allowed to wear unless he puts it on you, jewelry that marks you as his, bruises that match your diamonds.

there’s a cold satisfaction in how he makes you obey. “no talking back.” if you try to argue he silences you with a kiss, a firm grip on your jaw, “i’ll speak when i want. you’ll listen.” he loves the way you bend to his will.

when you’re on your knees, obedient and desperate, he takes his time with you, savoring the control he has over your every move, over the way you look at him like he’s the only thing that matters. he loves when you’re desperate, when you can’t hide how much you crave him. “beg for it,” he’ll say, casually, and the way you do makes him smile with that dangerous satisfaction.

in those rare moments when he decides you’ve earned it, he’ll show a sliver of tenderness. a brush of his fingers on your cheek, a gentle word in your ear — it’s the only time you get a glimpse of the softer side he hides behind his icy control.

he doesn’t let you forget who’s in charge. if you slip up, if you get too demanding or bratty, he’ll pull back with a simple “that’s not how this works. try again.” he holds back just enough to make sure you’re always wanting more. when he finally gives you what you crave, it’s a slow, calculated act — drawing you to the brink, then pulling you back again, just to see how much you’ll beg.

“you’re not getting anything until you prove you can behave.” — you have to be good for him to get what you want.

⏜︵ MUSE. 𐂯

he calls you his favourite canvas, but he never means it metaphorically. his fingers drag across your skin like brushes, like he’s trying to paint need into your bones. he doesn’t understand restraint — when you want him, it feeds something primal in him. “say it again,” he demands, breathless and too close.

blood on his hands, paint under his nails, and you pulling at his shirt like you’re starving — he doesn’t care what time it is or what mess he left behind, not when you’re looking at him like that. he laughs when you get desperate, but it’s not mocking — it’s delighted. “look at you,” he purrs, “so hungry. like a little beast. i could make something beautiful out of that.”

he marks you in more than bruises — red smudges from pigment he won’t name, his fingerprints staining your thighs, your back, your neck — like he’s signing you. he gets obsessed with patterns — the way your body responds to certain touches, sounds, pressure — like he’s studying a new medium. “arch your back. no — slower. let me see the shape of it.”

he doesn’t like being told no. not because he’s cruel, but because he can’t comprehend being denied something he craves. your desire fuels his delusions of devotion. when you touch him, it drives him manic — like being wanted back is a concept he can’t entirely believe, and he spirals into reverence or obsession. sometimes both.

he doesn’t knock when he enters — he appears, silently, suddenly, like inspiration itself. and when you look at him with need in your eyes, he exhales like he’s relieved. “oh good. you’re ready for me.” he doesn’t understand why you crave him so often — but he adores it. treats it like proof. like you were made for him. like your desire validates the madness in his head.

he feeds on your desperation — physically, mentally, artistically. your need becomes his muse, your body the altar he builds madness on. when he ties you up, it’s not just for control — it’s a frame. your body, trembling and aching, becomes the exhibit. “stay still. you’re art now. don’t ruin it.”

he’s rough, but never careless. every bruise is intentional. every handprint, every bite — a signature. he gets frustrated when you wear something that hides his marks.

after, when you’re ruined and trembling and boneless, he presses his forehead to yours, whispering in rapid, breathless phrases: “my perfect, filthy little thing.”

and then he sketches. right there, with you still shaking, sprawled over his lap — he sketches the aftermath. the glow. the way you fell apart.

started 4.27.2025. finished 4.28.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[woollypoison]

Aprons and Ears

Male reader x (G)i-dle Yuqi x Twice Chaeyoung a/n: Might be the start of something bigger. Don't come at me if it isn't. Word count: 3.3k

“Welcome, Master!” Two voices sing out discordantly, one high in pitch, the other low. The little bell above the door hasn’t even stopped jingling yet before they’re both on you, practically bouncing on either side as they guide you into the establishment.

The outfits are immaculate. Like a fantasy come to life. Down to the little details. The lacy, frilled dresses. The chokers with the bells hanging from them. The little cleavage window. The black cat ears perched atop and the matching black tail hanging behind. And the cherry on top, you can’t forget the black thigh high socks. It sounds like a lot, trying to do a maid cafe as well as a cat cafe at the same time, but somehow these two make it seem like it was always meant to be that way.

“Please, right this way,” the one with the higher pitched voice says. The name tag says it’s Chaeyoung.  She has this airy smile about her, waving you behind her like she doesn’t really care at what pace you’re going.

“Take a seat, Master,” the other one says. Her name tag says Yuqi. She’s more playful about it, big gestures and all, with a grin that’ll have you ordering the entire menu before you know it.

She hands you a laminated menu, and you clear your throat as you pretend to study it. Everything here is themed. It’s to the point you could see someone being too embarrassed to say these names out loud. But not you.

“What can we bring you, Master?” Yuqi leans down, the dress giving you a nice view at the cleavage she’s so proudly displaying. It would almost be rude to not look, with your eyes having nowhere innocent to rest. Chaeyoung catches it though, and stifles a laugh behind Yuqi, throwing you a knowing smirk.

“I’ll take the ehh… the Iced Meowmericano and the Feline Flatbread, please,” you somehow manage without dying of shame. Has to be something in the air here.

There’s a certain brand of indifference to the way Chaeyoung scribbles it down, starkly contrasted by her smile that seems almost too genuine for the service industry. She’s no less good at her job because of it, though, her thighs dancing against the frills of her short skirt as she flashes you a knowing look before sauntering away.

“Coming right up, Master,” Yuqi purrs, giving your arm a little playful squeeze before flouncing after her colleague. 

You take a moment to catch your breath, really take in the vibes. Everything in this place is either maid or cat themed. Seeing it come to live like this, it somehow really works.

Yuqi is the first to return, carrying your coffee, both hands underneath the cup with the utmost care. Arms squeezed together tightly, forcing her chest up and together until you can’t help but wonder what kind of establishment this is supposed to be. She leans in close—too close—and sets it down, her face turning towards you and leaving just a couple of moments for you to wonder what’s next before speaking. “Enjoy, Master… I added a drizzle of something almost as sweet as me.”

There’s a weird and unclear implication that hangs between you before she follows up and makes the implication clear.

“But if you want to get a taste of this kitty, you’ll have to pay extra,” she giggles, not giving you a chance to respond as she steps aside to allow space for an approaching Chaeyoung.

She’s carrying your flatbread pizza, plate steady with both hands, but she ‘stumbles’ at the last second, pressing her tiny body against your arm as she regains her composure and sets the food down.

“Oops,” she smiles with no guilt despite the obvious theatrics, not moving away. “I’m sorry, Master. I can just be so clumsy.” She lets her tongue circle her lips, like a cat getting hungry for its prey.

“It’s fine,”  you respond, skin hot where she touched you.

“After you’re done,” she starts innocently. Not for long though, as she raises her hand subtly to her mouth, before continuing. “Would you like a dessert too?” Her hand now mimicking a quick, tiny stroking motion by her face.

You grip the edge of the table a little tighter. “What kind of cafe is this supposed to be?” you question both girls, looking around in disbelief. Yuqi beams like a kitty getting a dose of catnip.

“The kind where we make sure you don’t leave unsatisfied,” Yuqi purrs, and Chaeyoung’s eyes are trained on you with mischief, raising her eyebrows on beat with Yuqi’s final dragged out “Master.”

Yuqi plops down beside you without asking, her thigh sliding against yours, while Chaeyoung settles on the other side with an exaggerated sigh, like she could fall asleep leaning on you. The difference in size is intoxicating—the way they have to look up even when seated, the way their legs barely reach the floor dangling off the booth.

You almost forget why you even came in the first place.

“Shouldn’t you also be attending to the other guests?” you weakly ask.

Chaeyoung and Yuqi throw each other a knowing glance underneath your chin, before giggling. Chaeyoung’s hand landed on your knee. She twirls a lock of her hair around her finger lazily, pretending not to be unaware about her own hand creeping up higher on your thigh. 

Yuqi, meanwhile, leans in closer—so close her tits are squishing, giving and molding supple flesh against your arm. Her hand is also making illicit moves under the table, hooking her pinky through yours and tugging playfully. Before you know it, your hands on the bare spot of skin on her thigh in between her socks and her skirt.

“You should relax, Master,” Yuqi hums, her hand molding around yours, forcing it to squeeze her. Chaeyoung’s hand is inching higher and higher by the second, getting dangerously close to your crotch. She’s carefully studying your reaction, her expression a mix of teasing and unbotheredness, the kind you find in a girl who’s just getting a kick out of doing things to lazily pass the time.

Your heartbeats pounding, and the ice in your Iced Meowmericano is melting in negligence. “What are you doing? What if someone sees?” You hiss under your breath, disbelief and shock oozing through your tone.

Yuqi’s eyes glitter with mischief. “Just stay quiet and nobody will see, Master.”

Chaeyoung follows up in a soft and sing-song whisper, “Let’s keep this our little secret.”

Yuqi’s hand joins Chaeyoung’s as the latter spoke, both their fingers more daring now, so high they’re brushing the outline of your hardening cock through your pants. But they’re still teasing, quick and subtle, hiding the movement behind raised skirts, folds of your coat or the edge of the table.

“You know I could fire you for this, right?” you mutter, eyes darting between the two girls, an incredulous look now shared between the two at your comment.

Chaeyoung has this soft laugh about her as she responds. “But you won’t.” Yuqi follows it up, the two in perfect sync with each other, working towards their common goal. You. “If anything, you’ll beg us not to stop.”

Both their hands settle over your bulge, cupping it gently through your pants as if measuring it. Then, slowly, their thumbs rub along your length through the fabric.

“So hard already… and so thick,” Chaeyoung whispers. “I don’t think one hand will be enough,” Yuqi follows up.

You could stop this. You should, this is highly unethical, considering your position. But your body isn’t listening anymore.

Chaeyoung undoes your button with a soft click and tugs your zipper down, freeing your cock with casual efficiency. So far for clumsy. She doesn’t even bother to look at you once—not even in your general direction—her gaze remains locked forward, pretending to study the faces of the other customers. But her fingers wrap around your shaft a moment later, or at least attempt to wrap around it, her small hand dwarfed by the size of it.

Yuqi follows shortly after, her hand not much bigger, unable to resist the temptation of taking a look at what you’ve got packing. “Fuck you,” she murmurs. “That’s a lot bigger than what we expected, Master.”

Chaeyoung laughs, and they both start stroking. They’re way too good at this, the friction of two pairs of small hands getting to be too much already. You have to bite your lip to hold back a moan. They’re getting increasingly bolder, less worried about being seen. It’s hard to believe those tiny hands can cause this much pleasure, but here you are, your cock twitching under their touch.

Beneath the table, you slide your hand up Yuqi’s thigh. Her panties are soaked. She doesn’t stop you. She shifts a little to let you reach more easily. She presses her lips together tight, trying to stay quiet. Her small hand falters on your cock when your fingers push inside her.

"Fuck," she breathes, barely audible.

On your other side, Chaeyoung lifts her skirt slightly with one hand and brings your free hand beneath it. No words. Just a soft breath as your fingers meet her heat.

She gasps softly but doesn't move, letting you feel just how wet she is. The contrast is almost overwhelming—your cock pulsing in their tiny hands, your fingers buried inside both girls, every part of you claimed.

Your cock throbs in annoyance as they make you work for it now. The two girls gasp softly when your fingers push into them. They’re both soaking, so easy to push in, and so incredibly tight around you that you can barely move without them squirming and moaning into your neck.

“Faster,” Yuqi demands with a teasing pout.

“Deeper,” Chaeyoung pleads with a needy whimper.

You pick up the pace, thrusting inside their warm little holes as they keep stroking you in turn, never giving just one of them all your attention. They’re both panting now, soft little sounds escaping their lips that would be cute if they weren’t so fucking hot.

Yuqi tightens around your finger with a small cry when your thumb hits her clit just right, and Chaeyoung follows not long after with a shudder that runs through her whole body. They keep moving their hands along your shaft even as their bodies twitch and spasm against yours.

You’re so close now, their hands working you expertly, the two of them giggling as they feel your cock pulse and twitch. Your balls draw up, ready to unload underneath the table any second now. But they don’t let you.

Chaeyoung’s hand leaves your shaft, and Yuqi follows her lead, both of them looking at you with a mix of amusement and disbelief.

“Really?” Chaeyoung says. “You were going to cum like this? Blow your load against the underside of our table?”

“Who do you think would have to clean that up?” Yuqi adds. 

“Can’t be wasting a tasty treat like that,” Chaeyoung smiles. 

Their eyes meet, and suddenly they’re playing rock paper scissors with each other, leaving you hanging in the air with your cock still hard and throbbing. Rock. Paper. Yuqi grins wide.

"Damn," Chaeyoung mutters, shimmying herself down until she’s completely under the table. Her small hands are back on your shaft a moment later, her lips barely keeping from making contact. Yuqi climbs on top of the table instead, her skirt lifting just enough for you to see her cunt as all pretense of subtlety is thrown out of the window.

You blink. "Wait. You’re not actually—" You glance around the café. "What if someone—"

Yuqi cuts you off with a look, her voice suddenly low and serious. "Come on, boss. Can we stop this trial run play pretend now? There’s nobody here. Do you really want us to act a little longer... or do you want to get what we all know you really want?"

You hesitate for only a second.

Yuqi eases back, legs spreading to display her pretty little cunt. Her tail sways with delight as she speaks, voice thick with heat. "Be a good Master and show us what this pervy café fantasy was really about. Come on. I promise this pussy tastes better than anything you put on the menu."

The little bell on Chaeyoung’s collar gives a soft chime as she inches forward towards your dick. She licks her lips, dark lashes fluttering. "Don’t worry. I’ll take care of that load for you."

You give in. Head first into Yuqi’s cunt as you keep from banging your hips forward lest you give Chaeyoung a concussion.

Yuqi’s taste hits you all at once, salty and sweet and intoxicatingly lewd. You can barely keep up with it all—Chaeyoung’s lips closing around your cock, Yuqi grinding against your tongue—but fuck if you’re going to let them win this one. Not without a fight.

Your fingers dig into Yuqi’s thighs as you suck on her clit, thumb running over where sock meets flesh, drawing these high-pitched whimpers from her that make the blood rush down south even faster. She leans forward until her tits are hanging right above your face, small and perky and bouncing in time with Chaeyoung’s head bobbing up and down on your shaft.

You reach up to play with them as you eat her out, pulling them out from underneath the fabric and forcing them through the window, pinching her nipples between your fingers until she gasps and shudders above you.

Underneath the table, Chaeyoung is taking more of your cock into her mouth than should be possible for someone her size. Her throat tightens around you as she pushes down further still, holding herself there until you think she’ll choke on it for sure. But then she pulls back just enough to breathe before doing it all over again. The bell on her collar making ringing noise with each movement, like the beat of war drums dictating the pace of your fucking.

She uses one hand to jerk whatever doesn’t fit into her mouth and lets the other roll your balls between her fingers. It’s fucking amazing, the sensation enough to drive anyone insane in minutes. You don’t know how long you’ll last like this.

Yuqi is riding your face harder now, hips moving in desperate little circles as she tries getting just a bit more pressure on exactly the right spot. You can tell from how erratically she moves that she’s close already, those soft sounds escaping her lips turning into breathless cries every time your tongue flicks against her clit.

She presses down harder still when she cums, smothering you with pussy and thighs and sweet little mewling noises as her body trembles above yours.

Chaeyoung doesn’t stop or slow down even for a second while this happens; if anything she gets more vigorous about it all, barriers melting and you get lost in the urge with her.

You can’t stop yourself from thrusting into Chaeyoung’s mouth, hips moving on their own as she takes you in further with each push. Her small body is so light you accidentally bump her head against the underside of the table. You pause, brows furrowing in slight concern and a touch of guilt.

“Chaeyoung?” you ask, slowing down. “You okay?”

Her voice comes out muffled but still teasing as she gives your cock a quick kiss. “I’m okay.” Another kiss. “You can be rougher than that. Just try not to cause any brain damage while you’re at it.”

She wraps her fingers around your cock again, sits back on her heels and spreads her legs until you can see the heat beneath her skirt. “It’s definitely doing something,” she says. She slips one hand inside, fingering herself as she lets you use her pretty little mouth like a toy.

Yuqi laughs, a short breathless sound as she catches her breath above you. There’s a hint of teasing, no doubt thanks to the sudden lack of attention she’s getting. “Thank god I won the rock paper scissors,” she says with a grin. “The way you’re fucking her mouth like an animal? I couldn’t take that.”

You pull her down to your lips by tugging on her collar until it digs into her skin and she’s gasping into your mouth. You kiss her like you’re claiming ownership of something that was always yours to begin with. Your hands mold her tits through the fabric, solidifying the claim.

When she finally breaks away, it’s with a shudder, your hands freeing her tits by ripping the window on her chest open.

You lift her hips above you so you can look at where soft thighs meet socks and tease more needy sounds out of her.

“You’re such a perv,” Yuqi gasps, voice turning into shuddering words when your fingers sink into her cunt. Her voice breaks into a half-moan as your thumb rubs against her clit. “Starting an entire cafe just to get hot girls to wear your little fetish outfits.”

You try to protest, but your voice halts the second Chaeyoung pulls away from your cock with a pop. “But lucky for you,” she speaks, eyes looking up, searching for yours. “We’re kind of into this whole fucked up aesthetic,” she muses, before diving back down and taking you even deeper.

You’re so close now. So fucking close. And they both know it.

Chaeyoung doubles her efforts on your cock, small hand tight around the base while she bobs up and down with more urgency, her throat tightens and relaxes as she takes you in again and again, her tongue flicking against the underside in a way that sends jolts of pleasure up your spine. 

Yuqi grinds against your fingers, spreading herself wide enough for you to watch her pussy stretch around them with each thrust. “You better cum for us, Master,” she commands. “Or we’ll never let you fuck us like this again.”

You hold out as long as you can, but they’re too much. The two of them together, tiny bodies and filthy mouths and more than you ever imagined possible when you started this project.

You explode into Chaeyoung’s mouth with a groan, shooting the first thick load down her throat. She chokes on it at first but doesn’t pull away, holding every drop that follows in her mouth until her cheeks are bulging with it. But she doesn’t stop or pull away until you’ve given her everything, sucking softly on the tip like she’s coaxing out the last few drops.

When she finally comes up from under the table, it’s with a satisfied look and cum she couldn't keep inside dripping down her chin. She climbs onto the table next to Yuqi and pulls her in for a kiss, sharing what’s left of your load between them.

“Mm,” Yuqi hums against Chaeyoung’s lips, licking them clean before breaking away. “Not bad.”

“You two are horrible maids,” you say when you finally catch your breath again. “If I catch you doing anything like this with an actual customer...”

“We know,” they chorus together with matching grins.

“You’ll fire us,” Chaeyoung laughs.

“Right after cumming down our throats,” Yuqi adds.

They’re both still sitting on top of the table in complete disarray—their collars askew, tits hanging out from ripped windows, thighs dripping with wetness down to their high socks. They look like this was their plan all along. The end to your plan looked something like this as well, it just had a lot more steps and time to it.

You prefer their plan. They seem to do too.

“Well then,” Yuqi hops off first, smoothing down her skirt and fixing her collar as she stretches like a lazy cat. “Same time next shift?”

Chaeyoung follows shortly after, picking imaginary dust off her dress before leaning in for one last whisper against your ear. “Or do you need a longer demonstration, Master?”

[blastzachilles]

— Sun Bleached Flies .ᐟ

CHARACTERS: PASTOR’S DAUGHTER!TASHI x FEM!READER WORD COUNT: 2.4k CW: religious guilt, LOTS of internalized homophobia, general angst 

a/n: okay this isn’t 100% accurate to christianity and such… i tried though… i tried so hard… please don’t hate me… i hope you enjoy! <3 (and i'm apologizing now) link to main post!

— Tashi shouldn’t be feeling this. 

She knows she shouldn’t. She’s the Pastor’s daughter. This is wrong. Blasphemous. Sacrilegious. 

The way she feels when she looks at you sitting beside her in the front pew, when she sees you standing with your family at Sunday service, and she feels the need to grasp onto the cross hanging around her neck, like a lifeline in stormy waters, to remind herself that what she feels for you isn’t right. 

You’ve always been a little different than the rest of your family and the church, and it doesn’t go unnoticed. Not outwardly different, no, you dress and maintain yourself the same, but there’s just something about your behaviour that stands out in an inexplicable way. 

Tashi watches you from her spot next to her father, you laughing with your family, looking around the church when the conversation is about something dull and uninteresting. When your eyes lock on hers, and your face lights up with a small wave, she realizes she’s been caught staring, and her brain short circuits. She can feel the blood rushing to her cheeks, the way her whole body goes warm, and her hand grabs her necklace with such a force it almost tugs it clean off her neck. 

Only after you chuckle at her reaction does she give a small wave back, her smile forced and tight-lipped as she looks away and stares at one of the various icons of Jesus surrounding the church, begging him to plead with his father for forgiveness. 

