#thing he says in it and only because it came up in other places

[cosmic-dust-poltergeist]

Pt2 of dp x dc au where Danny is the 99th attempt to clone Kon by Tim. Danny is an overprotective 2 year old who hates Ra's Al Gul with a passion.

[Pt1: here]

Tim is more than ready to leave the LoA and stop having to dance around Ra's. He doesn't feel safe, but he needed the resources. Dick made getting them any other way impossible, with him telling the whole hero community he's crazy and needs help and shit. Tim is more than pissed about it, but he can't help but be amused by the outcome.

Sure, Ra's is trying to wife him, and that's awful and terrifying and all, but watching Ra's try to win over a 2 year old who despises his very existence is hilarious. Aedan, or Danny as the toddler is insisting to be called, goes out of his way to be petty to Ra's and clings to Tim any time the man enters the room. Danny has torn or spilled things on paperwork and clothing, left things just out of sight to trip Ra's, put foods in unexpected places as the man steps or sits in it, purposely and maliciously coloured on and destroyed things he found out were Ra's and Ra's alone, and so much more. Tim is kind of proud of the chaos.

But Tim also has to shove down the anxiety that Ra's might have actually did something to Danny while on his missions. Danny was left on base because it was too dangerous to bring him. He tries to get back as fast as safely possible, just in case, though. Danny hasn't said anything yet on WHY he despises Ra's, but Tim is keeping an eye out.

All in all though, Tim has no remorse as he packs up and leaves with Danny in toe, blowing up every base he knows about and draining their accounts on his way out. He leaves Danny with Tam during his final showdown with Ra's, making sure Dick is in the area to catch him. He's not leaving his baby early.

"So I have everything I need to prove Bruce is alive and how to save him. I'm NOT crazy." Tim tells Dick when he wakes up after his fight with a pissed off Ra's, before remembering Danny and chuckling, "Actually, I'm a little crazy. Not about the Bruce thing, or what I did to prove it, but I did do something else insane."

"I believe you... about the Bruce thing." Dick eyes him in concern. "What did you do?"

"I maaaay have cloned Kon."

"You WHAT?" Steph looks absolutely flabbergasted. All his family members do actually, including Alfred.

"Yeah, so, I had a little bit of a mental breakdown." Tim stares at his hands, picking at the nails. "I was really missing Kon and spiraled and now I have a son... surprise.."

There's so much sputtering before Steph slams her hands on the medical bed, silencing everyone and getting Tim to look at her. She's flung her Spoiler mask off and leaning way too close.

"You have a son?? How old is he?? When can we meet him?? What's his name??"

"Er.. his name is Aedan Drake, he insists on being called Danny currently. He's about 2. And you'll be meeting him as soon as I can call Tam. I didn't want either of them near when Ra's came for me." Tim leans away from her. "Especially because Danny seems to hate the guy and puts himself between us at any chance he gets."

"That's concerning" Dick mumbles.

"Yeah.." Tim blinks hard. "I'm not even sure why Danny hates him. I have no idea if Ra's did something to him while I was otherwise engaged. It terrifies me not to know, but I only have the word of a creep and a 2 year old to go off of."

No one seems to know what to say to that. They all silently agree to keep an eye out for any signs Ra's did something to Danny.

"Can you pass me my phone?"

"Sure, Timmy." Dick hands over the phone. "Who do you think is going to be his favourite aunt or uncle?"

"Fuck if I know, the kid is completely different from Kon when it comes to interests. I love it, but it makes guessing what he'll like interesting. Currently, he's obsessed with space and ghost stuff. He likes watching space documentaries over cartoons." Tim chuckles while locating Tam's number.

Steph laughs. "Of course your kid is as weird as you!"

He sticks his tongue at her, and she does it right back. The call connects.

"Tim?"

"Hey, Tam! Not dead yet!" He grins at her groan. "I'm at the manor. Tell Danny to be careful of my ribs before you bring him over."

"Can do. Be there in 20. Danny? Do you want to say hi to your daddy?" Is all the warning Tim gets before his son screeches.

"HI, DADDY!" He can't hold in his laughter. The siblings closest to him look amused, clearly having heard the yelling.

"Hi, Danny! Tam giving you candy?"

"Nooo" Danny is a terrible liar. Tam says something. "See you soon, daddy."

Tam takes the phone before Tim can reply. "He didn't want to sleep before he saw you. I expect he'll crash after seeing your okay, candy or no candy."

"It's fine, Tam. I don't care so long as it doesn't become a regular thing. Now, drive safe."

"See you soon." And the call ends.

Dick sniffles. "My little Timmy is growing up!"

Steph points dramatically at him. "You're a teen dad!!"

"I mean, I'm a teen vigilante and a teen CEO. Being a teen dad is the most normal thing I currently am." Tim says, raising an eyebrow at her. "Beside, you technically were too. Only difference is I'm just keeping the baby I made... Er.. I mean that in the least insulting way possible. I respect your decision, just respect mine."

"Okay, but you virgin Mary-ed your baby. I, at least, got laid for mine."

Tim flushes. "Dude!"

"I'm sure we can still find you someone our age into dilfs and get your cherry popped." Steph grins at him.

"Steph! Shut up about my sex life!" Tim throws a pillow at her and struggles out of bed. "I hate you so much right now."

"Master Tim, please take the crutches if you're planning to leave the med bay." Alfred calls out, and Tim grumbles, but complies. Detouring to the locker room and throwing on a sweater and some sweatpants that's been sitting in his locker for a year. They smell a little musty, but they're clean and cover the bandages. Hopefully his son won't freak out too bad. Losing his spleen traumatized the poor kid.

He heads upstairs to wait near the front door. Dick, Damian, and Steph following behind him like the worse ducklings he could think of. Dick, at least, grabs a chair so Tim can sit while they wait.

"Master Tim, does Master Danny have any allergies? And what are his food preferences?" Alfred asks as he passes out post patrol drinks. Tim doesn't accept his, he doesn't want it to be in the way when Danny comes flying in. Literally. Danny figured out how to float about a month ago, and his feet have barely touched the floor since.

"He's got the same weaknesses as all the other kryptonians. He's not a picky eater and doesn't seem to be allergic to anything food wise, but he hates toast." He smiles at the looks his siblings send him. "Don't ask me why. He just hates toast. Veggies, no problem, but toast? Toast leads to temper tantrums."

Steph cackles loudly at that while a confused Dick chuckles.

"I shall keep that in mind." Alfred sounds amused.

"I've gained massive respect for Ma and Pa Kent. Superpowered toddler tantrums are rough when you're just a human." Tim knows he has a dopey look on his face, but couldn't care less. "Danny's such a sweet kid, though. He gets so distraught if he accidentally hits me and does everything in his childish power to apologize and "make up" for it when he does."

Tim frowns. "Which is another reason I'm worried Ra's did something. Danny would hit, kick, and bite the man anytime he got in range. It seems out of character and more personal than just not wanting to share his dad."

"That is concerning." Dick shares his worried frown. They wipe the looks off their faces when there's a knock on the door. Steph dances over and opens it.

"Hell-"

"DADDY!" A tiny blur darts around her and skids to a stop in front of Tim. He can hear his siblings melt as this tiny child holds up his arms. "Up!"

"Just remember to be careful with my ribs, sweetheart. They got hurt." Tim says while scooping his son up. "You ran right past your aunt and uncles, think you can say hi to them?"

Danny looks at his siblings, seemingly debating if he vibes with them, before waving a tiny hand. "Hi.."

Steph and Dick being overly dramatic and acting like they just suffered a heart attack from cuteness, spooks the poor kid. Danny hides his face in Tim's shoulder. Damian edges closer, blocking Dick and Steph's view. He makes sure to lean down to be more at Danny's eye level.

"Hello, Aedan. I am Damian Al Gul Wayne. I hear you dislike my grandfather. A valid response to meeting the man." Danny peaks at him, and the teen gives him a small smile. "Ignore Stephanie and Richard, they can be a lot, but they mean well."

"Baby Bat!" Dick sounds like close to happy tears.

"Demon Brat! That's the nicest thing you've ever said about me!" The grin is audible in Steph's voice.

"They are, unfortunately, also idiots." Damian says sagely.

"There it is." Tim chuckles, running a hand through Danny's soft feathery hair. Danny looks between Tim and Damian, there's a calculating look on his face, clearly deciding if he should give this "Al Gul" a chance. "It's fine, Danny. He's very different than his grandfather. If you ask him nicely, I'm sure he'll introduce you to his pets."

"Pets?" Danny blinks and turns to fully look at Damian.

"Indeed. I currently have a cat, a dog, a cow, and a turkey." Danny literally vibrates at the news.

"Can I meet them?"

"I'd be more than happy to introduce you tomorrow." Tim has never seen Damian look so soft. "You and your father should get a good night's rest. You'll have more energy to play that way."

Danny pouts, but agrees. "Okay."

"Thanks for babysitting, Tam." Tim calls out to the woman watching everything unfold with amusement.

"No problem. He was an angel, even while sugar high." She grins. "I'd be more than willing to do it again sometime. I'm going to head out now. Bye, Danny!"

"Bye!!" Danny floats a little to wave wildly at her as she leaves. Damian keeps his surprise off his face and not moving in the way of the tot's goodbyes.

"Aedan, may I carry you?" Damian asks once Danny is settled back in Tim's lap. "Your father unfortunately needs to use crutches to get to his room."

Tim is amused by the calculating look sliding back onto Danny's face. He can only imagine the kid's internal debate; let Damian pick him up and the Drakes can retire and cuddle in Tim's room or stay right where he is. It never ceases to amuse Tim on how Danny can ping pong between normal toddler behavior and being ridiculously serious. He blames himself for forgetting to adjust the knowledge download when making him. The kid knows about more things than he should, and it's made him more jaded than a 2 year old should be.