When she looks back to where you were standing, you’re already gone.

She lays awake that night, head angled back into her pillow so she can stare at the cross hanging high on the wall above her headboard, her mind racing with the thoughts about you that she wishes she could block out. 

The way you look when you’re sitting on the pew, or kneeling during service when she sneaks glances beside her while her head is bowed and resting on her hands, or walking up to the front for communion. The way your skin looks so soft, and your eyes sparkle, and your body moves. The way you’d look–

No. 

Bad Tashi. 

God loves her, but not enough to save her. Not if she keeps thinking like this. 

So she shuts her eyes, rolling onto her side and curling into herself, almost in fetal position, as though she can find some way to be reborn, reborn without these thoughts fueled by Satan, reborn as a normal girl. Reborn as a normal girl who does as she’s supposed to, as a normal girl who likes boys.

When she does fall asleep, it’s restless, plagued by the thoughts of her abnormality, of her wants, her desires. 

But the sun rises and sets, days passing. Each night just as restless and guilt-filled as the next. 

She thinks that if she doesn’t acknowledge it, if she doesn’t speak it, if she just keeps pushing it down, it won’t be true. It can’t be. 

So Tashi tries to keep her thoughts in check, staying with her father as though he is God Himself, able to grant her forgiveness for Him. She reminds herself of her faith, praying first thing in the morning and just before bed, hand always wrapped around that cross pendant as she toys with it on the chain, begging its holiness to seep into her. 

But the cycle begins again when she gets to church next Sunday, sitting in her pew in the front row as usual while Father Duncan is elsewhere in the church, preparing for service. 

As she hears people begin to trickle in, Tashi looks behind her, and there you are. 

She looks up to the crucifix behind the altar, and has half a mind to kneel and start praying. 

But you take your seat beside her, as usual, as Tashi works on composing herself. 

“Hi, Tashi.” You smile as Tashi looks up at you, and her heart squeezes. 

“Hi.” she croaks. 

“Would you wanna hang out sometime this week? I have a few tickets to see that new movie that just came out.” 

Tashi can’t think straight. You want to hang out with her? Is she dreaming? No, not a dream, a nightmare. Maybe if she hits her head against the pew she’ll remember that this is all fake and not real and wake up from this nightmare, and all will be okay. She won’t have to hide from her father or the Father. 

“Tashi?” You snap her out of her thoughts, and she’s never been so embarrassed. She can hear her blood rushing in her ears, her hands clammy and body hot. 

“Uh, yeah—I, um. I might not be able to go to the movie, but we can, um, we can definitely hang out.” 

You nod as service starts, and whisper to her. 

“We can talk after service.” 

She nods in return, swallowing hard as you both stand for the procession. 

The service starts, and it feels like torture. Every time you kneel for prayer, she glances over at you, her mind wandering, imagining, going places it shouldn’t. When communion starts, Tashi almost doesn’t go up. She feels too guilty, like her father will be able see through her, into her secrets and the deepest, darkest parts of her mind.

Service finally finishes and Tashi looks over at you again. 

“Are you free tomorrow?” she manages to get out. 

“Yeah.” You beam. 

“How about a walk and a picnic?” 

“Sounds perfect. Ten? The old trails behind the church?”

“Eleven?”

“Eleven it is. See you there, Tashi.” 

“See you.” She smiles back, waving as her father calls her over. 

You wave back, and she feels both like she’s flying, weightless and giddy, and like she’s being dragged down to the depths of hell. Like if even indulging in this ‘friendly’ outing will make her the biggest sinner her father has ever met. 

She watches you leave again, just like every week before, but this time with a small smile on her face. When she leaves with her own family, she immediately starts planning the picnic, baking and cooking and packing. Tashi doesn’t know why, but she feels the need to make everything perfect. Just for you. Tomorrow is going to be a big day. 

She even thinks about telling you her sins. 

That night, she sleeps a little easier. Still restless, but she’s hopeful there’s a chance you’ll be able to knock some sense into her. 

Until she starts having nightmares of you again. You, kissing her, with those soft, soft lips, the ones she’s stared at countless times. You, with your hands on her, that delicate touch you save for only the most fragile things used on her, like she’s something beautiful that could shatter. Her, on her knees in front of you, worshiping you like you’re taking His place. Like you’re actually her God. Like you’re actually her Jesus. Or the roles reversed, with you on your knees in front of her, staring up at her like she’s your God. 

And sleep becomes restless once more. 

When she wakes up, curled in on herself once more, Tashi’s cheeks are crusty with dried up tears. She doesn’t know when she started crying during the nightmares, but she quickly becomes conscious of the fact she broke one of the Ten Commandments in her nightmares, and they quickly start back up again as she slides off her bed and kneels against the side of it in prayer. 

Today she’ll tell you. She’ll tell you, and you’ll tell her how wrong it is. Shame her into normality. Shame her into conforming. 

Tashi gets ready for the day, mentally too. She’ll need to be strong to have the conversation. 

She meets you by the old trails behind the church, picnic basket in hand. 

“Hi, Tashi!” Your voice is excited, like you’ve been waiting all night for this, and she can’t help but smile in return. 

“Hi.” 

“Morning was good?” 

She can’t exactly tell you about her nightmares, about the fact she went against the rules so clearly set in place for a good Christian, so she lies. “Yeah. great.” 

The walk to the clearing is peaceful. You and Tashi speak about your lives, your plans, what you’re here for, your faith. She almost brings up what she wants to tell you on the way there, but decides against it. It’ll be better if you’re both sitting down. 

When you reach the clearing, you help Tashi set up the picnic, salivating at the food she prepared. 

“These look incredible, Tashi…” 

“Yeah?” Her heart swells, she’s always loved compliments from you. 

“Yeah.” 

You two sit, eating and laughing, falling into easy conversation. If there’s silence, it’s comfortable, as you look around the clearing at the surrounding flora and fauna, Tashi just staring at your face, trying to figure out when to ruin what you two have got going on. 

She decides to do it when you’re both about to pack up, standing up, picnic basket in her hands.  

“Hey, uh—”

“Yeah, Tashi?” 

Tashi’s throat is dry. Her voice is small. Shaky. Unsure. Her eyes gloss over, not quite tearing up yet, but she knows she’s nearing that point. 

You notice immediately. Of course you do. You’re different. You’ve always been so good at reading people. 

“Tashi, oh my god—are you okay?” 

“I, um. Oh, yeah—yeah, of course. I, just—I have to confess something to you.” 

“What is it, Tashi? You can tell me anything.”

Anything but this. At least in Tashi’s head. 

“I—um—oh, god. How, how am I supposed to say this? God, I’m going to Hell—” Tashi’s near hyperventilating by this point, the tears finally welling up. 

“Hey—hey, hey, hey, Tashi, look at me.” you speak softly, grabbing her shoulders gently, as her head shoots up to meet yours. “Breathe with me. In… out… in… out…”

She follows your instructions, breathing with you. Slightly calming down as she stares into your eyes, looking at the way they soften around the edges as you look at her, the way your lips curve into that small smile as her breathing returns to somewhat normal. 

“What’s up?” 

“I—I’m such a bad person. I have these thoughts. These awful, awfully depraved, sinful thoughts. I have these nightmares where God isn’t my God anymore. But someone else. I—I’m going to go to Hell.” Tashi repeats the last part quietly, like she’s trying to prepare herself for it.

She pauses. Takes a deep breath, composing herself as the tears roll down her cheeks. 

“I have, I have these thoughts about, about—”

You’re silent, giving her the chance to speak. To get it off her chest. 

To make it real, to acknowledge it, to stop pushing it down, by speaking it into the world. 

She doesn’t know how she manages to get the next words out, but she spits them in your face like she thinks they’re venom. She wants them to be. 

“I have them about you.” She tacks your name on at the end, trying to make it fatal, for both of you. 

She waits for you to yell at her. For your face to twist into disgust and tell her she’s plagued by Satan, agree that she’s going to Hell. To push her away, and run back to the church to wash your hands with the holiest water, just to get any trace of her off you. 

But none of that happens. 

Your face softens, eyes welling with your own tears, as you pull her into the softest, yet tightest hug ever, like she’s a delicate flower you’re afraid will wilt if you’re too rough with her. 

Tashi doesn’t know what to do. She’s conflicted. She thought you would hate her, why are you being so kind to her? This isn’t right. 

She drops the basket, letting the leftovers, the laughter, the happiness, the joy between you two spill onto the ground, and pushes you away, her face twisted into something nasty. 

“Why don’t you hate me? This is wrong!” 

Your face twists into one of sadness, no, not sadness. Pity? And she hates it. She hates the way it sends a pang through her heart. She hates that you pity her. 

“Tashi, it’s not wrong. Just because you like a girl doesn’t make you a bad person.” 

“No, it does! This is wrong, it’s a sin! And you’re just as bad as me for accepting me.” she spits out. 

“You know what, Tashi, maybe I am. Maybe I’m even worse because I’m just like you and I accept you. Because I like girls too.” 

She freezes at that, the tears flowing down her cheeks. 

“You—you do?” 

“Yeah, Tashi. I do.” 

It suddenly makes sense, and she stares at the ground to process it all. 

Why you’re different from the others. 

Why she’s been drawn to you from the beginning. 

You’re both the same. 

But you’re not. Because Tashi isn’t like you. Not really. 

She grabs the cross around her neck, and looks back up at you. 

“I’m not actually this way. I’m normal. You’re just corrupting me. You’re here from Satan to corrupt me, to bring me to Hell with you. And it won’t work. It won’t. I won’t let it.” 

She can see your face crack, can see you try to hold back tears. 

It shatters her heart. 

So she delivers one final blow. 

“This was a mistake. I’m not going to Hell with you.”

Tears start flowing as you watch her walk away, walk along that trail you took together. You kick the picnic basket, sending it flying somewhere, and sink to the ground, sobbing into your hands. 

It wasn’t supposed to go like this. 

Tashi gets back to the church, sobbing, and locks herself in the confessional to grieve you, and confess to God. Tashi knows it’s nothing unless she talks to her father, but she hopes this is enough anyway. She can never tell Father Duncan what she feels. Never. 

If it’s meant to be, then it will be. 

And Tashi Duncan doesn’t think it is, so it won’t. She’d rather let the guilt eat her from the inside out. For the rest of her life. 

tag list: @artstennisracket @glassmermaids @jordiemeow @cha11engers @kaalxpsia @apatheticrater @tacobacoyeet @tigerlilywl @newrochellechallenger2019 @compress1repress @artspats @artaussi

want to join my tag list? fill out this form! 

[lexicorp]

Exactly^^

So much of these sorta things are incredibly nuanced, and not so clearly cut. (And the thing that can be even more frustrating in the fandom is when they apply the grey area redemption experience opportunity to one but not the other in the fucked up cycle- especially if it's the initial abuser who gets it, like that's so indicative of bullshit like that irl)

Getting that exposure to people who don't coincide with that narrowed lens of perception that isolation tactics very often present when someone is manipulated and other abuse--is just so important to improvement/recovery. Because it breaks that warped reality to affirm that the generalized negatively isn't accurate. That there are people like Arcane and Optimus. Because it's just so easy to get it stuck in your head in this suffocating string of memories that leads to assumptions and anxiety that invoke those things like "I can't say this because they'll think I'm weak/stupid, or it won't matter anyway to say it so what's the point?" iiiiiiit sucks.

I love your points analyzing the Starcane lore cuz it's just so fascinating the dichotomy of him recognizing in part that she's safe (thus engaging in "dangerous behavior" he'd avoid with Megatron), while /still/ being battle ready at any little sign of a threat between them. And how all the intricacies psychologically are processed are so fascinatingly fragged up- cuz it's so hard to break that cycle, and you need someone really patient there for it.

And that is really what I love about writing this sorta stuff is that even if there are so many bad ending situations irl where the person isn't able to get better, where they perpetually self destruct no matter what anyone does, we can seize that control to create the good ending to give that hope that the struggle is possible to get through. Which is why I want a canon focus on Starscream lore approached like this so damn bad.

Also man the thing of someone who you know talks shit coming up being all fake niceties is so dang triggering. Honestly that flavor of reaction is Star and IDW redeemed Megs to me, cuz like--

The salt and just instinctual reflex built upon past disaster is just so palpable

I love the note on "But once the storm calms, everyone's hurt", cuz damn does it encapsulate it all so well. No one ever really wins.

And honestly, I def feel that inclination to exploring the family dynamics a bunch, even if, or especially if, we ain't gonna touch it irl. Cuz approaching things fictionally, is far easier to process, far safer. Least that's what I've found. Hell, the majority of any of my social competency has been built on analysis and research/observations of fictional characters (or true crime-).

And man, those contrasting concepts of seeing the kids as warriors and having that urge to raise them to "be like him" (born a lot from thinking they need to be tough and drawing from how he was made to be so), while also having that underlying knowledge that it was fragged up, and that he doesn't want them to go through what he did. That is just one example of all the types of ways that can create those internal conflicts and confusions that in turn lead to lashing out in different ways, because most of the time it's hella hard to put our feelings and motivations into words, and even more difficult to be sure the answers we give are actually correct. Cuz boy to we know that Decepticon lies to himself- and it's all about feeling in control

Then the doge vs cat struggles geez it rlly just does just come out so much in those moments of frustration. And that regret and reflection on it afterward is something that's just so much /ow/ and guilt and yet, our brains are gonna have the reflex come out yet again when triggered. Its often navigating the aftermath of the inevitable I find is what rlly needs to be shown. Cuz preventative strategies are all great in theory, but for those times when you can't catch it, or don't hear it until after it comes out, what then? And when emotions are really fragging hard already, that part feels impossible.

[Star too having that thought towards Arcane and the kids or Optimus that they're weak/vulnerable and the "I can take advantage of that" controlling nature is so where the spiral falling into the cycle starts. Cuz the want to be on top after having been on the bottom is so real. Its just like that thing of wanting to get them back or eye for an eye of seeking satisfaction/release from the pent up frustration. And even feeling justified mirror behavior cuz the other person got away with it.]

i need to see more starop where starscream is having trouble breaking the cycle, so he falls back into his old habits.

one of the most difficult parts about breaking the cycle of abuse is trying your hardest to not repeat the behaviors your abuser imprinted on to you. speaking from experience, it can be very hard when you enter a healthy relationship and find yourself thinking like your abuser.

so imagine, starscream finally joins the autobots. by some unfortunate circumstance, they lose an important battle. optimus encourages his team, but privately, he retreats to somewhere isolated to think. starscream finds him and asks what he's doing.

when optimus admits that he's disappointed in himself for not doing the best he could on the battlefield, starscream finds himself scoffing. "well, maybe we wouldn't be in the position if you'd done a better job to begin with," he grumbles, his voice slowly escalating. "i thought you were supposed to be some great leader. or is your reputation all a myth? because of you, now the decepticons have the advantage, and we're one step closer to losing this war!" outraged that optimus hasn't said anything, he shouts, "are you even listening to me, prime?!"

when optimus turns his helm to look up, starscream is spooked by what he sees. he doesn't see the face of someone about to drop to his knees and beg for mercy. instead, the look in his normally lively blue optics can best be described as haunted, almost dead, but clinging onto the last shreds of life.

the realization hits starscream like enemy fire. his voice box shorts out as he trips over his own words, trying to take them back. one thought comes to mind, and he knows optimus is thinking it, too.

i sound like megatron.

[berracids]

I will start to use the term ‘muscle car trio’ when referring to those lovable speedy idiots.

can I ask for headcanons of them (N/SFW either is fine) with a car enthusiast reader who loves tinkering with cars and is a total grease monkey and how each bot is like

SWEET HOT MOTOR OIL, I’ve been waiting for that!, I love those three so much it’s crazy y’all fr

A/N: after some researching, turns bumblebee is the only muscle car out of the three (closest car was still the Camaro), since smokescreen and knockout are sports cars (McLaren 12c and Aston Martin vantage) so that means that bumblebee will be labeled as a sports car to fit into the trio

Bumblebee, knockout and smokescreen HCs with car enthusiast reader

Warnings: slightly suggestive themes

Bumblebee

The yellow scout’s presence was always a delight for you to be around with, even if there were no words spoken on his behalf. You had alot to say for the both of you as you held conversations with bee as he would beep, chirp and whirr excitedly as you would bring the car magazine to read it with him.

Peeking beside your shoulder with his wide puppy like optics staring at you with giddiness as you explain the car lines that will come later that year and the official events that will be held, bumblebee would listen to you talk and explain to him the newly recruited racers, the yellow mech would point his large digit at the paper, pointing to the racer he is betting on to win.

Bumblebee enjoys messing around with yours and ratchet’s tool as he tries tweaking a few things in him before giving up and dragging his pedes with his door wings slung down as he gobies you his biggest puppy optics he can to guilt you into unscrewing some of his bolts so he can relax a bit, for a mech on the smaller side and having the build of a muscle car is lot of load on him, as he is not used to the frame of earth vehicles with it being heavier than his original cybertronian model

Knowing that ratchet would chew your ears and his audio receptors you begrudgingly comply as you can feel him literally buzzing as you unscrew a few of his bolts to relive some of his strain,

That is until he revs his engine suddenly at feeling relaxed which makes you retract your hand quickly to not lose any fingers, and you waste no time reprimanding him, which earns you a guilty and betrayed look by bumblebee as if he didn’t almost cause you to lose a few of your fingers, until you tell him that you will screw his bolts back which gets the yellow mech angry and to whirr with his bright blue optics narrowing at you with his wings pointing downwards as he tries to flee you

Smokescreen

If you think that bumblebee was like a golden retriever puppy just because of his yellow paintjob, then you couldn’t be any more wrong,

Cause smokescreen is the definition of a hyperactive golden retriever that drags you literally anywhere that has the smallest bit of motor related activities, as he wants you to introduce him to all the different types of vehicles

He’s a young mech so he is more curious towards the different form of earth cars and who is better for him to drag than the maestro that you are, with you in his driver seat passing by an auction of brand new sports car, the bright and sleek forms of them catching the gaze of the eye and the optic

Poor you, having to answer all of his questions about the inside of the vehicle,

And I mean all of them, smokescreen won’t stop asking about all the different types of questions for every bolt in the cars that are out there, you would think that by being able to transform into a literal sports car, you would think that he would know the basic earth technology despite it being somewhat primitive to cybertronians

“Hey not all humans know what is in their bodies, we are the same too!, not all of us are medics!” The speedster would excuse his short coming with an embarrassed rev of his engine before his attention is swayed (again) by a sign of someone who sells car parts

“Oh~!, what does an ignition system mean is it like a flame thrower?!, I never knew humans had defensive systems in their vehicles can I get one?!” My sweet summer mech, you make a mental note to have him beside you as you make him read ‘dummy mechanic guide 101’ before you take him to watch the whole process of fixing a car

That mech will cause your pockets to bleed if you caved in for every time he kept begging you to tweak a few things in him, install new upgrades, to make him drive faster.

But do you blame him?, no!, “nothing is better than burning some rubber!” Smokescreen keeps repeating in hopes of poking that competitive driver in you.

Knockout

Speaking about competitive drivers. That is how you two came to know each other.

Meeting at one of the many illegally held street races that knockout goes to blow off some steam, both literally and figuratively, but do you blame the mech? He has the most deranged and unhinged superiors let him have this for himself.

You two raced along with each other more often than not even going on one on one speed off of the finish line to see who would stop first, only for you to do so when your fuel tank is on its last drop as you watch the cherry red vehicle speed off before hearing it’s ‘driver’ laugh at your predicament of being stuck without gas in the middle of nowhere.

“I would advise you to have some extra emergency fuel, you wouldn’t want to lose to me do you?~” lightsparked chuckles left the rolled up illegally tinted glasses of the cherry red car beside you before taking a sharp drift and speeding off into the night leaving you stranded

Rude much?, that was one of the first impressions you had about the anonymous driver of the vantage car, despite that you couldn’t lie and say that his ‘charisma’ (his words) started to to rub off on you and that you in fact do not mind it (also his words)

Days come and you see the unmistakable lavish finish of your racing buddy with his vehicle parked there looking all pretty and buffed to the point you can see your own reflection on the red finish

“New paintjob you got there darling!, where did you get it from?” You turn you head at the sound of the low whistle from your racer friend as he asks where you got the new paintjob of your car

“My own paint booth! At my shop.” And just like that, you have caught knockout’s attention

The decepticon’s medic engine revved with life at seeing you tap on his heavily tinted windows to drop your business card onto his driver seat, and a promise of a very good discount on the polishing and waxing combo

Is this is how humans initiate courtship? Color him satisfied

Because he will take up that offer, so what if he is a huge alien robot that can turn into a car?, do you expect him to pass on such an offer?, of course not!.