"Okay... on'y cause it's bedtime." Danny informs Damian while holding his arms out. Damian gently picks him up.

"Of course." Tim can't believe how cute his murderous little brother is being. Guess he can add small children to the things that make the teen loosen up.

Tim struggles a little getting up the stairs, but he gets there. Damian waits patiently with a worried Danny at the top. Tim is positive that only reason he isn't being teased is because his siblings don't want his protective baby to dislike them. It's funny, but actually really nice. He's really tired of his family's culture of making fun of any weakness. Danny's cute baby face and hatred for bullying is really going to change this place, Tim just knows it.

Dick carries Danny's baby bag upstairs after them. Tim can feel Dick wanting to coo, but holding it in because Danny keeps eyeing him warily. Just adding to Tim's amusement.

Once in Tim's room, and after good nights are exchanged, Tim and Danny get ready for bed. Tim cleans himself up by taking a bird bath in the sink, not fully willing to commit to a shower just yet. He mostly just doesn't want to change his bandages. He also wants to cuddle his son, who's patiently waiting on the bed with his wolf plushy. He named it Wulf, which was a hilariously Kon thing to do. Tim nearly died from cuteness when Danny told him the plushy's name.

Tim lays down and tucks Danny to his chest. "I love you, kiddo."

"I 'ove you, too, Daddy." Danny mumbles before conking out. Tim can't help his smile. He dozes off to Danny's tiny snores.

Tim wakes up to Danny wiggling around. The tot waking up, but not wanting to. A glance towards his alarm clock, 10:30. They've actually slept in. Nice.

"Morning, Danny."

"M'ning." Danny mumbles directly before unintentionally smacking Tim in the face with Wulf. Tim huffs a laugh and sits up, his spin cracking as he stretches.

"You hungry?"

Danny flops over, grumpy to be awake. "Yeah."

Tim grins and scoops Danny up. "Let's eat breakfast in pajamas!"

Danny looks surprised. Tim insisted they be dressed in light armor the whole time they were on the LoA, so the suggestion must seem insane to him. He scrunches up his face. "It's safe here?"

"This is probably one of the safest places for us to be." Tim kisses Danny's forehead. "I'll admit, it hasn't always been that way for me in particular, but we're working on it, and I trust them to not stab me in the back... You're allowed to be as petty as you want if you find them dissatisfactory."

"Like wif Rawthy?" Tim takes a deep pleasure in Danny's deliberate mispronouncing of Ra's name. Danny knows how and can say it properly. He just chooses not to. Tim loves it.

"Exactly." Danny is now completely awake and buzzing to cause chaos. It's adorable.

"Yay!" Tim starts carrying Danny to the kitchen, completely abandoning the crutches he was told to use.

"Just remember to play nice first. You don't want to accidentally bully someone who doesn't deserve it."

"Fine.." Danny pouts. Tim kisses his cheek.

"Thank you, sweetie."

"Master Tim. Where are your crutches?" Alfred jump scares the Drakes.

"O-oh! Hi, Alfred, I was just taking Danny to the kitchen for breakfast!" Alfred raises an eyebrow and Tim pouts. "And I didn't feel like using them."

"Oh yeah!" Danny remembers that Tim was using crutches now and is wiggling to be set down. "You're hurt, Daddy! Put me down!"

"Okay, okay, starlight!" Tim chuckles, setting the boy gently on his feet. "Better?"

"No!" Danny drags him to the kitchen's small breakfast table. "You'll never heal! Sit down! We'll get your crontches!"

"Crutches, Danny. And how about we have breakfast first. The crutches aren't going anywhere." Tim smiles at his son. "You can even ask Alfred what my wound care should be after we eat. He can explain everything and you can hold me to it."

"Indeed." Alfred sounds amused, possibly not thinking this 2 year old will hold them both to it, but Danny will.

"O'ay" Danny then blinks. "What's fo breakfast?"

It's all pretty peaceful. Tim just enjoying a lazy morning with his son. As soon as Danny is done eating, he drags Alfred away to get the crutches and explain Tim's wound care to him. Tim can only watch on in helpless amusement.

"He's adorable." Dick grins as he enters the room and sits across from Tim.

"Yeah." Tim is still smiling at the doorway Danny and Alfred left from, but it takes a sad tilt. "Losing my spleen really traumatized him. He polices my unhealthy habits and does his best to get me to take care of my injuries when he's sure they won't be used against us."

"YOU LOST YOUR WHAT??"

"It's been a crazy year."

"Tim, Timmy, my caffeine addicted little brother, I'm going to need more information than that!" Dick is stressed, but Tim is still feeling a little petty, so he answers nothing.

"I forgot my meds, actually. I usually shove them in a pocket after dressing, but I didn't get dressed... oops." Tim shrugs. "It got Danny to feel safer with being here, since I'm not insisting on light armor or anything like on base."

"Tim! I have questions!" Dick is flailing.

"Daddy!" Danny flies into the room (literally) and is shoving his pillow divider case into his hands. "You forgot!"

"Thank you, Danny. I was just realizing that and was planning to grab them after you got my crutches." Tim runs a hand through Danny's hair before dry swallowing his medication. Alfred slides into the room with the crutches.

"It warms my heart to see a youth so dedicated to keeping track of other's health." Danny turns and beams at Alfred.

"I like helping!"

"That's very admirable, Master Danny."

Danny frowns a little. "I'm too little to help a lot yet."

"Any help is more help than before." Tim cuts in, giving a lopsided grin. "Besides, your dad is atrocious at self care. You got to help your dear ol' dad. I'd simply die without you."

"You're not old." Danny mumbles, blushing at how thick Tim is laying it on. Tim noticed early on that Danny needs to feel needed or helpful, or he'll spiral and get depressed. He's not sure why Danny is like that. Tim's 90% sure it's not something Tim downloaded into his brain or said to Danny, meaning it could be something he picked up from Tim's own behavior, or possibly someone at the LoA manipulated into him, or is just something Danny naturally had. Tim has no idea on the why, but makes a point to let Danny help him, even when he really doesn't need the help. He wants his baby happy, and does try to talk to Danny about not having to help. But, ya know, pot, kettle, and all that. Tim knows his own need to be useful is just as bad.

He should find them therapists for it now that he's thinking about it. Last thing he wants is Danny to end up like him. Tim has done some insane and stupid shit to help and/or please people.

"My joints disagree." Tim jokes.

"I feel that." Dick chuckles. "Good morning, Danny!"

"Good morning..." Danny says shyly, floating into Tim's lap.

"Do you have any plans for the day?" Dick asks.

"Dam'n's pets?" Danny looks hopeful.

"Ah, he's looking forward to introducing you." Dick aims his 100 watt smile at Danny, who doesn't seem to know what to think of the man.

"Indeed I am." Damian choses that moment to enter the room. "Hello, Aedan."

"Hi!!" Danny carefully gets off of Tim's lap so he can zoom to his uncle. "What is their names??"

Tim grabs the crutches Alfred left nearby. He spends the rest of the day dodging Dick's questions, watching Danny be delighted by Damian and his pets, and passing on the information on Bruce. It's a very nice, peaceful day.

So, of course, it can't stay that way. It's Duke meeting Danny that unintentionally disrupts the peace.

"Hello, Danny. I'm Duke Thomas. I'm a meta like you." Duke greets Danny cheerfully, but Tim can't help but notice Duke doesn't take his sunglasses off.

"Hi!!" Danny floats about a foot off the floor. "What powers do you have??"

"I have photokinesis." Duke makes a tiny rainbow in his hands. Danny oos and aaas over Duke's explanations before he totting over to Damian to play with Alfred the cat. Duke stares after Danny for a minute before turning to Tim, who's getting more and more worried.

"Duke?"

"Do you know Danny glows?"

"He what?" Tim's ribs hurt from how hard he jolts.

"Okay, okay, was pretty sure I was the only one who could see it." Duke mumbles before finally pushing his sunglasses up and making eye contact with Tim. "He glows the same way Jason does during a pit rage episode. Danny's glow is more stable and constant and a brighter shade of green, but it's definitely the same thing."

Tim can feel himself shaking in barely concealed rage. "That motherfucker. I should have completely destroyed everything he loved."

"Who?" Duke asks warily.

"Ra's. He had to have done something to Danny. There's no reason Danny should be glowing like that." Tim takes a calming breath, not wanting Danny to see him angry.

"I'm sorry." Duke offers his sympathy.

"Not as sorry as Ra's is going to be."

"Are we planning a murder over here?" Jason jokes as he enters the room through the door next to Tim and Duke and sees Tim's face.

"Debating the pros and cons of it currently." Tim takes another deep breath.

"Oh, shit, for real?" Jason looks shocked.

"Danny glows similarly to you." Duke explains. "Meaning Ra's definitely did something to him behind Tim's back."

"Ooooh! Yeah, okay, that's very murder worthy." Tim smiles a little at that, feeling validated.

"Thanks, Jason."

"No problem, I'll help. I got beef with both Ra's and Talia, so I can take all the blame if Goldie or Demon Brat ask." Jason offers. "Before that, introduce me at the kid. Dick has been insufferable all day. Squealing and sending pictures and shit."

Tim chuckles. "Yeah, I do that. Hey, Danny! Can I borrow you for a second?"

Danny pats Alfred the cat one last time before trots over.

"Danny, this is your Uncle Jason."

"Hel-"

"Why do you smell green?" Danny cuts Jason's greeting off. He's staring hard at his uncle.

"Smell green?" Jason head tilts and squats down to be closer to eye level with the kid. There's still a foot of difference between the two, but it's the thought that counts. "What do you mean?

"You smell green." Danny frowns, thinking hard on how to get them to understand what he means. "Like Rawthy. And the weird lake thingies."

"Rawthy?" Jason and Duke both look confused.

"That's his name for Ra's. Danny gives the people he doesn't like awful nicknames to mess with them." Tim smirks at the looks his siblings give him. "He's fully aware of what he's doing, and I see no reason to stop him."

"Oh! He's petty!" Jason grins. "Just like his dad!"

Danny beams at Jason, clearly proud of himself.

Jason preceeds to give the simplest and kid safe version they've ever heard of his story. "To answer your question, I got really hurt by a bad man, and so your uncle Damian's mother dropped me in the green lake to heal me, but the green got stuck."

Danny seems to think about what he was told before holding his hands up to Jason. "Hug?"

"Sure, kid." Jason scoops Danny up into his arms and stands. Jason seems to stiffen as Danny melts. "Huh?"

"What up?" Tim asks, eyeing Duke in a way that demands the picture Duke just took be sent Tim. He wants that picture. Duke smiles and nods.

"Your kid just calmed the Pit." Jason gives Tim a stunted blink. "It's completely silent."

"Huh??"

"Dude, I don't know!" Jason hugs a snuggly Danny closer to him. "I'm pretty sure I could argue with Bruce about his stupid rules and keep a level head right now. I'm hugging your kid anytime I see him if this is the vibe I get each time."

"Only if he agrees to it." Tim flounders with this new info. "I'm still trying to teach him boundaries and consent."

"He's definitely tied to the pit in some way." Duke says, texting rapidly. "It's unfortunate that we won't be able to locate and murder Ra's before Bruce is rescued."

"I should have taken my chance." Tim grumbles.

Damian walks over, eyeing Jason and Danny. "Something happen?"

"Apparently, Jason smells like green, like Ra's and the "green lake", and can calm Jason's pit." Tim explains. Damian looks pissed at the first part, understanding it means Danny was exposed to the Pits, but he looks like he's not sure how to take the second part. Which, mood.

Danny starts wiggling. "Down, please."

"Oh! Sure, little man." Jason gently puts Danny down. Danny slides up to Damian.

"Can I still play with kitty Alfred?"

"Let's go see. He might be done hanging out and we must respect that." Damian takes Danny's hand and leads him back to Alfred the cat. The remaining siblings watch them for a minute.

"He's sweet." Duke turns a smile towards Tim.

"Like sugar." Tim has his own fond smile. "I don't regret making him at all. Best mental breakdown decision I've ever made."

"You terrify me sometimes, Timbers."

"Only sometimes?" Duke jokes, but Tim can see there's some truth to Duke's joke. There's a wariness in his eyes. But Tim just shrugs, not offended in the slightest. He knows he's a bit much, and Duke is the newest to his brand of crazy.

Tim does end up giving Jason and Duke more concrete answers to his year away, unlike when Dick was asking earlier. Mostly because Tim and Jason started to bond before they both left Gotham and can commiserate, and he tells Duke because he's there and it's funny to watch his reactions to what Tim and Jason are saying. It reminds Tim that he's watched his sweet 2 year old troll the hell out of ninjas and Ra's.

The rest of the night is tame. It becomes apparent that Danny prefers the "calmer" family members. He shies away from anyone being rambunctious, so mostly Steph and Dick. Everyone else is just abandoned for a new person if they start yelling or shouting. Tim thinks it's probably because he's not used to Steph or Dick's energy, having not met anyone like them before, and his ears are sensitive. Tim starts looking for noise canceling headphones for him at that realization. He didn't notice because the LoA bases were always quiet, outside of the training grounds, so it wasn't an issue before.

Danny still polices Tim's wound care, much to everyone's amusement. He memorized everything Alfred the human told him about Tim's injuries and takes it very seriously.

It's a fun night, all things considered.

[augustwinesworld]

𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞'𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬

What if your eyes looked up and met mine one more time?

description: 

pairing: dr. michael robinavitch x female ob/gyn attending! reader

genre: hidden pregnancy…maybe? age gap (michael late 40s, reader mid 30s), female reader.

notes: i love this so much it’s insane

word count: 2.9 k

extra: moodboard | playlist | ☆:**:. 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐞 .:**:.☆ 

Feel free to #𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 (◕‿◕✿) *:･ﾟ✧ if you have any scenarios in mind! I might not write everything but I’ll respond to everyone.

series masterlist: 𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞'𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬

ten years ago…

The city was still asleep when he closed the door behind him.

No one saw him leave—not the landlord, not the neighbor who always smoked on her balcony, not the woman he loved, still asleep down the hall with the bedroom door cracked open just enough for the light to spill in.

Robby stood in that silence for a long minute, the chill from the hallway seeping into his bones like penance. Then he turned the key in the lock and walked away.

The air outside was the kind that burned in your lungs.

Pittsburgh was cold in the fall, but this was the kind of cold that made everything sharper—clearer. Unforgiving.

His bag was slung over his shoulder, his steps steady but slow, like maybe the weight of what he was doing hadn’t settled in yet. Or maybe it had, and he was just trying not to feel it.

He didn’t take a cab. He walked the ten blocks to the station with his hands in his pockets and his jaw clenched tight.

The city was gray and heavy, the sky the color of steel, and every street corner felt like it might shout her name back at him if he let his mind wander too far.

He had written her a note. It was short. Too short.

Something about needing to go. About not being who she thought he was. About not being enough.

He hadn't signed it.

He told himself it was better this way. Cleaner. Less to untangle.

She wouldn’t have to look him in the eye and see the mess of a man too afraid to stay. She wouldn’t have to see him crack apart under the weight of what he couldn’t say: I love you, but I don’t know how to deserve you.

Because that was the truth, wasn’t it?

He loved her. God, he loved her so much it made everything inside him ache. But love wasn’t always enough, and he was already unraveling—already halfway gone in ways that scared him.

She had plans. She had brightness. She talked about future things like they were inevitable—like there was a place in them carved out for him. Like he belonged.

Michael didn’t know how to belong.

And she—she kissed him like she believed he’d always come back.

He left like he knew he never would.

He remembered the way she’d pulled him close the night before, bare legs around his hips, her breath soft and warm against his skin. She kissed him like the world was still safe.

Like it was forever. Like it was just the two of them in that tiny apartment and the future didn’t scare her. She whispered something against his collarbone—something like don’t go far, something like see you in the morning—and he’d shut his eyes so tight it hurt.

She kissed him like she believed in him. And it broke something in him, because he didn’t.

After, she curled up against him and fell asleep fast, trusting him to stay.

He spent the whole night awake beside her.

Watching the ceiling. Watching her chest rise and fall. Memorizing the shape of her hand resting on his chest like she was anchoring him to something good. Something real.

And then, right before the sun came up, he kissed her on the forehead, like that could make up for everything he didn’t have the courage to say. He got up without a sound, packed only what he needed, left the note on the kitchen counter where she’d find it after coffee.

At the station, he stood on the platform with a coffee in one hand and guilt in the other. The train was delayed. Of course it was. The universe was cruel like that.

He didn’t cry. Not really. But his chest hurt in that splintered, hollow way grief lives in.

If she had woken up…

If she had asked him to stay…

He didn’t know what he would’ve done.

But she didn’t. And he left. He let the train carry him away from the only thing that had ever felt like home, trying to convince himself he was doing the right thing.

He never turned around.

And he never saw the light flick on in the apartment just moments after the train pulled away.

He never saw her wake up, heart hammering, reaching for the empty space beside her.

He didn’t see the light flick on in the apartment just minutes after the train pulled away.

Didn’t see her reach across the bed for him, only to find cold sheets and silence.

Didn’t see her walk barefoot into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from her eyes, only to stop short at the note waiting for her like a knife on the counter.

She read it once. Then again. And again, like maybe the words would change if she stared long enough.

They didn’t.

And the life she thought she was building—the one she’d let herself believe in, with the man she’d trusted enough to love without hesitation—cracked down the middle, quiet and sharp.

There was no warning. No fight. No goodbye. Just an empty bed, and a note, and the sound of something breaking that she couldn’t name.

He didn’t know what she looked like in that moment.

Didn’t know the way she slid to the floor, back to the counter, note crumpled in her hand, trying to breathe around the hollowed-out space where he used to be.

He didn’t see her cry.

All he knew was that he had left.

And he hated himself for it.

five years later…

Michael hadn’t meant to come.

He told himself it was just dinner. Just a few familiar faces. Just something to fill the silence that had started to feel like its own kind of punishment.

It wasn’t nostalgia, not exactly. Nostalgia required sweetness, and he’d scraped most of that out of himself years ago.

But the invitation had come anyway—some old friend from undergrad, or med school, or residency, someone he hadn’t seen in years but still had enough of his email to keep him tethered.

“Come by if you’re in town,” it said. “It’s been forever.”

It had been forever.

And Michael—idiot that he was—had found himself driving across the city through the soft December dusk, half hoping the offer had expired by the time he arrived.

Pennsylvania never changed much. It was gray and clumsy in the winter, still bitter enough to make your bones ache if you didn’t move fast enough. The streets were slick with slush. The streetlights glowed gold on the pavement. Somewhere in the distance, carolers sang just off-key.

But the house? The house was warm.

Not just in the literal sense—with its firelight flickering behind windows, the sharp glow of a chandelier, the steam rising from pots in the kitchen—but warm in the way that made your chest hurt.

Laughter spilled from the porch. Music floated through the cracks in the windows. He could see the silhouettes of coats being shrugged off, cheeks kissed, wine poured.

He parked across the street and left the engine running.

He told himself he just needed a minute. Just a minute.

And then—he saw her.

Through the window. Like a movie he had no right to watch.

She was wearing soft pink, not scrubs but something casual and delicate, like the inside of a seashell. Her hair was up. A few strands curled against her neck, the way they used to when she rushed from the shower and didn’t have time to dry it all the way.

She looked older—but in the kind of way that hurt, because it meant time had passed without him. Because it meant she had kept living while he had buried himself alive.