And that is how it all came to, just as you were about to close off your shop you heard a loud honk of your ‘friend’ as he drives towards you, “I hope that I am not too late~” and just with that you were met with a 16 feet tall flashy red mech who was waving the business card you gave him a few nights ago with a very mischievous smirk on his faceplate

The thing that knockout forgot to take account for other than turning off his audio receptors because of your blood curdling screams that was caused by seeing his bipedal form like it’s nothing, is that this is your first time seeing him in his bipedal form

“I am expecting extra treatment from you after frying off my audio receptors!” And thats what he is most concerned about,

After sitting you down and giving a brief introduction of himself and reassuring you that he is not planning to harm such a talented craftsmanship such as yours, he wastes no time laying on the plastic covered ground as his helm is supported by his servo with a dashing smile of anticipation while pointing to his red finish

“Polish me like one of your sports cars, and make sure to make it special~” you can’t help the smile that creeps it’s way to your face as you waste no time rolling your overalls and let it hang on your waste to help maneuver when getting into the tiny details of the huge mech laying there in front of you as he rants about his superiors, and how you are a much better company.

After a few hours of polishing and waxing knockout until you can see your reflection on his finish you take a few steps back to admire your work, “already ogling at me aren’t you?, can’t say that I blame you!, I am quite the sight~” he teases as he gets up and takes a look at himself before a look at you seeing the sweat glistening on your exposed skin giving it a shine.

“Can’t say that I’m complaining when having such a sight” such a polished way with words that he has, you thought to yourself as his long talons ruffled your hair before he transforms into his alt mode waving you off and promising that he will make sure to flex your work, “make sure to not make other mechs or earth vehicles look as good as me!”

And with that is how you took knockout as a regular customer, an alien customer that doesn’t pay for the services you provide, at least he provides as a formidable racing buddy

⌗𝗡𝗼𝘁 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴/𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗴-𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗽𝗲𝗿𝘁𝘆 𝗼𝗳 @berracids

[foibles-fables]

since y'all said you'd like to see it--which, THANK YOU, omg, I'm so damn flattered--here's a little snippet of my OCs!

brief relevant context: medieval sword and sorcery fantasy. Rainen, early 20s, daughter of the realm's sovereign, once the spare to her elder twin brother, has been unwillingly thrust into the position of heir following her twin's recent demise. Leythe, also early 20s, orphan turned soldier, recently promoted to palace guard and then promoted again to Rainen's personal guard. This is at a point where mutual feelings have developed but are still unspoken. Rainen is being pressured to take a consort. Nobody is happy about it.

This was a 15 minute free-write exercise and thus might eventually be part of the actual story, might not. Just character vibes, for now. Okay on with it!

--

She comes back hours later with bruise-red eyes and bloodied knuckles, shoulders tipped forward under the weight of reticent silence. One look at her tired, sullen gaze and her guarded scowl stiffens Rainen's jaw like stone set to mortar.

"Leythe." It's hard to temper the hurt out of her name. Hard to stay imperious as the worry turns into a queasy melding of anger and relief. She tries again, keeping her voice as cold and indifferent as the winter lingering outside the tower walls. "I didn't give you leave."

Mouth twisting, Leythe leers down. Hasn't met Rainen's eyes, yet. Won't. Scoffs. "I thought you didn't give me orders." Her words are off-shaped, soft-bounded, running into one another. "Wasn't that the arrangement?"

"You're drunk."

"Had some ale," Leythe says on the tail of a sigh, flexing her injured hand.

"Looks like you had the whole brewery. Smells like it, too."

"Fine. Had a lot of fucking ale."

Rising from her writing desk, Rainen pins her with a glare. Finally Leythe glances at her, if only cornerways. A grief, there. Bitterness like a storm in the distance, trapped beneath her skin. "Tell me why."

There's an open cut splitting the skin of her largest knuckle—the blood is hers. It rolls along her fingers, dripping to the floor. Her eyes follow it there. All rough, all gravel, she murmurs, "You know why."

A long moment passes. In the silence Rainen's heart wrenches deeper and deeper into her chest. At last she loses the struggle against softening.

She says, "Come here."

Leythe shakes her head, curls tumbling. "Wouldn't want to get blood all over your nice things."

It's spoken too sincerely to be a jab. No trenchancy, no hidden barbs. Rainen sighs through a pang of nagging guilt. She should't have been so harsh.

"I mean it, Leythe." Words like melt instead of marble. She retrieves a nearby washbasin and takes a seat, wringing the excess water from the cloth. "Let me see your hand."

"It's nothing."

"It's bleeding."

A half-hearted shrug. "So be it. I've dealt with worse."

Petulance begets petulance, even if there's no real bite left behind either tone. "Oh, shut up. If it's broken and you don't take care of it now, you can just watch your sword rust when it gets worse."

Unsurprisingly, that tips the scale in favor of compliance. With a reluctant grimace, Leythe steps closer and offers her hand, sitting down only after Rainen shoots a pointed look at the chair beside her own.

Rainen is no healer—far from it, in fact, probably wouldn't know a fractured bone from an intact unless it was poking through to the outside—but this part seems simple enough. This part, she can do. So she tries. Gently swabs the cloth over Leythe's fingers, clearing away the blood, watching it tinge the water in the basin to a sickly pink. Whether from the drink or her diciplined tolerance, Leythe doesn't flinch as the touch passes over the tear in her skin. Though Rainen stays focused on her task, she can still feel Leythe's stare, centered, searching. Another flicker of cureless regret courses through her at the sight of the silvery marks nicked over Leythe's swollen knuckles. So many old scars—and now this one, fresh and raw, because of her.

"Who did you hit?" she asks, one step above a whisper.

A humorless laugh. "An alleyway wall."

Better than a person, if only just. The image of Leythe, drunk, striking stone just to burn through the desolation before returning tightens Rainen's throat.

Despite the scars on one side and the calluses on the other, Leythe's hand softens for Rainen's.

"You know I like this no more than you do," Rainen says.

At this, Leythe seems to retreat further into herself. "Then you don't have to flaunt him."

"Oh, but I do." The rancor is unfair, uncalled for, and unable to be staunched. "Cyril made sure of that."

Grim silence in reply. Funny how the mention of a dead twin takes all the air out of a room, all the fang out of a fight.

"You'll see the physician first morning mark," Rainen says after a moment, wrapping a second dry cloth around Leythe's knuckles. "For now, sleep this off."

Finality. No room for explanations or justifications or apologies. Everything that can't be helped still looms, will loom, on and on.

And yet—

When Leythe lifts her gaze to Rainen's again, helpless and begging and clearest blue, Rainen reaches out to caress her face, thumb tracing along the freckled arch of her cheekbone.

Always unsaid but always known nonetheless. Always an ache forcing its way straight through.

[numberonetacostan]

TACO HEADCANONS TUESDAY

I like to think that, when Taco hit Pickle in the face with a lemon during s1 ep11, she genuinely hadn’t meant to hit him as hard as she did and do actual damage. The remaster may push back on this one, we’ll have to see, but I tend to think it was a genuine accident. She did mean to hit him in the eye with a lemon, to make her pirate joke, but keep in mind that they were underwater. If she wanted to hit him, she’d have to use a different amount of force from that which she uses when they’re on normal land, yeah? I think she miscalculated how hard she needed to spit it, and hit him way harder than she meant to. But she couldn’t break the act of course, so she did nothing about it. 

Taco has overheard much of what the hotel residents said about her after her betrayal, yeah? It did not help with her personal feelings of guilt or self-image, but she’d shove it down like she did all of her other feelings. So, I like to think that once she’s back in the group, Balloon tries to apologize to her for what he’d called her back at the beginning of season 1! She’s the only one he’d never gotten to apologize to, and he’s a sweet guy like that, yeah? He’d want to apologize even after what she did. So he would, and Taco would not give one shit about what he’d said, truly. She’d just brush it off with saying she’s been called much worse. Balloon would give a little ‘oh, really?’ since he wouldn’t have been a part of much of the shit-talking at the hotel. Taco would then go on to give her like, top 100 list of the worst things people have called her. It would not be a pleasant list. Balloon has never heard such derogatory names nor so much cursing in his life, which is saying something since he is friends with Nickel. 

I think Knife and Taco’s relationship would improve greatly after the events of the season 2 finale. Really. Not only because Taco is trying to be better to other people now, but mostly because she still treats Knife like shit. Knife probably gets a lot of people walking on eggshells around him, once he’s become a ghost and all. A lot of people are trying to be… gentle? With him? They’re just different towards him now that he’s dead. It won’t last forever, but it’s definitely an issue for him at the beginning. Not with Taco though. She will flip Knife off as much as she pleases, she will feed him any and all insults that she pleases, and she does not give one single shit that he’s dead. He’s a ghost…and? He’s still there, he still has his smart mouth, and he still annoys her to pieces. She’s trying to be better to everyone except Knife. Fuck him. She will tell him to fuck off with 0 hesitation. And you know? It’s familiar to him, like he didn’t just die, and he appreciates it. So maybe he hangs around Taco a bit more, as long as Pickle is otherwise occupied. Maybe their bickering becomes slightly less antagonistic and slightly more friendly. It’s not like either of them would ever admit it. 

Taco adamantly calls Cabby ‘File Cabinet’. It’s not in a disrespectful way, but in the same sense as how she took ages to call Mic by her nickname rather than saying ‘Microphone’ every time. [I think this is an autism thing? Source: Myself.] She simply doesn’t use nicknames with people she doesn’t feel close with, yeah? Too personal for her. She’d call Silver by his full name every time as well, despite his (wince worthy) efforts to befriend her. 

I like to think that if Taco having spit so many lemons back in the first season ever gets brought up again, in front of Mic, Mic will end up asking Taco to spit a lemon for her. She wants to see, since she’s never gotten to!! And Taco would say no. It’s an uncouth way to go about things when she can simply take things out of her shell the normal way. But Mic really wants to see. Just once! Just one lemon!! And Taco, though reluctant, really can’t say no to Mic at this point, so does oblige and gently spits a lemon out into her hand for Mic. Mic keeps the lemon and is relatively surprised that it doesn’t have any saliva on it. Maybe it gets squeezed on some nachos :).

[aureatescars]

Sasha is thankful for Leon taking over when he gets a little too caught up in his own thoughts again. Leon doesn't have to do it and Sasha would be able to manage on his own, but rather than being irritated by Leon taking over a task for him he feels nothing but relief. It makes the heavy thoughts and feelings less stark, softens the edges that cut deep into his mood. And when he finds Leon's gaze gentle with understanding and sympathy Sasha feels a little more warm and a little less like he made yet another mistake.

Still, it's no surprise that the memories and the regrets that come with them don't fade immediately even as the two of them settle at the table. Leon is the one to break the silence, pulling Sasha back from trying to pinpoint the exact day he last had any sort of contact with his mother.

He doesn't expect Leon to ask about her again, half expected him to stir the conversation somewhere else, quip at him, tease him about putting all this effort into making this dish and then not immediately digging in. But this isn't anywhere near that, it's not him being pushy either, he's merely giving Sasha an opportunity to speak about her if he really wants to.

"I—" He hesitates at first, but finds that despite the guilt and regrets he really wants to tell Leon about her. "Yes," he says then. "Closer than most from what I understand." Much like Leon he goes about stirring his stew with his spoon, but then pauses to grab a bit of bread to cut into smaller pieces with his knife to eventually dip it into the stew. "I don't have any siblings, and my father..." Sasha winces. "That's a whole different story." And one he doesn't want to get into right now. "Let's just say it was just me and her from my early teens on. She tried to be there for me best she could, but her working hours as a nurse meant I was left to my own devices a lot."

He shakes his head. "In hindsight that clearly wasn't the best thing... I was an angry teenager, lashed out at just about everyone, and in general got myself into a lot of trouble." He sighs and thinks of J.D., always loyal, always at his side no matter what. Yes, he'd been a troublemaker, but Sasha was just as bad, if not worse. He pushes the thought of his late best friend aside. "But still, she always believed in me. I can see that now." He makes a dismissive gesture with one hand. "However, back then she was disappointed I didn't live up to my potential of course, but no matter how angry she was with me, she'd always be there when I needed her." He looks down at his knuckles, a few small scars, old ones, draw taught over them as he flexes his fingers. "There was this one night..." He considers whether or not he really wants to tell Leon about it, but realizes that the other has seen far worse sides of him by now. "Worst fight I've ever gotten into as a teenager was because some lowlife was harassing Irina."

Worst not because Sasha was heavily injured, but rather because he almost did something back then he could never have taken back. Christ, Irina and him had barely been seventeen. "Broke his nose, and his jaw, a few ribs, too, probably..." He remembers that night very vividly, even after all these years. Not because of the pain, but because of the way Irina had to pull him away before he could do something stupid, the way she looked at him, full of fear, was something that twisted his entire perception of himself. He tells Leon as much now, although it rings hollow given all that he has done since.

Once again he is grateful that Leon doesn't point out his hypocrisy, but rather just keeps listening to his tale. "I took Irina home, but we didn't even say goodnight." He sighs, remembers how it had stung that she didn't even glance back at him before entering her parents' house. "I don't even really remember how I got home after that." He looks up from his food then, both of them having slowly made their way through dinner. It helps with the nostalgia somehow, eating something so familiar. Memories slowly clear away before his inner eye until he's no longer looking at fragments of his past, but at Leon. There is no judgment in his eyes, no pity either, he simply listens, and for once in his life, Sasha in turn can't stop talking. "I just remember that when I opened the door my mother was right there waiting for me, she took one good look at me, and before saying anything she got the first aid kit, sat me down and started cleaning my busted knuckles." He smiles slightly, but has to swallow around a lump that formed in his throat throughout recounting these events. "And then, after wrapping them up, she said: 'I'm sorry.' As if she was the one to blame for what I did."

His tone turns exasperated and he has to blink away a bit of moisture from his eyes. To his surprise it's easy to admit to the next thing. "I broke down and cried like a child for the first time in years." Saying so is accompanied by a shrug, but Sasha remembers the anguish he had felt, any embarrassment about it he has long since made his peace with. He was a child back then. Lost and afraid.

"I straightened myself out after that, for her, for Irina, but also for myself." He leans heavily against the backrest of his wheelchair, it creaks quietly. A reminder of his most recent, most cutting mistake.

He lowers his gaze back to the bowl. "But I guess I haven't really changed after all, have I?" All it took was a catalyst and he fell right back into that anger he felt as an adolescent. Only now it was a raging fury fueled by grief and without Irina there to rein him in, he spiralled completely out of control and took J. D. down with him.

He pushes the remaining bits of his food around with his spoon. "Maybe it's for the best if she thinks I'm dead."

There is a hint of sorrow around the smile Sasha gives Leon in turn, but he bites back the self- deprecating comment that sits on the tip of his tongue. I used to be. He still thinks quietly to himself as he turns back around in order to not give Leon enough time to decipher the emotion he's sure to be present on his face. Leon has developed quite a way of reading him these days, or maybe Sasha has become less guarded, either way, he doesn't want this to devolve into an argument, so he simply takes the compliment. He isn't sure that after everything he's done he could still call himself that, but hearing Leon say so has him think that maybe, despite never being able to amend the wrongs he did, he can still do better than before.

It's not long until dinner is ready after that and the genuine excitement in Leon's expression and tone when he comes to check up on the food has Sasha's pensive mood from before dissolve into something more mellow, almost content. Smiling suits him Sasha thinks, not for the first time, as he looks up at Leon. Then, because he cannot help it, he nudges Leon in the side again when he, once again, manages to stand right infront of the cabinet Sasha needs to open.

"She did," Sasha says as he pulls out a bowl. "I'm not half the cook she is, but you'll have to make do." There is no bitterness there, but his tone is a little wistful now that his thoughts stray back to simpler times. He pauses in his actions of filling the food from the steaming pot into the bowl. "I haven't talked to her since Irina's death." He says quietly, not really meaning to, but he's taken aback by the realization that the words fall from his lips unbidden. He wonders if she is doing well, and then, within the same breath, he wonders if she thinks he died in the war.

The wave of guilt hits him hard as he stares down at the pot of steaming stew, taking in the familiar smell, nostalgia mingles with regret. If he reached out to her now would she even want to speak to him? Would she recognize the man he'd become?

Would she forgive him?

The touch of a hand to his shoulder has him startle from his thoughts and he looks up at Leon, his own hands still frozen mid-action. "Sorry." His voice cracks on the word. He clears his throat, then attempts to get back to the task at hand without spilling food everywhere. "Just getting lost in my own head." Again.

[bubble-tea-blossom]

The Soldier and the Smuggler

10. The Eye

Pairing: f!reader x Joel Miller. wc: 6.3 k

Warnings: canon level violence, description of ptsd symptoms, this story is 18+ only

Previous chapter

(my pic)

“I don’t like the look of that,” you mumble, peering at the stitches down Joel's back, “how’s it feel?” The wound's turned color, and the skin on either side is too warm.

“Sore.”

You inhale slowly, rolling your eyes. You pity whatever doctor Joel went to before the Outbreak.

“Well, lady luck must have a thing for you,” you say, rummaging through his bag for the black case. You pluck the glass needle from its case and the vial that says doxycycline, examining the other bottles. Half seem to be more antibiotics while the other are a mix of epinephrine, and names that are gibberish to you. “No insulin, huh?” You mumble. You know the answer, you’re hoping maybe you missed something.

Joel shakes his head.

You stab the needle through the small entry point, drawing an inch worth. You hold it for Joel to see, “This look good?”

He shrugs, “You think its necessary? That’s worth a lot.”

You resist rolling your eyes again, “Would you rather I wait til you get septic and the drug isn’t enough and all I can do is say ‘I told you so’ while your heart stops?”

Joel’s eyes widen, “Alright, jeez.”

You have easy access to his the cap of his shoulder, pushing the short sleeve of his t-shirt out of the way. You aren’t exactly how deep you’re supposed to insert the needle so you figure better too deep than too shallow and plunge it as far as it will go. Joel’s face blanches and his teeth creak with how hard he’s clenches his jaw. Maybe that was too deep. You adjust and pull it out halfway to plunge the medicine into his muscle.

“Sorry,” you grimace.

Joel blinks rapidly, speaking with a strained voice “Jesus girl, I think you tickled my bone.”

You withdraw the needle, a pinprick of blood following in its wake. “Why didn’t you do it yourself then?” You deflect the guilt. The thought of a needle scraping your bone sends shivers through you.

“You came at me with a needle and that look in your eye, I knew it best to just lie still.” Joel says. Despite his slight monotone, you catch the amused undertone. He’s teasing you. Probably to make you feel less bad.

The shy grin falls from your face when you catch yourself. You need to stop treating the man like a friend. He certainly doesn’t feel that way.

“I’m gonna go disinfect this,” you say and escape to the roof.

It takes you longer than you’ll admit to light up the tinder pile Joel set up last night. Lighting burning pyres with gas and a torch is a different game than birthing a flame from a spark and kindling on a windy roof.

You keep the fire low, wary of smoke. And once the needle is cauterized, you kick out the flames. 

◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇

Its been about a week since you settled in the sky rise office building. You spend your days sleeping, interrupted by a daily check on Joel's wound. It’s healing shocking fast, and without further signs of infection. You take full credit for that and tell him every time you check it.

You do so to irritate him, grow the distance between you two despite the small space you’ve been squished into. But he takes it in good nature, daring to give you a soft smile when you make a particularly amusing jab. You lean harder into your anger for support.

You don’t seem to be irritating him, but he is irritating the fuck out of you. He’s restless. Rotating between pacing, obsessively cleaning his guns and gazing out the window like a widow yearning for her husband.

His restlessness is driving you crazy. Mainly because you feel at fault. He's currently cleaning his revolver for the one-hundredth time. ‘Why are you still here?’ You want to shout. 

Instead you ignore him and settle on the couch, closing your eyes. The click of metal sings in the background as you slip into an anxious sleep. Not even two hours later, you wake up, a scream in your throat that never took flight. The nightmare is seared into your eyelids as you try to blink it away, the images chasing you into consciousness. 

Men chasing you, pinning you to the ground, ripping you apart. You hands pushed against skin that felt like stone, your strength sapped from your body. Your attempts to fight back were as useful as flies bouncing off a brick wall. 

Now awake from the nightmare, you find yourself not entirely free. You look around, and realize you’re still trapped in a room with an opponent who has every advantage on you. Joel has already proved that.��   You’re not thinking anymore. The handle of your knife is clench so tightly in your fist it digs grooves into your skin. With Joel’s back to you, you slip out of the room as silent as you can and then make a break for it. But run where? The roof? Its too open and he’ll look there first.

You go to the far corner of the floor and find an office you haven’t explored yet. With a thundering heart, you barricade the door with the heavy oak chair, before crawling under the desk. Muscles clenched in a tight ball, you beg the images nipping at your eyelids to go away. 

It takes a long hour until your brain comes back online. It knocks timidly, suggesting that the smuggler has been alone with you for over a week, and here you are, unharmed, for the most part. 

A deep, shuddering sigh escapes your chest as you rise slowly from your hiding spot. Your back and every joint aches as penance for your panic. The last thing you want to do is return to the smuggler. You poke through the cabinets in the dusty office, looking for anything good. 