She was talking to someone, laughing. There was a wine glass in her hand. A freckle he remembered just barely visible near her collarbone. When she smiled—God, when she smiled—it twisted something in his ribs.

He should’ve left. Should’ve never come.

But instead, he sat there, drowning in it.

In her.

It had been five years.

Five years since he left.

Five years since she kissed him like she believed he’d come back.

And he had left like he knew he never would.

That last night haunted him. The way she had wrapped herself around him like she was memorizing him. The softness of her lips, trembling just slightly. The way her hands had lingered against his back, as if she could keep him there by sheer will.

She had whispered, “See you in the morning,” into the curve of his neck, her voice barely audible, casual like it meant nothing at all.

And he had kissed her like he believed he could make that true.

But it was like she knew what was coming, on some deeper level. Like her body had braced for it before her mind could catch up.

There was no morning for them. Not after that.

No safety. No stability. No staying.

He had packed too fast. Left without enough. Told himself it was better this way—for her, for them. That she deserved more than someone already half-destroyed.

It hadn’t mattered. It had broken her anyway.

It had broken him.

He looked away from the window, throat tight. A dog barked somewhere nearby. He couldn’t breathe.

Michael reached for the door handle.

Just do it, he told himself. Go in. Say hello. Apologize. Pretend to be someone who deserved to walk through that door.

But then he looked up again—just as she turned, laughed, leaned against the counter like she belonged there—and everything in him stalled.

Because she did belong there.

She looked happy. Or at least… okay. Stable. Surrounded by light and warmth and people who hadn’t vanished when things got hard. What right did he have to walk back in now, five years too late?

None. Absolutely none.

He dropped his hand from the door.

And drove away.

He didn’t see her turn back toward the living room.

Didn’t see the small boy—curly-haired, pajama-clad—pad over and raise his arms.

Didn’t see her scoop him up and nuzzle her nose into his cheek like it was the easiest, most natural thing in the world.

Didn’t see the boy giggle, and press his hand to her face, and whisper something that made her laugh even harder.

He didn’t see any of it.

All he saw was her silhouette, soft and golden, disappearing behind curtains as he turned the corner and left her behind again.

He told himself it was better this way. Cleaner. Safer.

He told himself she had moved on. That she didn’t need him. That he didn’t need her.

But as the city lights blurred past his windshield, as the ache in his chest settled deeper, more permanent—

Michael knew he was still lying.

To her. To himself. And to whatever part of him that still woke up some nights thinking she was there.

present day…

There was a rhythm to emergency.

You breathed in crisis. Bled urgency. Learned to function in the eye of the storm.

And Dr. Robby had made a home in the storm.

That morning had been like any other. Fast. Messy. Loud.

A cardiac arrest. A teen with a bullet in his shoulder. An elderly woman with a stroke mid-grocery run. The ER moved like it always did: fast and fractured.

Until it didn’t.

Until everything stopped.

The moment he heard her voice.

“Move! He’s crashing—give me the crash cart, and get respiratory down here, now!”

He froze mid-step, the trauma form in his hand suddenly weightless.

That voice. Familiar. Unshakable.

He turned toward the chaos at trauma bay two—and there she was.

Pink salmon scrubs stained with something dark. Her hair half pulled back, half falling out. Her hands fluttering between the boy on the gurney and the nurse trying to get a BP cuff on.

And her eyes—God, her eyes. Were wild, terrified.

She wasn’t supposed to be here.

Not in this city. Not in this hospital. Not on this day.

She was yelling something about sats. Chest pain. A fall.

“He got hit—he was riding to school and some jackass blew through the stop sign—he wasn’t moving, he was cyanotic, I couldn’t find a pulse—so I just started compressions, I didn’t wait for the ambulance—”

Her voice cracked. “I was right next to him and I didn’t react fast enough, fuck—I should’ve seen it coming, I should’ve grabbed him—”

Someone—Whittaker, already gowned up—stepped in beside her. “We’ve got him now. You have to step back, let us work.”

“He’s my son.”

The words cracked something in him.

The boy. Robby saw him clearly now. Pale. Unconscious. A small bruise blooming across his temple. Dark lashes stuck together from oxygen tubing, blood, and sweat.

He couldn’t look away.

Because something inside him twisted hard—like recognition, like guilt, like some ancient ache that had been sleeping for ten years and woke up screaming.

The boy looked like her. Same cheekbones. Same curve of the jaw. Even the soft dip in his left cheek, like it had been sculpted by memory. But the eyes—

They were closed now, but when they’d fluttered open briefly under the lights—

Brown.

Not hazel, not green. Not hers.

His.

It was a stupid thing to fixate on, maybe. But in that split-second, his brain flooded with it. The timeline. The math. Ten years since he left. The kid—what, eight? Nine?

The breath Robby took didn’t make it to his lungs. It caught somewhere deep in his chest, behind his ribs, sharp and sudden like broken glass.

He took a step back without realizing it, hand coming up like he might need to steady himself on something, anything. The edge of the trauma board. The counter. The wall.

He felt the air shift beside him before he heard the voice.

Dana.

She didn’t say anything right away. Just appeared at his side like she always did when things went sideways—silent, sharp, steady. Her eyes flicked from the boy to Robby’s face and back again.

“You okay?” she asked quietly, too low for anyone else to hear.

Robby didn’t answer.

Didn’t know how to.

Because his mind was spiraling now. Backward. Forward. In every direction at once.

She hadn’t seen him yet. She didn’t know he was there. But that didn’t stop the crash. The sound of her voice cracked through him like a whip, and now this—this kid, with her face and his eyes—it was too much.

“I think—” he tried, then stopped. Swallowed hard.

Dana gently guided him toward the side wall, just out of the direct chaos. “Just breathe for a second. I’ve got it. I’ve got eyes on the board.”

“I need—” he started again, but his throat closed up.

“Hey,” she said, softer now. “It’s okay.”

But it wasn’t. It was anything but.

Because standing there, watching that boy fight for breath, watching her fight like hell to keep him here, Robby felt everything he had buried start to claw its way to the surface.

The weight of the note he left.

The sound of the train pulling away.

The memory of her asleep, the light spilling into the room, her hand on his chest like she was anchoring him.

He’d thought that version of himself was dead. Buried under work and years and choices he couldn’t take back.

But now—now it was like the past had ripped itself open and demanded he look.

The room blurred for a second. He blinked hard. Tried to focus.

He heard her voice again, still panicked.

“Why the hell aren’t we intubating?! He needs to be intubated!”

Whittaker again, calm and unmoved. “He’s stable enough to scan. You can come with us if you stay out of the way.”

A voice behind his left shoulder now—one of the paramedics.

“She brought him in herself. Collapsed on the street. She didn’t wait for the ambulance—drove like a maniac to get him here. Said she didn’t trust the timing.”

He still hadn’t moved.

The whole world had narrowed to the sound of her breath, the strain in her voice, the way her hand shook as she pushed hair from the boy’s forehead.

Then—quiet. A new voice. Softer. Dana again, back in the room now.

“He’s going to be okay. He’s stable. We’ve got him.”

She exhaled for the first time.

Just once. Then pressed a hand to her chest like she needed to physically hold herself together.

And that’s when someone said her name.

Soft. Familiar.

The sound of it—her name—snapped Robby out of whatever fog he’d been standing in.

That was all it took.

He moved.

Through the flurry of techs and doctors. Past Mohan adjusting the IV, past Whittaker calling out a page to peds. His footsteps were too loud, or maybe the whole room had just gone silent when he stepped in.

She turned at the sound of her name.

And saw him.

For the first time in ten years.

The recognition hit like a punch. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… undeniable.

Her face went still.

Not surprised. Not angry.

Just raw.

As if she’d been bracing for this moment for years without knowing it.

He opened his mouth. Didn’t even know what he was going to say.

All that came out was her name.

And everything else fell away.

© AUGUSTWINESWORLD : no translation, plagiarism, or cross posting.

[shidoglazer]

rin claims that his hobbies are watching horror movies and playing horror games but it's actually having you on his lap while playing with your tits and fingering you.

#needthat

18+ rin itoshi smut his hobbies mdni

*･゜ﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*･''･*:.｡. .｡.:*･゜ﾟ･* ＠shidoglazer

people think rins favourite activity during his days off would be horror movies and athletes conditioning, or maybe watching a football match or perhaps movies that include gore and blood.

they’re all wrong. because this is his favourite activity— your thighs being spread open by his legs as your sat on his bulge, completely stripped and vulnerable for him while he uses one hand to pinch and fiddle with your perky tit and the other one tracing down to your glistening pussy to play with it.

his fingers weren’t slender or specially long, but they were girthy and thick, just 2 fingers in you was able to make you whimper and squirm like an idiot, “you can’t even take my fingers, how’re you gonna hold up when i put my cock into you, princess?” with that stupidly smug tone of his.

you should be embarrassed from how loud your pussy slicks whenever his fingers move, you should be hating how smug and arrogant he sounded, yet the only thing you’re able to say or do is moan out his name like its a prayer.

“riiinnn, rinn,, p-lease! ah! rin, rin rin rinn,, rinnnnnnnnn!..” your back arched away from his stomach as he hooked his fingers upwards, rubbing against your g-spot. he placed tender kisses against the side of your head, a contrast from how rough his fingers are fucking into you.

“you’re going dumb on my fingers?” he asked, mumbling against your head, his voice vibrating throughout your skull. your hands gripped onto his thighs, letting out a breathy moan,

“rinn,, w’na cumm, wan c-cum, ple-ase!” you begged before your body jerked upwards when rin pinched onto your tit particularly hard. “y’didnt answer my question, pretty. are you going dumb on my fingers? say it f’me.” your mouth fell agape, trying to voice something out with a strained voice, it was hard to keep composure when his fingers were basically like a sex machine,

“i-i, going,, d’mb- on your ffingers!” you managed to get out of your throat as he continued his assault on your pussy.