Eventually you to the roof. The sun is blessedly covered by clouds, in the distance they roil dark grey and black with a suppressed anger that mirrors your own.

With a groan you slide your back against the raised edge and watch the clouds darken, chugging from the bottle of rum you found. 

A throaty caw from overhead makes you jump and turn to regard the raven perched on the edge. He’s silent as he tilts his head this way and that, regarding you up and down with an unsettling intelligence in his black eye. He makes you jump again when he caws twice. 

You give him your best imitation caw, which gets a head turn, now watching you with his other eye. You two watch each other until the first rumble of thunder, which he flies away with one last caw. Perhaps telling you to get off the roof. 

The rolls of thunder send vibrations through your stomach. When the first flash of lightning lights the sky, followed by a clap two heartbeats later, you know it’s time to get off the roof of the tallest building in the city.

Something keeps you rooted. Despair. Defiance. You aren’t sure. You don’t really care.

When the rain breaks, it starts slow at first, then all at once it turns torrential. Your bruised face tips to the sky, pelted with drops coming down so fast they feel like pebbles. The thunder rumbles inside your chest, like thousands of lost voices, calling to you.

You find peace in the chaos. Wouldn’t everything be so much easier if you got hit by lightning? What a way to go. Definitely not something you ever considered in all your years.

You take another chug of the rum and laugh.

The rain hides the sound of the door slamming open. It hides his footsteps until he’s right behind you.

“What the hell are you doing?” The smuggler demands, stepping into view. His arm is raised protectively, shielding his face from the pelting rain.

You close your eyes, and remain silent. Trying to summon the peace he chased away.

He says your name with urgency.

“Go away, Miller,” you echo the first time you heard his name, all those years ago. Spat out in derision

"Where'd you find that?" He demands, indicating the rum. 

"Found it in one of the offices," you take another swig.

The bottle held loosely between your fingertips is easily snatched. This gets your eyes open.

“This ain’t gonna fix your head,” he waves the bottle. When you refuse to give him any kind of response, he breaths out of his nose like an angry bull . Then he flings the bottle over the edge.

“Hey!” You stumble upright, peering over the side in dismay at the loss of your only friend. 

The sight to the ground is dizzying, the rain streaking down makes it hypnotizing. You lean further against the ledge, the bricks dining into your stomach, your head weighing heavier and heavier. You can't even see the broken bottle. You can imagine it shattered into unrecognizable pieces. Just like you, if you were to fall. What would you look like, you wonder, if you slipped on the wet bricks and took your last tumble?

A hand claps on your shoulder, wrenching you back from the edge with an anxious call of your name. The hard touch floods your system with instinctual panic, your brain too drunk to summon logic.

You dance out of his reach and then you slap him. Hard. Raindrops fly in an arch from the contact. You know by the stinging of your palm that his cheek feels it too, but he just stands there, blinking away the pain, looking unimpressed,

"You done?" He asks, tone cold.

That, was the wrong thing to say.

You don't really know how it happened, mostly surprise on Joel's end. You grabbed flesh and twisted, gaining control over his momentum and with a spit out "You motherfucker," slam his back against the ledge. You shake the rain from your face, staring into the very surprised eyes of the smuggler pinned against the wall, your hands with fistfuls of his shirt keeping him there.

"I begged you," you snarl, reduced to an animal, ”I begged you to let me go" you press him further back, not paying attention to how he's leaning over the edge at this point. He certainly is, vertigo clutching at him, his arms have grabbed yours, fingers digging in to steady himself so he doesn't slip.

"I begged you, and you ignored me." You pronounce ‘ignored’ like it is the most perverse sin a man could commit.

You stand there clutching each other, the wind and rain a deafening orchestra. Strikes of lightning illuminate your faces as you stand there pressed against each other, nearly nose to nose.You watch the surprise bleed from his face as he processes your words, replaced by something else.

A handful of heartbeats pass, an eternity passing between each rhythmic thump of your heart. He keeps entirely still, aware that any slip on the wet bricks might send him or you both over. You find you’re okay with that. 

There’s a whisper of your name, almost washed away with the rain, "You gonna kill me?"

You blink rapidly, and a lightning strike hits close enough you feel the building groan.

"I wouldn't blame you," his voice is calm despite being breathless. He's telling the truth. 

The fight drains from you. You shake your head and force your stiff fingers to loosen their grip on him, stepping back.

You don't want to kill him. You don't want to kill anyone. You've spent your life after the Outbreak going out of your way to avoid killing anyone. And each time the world forces your hand to end a life, infected or not, you lose a piece of your old self. A harder, brittle piece replaces the softer part of you. If you keep surviving, day after day, year after year, losing yourself bit by bit, replaced by a new version, molded by fear and distrust, will you even be you anymore?

You don't enjoy thinking of your soul as Theseus's ship. You look at the smuggler, stubbornly standing and waiting for you instead of fleeing like a sane man. Who better understands this, than the man standing before you. Is he the same man he was before the Outbreak?

No. The scars on his face, the scars you've seen on his body, the look in his eyes, give you your answer.

"You gonna come inside?" He asks.

The cold rain has left you freezing, your clothes and hair are soaked to your skin. And you have no intention of leaving. 

You slide your back down the brick ledge, and tip your face to the sky. You will give Mother Nature her chance to judge you; to spare you or strike you down. You'd rather her than an Infected, or worse, a man. At the very least, the rain might wash away your failures. 

Your eyes are closed, but you never feel Joel's presence leave you. You never hear the stairwell door. You convince yourself you are indifferent.

Eventually the rain wanes, and the wind dies. The next time you open your eyes, there is only the sound of water dripping from high surfaces. Your neck aches as you raise your head, sore from sleeping on the ground. The dawn is just beginning to break, a pale yellow yolk peeking over even paler blue skies.

You look down and see a jacket covering your torso, hugging your body warmth against you. It's Joel's. Made from worn, brown, waterproofed leather. You've always been a sucker for how leather smells. Pride keeps you from breathing it in.

Instead you look around the roof, and spot the smuggler sitting a few dozen feet away. Back to the wall, arms folded, chip dropped to his chest, eyes closed.

You shed his jacket, ball it up, and throw it at him. The impact wakes him up.

"I don't need your fucking jacket."

Joel shakes off the water drops beaded on the surface, "You were shivering."

That sentence makes you sad. You’re aching for any hint of care, but your stubbornness refuses to accept any that comes from the smuggler. If you did, if you softened to him, you would be betraying a part of yourself. Some principal you’re clinging to, to keep your sanity. 

“I’m not your damn date,” you lash out, “and you and I both know you aren’t a gentleman.” The feeling of him holding a gun to your head and tying your hands together hangs over your shoulder as you stare at him. 

Joel remains silent but his face speaks for him.

Rubbing your palms over the rough, wet bricks to ground yourself, you look over the damp city. Joel joins you a good couple feet away, only close enough to talk easily. 

“I don’t know what the fuck to do,” you admit, “if I go back to the QZ I’m dead.” 

“So don’t go back.” 

You shake your head slowly, knowing the words will be the death of you, “I can’t leave May.” That’s the only thing you know for certain, the only fact that remains stable in your heart. 

Joel clears his throat awkwardly. 

“I never told them my name,” you rebut his unspoken concern, “there’s a chance they don’t know about her. Besides, she’s a smart lady.” You do your best to convince Joel and yourself. 

“What do they even want with you?” 

“They don’t. I’m just a mistake,” you pick obsessively at a hangnail on your thumb, “I remember Gunner was pissed, he wanted a Sergeant. It started with Co-“ 

You think it through, closing your eyes to slowly replay the events back in the warehouse. Lieutenant General Gunner leaning over you, his broken front tooth snagging on his lip when he snarled at you. The distaste in his eyes sends shivers down your spine even now. It wasn’t hate. To hate someone you have to respect them at least somewhat. He looked at you like you were the cockroach crawling over his kitchen table. Nothing more than a disgusting bug to be squashed and never thought of again.

You hear Joel retreat behind you, and from the sounds of it, washing using the overflowing rain barrel.  After replaying your memories, the name comes back, “Does she look like Sergeant Cohen to you?” Gunner had yelled. 

“Who the hell is Sergeant Cohen?” Joel asks, voice muffled by his hands rubbing down his wet face. 

You can picture a blurry image of her. You only know her because she’s the daughter of someone important and everyone knows who's she is. Who she’s the kid of, you can’t remember, and you aren’t sure if its because you never bothered to file that away or if it was beaten out of your head when the soldier rattled your brain. But you can picture her face. 

With a sinking gut, you put two puzzle pieces together, “I…look a little like her. If you squint real hard.” 

You face Joel who looks like he dunked his whole head in the water. He shakes his head, hair sending water drops flying, hitting you. The unpleasantness of being sprayed unexpectedly distracts you for a second before he speaks. 

“Or if your face is beaten to a pulp,” he says matter of factly, wiping the water from his hair, but his eyes still look guilty taking in your black eye that’s turned blue. “When I found you, the soldier laying it on you was holding a camera.” 

Your face drops, “You didn’t think to mention that earlier?” 

Joel shrugs, “What difference did it make? I’m telling you now.”

Unfortunately you agree with him. “Guess it doesn’t make a difference to you,” you say coldly, “you still got paid.” 

Joel just stares at you, chewing on the left side of his cheek. You aren’t sure if he’s waiting for you to duck your head or look away, but you do the opposite, waiting for him to break the silence. He breaths in like he’s going to say something but then just shakes his head. 

He leaves the roof. 

Being alone brings some peace, your muscle unwinding a bit. You take the time to wash yourself as best you can, ignoring that without his presence you also feel hollow. Exposed.  

Afterwards, you feel better, even if its just a little bit. Squeezing the water from your hair, you look out over the city, planning the route back to Boston. With a flap of wings, the raven from yesterday joins you. 

“Hello again.” 

You both regard each other with a tilt of your heads. One of his black eye roves up and down before the raven flaps its wings and settles on the lip of the barrel. You leave it to its drink and head back down to the office. 

You find Joel packing the last of his stuff, shoving his bedroll down into his backpack. You aren’t sure if this is where you part ways. You keep silent, sheathing your pistol behind your back, watching Joel fold the maps and tuck them away. You realize how little you have, nothing but the clothes you’re wearing and the stolen pistol. 

“I’ve hid here long enough,” you say. Joel stops only to nod before resuming his packing. Is this where I say goodbye or something? 

You don’t have the mental whereabouts to think of something else to say, you just leave. The smuggler follows you down the fire escape wordlessly. The brisk morning air, still heavy with water feels refreshing on the bruises covering your face. When you stand on the earth for the first time in almost a week, you feel a bit of strength return. 

The motherly reunion is immediately squandered by a croaking click click click from the distance. You instinctually crouch, pressing flat against the side of the building. Joel drops to the ground behind you. 

You hush him, "Hear that?" You whisper. By the squinty look on his face while he listens, no, he does not hear that.

"Clickers, close by," you supply.

He nods, taking his revolver in hand, each footstep placed with precision, as he takes point. The plastic grip of the pistol in your hand is only mildly comforting with one magazine remaining, which can easily be dumped into one clicker to take it down. You can tell the exact moment when Joel hears them. His whole body stiffens, and his posture shifts from trepidatious to stalking.

When you round the corner of the building, you finally see them. Two Infected who's entire bodies are overgrown by the fungus, their faces split open by fleshy orange pads. You have to manually override your flight instinct. Unfortunately they’re shuffling exactly where you were planning on going. 

Two is an odd number. There must be more nearby. Could be five more, could be twenty more. Best do this quietly, and then sneak by any others, unnoticed.

Joel motions at you, putting a finger to his lips. Then he motions for you to take the Clicker closest to the building.

You nod. He puts away his gun and pulls from his pack a long piece of shrapnel fashioned into a shiv. You follow suit tucking your gun behind your back and flicking open your knife.

The Clicker closet to you lets out nasty gurgle, sending shivers down your arms. You hate getting close to any Infected, but especially Clickers. Touching any part of their fungus covered forms peels your insides. Also there's the whole risk of having your throat ripped out.

You part ways with Joel, tracking your Clicker as it shuffles this way and that. As you approach, you can see Joel tracking his from the periphery. You have to cast that from your mind, you need to focus. You clutch the knife handle harder.

You get within five steps of the thing before the sounds of Joel taking down his Clicker has the one in front of you whipping around. You get full fungal frontal as it shuffles right at you faster than it was before. You start back-peddling as quietly as possible. Shit, shit, shit.

The thing stops and is winding up to do its horrible shriek, which will set it on you. It’s incredibly risky, but you have no other choice. You lunge at the monster from head on, knife first. The blade cuts through the first layer of fungus covering its jugular, stunning it briefly. You take advantage, swinging around it and grabbing it by the back of its head so it can't bite you while you stab it through the slit you made in the toughened skin. Blood spurts from its neck and you restrain it, only letting it go when it falls limp. 

The body falls to the ground with a thump. You straighten up, chest rising in fast breaths. Joel is watching you, wiping blood from his hands, a dead Clicker by his feet. He nods at you, like a coach pleased with their athlete's performance. You stomp out the butterfly that dare flutter in your stomach. Why should you give a damn what he thinks?

Joel motions with his head, indicating you to follow him. It happens to be the way you were planning on going, so you do. You get within a few feet of him when something from the side tackles you to the ground.

You land on your shoulder hard, the impact sending jolts through your arm. You pin your other shoulder to your ear, protecting the side of your neck from the Stalker thrashing on top of you. It would prefer to rip your throat out but one stray nibble will kill you. You manage to plant one foot on its stomach, pushing against its weight, so its teeth aren’t almost grazing your skin. 

Before you can even think of how you’re going to get your knife in it or get your gun out without letting it too close, its thrown off you. You watch from your back as Joel pins the side of its head against the ground with his hand and shoves his shiv under its chin. 

The Stalker falls still, and Joel stands, wiping the blade on his jeans. You let your head fall against the pavement, forcing your breaths to come evenly. Fear dissolves into anger. How could you let yourself for being so distracted? By what? Idiotic emotional conflict? What are you, a teenager again?

“You good?” Joel asks, leaning over you to extend his hand. You interpret this as him being impatient, wanting you to get over almost getting bit.

“I’m fine,” you smack his hand out of your way. Joel sighs heavily as you walk past him. You ignore this and keep a close look out for any more infected lurking in the alleys. 

“So,” you keep your tone short, “where will you go?”

“West,” Joel says, his tone just as clipped as yours. 

You shake your head, anger rearing her head too quickly these days, “I can’t believe this bullshit. That’s not a fucking answer.” 

Joel must have had enough, because he stops and rounds on you, forcing you to take a step back to maintain distance. “If you hate me so much feel free to walk in the other direction. I. Didn’t. Know. I thought they were Fireflies. I thought they was gonna ransom you for someone named David Hobbs. I’d done shit like that for the Fireflies before and no one ever ended up tortured or dead. FEDRA lied, just like Randy lied.”

You are completely taken by surprise. That's definitely the most words he's ever said at once. The name Randy feels like a slap to your face, further stunning you. 

It takes you a good many moments to unravel everything you're feeling. Does it make it better, knowing he thought the Fireflies wouldn’t kill you? What about the fact that he came back, risking his life to get you out?

And yet, when you made the deal with Randy, a part of you knew something was off. You weren't stupid. You were desperate. You know Joel isn’t a dumb man.

“You never say sorry, do you.”

Joel lets out a huff, “I don’t believe in that shit. Saying sorry don’t mean jack, just makes excuses so its okay to do it all over again. You make amends by doing right by the people you wronged.”

You surprisingly agree with his sentiment. Ninety-nine percent of the times you’ve heard the words ‘I’m sorry’ were merely placating fluff. You cover your emotional turmoil with a joke, “Good thing you aren’t married.”

Bitter amusement takes over Joel's face, “My ex-wife would agree with that.”

You reel, the new information truly taking you by surprise you momentarily forget the argument, “You had a wife?” 

His perpetual frowns deepens, “Don’t gotta say it like that.”

“But I do. You just don’t seem the marrying type." You defend your position.

Images of Joel in a tux, scratching at the bow tie tied too tight around his neck, standing underneath an archway of flowers floats in your minds eye. 

Joel being surprisingly sassy for a middle-aged man rolls his eyes while he says, “I guess she’d agree with you,” with a lilt to his voice. 

You have to physically restrain yourself from peppering him with a thousand more questions. You clear your throat, “Well, if the whole actions speak louder than words stands, when I ask you where you’re going, I expect an answer that doesn’t sound like you’re still dragging me around with my hands tied.” 

By Joel’s face, you can tell he genuinely hadn’t been paying attention to that. But he nods, “Deal.” 

“Ok, you’re going to lead me out of this city, and then I’m going to Boston, and we never have to see each other again. Deal?” 

"Deal." If you knew better, you’d say Joel almost looks doleful.

Silently, you walk side by side down the street, dogging around broken down cars and any pits in the asphalt. The heat isn’t as bad as it was a week ago, the rain on the ground keeping things cool for now.

The caws of ravens sitting on streetlights are the only sounds in the city. You wonder if the on from the roof is among them. 

The answer is solidified when two sweep across your path at about head height, right in front of you and Joel. They do a barrel roll around each other before spreading their wings and sweeping up high again, disappearing around the corner of a building. The display feels pointed, it feels familiar. It makes even Joel stop and look after them for a moment.

“That was cool,” you grin at him, the aerial acrobat performance lowering your walls.

Joel quietly agrees, “Didn’t know they could do that.”

You wonder if that was some sort of mating ritual, do ravens mate for life? 

“I always wished I could fly,” you say before you can cringe at the silliness of it. “You’d never be trapped, you’d always have an escape route, just take to the sky.” 

Joel does his part not mentioning that nets exist, and guns. 

The ravens keep pace with you for a while, performing tricks in the air. One swoops so close by your head you feel the rush of air breeze past. And then eventually you notice that you haven’t seen any cross your path in a good while. They’re gone. 

The city is completely quiet. This should be a comfort. The lack of Infected swarming the streets, means less danger, right?

Joel is dead silent. Quiet even for Joel. But he’s very much on alert. He feels it too. Something different in the air. 

And then you see it.

An eye. Painted on a wall. It’s huge, about three body lengths tall. It’s made of three simple lines. The color is a red that's rusted to almost brown. Like oxidized blood.

Joel stills besides you when he sees it.

“Should we turn back?” You whisper.

“No,” He responds immediately. His tone confirms your suspicion. Whoever made the symbol might want exactly that. It could be a warning, or a funnel.

“Ok, so we move like escaping a rip current,” you offer. 

Joel nods. Being predictable might be the worse thing to do if someone is truly hunting you. Although so far, this is the first sign of people in the city aside from the note in the office building. One of the notes did mention hunters, but that note was years old, maybe even a decade.  

Joel keeps to the shadows of the stores, moving in an almost zigzag pattern down the streets. You keep close, checking behind at regular intervals. An hour goes by. Then two. And still no further signs of people. 

Midday you seek solace in a cafe, eating the brick of a protein bars slowly and in silence. 

“So what gives?” You speak up for the first time in hours, “I haven’t got the shivers you get when you’re being watched, but there’s something. It feels like the city is…” You grasp at straws trying to figure out what you’re exactly expressing. 

Joel doesn’t look away from the window as he names it, "Waiting."

His tone sends shivers down your back. It’s not just your imagination. It’s real. 

“Yeah,” you agree, regarding him differently, trying to put your finger on it. 

And yet the rest of the day goes by much the same. The sun hangs low in the sky, coloring the city with hues of orange and yellow. The shadows grow longer and have you jumping at ones that reach out for you from around corners. You decide to hole up in a bookstore before it gets too dark. 

“I’ll be back,” Joel says before he disappears. You assume to take a piss. 

Five minutes pass. You help yourself to the protein bars riding in his backpack. Ten minutes pass. Worry gnaws at your stomach. You comfort yourself that without a watch it might be less than your anxious mind feels its been. Your own bladder presses uncomfortably against your belly. 

You step outside, the warmth of the sun significantly leached compared to midday. 

“Joel?” 

You wait for one beat, two beats. There’s no answer. About a half mile west a group of birds take flight. They look like your ravens. 

Ok, first you’re gonna pee before you piss yourself, then go find Joel.

You step into the alley and your blood freezes. 

There’s a man. About twenty feet from you, staring right at you. 

He puts his left hand up, “Oh thank god, I thought I was a goner,” his right hand holds his stomach, putting pressure over the blood soaking the light grey of his shirt. He’s older, older than Joel by about fifteen years, maybe more. 

He keeps walking closer, slowly, “Please, have you seen my daughter? We got separated,” 

The world shifts aspect ratio as your vision narrows, the pulse in your stomach beats so hard you distantly wonder if you’re having an aneurysm. The moment balances on a knife's edge. You must make your decision. Listen to your body, or listen to your brain. If you don’t act in the next two seconds, you might not get to decide anymore. 