“goood girl.” his fingers left your hole and trailed up to your sensitive bud, starting to rub against it furiously before your moans started coming out like a raging waterfall.

after you came, you desperately tried to crawl away from rins hold with shaky legs and a fucked out hole before your body dragged against the mattress as rin yanked you back by your ankles, flipping you over and holding your head to his chest. his fingers that were just in your hole tilted your chin up gently, revealing a face smothered in smudged mascara and tears. it was so, so, so wrong that the corners of his lips threatened to be pulled up as he saw that sight.

don’t worry, he’ll always end up pampering after pleasuring you dumb no matter how rough he was, he’ll set up a bath for you, feed you, dress you up in your pretty silky pyjamas and even do your skin care for you without you needing to move a muscle.

so yes— his favourite hobby isn’t watching horror movies or scary games, its pleasuring his girl until she falls apart in his arms.

★ check out my masterlist pls pls pls pls pls pls pls pls pls pls pls pls pls pls pls plsplslspppslpslpslpsls i literally write BANGERS

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

unfaithful

one-shot

Pairing: Demon!Dean x Sam's Girlfriend!Reader

Summary: It's been the same almost every night since Dean left. You wander the halls of the bunker, feet always carrying you to his closed door. Only tonight? It's open.

Warnings: 18+!, language, angst, cheating, mocking, guilt, pining, smut (dirty talk, clitoral stimulation, fingering, p in v, ass-play kinda, gagging), I think that's all.

Word Count: 4,410

It starts with silence. The kind that swells in old, haunted places—thick with ghosts, thicker still with the things left unsaid.

The bunker was never quiet when Dean was alive. Even asleep, he filled the space—snoring down the hall, boots echoing off stone, laughter ricocheting off walls like a warm, familiar gunshot. But now? Now it's just Sam.

Sam and the weight of all that's missing.

He sleeps restlessly beside you, long limbs tangled in the sheets, one arm slung over your stomach like it's instinct. You've been his anchor for years, since before Lucifer, before Ruby, before the bunker was even carved into your lives. His grief is a living thing now—tucked into his spine, sewn into the dark crescents under his eyes. He doesn't cry. Sam doesn't do that. He burns. Quietly. Patiently. Like a fuse with nowhere to go.

And you love him. God, you do.

You love the way he softens when you brush his hair back. The way his voice cracks when he says your name like it still means safety. The way his fingers find yours in the dark, like maybe you can hold each other together.

But you haven't been sleeping. Not since Dean. Not really.

Because love isn't always enough to quiet the hum beneath your skin. The one that started when the bunker went still. When Dean's door slammed shut. When Sam stopped saying his name with any emotion because the syllable hurt too much on his tongue.

It's been a couple months, maybe more, since Dean disappeared. Since the Mark swallowed him whole and left Sam behind to dig through the wreckage.

He won't call it that. Disappeared. He says gone, like he's coming back. Like he's late, not lost.

But every time Sam leaves to follow another lead—a demon sighting here, a body drained dry there—he comes back heavier. Shoulders hunched. Jaw clenched. A little more wrecked than the time before.

The last time, he came through the war room doors with his arm in a sling and blood crusted in his hair. He wouldn't look at you when you pressed your hands to his chest and asked what happened. Just muttered something about a crossroads deal gone sideways and that he "got what he needed."

You didn't ask what that meant. Not because you didn't want to know. Because you weren't sure you could carry it.

So you kissed his temple and made him tea and sat beside him in bed, letting his weight lean into yours until the tension bled out of his body. He was asleep in minutes.

He always sleeps when he's home now. And you? You stay awake.

Because when he's gone, the bunker is all stone and silence and the sound of your own spiralling thoughts. And when he's here, it's somehow worse. Because you can feel how far away he is—even with his arm around you, even with his head on your chest.

He used to laugh more. God, he used to laugh.

Now, he only talks about Dean. His voice tight. Raw. Like the name alone is a wound.

And you love him. You love him with everything you are. But love doesn't keep the walls from closing in. It doesn't stop your skin from prickling every time you pass Dean's room. It doesn't erase the way your heart beat different when Dean was still here—messy and loud and impossible.

It just makes you feel worse for noticing.

You don't mean to get up. You try, god, you try to just lie there, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of Sam's breathing beside you—soft and even, his body warm under the blankets, pressed into your side like he knows the second you leave, he'll feel it.

But still, you slide out from under his arm like a ghost. Still, you pull his flannel off the back of the chair and slip it over your bare shoulders. Still, you pad barefoot across the bunker floor, silent and aching, like something inside you is pacing the walls of your ribcage.

It's not that you're not tired. It's that you can't rest. Not with all this noise inside your head.

You make your rounds like you always do—through the library, past the war room. Everything's dim, quiet, lit only by the soft golden wash of overhead lamps left on low. Books you've already read sit open-faced on the table. A mug of tea long gone cold. Nothing helps.

Your feet move on their own. They always do. And you know where they're taking you. You always know.

Past the weapons room. Past the corridor where the lights flicker just a little when you breathe too hard. And then—

There it is.

Dean's door. Always shut, still sealed like a tomb. Except tonight, it's not. It's cracked open, just barely. Just enough.

You stop in your tracks, throat going tight. Your heart pounds like it's got something to say—but you don't want to hear it. You should go back to bed. You should lie down with Sam and pretend you didn't notice. Pretend you don't always end up here, standing in front of the last place Dean touched.

But the truth is...

You were always going to stop.

Even when he was alive, there was something about Dean that pulled you off course. Something gravitational. It wasn't like it was with Sam—steady, soft, true. Dean was a fire you kept your hands from, even when your skin ached for the burn.

You never said it out loud. Not even to yourself. Because to name it would've been to shatter everything you'd built. And you loved Sam. You still do. That's the worst part.

But Dean... Dean was something else entirely.

Something dark and sharp-edged and dangerous. Something you only let yourself want in your dreams—the kind that leave you waking up gasping, thighs clenched, shame curling in your gut like smoke.

You thought the ache would die with him. You thought grief would overwrite the hunger. But here you are, standing in front of his door again.

And tonight, it's open.

Your hand moves before your mind can catch up. Fingertips against wood. A breath held in your throat. The door groans quietly as it opens wider beneath your touch.

And he's there. Standing in the middle of the room like he never left.

Dean.

But not.

His hair is perfect, of course—flawless in that infuriating, tousled way like he rolled out of bed smug. His skin is golden under the low light, his jaw shadowed with stubble. A tight red shirt clings to him like a second skin, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms flexed like he's waiting for something.

But it's the look on his face that stops your heart dead in your chest. That grin. That slow, smug, shit-eating grin. It's Dean, and it isn't. His eyes are darker. Not black, but close—gleaming with something feral. Something cruel.

And he's leering at you. At your bare legs. At the way you're clutching Sam's flannel closed around your body like it's armour. Like it's going to protect you from him.

"Lookin' for me, sweetheart?"

His voice is a low drawl, thicker than you remember, honey poured over poison.

You can't move. Can't speak. You just... gawk at him.

Because what the fuck?

Sam has been tearing the earth apart looking for him. Nearly died chasing after scraps and whispers and demon tracks. He's got a sling on his arm and bruises he doesn't talk about and a look in his eyes like something inside him is breaking, and—

And Dean's just here. Standing in his room like it's a Tuesday. Looking you over like you're dinner. Like he's already decided how this ends.

"Cat got your tongue?" He murmurs, cocking his head, eyes dragging slowly down your body. "That mine?" He adds, chin-jerking toward the flannel you've pulled tight over your chest. "Or Sam's?"

You swallow hard, voice lost somewhere between your ribs and your gut.

He steps forward. One slow stride. Then another. And the closer he gets, the clearer it becomes—this isn't the Dean you remember.

This Dean doesn't carry guilt like a second skin. He's not breaking apart under the weight of his choices. No—this Dean is whole. Whole and dark and dangerous. And from the way he's looking at you now? He's starving.

Your voice slips out of you like it's been trapped behind your teeth for weeks.

"...Dean?"

He exhales like you just gave him life. His eyes flutter closed for a second, jaw flexing, that awful, beautiful grin widening.

"Fuck," he whispers, almost to himself. "There's that voice I missed."

When he opens his eyes again, they're molten. A furnace. Locked on you.

"You have any idea how many times I imagined you saying my name just like that?" He says, low and lazy, taking another step closer. "'Cept maybe you're on your knees. Maybe you're spread over Baby's hood. Or—fuck, maybe you're sittin' right in Sam's lap while I'm—"

"Dean."

It comes out more like a warning than anything else, but your grip on the flannel tightens. Your knuckles are white.

"What the hell is going on?" You whisper, pulse pounding in your throat. "You're alive? Where the—how are you here? Sam's been—he's been looking for you, he's been—"

"Oh, I know," Dean cuts in, eyes glittering. "Sammy's been very busy. Playing hero, getting himself all bruised up just for little old me." He steps close enough now that you can smell him—soap, leather, whiskey, and something wrong. Something deep and sulphurous beneath the surface. "And where's his sweet little girlfriend while he's out savin' the world?"

You don't answer. Can't.

Dean's gaze drops to your mouth. Lingers there. Then drags slowly back up.

"Home alone. Wrapped up in his flannel. Lookin' like a fuckin' gift."

"Dean, stop—"

"Why?" He murmurs, cocking his head. "You're standing in my doorway, baby. Wearing his shirt but lookin' at me like you wanna drop it and let me ruin you right here."

You stumble back a step, but he follows, slow, stalking. A predator playing with his food.

"I mean, shit," he drawls. "You don't think I noticed how you looked at me back then? All those years? You were so good, weren't you? Loyal little thing. Always kept your legs crossed, always trying to keep your eyes on Sam."

He steps close enough to touch you, but he doesn't. Not yet.