The man stumbles closer, his hair is completely grey, “Please, I need your help-“ he never finishes his sentence. You pull your pistol from behind your back and empty three rounds into his chest and belly. He stops, clutching at his chest, and wordlessly falls to the ground. You can hear him gasping, you know this is when you finish the job. You abandon your training and listen to instinct. She tells you to run. 

Shouting rises from nearby, mostly behind the man. You don’t stick around to meet who’s yelling, definitely not the man’s daughter. You make out one clear male voice, “She fucking shot him!” 

Instinct praises you, you were right. Next she urges what to do next. Find Joel. God please don't let them have got to him first. 

You burst through the bookstore, never stopping when he’s not there. You swoop his backpack off the ground and put it on as you run out the back. 

“Joel!” 

You slam the back door open and immediately duck the bat that swings at your head. You stumble backwards as a man the height of the door frame steps inside. You raise your gun, but you’re too close, he swings at you with a fist the size of your head and knocks you to the ground. 

Your gun clatters to the ground and is promptly kicked away. You start sliding backwards on the floor, desperately trying to blink away the stars clouding your vision. You aren’t fast enough, he’s on top of you. He grabs you by the throat and starts closing his hands together, all the while being completely silent. You grab at his hands, digging your nails into skin that feels like stone as your vision starts to fade. 

-

Joel feels the mans punch land on his cheekbone, likely doing more damage to the attacker’s fist than him. It stuns the man briefly, giving Joel the opportunity to take him to the ground and crack his skull on the asphalt. Joel springs up, looking for the second attacker that ambushed him. Sounds of a scuffle draw his eye to the backdoor of the store, left wide open. He runs in without second thought but skids to a stop at the confusing sight. 

The second attacker lying on the ground, strangely still. Joel sees your boots hidden underneath the man and rushes him. 

“No, no, no,” Joel grabs the man and throws him off you surprisingly easily. He’s limp. And you’re completely covered in blood. 

Joel drops to his knees and shakes you, trying to wake you, but your eyes spring open immediately. You cough and blood bubbles up. You roll sideways to spit more out on the floor. 

“Are you ok?” Joel demands, confused and scared. 

You nod and with one hand hold a thumbs up while the other holds your knife, the blade and handle drenched in blood. Joel looks over at the body and finally sees the hole in the man’s throat leaking fluid like a burst pipe. A bleed like that comes with a severed jugular vein. 

“Shit girl, you’ve got some aim with that thing,” Joel praises, helping you wipe your eyes clear. You lean over and spit more red onto the floor. 

“They waited til we were separated. One approached me, said he was hurt,” you tell him as fast as you can, breaths coming a mile a minute. 

Joel feels pure rage burn his throat at the thought, “They've been watching us.” 

You nod, “I killed him before he got close, I don’t know if that was the right thing to do.” Joel sees your hands shaking as you wipe your face, "I didn't think, I just reacted to my gut, everything felt so wrong."

“Look at me,” Joel asks of you. You listen. Joel feels something tug deep in his chest at the wildness of your wide, scared eyes. “You did the absolute right thing. Now we gotta go before others get here.” 

You breathe deep, your face hardening. You stand and regard the man you killed apathetically. Joel wonders what you’re doing before you crouch and remove the shotgun from the man’s shoulder. 

You check the chamber, then you nod, “Let’s get the fuck out of here.” 

Joel regards you for a moment longer than he probably should. Holding the weapon you earned in battle, covered in blood, with that look in your eye, you make quite a sight. 

“Yes ma’am,” Joel agrees, taking point out the door, feeling a little better knowing you're watching his back.

A/N: Thanks for reading!

[roxabellas]

Please Don't Go Any Higher

｡･:*:･ﾟ༓･*˚⁺‧͙ﾟ+..｡*ﾟ+˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚₊✩｡˚☽

word count : 16,574

warnings : everything. angst, drug use (cocaine), other drug mentions (heroin & weed), relapsing, matt helders is there for quite a while (sorry), betrayal, weight loss, erectile dysfunction (he can't get hard), relationship problems, alcohol, roleplay (it's very awkward), masturbation (him, but he can't do it), he watches porn, insomnia. i think that's all

It had been coming up to two years of sobriety from cocaine for you and Alex. About a year and ten months. You'd both vowed to quit together, for each other and for your relationship. It wasn't the first time you'd both tried to quit, but almost every other attempt at leaving the addiction behind had ended in a late-night coke binge after anywhere from a couple of days to a week. The kind of relapse that left you reeling with the effects for days afterwards before falling back into your previous destructive habits of burning through one or two grams a day like clockwork.

But just when it had started to feel like you'd both finally overcome it, like you were finally sober for good, he got invited to his friend Matt's birthday over text.

He knew exactly what the party would be like, and he wasn't too keen on going. A typical house party with drinks, music, cigarettes, and likely lots of drugs. The last place a recovering drug addict should even think about going.

But then again, it was his friend's birthday, and Matt knew he was recovering. He would keep him away from the drugs all night, distract him. At least he should.

The night of the party was thick with smoke and haze, a sharp chime of glasses being clinked together in cheers ringing through the crowded rooms every so often, the high-pitched sound lingering and hovering until the next clink came along to take its place.

The faint vinegary, slightly acidic and distinct scent of heroin being smoked and cooked wafted through the air every so often, weaving in and out of between sweaty bodies like a needle through thin cotton and filling rooms with its harsh, almost suffocating presence. It clung to the walls, mingling with the stale smoke from someone's cigarettes, the earthy smell of cannabis burning in the corners, and the strong odour of spilled liquor.

Alex hadn’t intended on staying for too long, just turned up to show his face for his friend's birthday, maybe a beer or two. But when the shots had started to come, he decided to let himself loose just a little bit. Just one for old times sake, then another one because Matt insisted, then yet another one because it was rude not to. And before he knew it, his throat was warm and his tongue felt too big for his mouth, the alcohol spreading its warmth through his body.

At a point in the night, he found himself in the humid kitchen, the dim, flickering, yellow light bulb that was definitely way overdue a change giving off an uneven glow, casting shadows where there shouldn't have been any. Its tiled walls did little to muffle the echoing bass pulsing from the other rooms of the house, loud laughter and distorted conversations, reverberating across the tacky floors, coated with layers of spilled beers and fruity mixers.

His glass beer bottle with a rogue, now damp cigarette rolling paper stuck to the bottom vibrated in his hand from the sheer intensity of the volume of some grimy remix, so oversaturated he could hardly tell what the original song was.

The cluttered countertops were sticky with a substance he wasn't sure he wanted to identify as he rested his palm against the edge, premature guilt slowly thickening in his chest, crawling up from his stomach to the back of his throat.

The small, clear plastic bag sat opened and half empty next to Matt's dark green beer bottle, its powdery contents pale and shimmering like ground glass beneath the dodgy, flickering light.

He watched Matt as he chopped the fine white powder with his expired driving license on the messy counter, tapping it against the granite as he separated it into three thin lines.

“Just do one line, mate. It's not like you're gonna relapse,” Matt said, trying to persuade Alex into it as he slid his stained license across the counter, sweeping the line of cocaine with it to put some distance between the three.

Alex stared at the piles of small piles of white powder carved into perfect lines, the faint but sharp, chemical-like scent taunting him, luring him, a smell that used to fill him with promise, conviction, and security, now flooding him with an overwhelming sense of dread and disgust.

“I've been clean for almost two years, Matthew,” Alex tried to argue, but the double vodka shots he'd knocked down earlier in the evening had mostly clouded his judgement. “I don't want to get back into all that.”

Matt, more intoxicated than Alex, obviously wasn't going to let up, trying to appeal to that small part of Alex that still craved the rush that the drug brought him, the blissed-out highs and euphoric space-outs. “Just one line,” he tried to convince him, his hand fishing into the back pocket of his worn-out jeans for the five pound note he'd tucked in there earlier. “It's just for a laugh. You can control yourself now, can't you?”

He watched helplessly as Matt rolled up the note with a practiced hand, similar to how he'd roll up a cigarette, and leaned forward, one end of the note against his nostril as he inhaled.

His nostrils flared slightly as the cold, sharp sting of the coke travelled up his nose, biting at his sinuses. He stood up straight again, sniffing a few more times instinctively as if trying to pull the feeling deeper into his body, restless and impatient as he waited for the rush of the drug to hit. His hand came up to his face subconsciously, wiping his nose with the heel of his palm as if to try to get rid of the lingering burn.

He rested back against the countertop, carelessly knocking something over behind him with a clatter as he leaned back a bit too far, now facing Alex with a heavy, daunting gaze, a mix of challenge and expectation floating in his dilated pupils.

“Your turn,” he finally said, his voice smooth and coaxing. Alex's heart thudded in his chest, his whole body frozen save for his eyes, which were darting between Matt and the remaining two thin lines of cocaine.

He raised his eyebrows slightly, waiting, a small, mocking smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You know you want to,” he added, low and teasing, trying to remind him of something buried deep inside him, something he'd fought to forget. “Don't be a bore. It's just one. For me. Birthday and all that. You look like you need it, anyway.”

It was working.

Alex swallowed hard, his throat dry and tight as he felt the familiar but now dreaded ache of temptation seeping back into his veins, blurring into his bloodstream. He rubbed his face with his free hand, fingertips pressing hard into his eyes like he might be able to erase the need clawing behind them. 

He could almost feel it, the cold, biting rush followed by the practically heavenly high, and he craved it. The alcohol and all its warmth and deceptiveness swam through him, weaving in and out of between his ribs, tying tight knots around his lungs, and clutching his heart in its unforgiving grip.

He hated how much he wanted it. The bitter edge of the drug as it burned through his nostril lining, that sudden electric-like jolt that made him feel alive, the all-consuming, floaty high that followed just a few minutes after that made him feel like nothing else in the world mattered, and he started to forget how far he'd come and how hard he'd fought to stay clean. Some nights he dreamed of it. Dreamed of the routine that became ritual, burn, the rush. The silence that always followed after, and ringing echoing in his ears as the world stopped screaming for a moment. It never really left. It just waited.

“I won't be able to control myself if I do any,” Alex said with a low voice, almost brittle.

Matt didn't flinch. He licked the pad of his thumb and pressed it to the edge of the sticky granite countertop where some stray white dust clung like flour, and stuck it beneath his lip and rubbed it along his upper gum. “It's not a relapse if you don’t let it be one.”

Hadn't Alex whispered those words to himself before, when he was still drowning in his addiction? Muttered them under his breath while staring at his reflection in the mirror, eyes wide, cheeks flushed and nose bloody, vibrating with the lingering effects of his binge. It’s only a problem if you make it one. You’re in control.

That final string of restraint, of self control, of logic, threaded inside of him began to fray, withering away and wearing down more and more with each passing second that he allowed his mind to feed into Matt's persuasion, to the illusion that this would make him happy.

The backs of his eyes tingled as Matt held out the rolled up note between his middle and index finger, and Alex tensed up, his resolve crumbling under the weight of the overwhelming temptation.

One line. One tiny, thin, short line. It wouldn't do him any harm. He could stop after just one. He would stop. It would be worth it. Just one. 

His hand trembled and shook as he reached out, every fibre of his body screaming at him to stop, to take control of his urges, to remember how and why he'd battled so hard to curb his addiction for this long.

The weak, fragile voice inside him, the one of reason, grew quieter, drowned out by the deafening noise of his detrimental desire.

He inhaled shakily, his breath hitching as he brought the note up to his right nostril, the feeling of the cool plastic against the soft but miniscule hairs inside of his nose. It felt both alien and painfully familiar, a sensation he hadn't felt for so long, yet it settled back into place as if it had never left. Like a puzzle piece that had been missing for years, and when it's found a few years later, it's dusty, and a little bent out of shape, but still fits into its designated spot just right.

He shut his eyes, an attempt to blind himself from the moment, to block out the reality of what he was about to do.

With a trembling, hesitant hand, he pressed his left nostril closed, and with one swift motion, he inhaled sharply, the powder rushing up his nose. It felt like a harsh slap to the face. The cold bite hit him immediately, like someone had stabbed an icicle straight into his brain, causing the note to fall from his fingers onto the countertop as his hand flew up to rub his nostril as a futile attempt at easing the sting, as if he could somehow take it back, as if the damage hadn't already been done.

His vision blurred at the edges as his eyes watered, the burn now deep in his sinuses as the cocaine settled. It clung to the back of his throat, the bitter, chemically taste clawing its way through his body. He used to find comfort in the sensation, the suffocating, painful feeling bringing him a strong but faux sense of security, but now it only pulled up deeper into his endless pit of strangulating regret.

It crept up on him slowly, giving him enough time to think about how long he'd been clean, how deeply he's betrayed everyone who believed in him. Every beat of his own heart seemed to mock him and his pointless promises, the ones he'd made to both you and himself. The promises you'd rebuilt your relationship on after losing sight of each other through the dense fog of your addictions.

He stared blankly down at the countertop, his eyes vacant and focused on the pattern of the dark grey granite, his body frozen in place. His tongue tingled, a numbness plaguing his gums, making his teeth itch.

This is fine, he thought. I'll let the high hit, then after that, I'm done. It's just one.

Matt snapped him out of his bubble with a hard slap on his upper back with a loud laugh, almost sending him into the counter. “There he is! I knew you still had it in you, mate.”

Alex didn't reply, though his glassy and a little distant eyes stayed locked on Matt as he straightened up. He brought his hand up to his face and rubbed at his nose again, the skin reddening under his palm with the intensity he hadn't even realised he was rubbing it with. He looked around the kitchen with what little mobility his mind had convinced him his body had, and everything felt vivid. It didn't feel good, not yet, at least. Noises sounded brighter and colours looked louder. Colours leaked and bled into his central vision from his peripheral like wet ink on paper, smudging and blurring everything together.

He felt the guilt first, rising in his chest like a slow and oily tide, staining his ribs with his sin.

One year and ten months.

All that suffering, nights spent staring at the off-white ceiling with bloodshot, hollow eyes, wondering is it even worth it? The mornings spent waking up with a sweat, and pouring coffee instead of whiskey with shaky hands. How he used to cry when he was home alone, the overwhelming urges and cravings hitting him like sledgehammers. How hard it had been to stop, how much he didn't want to admit that he adored it, the rush. He hadn't let himself even imagine it for almost two years.

The beat of the music thudded in his chest like a second, third, fourth, fifth heartbeat, interrupting his inner turmoil. He could feel each thrum in his muscles, his pulse hiking up, making every inch of his body feel too hot.

A few minutes passed like that, dissociative, disorientating, dizzying, the limbo between snorting the line and the high hitting. He was unable to keep still, moving in slow circles around the kitchen, his restlessness evident in his hands as he drummed his fingers against whatever surface they could crawl to the quickest, then cracked them, then threaded them through the sweaty mop of strands that lay atop his head as his nose began to drip.

He felt it coming on strong, a tremor beneath his skin, his thoughts speeding up faster than his mind could keep up with. It spread from his nose, through his skull, down his body, seeping past his muscles into his bones until it felt like he was levitating. It felt like there were fireworks in his brain, and his jaw tightened once more as he turned his head to look around the kitchen with renewed clarity. The previously dull, plain, grainy kitchen cupboards and dusty walls now seemed extraordinary to him, illuminated by the blaring light overhead that no longer flickered, but sparkled.

The adrenaline ran through his veins, pumping around his whole body, all the way to the tips of his fingers.

Everything made sense for what felt like the first time in months. He felt fucking incredible, his heart racing in his chest. His vision felt sharper, every edge looking more defined, every colour more vivid. He looked at Matt, who was fumbling with his pockets and muttering something about where his lighter was, with a slightly lopsided grin and said, “That's fuckin’ good.”

Matt looked up at him at that, his own pupils blown wide and nose tinged red, and his lips pulled upwards in a smile. “I told you, didn't I? Fuckin’ told you.”

Matt nodded towards the remaining thin, white line of coke, and he said, his voice quieter than before, coaxing, “Have it. Go on. You've already had one, might as well go all in.”

Alex didn't need convincing this time around. Any thought that managed to make itself prevalent among the whir of his blurred mind was promptly drowned out by the irrational but insatiable urges of more. Of prolonging the high, of intensifying the rush, of getting so insanely beyond out of it to the point where he didn't even know what was real anymore.

He picked up the note he'd dropped after his first line and rolled it back up tight before holding it up to his nostril, pressing his other one shut as he leaned down again. He lined up the other end of the note with the edge of the line of powder before inhaling sharply, quicker this time, greedier, the powder rushing up his sinuses with that same cold sting, but this time, he welcomed it.

He smiled as he straightened up once more, blinking furiously and rolling his shoulders back, the tip of his nose still damp from the first hit. He felt alive, invincible, like the brightest possible version of himself with tingling skin and a surplus of energy.

He'd forgotten the promises, the sobriety, the hell he'd clawed himself out of, the small voice of reason rapidly shrinking underneath the need, the rush, the need for the rush.

He sniffed hard, trying to pull any last bits of powder deeper into him as the telltale numbness spread across the bridge of his nose, blossoming across the centre of his face until he could barely feel his skin anymore, his vision warping like an out of focus camera lens.

He cackled, feeling the cold sweat beginning to prickle and collect on the back of his neck. The music made the walls throb with the sheer volume, every colour piercing his vision, and he said, louder than he'd intended, “I forgot how fuckin’ good it was.”

Everything quickly spiralled after that second line. Each time they felt the euphoria start to taper to an end, Matt chopped up fresh lines to keep them both suspended in that dizzy, all-consuming high.

He kept telling himself this is the last one, that he'll just do one more, but whenever someone cut another line for him, it was like his body moved on its own. Bending over and snorting it greedily, desperate to keep the buzz alive, because heaven forbid he go five seconds without it.

He did three more lines. Maybe four. Maybe five. He'd stopped counting once he'd realised the numbers served as nothing but strikes on a tally chart in his mind.

At some point in the night, probably closer to morning than midnight, he ended up collapsed on one of the tattered settees in Matt's smoke-filled living room, strong weed, faintly vinegary heroin, and bitter cigarettes having flooded the room hours ago, festering in the corners and lingering on the walls. There were either half-naked or fully naked women everywhere. A few had pressed their bare skin against him periodically throughout the night, their fingers twirling his hair, their giggles hot against his ear, but he didn't engage with them beyond a crooked grin and a gentle nudge to show that he's not interested. But as he was sprawled on the couch, two girls who were almost as high as him that he hadn't known for much longer than five minutes curled up on either side of him, a hand on his chest, a bare thigh draped over his legs, both giggling and whispering slurred attempts at dirty talk.

Their floral perfume made his nose itch, so strong it was sickening to breathe in. Their hands on him felt almost painful, wrong, but he didn't move them, or shove them off like he probably should have. He didn't have the energy to move himself, let alone two other people. He laid there, staring at the ceiling, his mind making the blank, off-white colour seem far more interesting and intricate than it really was.

He let the girls beside him drift off into shallow, drugged sleep, their hands still sprawled uncomfortably on his body. He didn't even have the physical strength to move their hands off.

Sleep came in broken, jagged pieces, if it could even be classified as sleep. The grey morning light bled in painfully through the blinds that were stained with god knows what.

It was well into the afternoon when he finally stumbled out of Matt's house, squinting his aching, bloodshot eyes against the harsh noon sunlight. He was still wearing his clothes from the previous night, reeking of alcohol, cigarettes, and everything in between. He may as well have had a massive sign reading “I relapsed” in big, bold letters draped over him. It would've been less obvious.

He felt like he'd been hit over the head with a thousand glass bottles then been stuffed with the shards. There was a persistent, omnipresent painful throb behind his eyes, reverberating through his skull with each step he took.

His skin felt too tight for his body, like it was pulled taut across his bones, almost accentuating every regret from the night before. His hands trembled in his pockets, feeling hollowed out, scraped raw on the inside. The high was long gone, and now all that remained was a crippling soreness riddled with shame left in its place.

By the time he turned up home to the little house you share, it was almost 3PM. His keys clattered sharply against the door as he fumbled to slot the correct key into the lock before turning it, pushing the door open after hearing the quiet click of the handle unlocking.

He stepped inside quietly, worriedly rubbing his nose with the back of his hand, paranoid, as if there was some leftover powder dusted over his nostrils that would give him away. He heard the quiet simmer of the kettle boiling in the kitchen and the accompanying clink of a ceramic mug being set down on the countertop.

He dropped his keys onto the entryway table, trying to will himself into being normal, but his skin crawled, the ghost of the cocaine clinging to him like a filthy second skin. He took a few deep breaths, trying to convince himself you wouldn't know, couldn't know. You weren't there. He just had a lot to drink, that was all. He could not let you find out. It was just a one night thing anyway, he wouldn't let it become a pattern or a routine like it was before.

He swallowed hard before he stepped into the kitchen, his eyes settling on you pouring yourself a cup of tea, the searing sound of the boiled water being poured into the mug painfully loud for his fried senses.