"But I bet you wondered," he whispers, voice like smoke curling around your ears. "Bet you laid awake more than once, wondering what it'd be like to get a taste of the bad brother."

Your breath catches, and Dean smirks.

"Lemme guess. You'd ride Sam's cock like a good girl, but you were thinkin' about me. About how I'd make you beg for it. About how I'd tear you apart and leave you a mess on the sheets. Don't lie. I can see it all over your fuckin' face."

"Dean, stop," you say again, but your voice is thinner this time. Weak. You don't sound convincing, and he knows it.

"Oh, you want me to stop?" He purrs, finally reaching up, brushing your jaw with the backs of his fingers, so gently it makes your knees tremble. "Or you want me to drag you into this room, bend you over that chair, and fuck you like you need it?"

You're shaking. You hate him. You love him. You hate yourself for standing there. And still—

You don't run.

Dean's fingers brush your jaw again, and when you don't flinch—don't recoil, don't run—he grins. That grin. Wicked and slow. Like he knew this would happen eventually.

"Atta girl," he purrs, voice gravel-thick with satisfaction.

Then he grabs you.

Not rough, not yet—but with enough force to make your breath stutter. His hand closes around your wrist, dragging you across the threshold and into the dim, still room that smells like leather and bourbon and the faintest trace of gun oil.

You don't fight him. You should. But your feet move where he leads. Right into the lion's den. And then he glances at the door behind you, fingers tightening ever so slightly on your wrist like he's weighing something. Considering.

Then he looks back at you with a raised brow, lips twitching.

"...Fuck it." He lets the words roll off his tongue like a dare. "The door stays open."

Your heart lurches in your chest.

"What—"

"I wanna see if you can keep that pretty little mouth shut," he says, stepping in close, his breath hot against your cheek. "Wanna know if you can take my cock and not wake Sammy up down the hall. That sound good, sweetheart?"

You shake your head—somewhere between no and I don't know—but he's already walking backward, pulling you with him.

"You really shouldn't be here," he says, faux-regret dripping from his voice. "But fuck me, you look so goddamn good in his shirt. Like you want me to wreck you while you're still wearing it."

He backs up to the desk and spins the chair around behind him.

"C'mon," he murmurs, low and filthy. "Over the chair, baby. Let's get you nice and bent for me."

You hesitate. Just for a second.

But then he tugs the flannel—Sam's flannel—just a little, exposing one shoulder, and hums like he's opening a present.

"Keep it on," he says, voice darker now. Rougher. "I wanna fuck you in his clothes. Wanna ruin you in the last thing he touched."

Your knees hit the chair. His hand is on the back of your neck now, guiding, not forcing—but firm enough you feel your breath stutter.

"Bend over," he whispers. "Hands on the seat. Ass up. That's it."

You're shaking. And he loves it. He kicks your legs apart gently with the side of his boot.

"There we go. Look at that. That's my girl."

You feel the flannel shift as he runs his fingers down your spine. His palm smooths over your ass, slow and proprietary.

"All these years playin' house with Sammy. Being good. Loyal. And all it took was one look at me tonight, and now here you are—wet and desperate and ready to get fucked like the filthy little secret you are."

He leans in, breath at your ear.

"You gonna let me ruin you, baby?"

You break before he even touches you.

Tears spill without warning, hot and fast, sliding down your cheeks as you grip the edge of the chair. Your body's trembling. With shame. With want. With everything you're too afraid to name.

Dean pauses. Then you hear his boots shift behind you. A second later, he's in front of you. Squatting down, one knee bent, his eyes catching yours beneath the curtain of your hair.

"Oh, baby," he coos, voice like silk dragged across a blade. He reaches out, thumb brushing your cheek, swiping away a tear.

Then he brings it to his mouth. Licks it clean.

"Cryin' already?" He murmurs, tilting his head. "That for me, sweetheart? Or for Sammy?"

You sniff, ashamed, eyes closing as another tear rolls free.

"There's no use in cryin'," Dean goes on, softer now. "You're getting what you've wanted for years."

He leans in, kisses the corner of your mouth, feather-light. Then your lips. You melt into it without meaning to. A broken whimper caught in your throat, your whole body pressing forward into the kiss like you need it.

He grins into your mouth. Smug. Knowing. And you hate him for it. But you don't pull away. When he finally draws back, he wipes your other cheek with the pad of his thumb.

"That's my girl," he whispers, and then—he's gone. He circles behind you again, hands dragging slowly down your back. "Flannel still on. Good."

Then you feel it—his fingers sliding beneath your panties, tugging them slowly down your thighs. He catches them just before they fall past your knees, lifts them to his face, inhales.

"Christ," he mutters, voice wrecked for a moment. "You smell like sin."

He folds them up, tucks them into the breast pocket of his red shirt like a souvenir.

"Mine now."

You whimper again, and he hums, pleased. A belt clinks open. Denim rustles a fraction. And then he's back—kneeling behind you this time. His hands spread your thighs wider, and then—

Oh god.

He sniffs you.

Right at the crease of your thigh, slow and obscene. Then his tongue drags a stripe up, hot and deliberate, until he's right at your centre.

He moans.

"Fuck."

Another kiss, soft and maddening, pressed to your clit like worship.

"You have no idea," he breathes against you. "How many nights I used to lie awake in that bed..."

He presses a finger inside. Slow. Deep. You choke on a gasp.

"...jerkin' myself raw, thinking about this pussy. About how sweet you'd sound begging me to ruin you."

The finger curls. You cry out—too loud—and he growls.

"Shhh. You wanna wake him up? Huh?"

You shake your head, clutching the chair like it's the only thing anchoring you to the earth.

"I'd come back from hunts all wound up and pissed off," he continues, voice ragged. "And you'd be there—wearin' your little shorts, leaning over the table with your mouth all smart and your ass lookin' like sin. And I'd be thinking about what you sound like when you come. How tight you'd feel clenching around my cock. What kinda mess you'd make."

He slips a second finger in. You cry out again—quieter this time. More desperate.

He grins against your thigh.

"Bet Sammy's never even made you come like this, huh?"

Dean's fingers pump into you slow and steady—just enough to make your thighs shake, but not enough to push you over. You bite your lip to hold back the sounds, forehead pressed to the seat of the chair, breath fogging the leather.

"You wanna wake him up?" Dean mutters, his voice low and tight as his fingers curl just right. "You wanna hear him walk down that hall and see you spread for me like a fuckin' whore?"

You gasp. Whimper. Shake your head.

"Didn't think so," he huffs. "Then keep your goddamn voice down."

He thrusts his fingers deeper, scissoring them inside you, tongue dragging along your inner thigh again like he's starved.

"Son of a bitch," he groans. "You're tight."

He fucks you with his hand like he means it, wet and obscene, the sound of it echoing off the stone walls of the bunker like a crime.

"Holy crap," he breathes out. "This is even better than I imagined. And trust me, sweetheart—I imagined it a lot."

He grazes your clit with his thumb, just a whisper of contact, and your whole body jolts.

"Shit, look at you," he laughs. "So fucking desperate. So goddamn wet for me. And in his shirt, too. That's real cute."

Your legs are trembling. You can feel it coiling in your belly—that tight, unbearable pressure.

You're gonna come.

"Dean—please—"

"Oh no, sweetheart," he cuts in, voice going sharp as he slows his pace to a crawl. "You don't get to come yet. Not unless you tell me what I wanna hear."

You shake your head, gasping. "What—what do you mean—?"

He leans in, lips brushing your ear, fingers curling inside you with cruel precision.

"You don't come," he says, low and commanding, "until you tell me you love me."

You freeze.

"Go on," he murmurs, breath hot. "Say it. Say you love me. Say it like you mean it."

"I—I can't—"

"Then I stop," he shrugs, withdrawing his fingers with a slick, obscene sound. You cry out, body clenching around nothing, so close you could scream.

"You don't wanna come that bad?" He taunts. "Guess I overestimated you."

"No," you breathe, desperate, eyes stinging again. "Please—please, Dean—"

"You think Sam would make you beg like this?" He growls, grinding his cock against your ass now through his boxers. "You think he'd know how to ruin you right? Like this?"

You moan, the friction almost enough to tip you over again, but not quite.

"Then say it."

He grips your hips hard, hissing under his breath. "Say you love me or I'm leaving you right here dripping and empty."

And you break.

"I love you," you sob. "Dean—I love you."

There's a beat of silence. Then—snap. His belt hits the floor.

"That's my fuckin' girl."

He's kicking his jeans off, tearing his boxers down, and then his cock is pressing against your soaked entrance, thick and hot and so fucking wrong.

He pushes in slow. Deliberate. Every inch feels like a sin you can't take back.

"Holy shit," he groans. "You really are tight."

You bury your face into the seat, choking on a cry, your entire body shaking.

"Take it," Dean hisses, hips rolling as he bottoms out. "Take all of it, baby. Fuckin' feel me."

He starts moving—hard and slow and deep. The chair rocks beneath you with every thrust, the open door behind you reminding you exactly how close this secret is to shattering.

"You feel that?" He pants. "Feel how deep I am? That's where I belong. That's mine. Always has been."

You're moaning now, helpless, face streaked with tears and pleasure.

"You keep clenching like that," he grits out, "I'm not gonna last long."

His hand tangles in your hair, pulling your head back as he thrusts into you harder, meaner.

"Bet you think about this every night now," he snarls. "Bet you go back to his bed with my cum dripping down your thighs and pretend you're still a good girl."

You scream into the leather, your body unraveling under his, fire licking up your spine.

"Come for me," he orders, voice raw. "Do it. Let go. Fuckingsay my name."

"Dean," you gasp. "Oh—god, Dean—"

You shatter.

And he doesn't stop.

You're sobbing into the chair now, blabbering incoherent pleas between the aftershocks, your thighs shaking violently as Dean keeps moving inside you—slower now, deeper, like he's savouring the feel of your body spasming around him.