As you turned around the fetch the milk from the fridge, you saw him stood in the doorway and you jumped, having not heard him come in over the sound of the kettle, and you said, startled, “Fuck off, you scared me. You alright?”

He let out a dry attempt at a laugh that morphed into a heaving cough. Seeing your smile sent a twang of pain through his chest. You didn't deserve this. You didn't deserve to be lied to. “I'll be fine, probably. Drank too much.”

You shut the fridge and crossed the room back to the counter and twisted the lid off the milk. “I can tell. D'you want a cup of tea?”

You were already pulling his mug out of the overhead cupboard before he got a chance to reply, a stupid-looking Back To The Future novelty mug you'd gotten him for his birthday a few years prior. “Please, love. Bring me back to life.”

You let out a small laugh as you filled his oddly shaped mug with the boiled water, watching as the tea leaves gradually seeped through the filter paper, bleeding into the water in thin tendrils and staining it a deep brown.

He let a half-hearted wonky grin infiltrate his face, but it felt stiff and foreign. You poured a splash of milk into his mug before giving it a stir with the same teaspoon you'd used in your own, the metal clinking against the ceramic walls before you handed the mug to him. “You smell like shit,” you added, only half joking.

He smiled and took his mug, flexing his fingers to properly grip the boxy shape before taking a slow sip, hoping the hot drink would replenish some of his aching soul. “And how do I look?”

You sat yourself down at the small kitchen table with your mug, and you said, “Even worse. Didn't know it was possible for you to be ugly.”

“Harsh.”

“Go have a shower.”

He took another long sip of his tea, almost emptying his cup in one mouthful before playfully arguing, “I just got in!”

“And you can just go and get in the shower,” you retorted, watching him dismally swirl the remnants of his tea in his mug, probably regretting drinking it so fast.

You turned your head down to the page of your magazine you'd just flipped open, the corner of the page folded down. He tried to catch a glance of which one it was, Cosmopolitan, Vogue, ELLE, but he couldn't work it out. They all looked the same to him. Overly-edited pictures of celebrities framed with bold, colourful text containing promises of ‘hot moves that drive a man wild’, the quickest ways to burn belly fat, and flashy gossip columns.

He set his mug down a little too close to the edge of the smooth countertop before lazily pushing it further inwards and making his way out of the kitchen towards the bathroom with slow, weighted strides.

The door shut behind him with a dull click that seemed to echo in his ears. He leaned back against the wood for a moment, eyes closed, his body aching in places he didn't even know could ache.

One hand came up to rub at his throbbing forehead in an attempt to ease the pain plaguing his mind. He dragged his palm down his face, rubbing his nose again, rubbing it until the skin was red and hot to the touch, trying to find anything to blame for what he did. Anything except himself.

He peeled his clothes from his body, his clothes dry to feel but drenched in the vile smells of smoke, sweat and booze, the odour so thick and strong that it was almost visible as it rose up off of the fabric.

He tossed it in the corner before setting his fingers on the task of undoing his jeans, a task that seemed like far too much effort for him. He shut his eyes once more as he tugged at the denim to pop the button through the small hole, followed by a whir of the zip being pulled down, and he tugged them down his legs and stepped out of them as they gathered at his feet.

He left them in a heap on the bathroom floor before slipping his fingers beneath the taut elastic waistband of his boxers and letting them fall to his feet as well.

He felt disconnected from his body, like he wasn't inside his own skin. He didn't want to look in the mirror, didn't want to burden himself anymore than he already was with what would be staring back at him.

He looked down at his body, smudges of dirt and lipstick he didn't even realise had gotten on him decorating his clammy, almost grayish skin underneath the harsh overhead light.

As he moved to turn the warm water on, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and something inside of him recoiled violently at the sight. He didn't just look like shit, he looked wrecked. And he didn't just look wrecked, he looked spoiled. Exhausted.

He reached over the bathtub to turn the temperature up even higher, up to a sweltering heat, almost scalding. Something for him to feel, to make him focus on anything other than the sickening guilt swelling in every inch of his body.

He stepped over the edge of the tub and under the shower head, the boiling hot water hitting his back like a hundred tiny whips. For a moment, he just stood there with his head bowed, letting the blistering hot stream beat down on his bruised body, hoping it'll wash away the smell, the taste, the shame that felt like it was permanently tattooed on him, inside and out.

But it didn't work. If anything, it seeped deeper into his bones, into the marrow, the guilt settling in cold and thick as it made it clear that it wasn't going anywhere.

How could you do this? After everything you promised her, after being sober for that fucking long. And you threw it all away for one stupid night.

He dragged the soap over his skin with harsh, angry hands, over his arms, his chest, scrubbing at his face until it stung, but it wasn't enough. He wanted to peel his skin off, crawl out of this foreign body, and start anew.

He let the water run over him, so hot it felt like he was going to shatter like glass, leaning his head back against the wet tiled wall and closing his eyes, his breathing shallow and broken. It replayed in his mind constantly. Matt's shit-eating grin as he cut up the cocaine with his debit card, or his driving license, or some random old loyalty card with scuffed edges and curled in corners, he couldn't remember. He didn't want to remember. The feeling of the cold burn shooting up his nose, sour and sharp, followed by the hollow high.

He thought about your face when he walked into the kitchen, so sweet and trusting, oblivious to how badly you'd been betrayed just the night before.

He wanted to cry, properly cry, cry the tears that had been building up in his ducts from the very moment he let himself set eyes on the cocaine, but they wouldn't come. He just stood under the burning heat, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack.

Eventually, he turned the tap off with his weak fingers, fingers that didn't even feel like they belonged to him, and he stepped out over the rim of the tub and onto the bath mat, his damp feet leaving small imprints on the soft fabric.

He looked up to the fogged mirror, his reddened silhouette thankfully blurred due to the steam from his shower, and he dried himself off mechanically, dragging the scratchy fabric along his weak limbs. He wrapped the towel around his waist, drawing it tight, and he reached for the door handle, but he paused.

He wrapped his fingers around the handle tightly, taking a few deep breaths, filling his lungs with the humid air, trying to remind himself that you didn't know.

And you couldn't know. Couldn't find out. Because he knew it would destroy you, and him, to find out he'd relapsed, broken the solemn promises you'd made to each other to stay clean. And worse yet, to find out he'd relapsed and not told you about it as soon as it happened.

He swallowed down the lump of sickness and guilt in his throat and pulled down on the handle and walked out, padding down the carpeted hallway, leaving a small trail of water droplets behind him.

He pushed open the bedroom door with his foot, the hinges creaking as it swung open, and he moved across the room quietly towards the chest of drawers and he tugged open the top drawer. He grabbed a folded pair of black boxers and pulled the towel loose from around his waist and tossed it onto the unmade bed you shared and stepped into his underwear, pulling them up to his hips.

He rifled through the neatly folded shirts and jeans piled in the drawer, the ones you always teased him about, saying he folds clothes like an old man.

He dragged a faded grey top over his head and worn pair of jeans up his legs. It felt like he was dressing a corpse. He kept his head down, not wanting to see himself in the mirror again. He didn't think he could stomach it.

He tried to pull himself together, raking a hand through his damp hair, willing himself to be normal. His heart knocked uncomfortably against his ribs, and there was a tremor in his hands. He felt like a jumble of mismatched limbs and organs all stuck together.

He didn't want to leave the room, didn't want to face you again, not knowing how long he'd be able to hide what he'd done. He wanted to stay in the dull, quiet safety of your bedroom, where he could pretend he hadn't fucked everything up, where he could forget that he was no better than he used to be.

He forced himself to stand up with a shaky breath before heading out of the room to find you, his fresh clothes clinging to a few still-damp parts of his body, burying everything deep down where he prayed you wouldn't see.

He walked down the hallway towards the kitchen, stepping through the doorway, expecting to see you still sat at the small kitchen table, or maybe stood at the sink washing up a few plates you'd let pile up, but you weren't in there. His geeky mug that he'd left on the counter had been washed and left to dry on the rack, perched beside the mug you'd used, and he smiled a little to himself.

He turned back around and moved back down the hallway to the living room instead. He poked his head around the door and saw you curled in the corner of the couch with your legs tucked beneath you, doodling on your hand with a pen that looked to be almost out of ink, a blanket his mum had given you for Christmas a few years before draped over your lower half. You looked up at him as he entered and smiled, “Hi, stinky.”

He let out a small laugh, trying not to make it sound too forced, and he crossed the room, the late afternoon sun casting a line right across the middle of the floor through the curtains, and he sank down beside you on the settee. “I'm not stinky anymore.”

He leaned into you, tucking you under his arm, and he pressed a kiss to your temple, swallowing the lump in his throat. His hand found your belly instinctively, gently rubbing his thumb against it as he nestled into you.

You shifted in his arms a little, tilting your head up to look at him, and you asked softly, “How was last night?”

He felt his body stiffen just a little, and a thin blade of panic sliced through his chest. His mind scrabbled for something to say, something believable, something that wasn't the truth, but not entirely a lie either.

He let out a rough chuckle, his hungover headache still pounding around his skull, and he said, “Was alright. You know, lot of music and drinks. Quite loud. Matt got really carried away.”

You smiled, and he continued, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze to try and distract you from looking any deeper into his words. “It was mad, really. Definitely drank too much, obviously.”

You let out a small laugh, your eyes lingering on him for a moment longer before letting your head drop back down onto the arm rest, and he felt his queasy stomach flip with guilt once more.

He still felt dirty, even after his scalding hot shower, the kind of dirty that couldn't be washed away, no matter how much soap he scrubbed himself with.

The rest of the evening passed quietly, tenderly, the kind that would've made Alex feel at peace if it wasn't for the acidic guilt gnawing at every inch of him.

You took care of him gently, making him tea and getting him water, and trying to get him to eat plain toast or just a few dry crackers, both of which he could barely stomach.

You knew he could sometimes get a bit dramatic when hungover, acting like an old victorian man with the bubonic plague, but if anything, it made you care for him more, trying to keep his exaggerated complaints at bay.

When you finally led, dragged, him to bed, you curled up around him while he swallowed down the bile of self-hatred. He held you close to him, your warmth anchoring him as he stared up at the ceiling in the dark. His thoughts kept him awake long after you'd drifted off, the haunting echo of last night's mistakes chipping away at his skull more than any hangover ever would.

The next day dawned bleak and grey, a subtle drizzle streaking the windows, mirroring the heavy fog that festered inside his head. Physically, he felt a lot better. He was able to walk without the floor tilting beneath him and able to eat more than a few bites of dry, plain toast, but inside, he was rotting.

Each time you looked at him with those soft, loving eyes, it felt like a twist of the knife. Throughout the day, as you moved around the house, he hovered behind you like a shadow, brushing his fingertips along your waist or pressing a little kiss to the back of your head, anything to help him disguise the desperation clawing inside of him.

It was sometime in the late afternoon when he heard a ping from his phone, and when he checked it, his throat tightened. Matt's name lay in his notifications, perched above a message reading House isn't a tip anymore. Fancy coming round?

He pursed his lips as he read it once more in his head. Part of him wanted to believe that maybe he was going to apologise for pressuring him to do the coke, but another part of him just knew that wasn't going to happen. He scratched the back of his head, his cheeks puffing slightly as he sighed. He heard you moving around in the kitchen, quiet and efficient as you started making whatever you had in mind for dinner, contrasting how fast thoughts were flooding his brain.

You should say no. You should stay here, with her. Have a night in with your girlfriend. Pray to every god that you won't fuck up again.

But his fingers moved faster than his mind could come to a solid decision. He typed out, Yeah mate, might pop over in a bit.

He sent the message before tucking his phone back into the pocket of his grey joggers. He was just being polite, he'll have a couple of beers with Matt, maybe they'll watch a couple films.

He pushed himself up off of the couch, reaching behind him and gently rubbing his lower back with his hand for a moment before walking into the kitchen where you were pottering about.

You smiled at him as he came in before tossing a few things into a pan. He couldn't quite work out what you were making, but there was a pot of pasta boiling, and whatever was in the pan smelled like something vaguely tomato-ey. He leaned back against the counter, his tongue pressing against his cheek, before he asked, “Matt's asked me to come ‘round again. Can I go?”

He's never asked if he can go somewhere before, he usually just tells you, and you're the same.

You looked over your shoulder at him, a bit confused, and you said with a small laugh, “I'm not your mum.”

He chuckled dryly, shifting his feet beneath him, and he said, “Yeah, sorry, just because I went out last night and all. I don't know when he wants me there.”

You turned back to the stove, getting back to stirring the pot, and you said, “Go after we've eaten.”

Dinner was fairly simple. He sat at the small kitchen table across from you, mindlessly twirling his fork in the spaghetti while you chattered about your week, the people who had been bothering you at work, and some headline you saw plastered across a newspaper.

Your foot nudged his under the table as you told him about some silly thing you'd seen on your phone. The late evening sun casted a soft glow on you through the window, shining perfectly on your features, while he sat in the shadow.

You leaned over when you were both done, pressing a small kiss to the side of his mouth before stacking the dishes by the sink to wash later.

He stood awkwardly for a moment, every nerve in his body telling him to stay at home, to choose this instead, but he swallowed it down just like he swallowed everything else, and cleared his throat before saying, “I'll be off now.”

You smiled at him, grabbing his cheeks and pulling him into a quick kiss. “Don't be back too late, okay?”

“I won't, love,” he smiled and you let him go. He left the room and grabbed his keys from the entryway table before shouting a final ‘love you’, slipping his trainers on, and leaving.

The walk to Matt's place was slow and chilly, the cold air biting at his bare arms and sending a ripple of goosebumps across his skin. He stretched out what would've been a ten minute walk to be almost twenty as he dawdled. The puddles beneath him slicked his boots with each step, the cool breeze blowing his messy hair back, and he nearly turned back half a dozen times, but there was something restless and forbidden gnawing its way out of his chest that kept him going.

Matt's house was tucked behind a row of terraced houses with a cracked path leading up to the front door, which could've definitely done with a better paint job. It was in a dodgy area, people smoking god knows what on every corner, but he wasn't one to talk.

Alex knocked on the door, and Matt answered almost immediately, the door swinging open with a squeak from the hinges, and he had a wide, wonky grin plastered across his face. He dragged Alex in before he even got the chance to say hello.

Matt kicked the door shut behind him before saying, “Looks better than Friday, eh? Did most of it myself.”

They sat in the lounge together, cheap beers in hand and a severely outdated film playing on the equally outdated TV, the omnipresent lingering scent of stale cigarettes floating through the air that would likely never fully go away.

The conversation was easy for a while, the kind you'd expect from two people who'd been best friends for years. Matt told him about a girl he'd been seeing, a job he was going to try and pick up, and a new band he'd started listening to. Alex mostly listened instead of talking himself. He preferred to listen.

After a long while of chatter and laughter, Matt slouched deeper into his tattered settee, absently scratching behind his ear, and he said casually, “Wanna do a few lines?”

Alex's heart stuttered painfully in his chest. He knew it was coming, but he didn't want to acknowledge it. He gripped the bottle in his hand a little tighter.

He wanted to say no. He should've said no. He knew that. He knew it with a bright clarity that almost made him nauseous, but the word no stuck like glass shards in his throat. Because hadn't he already fucked up? So what difference would it make now?

It's Sunday, he reasoned with himself. Sunday night. A fresh start tomorrow. He could draw a line under today, under this whole past week, pretend it never happened, and start over on Monday.

This terrible, twisted logic wormed its way through his skull and into his brain, using its sick, persuasive tactics to trick his mind.

He swore to himself right then and there that if he just let himself have one more night with it, then he'd stop for good. Again. Hiccups in recovery are normal, he told himself. It's normal to relapse every once and a while. He'll start again tomorrow, and it'll be like it never happened.

Before he knew it, he heard himself say, “Yeah, fuck it.”

Matt's face lit up and he grinned, and Alex forced a smile in return, trying to mimic the easy, casual one he used to wear a couple of years ago when he was the deepest in his addiction, when it was all just a joke to him, a bit of fun.

Within mere minutes, Matt was chopping out neat thin lines of the fine white powder with his expired driving license, just like he did on Friday. Alex watched, unable to take his eyes off even if he wanted to, his stomach clenching with that painfully familiar mix of anticipation and dread.

When it was ready, Matt handed him a tightly rolled up ten-pound-note, slightly scuffed at the edges, the plastic a little sticky, but with little to no resistance, at least no visible resistance, he leaned down, one end of the note pressed against the edge of his nostril while he lined up the other end with the edge of the coke line, and he sniffed it up sharply.

He squinted his eyes, his face screwing up as the icy burn tore through his face. He sat up straight again, holding the rolled up note between his fingers like a cigarette, and his free hand came up to rub his nose, trying to ease the bite.

He slumped back into the back cushions of the sofa, swirling the remaining liquid in his beer bottle around as he waited for the euphoria to begin. His nose stung fiercely, making his eyes water and his nostrils drip, and he felt stupid for a few minutes, like a child who'd just stolen a sip of their father's whiskey and were now waiting to feel drunk.

He pursed his lips and let his lashes weigh his eyelids down, and he tried not to think about you. About what he was doing, about what he'd already done, about the mess he was making of everything.

But it's fine, right? He'll start again tomorrow.

He brought his bottle to his lips as he started to feel the high begin to rise in him, wrapping his lips around the rim and taking a long sip as the static began to bloom deep in the marrow of his bones.

His limbs started to feel lighter as the drug worked its magic, filling all the gaps inside him with bliss. The threads of his thoughts slipped apart at the seams, dissolving and dissipating until he was left with just this soaring, almost orgasmic ease.

He peeled his eyes open, a smile curling up at the corners of his mouth, and Matt leaned forward to cut a few more lines. It was thin like icing sugar, spread out in delicate rows, glistening slightly like crushed glass in the dim light, mirroring fresh snow.

“This is good, proper stuff, mate. Not mixed with cornstarch or anything,” Matt said proudly. “The man said it was from Peru. Paid a fuckin’ fortune for it. Worth it, though.”

Alex nodded, almost dreamily, hanging onto every word that came out of Matt's mouth. He leaned forward, tightening the rolled up note that had loosened between his fingers. He snorted another, the powder scraping up along the delicate lining of his nostril. It felt like someone was holding a flame to the tip of his nose, painful but hypnotic, and the sweet, numbing pleasure that he knew would follow was too good to resist.

He rubbed some excess dust along his gums with his thumb to bridge the short gaps between each line to extend and heighten that dreamy state.

Matt reached over and clapped him on the shoulder before taking the note from him to do a line himself. The coke sat on the scuffed table like small piles of sugar, looking like something that belonged sprinkled across a child's birthday cake rather than chopped up into lines like small soldiers in some dimly lit drug addict's living room.

Alex watched as Matt hunched over, his spine almost forming the curve of a question mark, and lined up the opposite end of the tightly rolled cylindrical note, angling it just right, tilting it to optimise how much he sniffs up.

He watched as his face screwed up as the powder shot straight through him, watched him blink rapidly for a moment to try and stop his eyes from watering, only for his nose to drip instead, the cool, liquid sensation trickling out of his nostril.

Alex's vision frayed at the edges, every movement blurring and fading together, and every noise a little too loud for his alert ears. The small plastic bag sat perched on the table, a thin halo of stray white powder surrounding it, an open invitation.

There had been six grams packed into that small pack to begin with. It had looked like so much when Matt first pulled it open.

Alex lost count of how many lines he did. After the first few, counting became impossible anyway. Numbers were nothing more than straight lines jumbled up and arranged in different ways, just another tedious relic of the real world that he'd left behind once he'd snorted the first line. Like his mind had been rewired to only understand and register the scraping of Matt's driving license, the tapping of it against the wooden table as he sorted them into rows, and the sharp inhale whenever either he or Matt had another line.

The cocaine hit differently as the night dragged on, the early, first couple of doses fulfilling that craving for him, satisfying the part of him that itched for the dreamy, floaty release, but as he did more and more lines, it turned hungrier, meaner.

His jaw ached, throbbing from constantly grinding his teeth, his muscles spasming uncontrollably whenever he forgot to force them to keep still. He jittered restlessly, alternating between bouncing his left leg, then his right, while his heart raced beneath his ribcage.

He kept wiping his nose every minute or so, first with the back of his hand or a stray tissue he'd found in the windowsill, then later just smearing the watery snot across his face without meaning to, without entirely realising.

He laughed at something Matt said, a ragged sound that hurt his throat on the way out, but not really registering what he said or why it was funny, before he bent down for another line, the rolled up note long abandoned, the curled plastic forgotten on the floor.

It wasn't fun anymore, not really, not like it had started out like, but it felt necessary now. To keep the momentum going, to keep topping up, to keep the crash at bay, not wanting to face the comedown just yet, unable to cope with the nauseous repercussions.

By the time the bag was empty, just small sticky clumps left at the bottom, which they scraped together and chopped as fine as possible for one desperate last round.

As the cold sting mingled around the rim of his nostril, Alex glanced up at the clock on the adjacent wall, and he couldn't tell if the clock was out of sync or if it was just his eyes. “Does that clock work?” he asked with a scratchy voice, pointing vaguely in the direction of the wall it was mounted on.