"Fuck," he breathes, sweat beading at his temple, one hand still tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. "Look at you. Wrecked. Can't even talk right, can you?"

You let out a broken noise—somewhere between a whine and a sob.

He chuckles darkly. "Didn't think I'd fuck you stupid this fast."

His hand slides up, reaching into the pocket of his shirt—your panties, still warm from being tucked against his skin. He pulls them out, dangles them in front of your tear-soaked face like a prize.

"As much as I love these pretty little sounds," he murmurs, mocking sweetness dripping from every word, "I ain't ready for Sammy to come wanderin' in here asking why his girlfriend's whining like she's never had cock in her life."

He stuffs the panties into your mouth, slow and deliberate, pressing them past your lips with two fingers.

"There we go," he coos. "That's better. Nice and quiet."

You gag around the fabric, drooling, tears still leaking from the corners of your eyes—and Dean groans, hips stuttering at the sight.

"Jesus Christ, you look so good like this. Stuffed full'a me, mouth full of your own shame. Fuckin' perfect."

Then—he slows. Just a beat. Just enough to lean down and really ruin you.

One hand snakes between your cheeks, thumb pressing just under your tailbone, circling—until—

You jerk, whimpering around the fabric, eyes wide.

Dean laughs, low and cruel and utterly delighted.

"Sensitive, huh?" He murmurs, pressing the pad of his thumb just inside your ass, keeping you right where he wants you. "Don't squirm, sweetheart. Gotta keep you nice and still while I fill you up."

His thrusts pick up again—harder now. Meaner. The wet slap of skin on skin fills the room, echoing off the walls like a fucking dirge.

"Been waitin' years for this," he pants, voice going ragged. "Years of watching you play house with my fucking brother—dressed up like his little good girl, never lookin' twice at me."

Another thrust. Your whole body jolts.

"But I knew. I knew what was underneath. Knew you'd fall apart the second I touched you. And now look at you—soaked, stuffed, fucked out, cryin' into a goddamn chair while Sammy dreams down the hall."

He's getting close. You can feel it. His rhythm falters, hips jerking.

"You're mine now," he growls, biting out the words like a vow. "Don't care how many years you've been with him. Don't care what he means to you. You let me in, baby. That's all I needed."

One more thrust. Two. And then—he groans, low and brutal and satisfied, hips grinding as he comes deep inside you.

He holds you there—panting, trembling, pulsing around him—thumb still snug between your cheeks, panties stuffed in your mouth, Sam's flannel hanging off your shoulders like a scarlet fucking letter.

"Goddamn," he breathes, resting his forehead against your spine for a beat, voice low and reverent now. "Better than I ever fucking dreamed."

He presses a kiss to your shoulder.

"You're not walkin' straight tomorrow," he adds, smug. "But don't worry—I'll be right here to remind you why."

He doesn't pull out right away. Just stays there—buried deep, still twitching inside you, one hand splayed across your lower back, the other slipping up under the flannel to palm your breast with lazy ownership.

The silence is thick. The kind that rings. Your heartbeat is all you can hear—fast, frantic, shame-soaked.

Dean breathes deep, then exhales slow. "...Shit." It's almost fond.

He slides out with a wet sound, groaning under his breath, watching the mess drip from between your thighs with open satisfaction.

"Fucking hell, baby," he murmurs, dragging a finger through it, spreading it with no shame at all. "Can't believe you let me do that. In his shirt."

You whimper, still gagged, still shaking. Your knees nearly give as you try to straighten up.

He catches you by the waist, steadying you effortlessly. Then, softly—mockingly:

"You done crying?"

You don't answer. Can't. Not around the panties in your mouth. But your eyes say everything.

Dean leans in, mouth brushing your ear.

"I want you in my bed next time," he murmurs, voice like velvet and poison. "Naked. On your knees. Beggin' me to do it all over again."

You let out a broken sob—quiet, shameful.

He grins. Stands tall. Tucks himself back into his jeans without taking his eyes off you.

Then—

"But if you're just gonna go crawl back into Sammy's bed and cry yourself to sleep..." He shrugs, flicks his belt shut with one hand. "Might as well run along."

His eyes flick to the door.

"It's still open."

You turn—barely able to walk, face flushed and soaked with tears, the flannel falling off one shoulder. Every step away from him is a scar.

And as you reach the threshold, he calls after you—softly, smugly:

"Don't forget what you just gave up, sweetheart."

Your legs are barely working. You're half-naked, wearing Sam's flannel, marked inside and out by his brother's mouth, his cock, his voice.

The silence chokes you now.

Behind you, Dean drops into his desk chair like a king after war—chest rising and falling, a smirk tugging at his lips as he watches you go. He doesn't say anything else. Doesn't call you back. Just... waits. Because he knows what he's done. He knows what you are now.

You stop in the doorway, one hand on the frame. Look down the hall—toward the room that's supposed to be yours. The bed you share. The man you love.

Then you glance back. At Dean's bed. Unmade. Open. Waiting.

You stay there a second longer—undecided. A trembling silhouette caught between sin and salvation. And the door never shuts.

A/N: Okay, I am well aware of how goddamn cruel this was... but I lowkey don't really care (sorry Sammy bby) because how fucking hot? Ew. Gross levels of hot. Let me know what y'alls think pleaseeee. All the love.

Dean taglist: @mostlymarvelgirl @losers-clvb @lunaleah @itshellfire @drakulana @sl33pylilbunny @suckitands33 @nevercameraready @0ccvltism @bittersweetfig @lyarr24 @podiumackles @spxideyver @tinas111 @paristheonewhoreads @winchestersbgirl @blossomingorchids @sacr1ficialang3l @liiiilsss @mj-102009 @kaz-2y5-spn <3

Also tagging @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth because I need you to see that I wrote it, please don't sue me. <3

[creating-by-starlight]

Me, every time anyone says anything about "waiting for The One God has for you"/romantic soulmates/etc: Stop, stop, stop! Why are we implying that everyone has a soulmate when everyone does not have a soulmate? God's going to get nasty letters saying "Where's my soulmate? Why haven't I found my soulmate?" and do you want Him to have to deal with that? I don't think so! Stop spouting heresy being so silly!

[wild-jackalope]

pairing :: Mark Grayson x reader

warning :: friends to lovers, make out, spicy, mutual pining, Mark comfort (bc he deserves the best), cheating on Amber w/ reader, season one

note :: first Invincible drabble, send your requests

The roof quietly scraped with the weight of you resting on it. Around you were the sounds of subtle crickets and the occasional car rolling along the road. The nearby city produced no sound, no explosions, no sirens, no sudden crashes, just stillness. And Mark.

He'd lifted you from the yard to the roof, just as he often did when the two of you had deep chats. His hands cradled you gently into the sky, almost weakly, as if he remembered your bones were as brittle in his large hands as a stick was when he was young.

You'd been waiting—between bursts of failing small talk— for him to confess the real reason he put you on his roof with such a sorrowful look on his face. It wasn't merely 'to hang out' as his text message asking you to come over claimed.

It wasn't until you hit the jackpot of his problems with the simple question: "How is Amber?" that he spilled.

“Amber is… I don’t know. She wants me to be there for her, but something always gets in the way.”

“Like what, Mark?”

“Like a new monster. Or some kind of villain.”

“Saving people gets in the way?”

“Yeah… It does.”

You took a heavy exhale and your eyes drifted over the star-specked sky, watching the twinkle of faraway lights and the moon. With your breath in came the scent of the night, cool and soft, carrying the faint smell of rain.

Mark's head remained downcast with the weight of his heroism looking down on him.

You reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, willing him to feel your love through the simple touch. “Mark," you murmured gently, "look at the sky.”

His dark eyes laxly questioned you, before raising to the sky.

“Look at all the stars," you beamed softly, "burning so brightly against the black sky. The moon, the clouds, all of it. I get to see it every night, so do many others— people that are alive because you protect them. They breathe, watch sunsets, love, laugh, and cry because you’ve sacrificed yourself to save them, save Amber, save me.” The hand placed on his shoulder slid down, gripping his softening muscle kindly.

More teetered on the edge of your tongue, but it wasn't right to tell him how you truly felt with the aftertaste of Amber’s name still in your mouth.

The light of the moon gleamed in Mark’s eyes, paired with expanding pupils and a slack jaw. He didn't—couldn't say anything first, only try to control the rising of his chest and remember how to breathe correctly.

His jaw tightened, "God," he said weakly, "why are you like this?"

"Because I—"

"Don't," he cut in, shaking his head. "If you say something like that again, I don't know what I'll do."

You mistook the confession for something of a threat and retreated to your space. Mark sighed at the cold spot your hand left. "I'm sorry, I guess it's none of my business," you said.

"No! It is your business... you always know what to say and I—" his knuckles began to blanch at the tight hold of his fists. "I don't know how you do this to me." He murmured.

You remained quiet, to let space between you cool down and to retreat from his instability. He was getting too close, too close to revealing what had always lingered between the two of you.

That quiet, unspeakable thing.

"I think about you, all the time. More than I should." He stated, longing for your eyes to meet him.

You remained silent.

"I think about you especially when I shouldn't," He muttered.

"Mark..." You warned breathlessly.

"Sorry, this is hard." He huffed, forcing himself to let free the building tension in his chest. "Maybe I should've stayed quiet."

"It's not good to bottle things up." You offered— it was stupidly simple.

"But talking to you about my relationship..." On the surface it was completely normal for friends to confide in one another, but below messy layers of shameful feelings, longing looks and lingering touches between you two it wasn't right at all. "Then I see you and I already feel better, you say the most perfect things which make me feel crazy. Like I'm doing enough, that I deserve more, that I'm..."

He looked to the stars burning against the black sky and sighed, letting his head fall again.

"Maybe you should go." He muttered.