Matt looked to where he gestured, like he'd forgotten he even owned a clock, and he clarified, his voice just as if not more croaky than Alex's, “Ah, no. It's a few hours ahead and the minute hand's all fucked up.”

“Right,” Alex mumbled, reaching for his phone he'd tossed carelessly aside earlier, fishing into the gap between the cushion to retrieve it.

He brushed a few pieces of fluff, some crumbs, and some specks of glitter somehow off his screen before clicking it open, and his blurry eyes widened when he managed to decipher the numbers. It had just gone past 1:30AM. He promised you he wouldn't stay out late. He bit the inside of his numb cheek before pulling down his notifications, seeing a few messages from you, and he read the top one in his head.

I don't mind if you're staying there tonight, just let me know x

He swallowed thickly, and it felt like the stem of a rose going down his throat. It took him a minute to read the words properly, but when he did, he clicked on the notification and slowly typed a message out, being careful not to make any mistakes, not to draw any suspicion to what he'd done.

He hesitated before he sent it, his finger hovering over the tiny paper plane icon.

He could stay here, sleep the high off and play off the comedown as another hangover when he went home the next day.

But instead, like the fucking idiot he was, clicked the arrow-shaped send button before he could stop himself.

No, I'll come home xx

He stared at the words on his marginally cracked screen, the regret flooding him instantly. What the fuck did he do that for? He wanted to come home, that was true enough, to be in your arms and let you smooth out all of his jagged edges, but not like this. He couldn't come home like this. Blasted off his tits, his pupils blown wider than his iris, every vein pumped full of the three grams of coke he'd shared out of the six.

You'd know.

You'd been deep in the addiction with him those years ago. Kneeling together beside the coffee table, snorting lines where you'd now only set mugs or magazines, kissing between each dose. You'd experienced the freezing fire setting alight to your nostril lining, the limbo between, the drug-fuelled rush, and the sickening comedown, all with him for the years you two were addicted together.

You knew the signs. Maybe you wouldn't be able to tell immediately, wouldn't want to believe that he'd betray you, betray the promises of sobriety you'd made to each other like that, but you'd find out. He knew you would. And then everything would collapse.

The way he couldn't sit still, his chewed-up nose, the clenching of his jaw, his hollow eyes. They were all dead giveaways.

He dropped his phone onto the wooden table with a dull clatter, his elbows on his knees as he cradled his head in his hands, breathing hard through his sore nose.

He heard a low mutter of Matt's voice, probably saying something unintelligible, but it sounded distant, sounded underwater, muffled by the waves of guilt, regret and paranoia flooding his body.

He dragged a hand through his hair before pushing himself up off of the collapsing couch, grabbing his phone, his legs unsteady beneath him. They didn't feel like they belonged to his body anymore. Nothing did.

His joints ached as he forced himself to straighten up, his head too heavy for his neck. The room tilted slightly on its axis as he shakily walked, not enough to topple him over, but just enough to make a subtle seasickness bubble in his stomach.

He stepped into the kitchen, the harsh lights overhead fluorescent and stinging his eyes as he squinted, trying to find something to focus on. His eyes settled on the far corner of the counter, where he'd relapsed for the first time after almost two years of being clean just the other night.

Practically blinded by the bright lights after being accustomed to the dim living room lamp for a few hours, he grabbed a glass from the sink, unsure whether or not it was clean, not really caring either way, and he swilled it half-heartedly under the tap before filling it to the brim with cold water, his shaky hands causing it to slosh and spill all over the edges of the tall glass, all over his hand curled around the sides.

He brought the rim to his lips, a few droplets dripping down onto his t-shirt, and he drank it down greedily, the coldness of the water soothing his raw throat. It felt good, for a moment, just like everything else, but it didn't last.

He drained the whole glass in three mouthfuls, gasping for air between each gulp, desperate to wash it all away, but the bitter residue of the cocaine clung to his tongue like a permanent film, and the water did nothing to shift it or even begin to break it down.

His stomach clenched in an uncomfortable lurch as the beginnings of the nausea began to settle in, and he stayed there for a minute, hands splayed on the counter with his head hung low between his shoulders.

The high was still in him, but the flame was dying out, a crackling, ugly descent back down to reality. Even lower than reality. The self-loathing, anxiety and the gnawing shame were going to start leaking through the cracks.

Another wave of dizziness crashed into his brain like a migraine, and he gripped the counter tighter, his knuckles bleaching white from his grip.

He stayed in the kitchen for a while longer than necessary, his chest heaving despite his shallow breaths. The high gradually began to peel away, layer by layer, taking parts of him as it went until he was left with nothing but the nauseating, aching emptiness.

He wallowed there for what felt like hours, though in reality it was fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, marinating in his self-disgust, in his guilt that was so thick, so grimy, it coated him like a greasy second skin.

When the comedown sickness was too much to ignore and he knew he couldn’t delay it any longer, he forced himself to move, his sore feet protesting with every step. He shouted something to Matt, something vaguely relating to him leaving now, but he could barely hear himself over his deprecating thoughts, let alone understand himself.

He stumbled out of the door, nearly tripping on the cracked pathway as he made his way out of the estate with uneven steps. His trainers scuffed along the damp pavement, the shallow puddles looking murky underneath the dark sky. His limbs were sluggish, every movement feeling like the weight of the world was pressing down on him. His mouth was dry, his throat raw, and his heart's beating mirroring the skittishness of a moth trapped in a jar.

His hands delved into the front pockets of his joggers and he tried to focus on keeping his breathing even, steady, normal, to try and pretend he was just drunk, even though he'd only had a few beers.

The whole grueling trudge home, he muttered words under his breath like a mantra, a manifestation.

I'll start again tomorrow.

A fresh start, fresh week.

Tomorrow I'll never do it again.

He clung to it desperately, the phrases comforting him, trying to convince himself that it's okay, and that what he did was okay.

As long as he started again tomorrow.

By the time your familiar street came into view, his legs were trembling with exhaustion, making each step forward feel like a battle.

He walked up the neat path, bracketed by rows of flowers you'd planted after deciding on a whim that you'd start being into gardening, and his key fumbled with the lock, his other keys jangling together beneath it as he tried to turn it with numb, uncoordinated fingers. It took him a couple tries to even get it in properly, but eventually, the door creaked open as he unlocked the door with a small click.

He stepped inside, his damp trainers making a quiet squelching noise from the puddle water they'd absorbed on his way home. He stood in the hall for a moment, swaying slightly, before dropping his keys onto the small table and pushing the door shut behind him, pulling off his damp shoes without bothering to untie them.

He made an attempt to tuck them neatly together beneath the entryway table, but he put them the wrong way around, the left where the right should've been, the tongues stained and flipped over the top, and the sweaty smell rising from them was something he didn't even want to think about.

He'd just act drunk. At least a little drunk. Like he'd gotten carried away with a few too many beers, and he was just a bit tipsy.

He climbed the stairs slowly, clumsily, the creak of each step beneath his feet punctuation the silence, even though he was trying to tread lightly.

He pushed open the bedroom door, careful and slow as he wasn't sure if you were awake or not, but he saw you curled up on the bed, the thick duvet covering your body and your hair a sprawled out mess on the pillow, and you lifted your head slightly at the sound of him coming in. You gave him a small smile, though it wasn't visible in the dark, and the pillow crinkled quietly beneath your head as you rested it back down.

“Hey, love,” he murmured but it sounded more like a croak, his throat like sandpaper, shredding every word that tried to come out. He coughed to clear the phlegm, trying to sound and seem drunk-tired rather than coke-shattered.

You extended your arm out lazily to him and he took your hand in his before climbing onto the bed, fishing his phone out of his pocket and setting it on the bedside table before getting himself comfortable beside you.

You wrapped your arms around him, wrinkling your nose a little at the faint smell of stale beer clinging to his soft shirt, and you mumbled, “Y'alright?”

You frowned slightly at how clammy he felt, but you said nothing, just rubbed his skin gently with your thumb. He closed his aching eyes, and murmured hoarsely, “I'm fine, just… A few too many beers.”

He felt you smile sleepily against him and you replied quietly, “You smell awful.”

He let out a small, brittle laugh through his teeth, and you curled your leg around his beneath the covers.

He turned his head to press a small goodnight kiss to your temple, his eyelids still closed, covering the thin sheen of tears glossing over them, pricking at the corners of his eyes.

He didn't deserve to be loved. Not right now. Not like this. Not by someone who had no idea all the promises he'd broken, not just once now, but twice.

But tomorrow, he'll have a clean slate. He'll start afresh.

The next few weeks dragged by like a heavy weighted chain.

It was never supposed to get like this again.

Never supposed to turn into a pattern again, or a habit, or a cycle.

He always started his excuses to himself in the same way. Something vaguely along the lines of I'll just start again tomorrow.

Whether it was him telling himself he'd wait until Monday to start again, promising himself that it's for good every time, or saying in his head that he'd start after the next weekend, after the next party, once his current bag was empty.

The idea of texting Matt, asking for a beer or for a chat, something innocent and harmless, began feeling less like an idea and more like gravity, because he knew how the night was going to go, that it definitely wouldn't stop at a couple of beers.

Some nights it was just a line or two, just something to take the edge off, lift the weariness from his bones to finish off a tough day.

Other nights, he'd burn through three grams, sometimes four, entire bags disappearing between the two of them. They'd sit hunched over on the couch, carving out row after row, snorting them intermittently until their gums were numb and their noses were bleeding.

The coke made it so easy to lie to himself. He wasn't an addict again. Addicts couldn't help themselves. He had control. He was just blowing off steam. He was stressed and needed a release.

At home, the cracks began to show, no matter how desperately he'd tried to keep them sealed. You'd started to watch him more carefully, the tremor in his hands when he thought you weren't looking, the way he blinked too much and too often, and how he moved too quickly, like his body was a few steps ahead of his mind, quite literally.

His pupils stayed blown out long after the sun had gone down, and you noticed how he sweated through his t-shirts even when the windows were wide open, and how quickly his moods changed, like a yo-yo, back and forth between showing manic affection to hollow, isolated detachment in a matter of heartbeats.

You noticed how he started to act more cagey around his phone, though subtle, avoiding leaving his phone alone around you and often concealing his screen with his hands.

You also started to see the way his body changed physically, the curve of his hips hollowed out, how his jeans hung a little looser on his frame and how he had to change the belt hole he used to use the most and tighten it to a different one that hadn't been worn down and frayed from a good few years of being relied on, and how his eyes seemed to sink in a little, looking almost bruised from the lack of sleep.

It was all disgustingly familiar to you. You knew what cocaine did to someone, did to him, did to you, and you didn't want to know it was happening. You didn't want to believe it.

He still loved you, still kissed you with chapped lips and cuddled you with his big arms, but in a strangely empty way.

You had questions, but you buried them, swallowed down the creeping doubt that rose up your throat every time he left for another night at Matt's with some half-hearted kiss and an even more half-hearted promise to "not be late." You told yourself maybe you were wrong. Maybe it was just alcohol, just stress, or maybe it was just bad sleep, or too much caffeine, or, god, just anything but that.

There were nights where he lay beside you in bed beneath the covers, wide awake with his heart rapidly pounding against his ribs, staring at the ceiling while you breathed slow and steady beside him, and he thought, just tell her. Just say it. Tell her before it gets worse, but the shame always strangled him at the last second before he could voice them.

Along with the jittery movements, uneven temperatures and lack of sleep never giving him peace anymore, it was starting to infect everything, every aspect of his life, seeping into places he couldn't control, places he'd forgotten it would affect.

He first noticed it one night with you, basking in the warm sanctuary of your bedroom, your lips on his neck and your hands threaded in his hair, something that normally unwound him instantly, but yet, nothing stirred or tingled inside of him aside from a detached sort of longing. He wanted to want you, yearned to will his body into being able to give you everything he could, but no matter how many times he closed his eyes and tried to lose himself in your gentle touch, his body just wouldn't let him succumb to it. It was like there was a wall inside of him now.

He was embarrassed, mumbling excuses about how he was tired, stressed, hungover, but you didn't push. You just whispered to him that it was fine, pressing kisses along his skin and reassuring him that it was normal, that you still love him, but he knew that for him, it was a lot less than normal, and a lot more than abnormal.

It gnawed at him, a fermenting humiliation that made his stomach twitch with guilt each time you so much as even laid a hand on his thigh. It wasn't just a one-off, either. It kept happening. Or rather, didn't happen. Every time you touched him or tried to get close to his crotch, he'd press his lips together, looking at you with guilt in his eyes. He knew it was getting to you, the sexual frustration, and he did his best to get you off without the use of his dick. He used his fingers, his mouth, a vibrator, all of which proved exhausting when he didn't feel any physical sexual desire himself, leading to him not doing them for you nearly as much as he should've been. Maybe once a week, if that.

The worst part was, he knew exactly why it was happening, and it was painful to conceal it with a different, slightly altered lie each time. He knew it was the cocaine clogging up his system, fucking with his head, his nerves, shrinking his libido until it was gone entirely, starving him of the things he knew would make him feel better, replenish his bruised soul, even if only for a little while.

He'd tried to get himself off, just to reassure himself that it wasn't him being not attracted to you anymore and was, in fact, just the drug use fucking with his sex drive.

You'd left him home alone one night to go out with your friends, and he took it as the opportunity to finally try and see if he could work out what was wrong with him, apart from the obvious.

He was sat hunched on the edge of the bed, his trousers and boxers pooled awkwardly around his ankles, and his phone glowing dimly in his hand.

It was embarrassing what he was doing. PornHub on his screen, a standard video pulled open of a girl with sultry eyes riding a guy, the artificial moans and feigned lust spilling out of the battered speaker on the bottom of his phone, muffled slightly by his thigh as he tried to prop it up against his hand.

The girl in the video mildly resembled you, which is why he picked it, hoping it would help, stir something in him, ignite that flame again, but just like always, his body betrayed him.

He stared down at his lap, humiliated despite it only being him there, his fingers curled loosely around his hopelessly soft cock, heavy and limp in his palm, willing it to react, even just a little, but nothing happened.

He tried to squeeze tighter, increase the pace, shift his attention from his shaft to his balls, but still, nothing.

He decided to change positions, lying back on the bed instead with his head on the pillows with his boxers and trousers unlooped from his ankles and discarded on the floor in a crumpled pile, his fingers wrapped around his dick as he tried to stroke it, but just ended up dragging his foreskin along his impossibly limp shaft.

He decided to change the video to a completely different looking girl, this time of the girl giving the guy a blowjob, but her moans were too loud and her eyes were a bit crazy, but he gave it a go anyway. Tugging at his hopeless cock, watching his foreskin roll over the head as he tried to squeeze even a drop of precum out of the tip, but to no avail.

He sighed, almost brittle, before he switched off his phone and let his head loll back, releasing his cock from his futile grip.

For once, he really hoped it was the cocaine doing this to him, and not him losing his interest in you. He really fucking hoped.

The day of your two year anniversary of being clean was just around the corner, daunting, mocking him for the milestone he never got to reach. As the day crept up on him, far too slow but incredibly fast at the same time, and you talked to him about how you wanted to celebrate two years, spending the day out together, dinner in the evening, maybe starting the process of adopting a kitten like you'd both wanted for a long time, the guilt rotted him from the inside out, viciously eating away at him.

You managed to reassure and convince yourself that if he had relapsed, if he'd been doing cocaine again behind your back, he would've told you. He would've confided in you, let you help him out of it again. You told yourself that he trusted you enough, and trusted that you wouldn't be angry at him, wouldn't ridicule him or break up with him. The words you told yourself comforted you, shielded you from what you didn't want to believe.

You'd been gentler with him, under the influence of what you believed he'd do. You brushed off all of his odd behaviour under the loose excuses of being stressed or being tired, blissfully ignoring the tension in his shoulders when he hugged you and the delay before his smile reached his eyes.

The morning of the two year anniversary of being clean woke him up stiffly, the morning sun bathing the bedroom in a glow that should've felt homely, comforting, but to him it just felt enervating.

He felt groggy, his eyes painfully peeling apart as he tried to open them, glued together from the sleep collected in the corners of his eyes. He grumbled sleepily as he propped himself up on his elbows and stretched his legs beneath the duvet, his eyes aching slightly from the lack of sleep.

He turned over onto his side, as you weren't awake yet, just watching you breathe peacefully, and it felt like his slightly bloated stomach was filled with wet concrete with how sludgy and weighted he felt.

Two years clean. At least, you were two years clean. For him it was more like two days clean. He was going to act normal today, do his absolute best to remember what it felt like to be sober and do an impression of that.

It was supposed to be a celebration, something he'd been looking forward to before he ruined it all for himself. Two years had been the main milestone for both of you, ever since the first day of recovery when you vowed to each other to never touch cocaine again, all throughout the highs and lows of the journey, two years had been the marking point where you could both be certain you were off the drug for good. You'd both made plans to buy a nice house out in the countryside, to go on holidays together, to adopt a pet, under the condition that they made it to two years.

He closed his eyes again, not to go back to sleep, but just to think without any visual distractions, think about when he's going to tell you, if he even should tell you, if he should just start his whole journey of sobriety again alone all while pretending to keep up with yours.

He let his mind hopelessly wander, thinking and dreaming about how he'd feel right now if he never did that first line, if he never succumbed to Matt's peer pressure, if he never even went to the party in the first place. How much more important the anniversary would feel, how light he'd feel, how peaceful. How he wouldn't have to worry about being caught in a lie he'd webbed himself in.

You interrupted his thoughts with a rustle of the bed sheets as you woke up, stirring with a soft, sleepy groan, and you turned your head to see him opening his eyes.

You gave him a small smile, your voice hoarse and a little croaky from rest as you whispered, “Morning, baby. Happy two years.”

He looked down at you, and his stomach twisted and his heart clenched. You looked so trusting, so heart-breakingly beautiful, and he kissed your forehead with trembling lips, forcing a gentle smile in return despite the brutal war going on inside of his mind, “Happy two years, love.”

After dragging himself out of bed and pulling on the same jeans he'd been wearing for almost two weeks straight that had been left crumpled in a pile on the floor from the last time he took them off, he headed downstairs with you, the hem of his ever so slightly too long jeans dragging across the floor as he made his way to the kitchen, just a couple of steps behind you.

You flicked on the kettle before turning around, your back against the edge of the counter, and you looked at him with a small, teasing smile. He knew that look, one he'd seen many times before from you, but before he had the chance to ask what was up, you started to speak.

“I thought we could try something new. Tonight, I mean. Sex. If you're up for doing something new.”

He paused, looking at you with uncertainty in his eyes, and his tongue poked against the inside of his cheek. “What do you mean?”

“Roleplay. I told one of my friends about your, or our, ‘problem’, and she suggested it. Said it'll be interesting for a change.”

His eyes widened a little bit, at both the mention of roleplay and the fact you told someone about his recent inability to get an erection. “You told your friend about my dick?”

You smiled, looking away from him and down at the floor. “Not really. I just said we hadn't had sex in a while and I didn't know what to do.”

“You can talk to me about that, y'know.”

“Yeah, and I tried. You've been saying you're tired or hungover or whatever the fuck else for, like, two months now.”

He sighed. “I have been. It's not your fault, honestly. Still think you're sexy.”

You let out a small breath of laughter before turning around right at the kettle ticked, indicating the water being boiled, and you grabbed two mugs from the cupboard. “Ask me about the roleplay.”

He tilted his head to crack his neck, grunting quietly as it clicked before he answered without a slightly strained voice, “What are we going to roleplay?”

You smiled excitedly to yourself, biting the inside of your cheek to stop it from growing too wide as you grabbed a couple of instant cappuccino sachets from the small box. “I bought a nurse outfit. It's meant to be coming today. You can be the patient.”

The air caught in his throat and he turned his head towards you. “What?”

You tipped a coffee sachet into each mug and you laughed. “I think it'll be fun. And relaxing, maybe, for you.”

“...Tonight?”

“Tonight, yeah. If you want to. Don't have to.”

He shook his head. “No, no, it's not that I don't want to, it's just… Well, we've never done anything like that before, have we?”

“That's what I mean. That's what this is about. We haven't done anything proper for ages, thought this would bring us back. Do you want to do it?”

He looked at you for a second as you stirred the hot water you'd just poured into the mugs into the coffee powder before you turned your head to meet his eyes. He hesitated for a second before saying, “Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

You smiled, your eyes squinting slightly as you turned back to the coffees, trying your best not to let your excitement show too much. It had been so long without feeling him like that, that you just couldn't help it.

The day went as easy as it could for the two of you. After breakfast, you two headed out for a mid-morning/early-afternoon walk together, hands interlinked, you chatting excitedly about all the things you'd promised each other after being clean for two years, about a new house, a cat, talking about going on holiday somewhere in Greece, all while he just did his best not to burst into tears.

He nodded, smiled, chimed in when he was supposed to, painted over the rotting guilt with half-hearted dreams he was terrified he'd never deserve. Every time you looked at him, full of that devastating, unshakeable belief in him, it felt like another needle stitching shame into the lining of his skin.

You ate ice cream, sat at the beach and laughed at him when he got sand all over his bum on his jeans, and wandered aimlessly through the town, pointing out pretty, intricate details on buildings or smiling at an old, interesting car that looked to be from the 1930s that was somehow still allowed on the road.

Later, in the evening, you ended up at a restaurant you both loved, somewhere with simple food and a casual atmosphere, where the tables were scratched and the menus were printed on laminated card, every item typed in a generic font. He let you choose where to sit, and he followed you to a booth tucked into the corner, breathing in deeply, trying to let the warmth of the air heat him up from the inside.

You ordered a pizza to share, after a small, playful argument about the toppings, you trying to convince him to order one with pineapple on it, while he insisted it would've been a crime worse than manslaughter, and a bowl of chips for the two of you as well.

You talked about the stupidest things while you ate, the topics ranging from what breed of cat you should adopt to the shirts you think he looks the worst in. It was perfect. It was horrible. Because underneath all of the sweet, mindless chatter and the gentle kisses, was the truth he'd swallowed and buried and fed until it became a living thing, festering and gnawing at his insides.

You noticed the way his elbow protruded more than usual as he reached across the table for another slice, the bone more defined and visible. It wasn't a dramatic change, but you saw it. You noticed. From the years you'd spent touching, feeling, memorising his body, it was hard for you to not see it.

It didn't sit right. The way his jaw looked sharper, the bone so pronounced it looked painful to move, like the taut skin pulled over it could tear at any wrong movement.

His collarbones sat prouder, the dips and hollows of his neck, the bones in his hand all made him look fragile. Even just the way he held himself now, tighter, folded in, felt smaller.

You didn't mention it. Didn't want to make him feel guilty about his appearance, or feel unattractive, and you didn't want to ruin how good the night was going, so you pushed the thought down. Deep enough so that you could keep smiling, but shallow enough so that you could keep it in mind in case it got worse.

Later that night, back at home, you stood alone in the bedroom, staring at yourself in the mirror. The nurse costume was definitely a choice. The cheap fabric was thin, the arms a bit too tight and the torso a bit too loose, and you didn't even want to think about the tiny, stiff hat that kept falling off of your head.

Alex was sat in the kitchen at the table, a magazine in his hand that you'd made him hold for his “character” that he wasn't even bothering to read. He knew it wasn't going to be great. From the second you'd mentioned it that morning, he'd been dreading it, but seeing the look on your face, how excited you seemed to be for it, he just couldn't tell you no. It was a bit ironic, as this was meant to try and help his whole not being able to get hard thing, but he wasn't interested in it at all. He knew it wasn't going to help.

He heard the dull noise of your heels as you walked downstairs, down the hallway to the kitchen where he sat, holding a blank piece of paper you pretended to read off of. “Mr. Turner?”

He looks up at you and his eyes trail down your body, over the outfit, and he forces a small smile before you speak again. “If you'd like to follow me, please.”

He dropped the magazine back onto the table with a tiny thud before he stood up, adjusting his jeans a little before he followed you down the hall, into the living room. He sat down in the middle of the sofa and he looked up at you, fidgeting with his hands.

You folded the empty piece of paper and set it on the coffee table before your hand went to the toy stethoscope loosely looped around your neck as you said, “Let's check your heartbeat, then.”

You plugged the ear pieces of the stethoscope in before kneeling over him, one leg perched between his thighs while the other dug into the couch cushion beside his hip, and you looked him in the eyes as you pressed the disc to his chest, your fingers purposefully brushing over his nipples to try and pull a reaction from him.

Your tongue poked out to swipe over your bottom lip, dampening it as you hummed quietly in faux approval. You smiled a little, albeit awkwardly, and you said, quieter than you wanted to, “It's fast.”

It was a lie, obviously, not just because the stethoscope was fake, but you just wanted to keep the ‘story’ going.

You put your hand on his shoulder to steady yourself as you got off the couch, pulling the stethoscope from your neck and setting it on top of the folded paper on the coffee table.

“How's your temperature?” you asked, stepping back over to him and pushing his hair back to feel his forehead, tilting his head upwards slightly to look at you.

He chewed on his lower lip as he met your eyes, and you could tell he just wasn't into this.

You swallowed, trying to make it work, and you murmured something about him feeling a little hot. You pulled off your heels, dropping them aside with a dull thud as you said, doing your best to not let this be cut short, “Why don't you take your trousers off and we can take a proper look.”

He hesitated for a few seconds, his lips pressing together, before he stood up, popping the button through his jeans and pulling the zip down with a quiet whir, and tugging the denim down his legs, letting the soft, worn fabric lie loosely around his ankles.

You grabbed a small bottle of hand lotion you'd set aside on the table tucked between the armrest of the settee and the wall just before you started, and you squirted some into your hands and rubbed them together as you knelt down between his legs, as close as you could get with his trousers in the way, and you looked up at him, the hat a bit wonky atop your head now. “Have you been feeling any different down here, Sir?”

He swallowed, not really sure what to say, not sure what you wanted his ‘line’ to be, so he mumbled, internally cringing at himself, “I'm feeling a bit tingly.”

You gave him a small, almost encouraging smile, happy he was playing along even though you could now tell he wasn't into it. You adjusted yourself between his legs to get more comfortable on your knees and you replied, “How about you take your boxers off for me, and I'll see what I can do about those tingles.”

He took a deep breath in before sliding his thumbs beneath the elastic waistband of his boxers, embarrassed by what he knew, and you knew, was underneath.

He lifted his hips to pull the fabric from underneath him, letting them fall down his legs, joining his jeans around his ankles. You couldn't help but frown a little as you were met with what you'd been both expecting and dreading.

His soft cock lay draped on his thigh, lifeless, but you decided to persevere, to just give it one more try.

You scooped up his limp cock in your palms, massaging it, running your hands along the length as you tried to coax it to life, for it to give you any sign of it not just being useless.

The silence between you was filled with your heavy breathing, and the wet sounds of your lotion-covered hands gliding along his flaccid dick. You looked up at him every so often, hoping for some kind of reaction, even if it wasn't from his cock, but nothing. Each time you looked up, he was either staring at the wall, or looking down awkwardly at you.

Eventually, you took your hands off of him, resting your elbows on his knees, and you said, “I know you don't like it.”

He was quick to respond. “I'm sorry.”

“No, you don't need to be sorry, it's just… I don't know. I thought it would work.”

His lips parted, sucking in a deeper breath before he swallowed hard, “It's just not you. It doesn't feel right.”

You tugged the cheap hat off of your head, tossing it to the side as you muttered, “Nothing fucking feels right for you anymore.”

He looked up at you with his jaw hanging open every so slightly and his eyes a little wider, but before he could respond, you continued as you stood up.

“Always fucking tired, or hungover, or drunk, or stressed. Even when we do do stuff, your cock's soft. Is there another woman? That's why you can't get hard with me anymore?”

His eyebrows furrowed, struggling to take it all in. He tried to argue back, “No, love, what?”

“Then why don't we have sex anymore? We haven't had any actual sex for almost three months.”

He sat up a little, leaning forward to pull his boxers back up to his hips. “I've told you, babe, I've just been too tired for it.”

You raised your voice a little, “How have you been tired every single night for three whole months?”

He stood up himself to pull his jeans back up as he said, trying to keep his tone the same, “I don't know, I've just had… stuff. You know how easily I get tired.”

“Where's all this tiredness come from? I know you get tired, but not for three straight fucking months.”

He swallowed, clamping his clammy hands together behind his back as he left the front of his jeans open, and he whispered, “I don't know.”

It hurt him more than he could explain. Not just you getting angry about the sex, or lack thereof, but lying to you, how he has been lying to you for months. Betrayed you, sneaking behind your back, doing the exact thing you thought you were both done with for good.

You stared at him for a moment, before you sighed and left the room, your steps carrying a little more weight than you'd intended as you walked up the stairs, into your bedroom.

You practically tore that awful nurse costume off, the velcro getting stuck in your hair as you lifted it over your head. The cheap fabric felt vile against your skin.

You lay on the bed in just your underwear, as you weren't wearing a bra with that costume, hoping your cleavage framed by that cheesy costume would've been enough to get him going.

You didn't hear him downstairs for a while, presuming he'd either sat back down on the couch or was just still standing in place. You let your eyes close as you tried to calm down, and after a while of being alone, you started to feel guilty for having a go at him. You knew what it felt like to just not be in the mood, or just be too tired for sex, and you felt incredibly bad for shouting at him for it.

Just as you sat up and swung your legs over the edge of the bed to go and apologise to him, you heard your phone ding on the bedside table. You picked it up, switching it on and smearing a lazy pattern over the grid with your thumb to unlock it and you swiped down the notification to see a text from him.

Popping out.

You clicked on it to reply, and you typed out, Where?

You could see he read it, but it took him a minute to reply.

Just out.

You sighed to yourself, sending another message.

With who?

He responded a bit faster that time.

I'm going to Matt’s.

You swallowed, your eyes fixating on the screen. Fucking Matt. Ever since Alex had started going there more frequently is when he started to change.

You typed out another text.

Don't be home late.

You switched off your phone and tossed it aside, losing it in the sea of your thick, unmade duvet, and you stayed sat hunched on the edge of the bed, listening to him downstairs as you heard him moving about, the muffled sound of keys clattering followed by the front door closing shut.

He rarely left without a kiss, a hug, a proper goodbye or an ‘I love you’, but you tried to not let it seep in too deep.

His walk to Matt's slow, numbing, but had become his escape, in a way. His brain had tied all of the feelings, the euphoria, the rush, the high, all of them, to Matt's house. He just needed a line or two to help him calm down from that argument. It was barely even an argument, but he needed an excuse for himself, a reason to comfort himself so as to not feel as guilty for what he knew he was going to do.

Matt greeted him at the door, grinning, kicking the door shut behind Alex as he trudged in.

He gave Matt a brief summary of what had happened, how today was your two year anniversary of being clean, the argument which he exaggerated to try and validate himself and his reason for needing another hit, but he made sure to leave out the roleplay parts.

Not long after he'd gotten there, after only being able to do just about three lines, his phone switched to life with his ringtone, and your name lit up his screen. He thought about ignoring it, about just pretending it had ran out of battery, or he had his volume down, or he'd just fallen asleep already, but at this point, fairly buzzed and floating in the shallow euphoria, the thought of your voice in his ear cut through the high like a cool breeze.

He brought the phone up to the side of his face with a clumsy sort of care, and he motioned vaguely towards Matt, signaling him to shut up for a moment.

Your voice was quiet through the line when he answered. Tired, raw, almost. “Can you come home, please?”

There was no anger anymore, no accusations, all there was was a thin brittle film over your voice like a veil.

He wiped a hand down his face, pinching his nose as he sniffed hard. “Yeah,” he answered after a moment. “I'll come back.”

He ended the call after that, shame crackling in the back of his throat and tears whispering behind his eyes, threatening to spill over.

He wasn't sure if he was going to be able to hide it this time.

The walk home felt heavier, the cold air biting at his cheeks felt sharper, its teeth longer and pointier than ever before. The sharpening comedown had already begun scratching at the edges of his skull, threatening to spread and infect the rest of his head.

He reached your road, the street lamps flickering with their fluorescent yellow glow above him as he dragged his feet along the rough pavement with each step.

He rubbed his eyes with his hands just before he turned to step onto the path leading home, a final, half-hearted, futile attempt to shrink his pupils before he fished his hand into the pocket of his jeans.

Before he could pull out his jumble of keys, he looked up and saw the front door crack open, the hallway light spilling out onto the cracked front step.

He paused for a moment before stepping inside, pushing the door shut behind him with his elbow as you stood in front of him, studying him, and he swallowed hard.

He knew the second your eyes met his, he knew what you saw. The faint tremble in his limbs, the twitch in his nose and his blown out pupils that had remained wide even after his attempt to shrink them.

He looked into your eyes, the dim light shimmering against the faint sheen of tears glossed over them, and before he could say anything, string together some kind of unintelligible excuse, you spoke.

“Have you relapsed?” you asked, your voice brittle, but the words flat and gentle in the worst way possible. There was no venom behind them, it wasn't an accusation, just a question. A pure, unfiltered, heartbreaking question.

His mouth opened slightly, and instinct tugged at his jaw to say something along the lines of, no, of course not, what the fuck are you talking about, but nothing came, because he knew. He knew that you knew. You just wanted to hear him say it.

You knew that if he wasn't guilty, the words would've been flying out already, fast, defensive, maybe even offended, but instead, he just stood there, his shoulders rising and falling with the weight of his breaths.

That silence, that dead, awful, painful pause, told you everything.

You didn't say anything else. You let the tears spill down your cheeks, and your breath hitched as you stepped forward to press yourself into his chest, wetting his shirt with your tears.

His body tensed up for a moment. All of the other feelings going on in his body, the nausea, the itching in his skull, the numbness across his skin, he didn't focus on them, couldn't.

He hesitated before lifting his arms slightly to loosely wrap around your waist as you cried into his chest, right over his heart, where the guilt had already started carving its mark long before you saw it.

He just stood there, his lips pressed together, holding you as you sobbed against his shirt, the broken trust, the regret, the overwhelming ache of sadness lurched through his body.

He lowered his head, resting his chin against the top of your hair, shutting his own eyes as your cries rang in his ears, as the weight of his betrayal finally sunk its claws in deeper than ever.

Neither of you said anything. There was nothing you could say. There were a million things he wanted to say, a thousand acknowledgements, ten thousand reasons, and a hundred thousand apologies, but there was nothing he could say that would ever take back what he did.

｡･:*:･ﾟ༓･*˚⁺‧͙ﾟ+..｡*ﾟ+˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚₊✩｡˚☽

i don't want to be too personal but i did base this on my own experiences with cocaine and how relapsing was genuinely one of the worst decisions of my life and it was a bit upsetting but surprisingly quite comforting to write. i tried to convey emotions i felt and how i imagine i seemed to my boyfriend at the time. also pretty much that whole part with the awful roleplay and he can't get hard part is heavily heavily inspired by the inside no. 9 (one of my fav shows, a bit like black mirror if you like that, has anyone watched season 7? i hated it) episode to have and to hold. but im 2 years clean from coke now who clapped!!!

[premamelody]

I always liked characters who repress their feelings a lot. mainly negative ones like anguish, sadness or loneliness. they may show it in small bursts but generally just keep everything like under the surface view. it's how I often feel as I often repress my emotion to please. from not really showing when I was upset I often in turn felt like nobody cared cresting an endless cycle of spite building up, bursting out, restarting

that aspect specifically I never really felt relatable with many characters until like recently. first with another character but now especially with Flowey.

imagine feeling a weird sense of hopelessness, that no one can or would want to help you or that you're stuck inba specific path or made to be a specific way that will only end in ruin? that's him. like over the time of resetting over and over and over Flowey just disconnects from reality from others. he's been alone so long I'd imagine he's had much time to pick himself apart and especially to emphasize every bad aspect of himself like it's who he only is. it's just so easy to believe that all you're made up of are flaws and he's clearly felt this, it's in his infamous phrase.

its killed or be killed.

you either die. weak, feeble, perhaps stupid for not taking the other option. or you become the 'strong one'. you give into 'who you are'. he's so perplexed at the idea of being spared that he believes that those who do so are just waiting for a vulnerable moment to hurt others the most. to trick them, play them, then betray them just to see how they'd express the pain of their trust being broken as he did many times before.

he even convinced himself that he could not care. that guilt is above him and impossible to reach. he lies to have the fuel to keep going.

I don't know it just hits me a certain way. feeling like negative traits are inevitable and the only feature you have is how I often feel. honestly denying the feeling of being able to love makes it easier than the idea of realizing love is beyond you. love gives you guilt when you act out of hate. it tries to redirect you on the right path. it gives morals. if you insult someone of course they'll feel hurt. would you want to feel this way.

the fact that love is the only bridge preventing a lot of us from going down a path of apathy is intriguing and it's interesting when a character doesn't have that bridge or convinces themselves that the bridge has been burned and there's no going back

it makes it hard to react when you do recieve care from people you don't expect, strangers, for some people even their own family. it's why I love post pacifist flowey aus and stuff because it's often him recieving that affection he lost years ago being faced with the fact that there's more to you, you just needed someone to bring you out of that ditch that you're only what makes you terrible when in fact everyone has their ups and downs. it's your choice on whether you want to define yourself as one or the other, or both. sometimes you need help to really make that choice

also he's stupidly silly and it's funny. he tries to be all like serious or thinks he's like a cool super big guy or smth and like you're like 12 go play mario 💀. not that younger children cannot be so complicating, absolutely not and there's often an untouched territory by media despite it being common in irl like literally ik someone like that whos under way too much stress and stuff. but it's so funny to think about

edit: I forgot the entire question help

Let’s start a Flowey chain!!! What’s something you love about Flowey???

I’ll go first!!! I love his expressiveness. All of his forms are so visually dynamic, it makes him such a fun character!!!

[mrrainys]

dude, Epic the musical has been frying my brain, and all I'm thinking about is a Keitor au: with Lotor as Odysseus and Keith as Penelope, and it's been years after Team Voltron and Team Sincline split up. The war against the empire ended, yet Lotor finds him elf fighting every day for the past 10 years to be reunited with his lover :(

[anyoldfandom]

I am actually. I am so emotional over the Salazar parents and I need to share this to tumblr too.

A lot of stories where the MC is adopted I feel. Either dismiss the biological parents and the impact they have on the kid's life, or makes them evil and abusive, framing the loss of the bio parents as a good thing, or at least something we shouldn't think about just look at this new family.

But Genrex doesn't do that. From the start, Rex wanted to find out more about his parents - it's one of his primary character motivations, next to helping people. He loves them, even though he doesn't know them.

And the more he finds out about them, the more he realizes they loved him. Rylander is consumed by guilt but as Rex's first connection to his pre-Event life, the first thing he does is hug him. And when he tells Rex about his parents, the two things Rex knows is that 1) they were scientists, and 2) that when he was in danger, they were desperate enough to use their secret, experimental technology to save him. Technology built from their desire to help the world, to save countless lives and end countless suffering.

And then. When he finds out that they were dead, he doesn't stop caring. It'd be so easy, too, to tie it up there - his parents were good people, he got his answer about them, the end. But they don't. He doesn't. Because the show is saying once again that they are his parents. He still calls them mom and dad, even as the show makes it clear Holiday and Six adopted Rex as their son. Even as the show even parallels Six and One with Rex and Six (and I will talk about that more later if I don't forget, trust me), to really drive home how much they're family. Rex even says he considers the two of them family, and later that he considers Noah, Claire and Annie family.

He has new family, the show tells us, but his old family still matters to him. He's upset that he never has the chance to meet his parents, that everything he hears about them, about his time with them, is secondhand knowledge. It tells us clearly that not only does Rex still love them, but that he still wants to know them. And everything we find out about them reinforces the love that they had for each other.

We see Abuela and the family in Mexico, who connect him to his birth family and tell him that he was so loved back then, and still is now. We see their office in Abysus through Rex's eyes. The picture of him and his dad on his desk. The drawing Rex drew, proudly pinned to the wall.

We see it in the familiarity of the drawing. That that robot, that build, was what Rex created when he was lost and scared and alone - that it was made to keep him safe. That it first appeared in his mind in a place he felt safe.

The show says, tenderly and softly, that the love is still there. That the fact these people died was nothing but a tragedy, that their love is a big part of what made Rex who he is today - that every molecule in his body is filled with their final gift to him. That every time he cures someone, every time he uses a build, every time he makes a machine - we see the love that they had for him.

And the way he quietly absorbs his father's face. The way he freezes and whispers "Mamá?" when he finds out Zag-Rs has their mother's voice. The fact that she even has her voice as a testament to Caesar's love, too - that it was meant to bring comfort and safety. The way Rex yells at Caesar when he finds out they have a family property, a connection to their past, the way he fights to protect it.

And, none of this takes away still from Six and Holiday being Rex's family too. None of this removes the work either set of parents did for him, the love either set has - the show says that it was unfair that the Salazar parents were lost. That Six and Holiday are not replacements, that they still love him as parents but play different roles in his life. They can not, and have no desire to, replace the Salazars. But Rex needs parents, he needs protectors, and so they will do what they can for him - at first out of necessity, to keep this kid they barely know safe, but then out of love. They aren't replacing what was lost, but are doing their best to do what Rex's bio parents would do. And they do mess up in it - they mess up in ways Rex's bio parents might not have. Six is clearly bad with showing affection, affection we saw the Salazars give Rex so easily, and Holiday is overworked and stressed constantly, sometimes breaking under the pressure and snapping at Rex and Six, things we never saw the Salazars do.

It's just. It's about how sometimes things will not be the same. They will be different. That doesn't mean the people you lost aren't still with you.