And then you said it, to keep from leaving, to hold him to you for longer. Perhaps, a small part of you knew it'd throw him over the edge. "Mark," you muttered, "You'll always be worth it."

Mark had frozen, stunned. Then as your words replayed in his mind, reverberating through his body and making his inside melt to lava. He looked away, with shaking hands

You'll always be worth it. He knew you meant it, there was no doubt in his mind.

Mark's ever-failing need to stay in control dissipated and the eyes that turned to look at you were no longer clouded by doubt— they said, You're worth it too.

He'd shifted onto his knees, closing the distance that separated you until his hand took the back of your head in hand and guided your lips to his. There was barely a moment to resist, just a small gasp which Mark swallowed feverishly.

The kiss could only be described as making up for lost time. His lips moved so desperately to convey just how much your words meant to him.

Your hands, feeling as though they had been cuffed to your sides, broke free from their mental chains and found Mark's hair. Gripping and feeling. The two of you moulded into one another, finally feeling all the things only previously longed for. Just in this moment, this fraction of time where morality and responsibility parted from your hot bodies.

At some point, his body found a refuge between your legs, his mouth now painting soft trails along your exposed neck.

It was intense, so fast, too fast.

Your head spun. Your legs tightened around Mark's waist anytime he ran his tongue over your skin.

Too intense, too hot.

You weren't sure at what point you began pushing at Mark's shoulders, likely when his mouth dipped past your collarbone and his hand began feeling the curve of your hip, pulling you to his core.

"Mark," you breathed, too softly and too sultry, because he only became further wrapped up in your body.

He groaned, like your voice alone had pushed him further into heat.

"Mark." You huffed, leaning away to breathe some air that wasn't so full of his smell.

He hesitated, his hands peeled themselves off you. Slowly, he sat back on his heels, away from the clouded heat that surrounded you.

He suddenly looked so miserable. Like he'd just remembered he was still bleeding from an old wound.

"I can't... God— I can't do this to you. Not like this, not while she's waiting for me."

You didn't know what to say, for once you had no words of closure to offer him. Only a thudding heart and a bruised neck.

"I have to see it through." For her, for you and for himself. "I'll come back," he stated.

He'd pushed off into the air so quickly, leaving you with only a promise and the feeling of his hands lingering on your body.

[nightplvmes]

birthday girl

you'd always known you had a different side of Sylus, a side no one else had because you couldn't remember a time he hadn't made you feel special. he had made your birthday special after so many years. ☆ sylus x fem!reader — fluff ! MDNI! ☆ birthday special ☆ an: hi! so it's my birthday!! and i wanted to post a special. it's not a long one shot and it's not a big deal, i thought about making it a bit more personal, mentioning that Sylus' birthday was also close but i felt like that would be tooooo self insert. anyway, save this and you can read it when your birthday is close 🫶🏻 i was planning to do something with the rest of the LIs so you all can read them on your bday too but i didn't have time, especially because of Sylus' birthday :( anyway, if anyone is interested in a special like this from another LI, you can request it <3 – likes and reblogs are appreciated!! :) ★ masterlist here

your birthday wasn't something you liked. you'd done your best to hide it from Sylus because didn't want to celebrate it, especially this year. you knew your efforts to hide it hadn't worked when you got home that night. you opened the door, and the lack of light made your brows furrow, but the small flicker of candles caught your attention.

Sylus was standing next to a table, his hands behind his back, and beside him was a beautifully set table. it was a dinner party, and you probably would have thought it was nothing more than a date night, if there wasn't a cake in the middle of the table. "what... what's this?" you asked, a lump beginning to form in your throat, even though you knew the answer perfectly.

"you thought you could hide your birthday, sweetie?" Your cheeks turned red. you'd suspected it; you knew he was going to find out somehow, but something inside you hoped he wouldn't.

"I... it's not important. I don't like my birthday." you shook your head. you expected something from him at home if he found out, and maybe something like a forced outing the next day as a celebration. however, you didn't expect that. you had called him an hour ago, and he had said he'd be home maybe two hours later because he still had a few things to do.

"it's important." Sylus approached you, his arms around, pulling you close to his body. "I cooked for you and this is your birthday dinner." a small smile spread across your face, and you felt... a kind of tranquility. it wasn't a lie that you had never liked your birthday, but there was something intimate about just the two of you, about this being your birthday celebration.

"when did you do this? I thought you were working." you placed a kiss on his cheek as he moved away from you enough to walk to the table where he had prepared dinner.

"when I said I had things to do, I meant dinner." a laugh escaped your lips. you didn't even know how he'd found out about your birthday; you'd kept it a secret until... a memory came back to you. yes, you could remember Luke and Kieran standing around you asking questions.

"so... you'd say your stay at Onychinus was good?" you looked at Luke with a frown and then at Kieran, who was sitting on your other side.

"I'm not even staying here. it's not a hotel."

"you're the boss' girlfriend. you sleep here all the time," Kieran said, making your eyes widen in a mixture of embarrassment and surprise. he wasn't actually lying, but it still wasn't a hotel you had come to talk about your stay there. your didn't work for Sylus either.

"yeah, my stay at Onychinus is good," you replied, giving up. the twins were too persistent, and you knew you wouldn't be able to win against them. at some point, you stopped listening to them completely; even Luke's voice sounded so distant that you only just started answering without thinking.

"how old are you?" it had been one of the casual questions Kieran had asked, even though they knew your age perfectly well.

"when is your birthday?"

"those two..." you muttered to yourself as you narrowed your eyes, remembering all of Luke and Kieran's questions. they had inundated you with questions to the point of exhaustion, so you'd answered everything without even thinking about it. Sylus chuckled as he sat down across from you, he'd realized you'd already figured it out, and that there was no evaluation for Onychinus residents—it was just him trying to find out your birthday. well, he'd done a pretty good job, you had to admit. "I can't believe you sent your two shadows to get information out of me," you muttered, annoyed.

Sylus seemed to be searching for something in his pocket, and it took him a couple of seconds to answer. "they were gathering information for an Onychinus project." you rolled your eyes, knowing it was a big lie and you were about to say something, but something stopped you suddenly.

Sylus placed a small box on the center of the table. for a second, you thought it was an engagement ring, but then you realized it was a necklace as soon as he opened it. but it wasn't just any necklace, it was obviously expensive; it was shaped like a kitten and surrounded by red diamonds. "what's this?" you asked, still open-mouthed in surprise, despite knowing the answer perfectly.

"happy birthday, kitten." that was enough to know it was his birthday present. Not only had he taken the time to research your birthday and prepare an entire dinner, he'd bought something else for you. something that was actually meaningful.

maybe you were too excited or too stunned that words came out of your mouth, but you didn't even know what you had said. when you came back from your little bubble, Sylus was behind you, helping you put the necklace on. "you didn't have to, really." you shook your head as he placed a kiss on your forehead before returning to his seat across from you.

"how could I act like your birthday didn't matter?" you narrowed your eyes at his words, knowing they were something you'd said last year after throwing him a surprise party. he'd used your own words against you.

you looked down at the necklace now on your neck and circled the tiny kitten with your fingers, gazing at it for so many seconds. you'd always known you had a different side of Sylus, a side no one else had because you couldn't remember a time he hadn't made you feel special. he had made your birthday special after so many years.

[storiesforallfandoms]

heatwave ~ matt murdock;marvel

word count: 3306

request?: no

description: in which a terrible heatwave has hit hell's kitchen, and it's leading to some lewd thoughts about her roommate

pairing: matt murdock x female!reader

warnings: swearing, smut (shower sex, oral - f receiving, multiple orgasms, unprotected p in v, matt asks for permission, a smidgeon of begging, naked cuddling afterwards but like...actually cuddling, not a euphemism)

masterlist (one, two, three)

It was an unbearably hot day in Hell's Kitchen. Hot enough that it was making the "Hell" part seem a little too real. It was the type of hot that leaving the window open filled the apartment with heat, but closing it made the place feel like a heat box. There was just no escaping it.

I was grateful to have the day off because it was definitely too hot to work, but at the same time I knew my job had working AC. Matt and I had been saving up for a working AC unit, but it was difficult when other expenses kept getting in our way. Matt kept insisting that when he finally got promoted to a lawyer position, we wouldn't have to worry so much about the apartment expenses, but he and Foggy had been in the same position at Landon and Zack - and unhappily so 0 for so long that I was starting to double they'd get a promotion at that law firm specifically.

Either way, for now all Matt and I had was a shitty fan that blew just enough cold air to make living in this heat bearable. I was wearing my shortest shorts and thinnest tank top, laid out on our couch with the fan directly on me. I was still extremely hot to a point where I just wanted to crawl out of my skin as it felt like the only option.

I couldn't even bring myself to turn my head as i heard the front door open and shut. I knew who it was anyways, even without the familiar sound of Matt's cane folding up. When he did walk into my eyeline, I scoffed. "How are you walking around dressed like that?"

Matt was in a pair of long dress pants, a light blue button up - with no sweat stains, might I add - and his tie pulled tight to his neck. Looking at him alone was making me overcome with heat.

Matt chuckled. "I have no choice in the matter. Can't exactly walk into a law firm in daisy dukes and a wife beater."

I snickered at the idea of Matt Murdock in daisy dukes.

I met Matt over a year ago after he had responded to my "roommate wanted" ad. My last roommate had moved out suddenly with very little notice, leaving me to try and pay rent for the apartment on my minimum wage salary. So to say I was desperate for a roommate is an understatement. Still, I was a little hesitant to answer Matt's response to my post. He was a strange man, and it was just me in the apartment. A girl can't be too careful in this day and age. But, again, I was desperate, so I agreed to meet up with him to discuss moving in.

Imagine my shock, and slight relief, when a well dressed, blind man introduced himself as an intern at Landon and Zack, and was also needing a roommate as his internship didn't pay enough to cover rent at his own place, plus his student debt.

The next week, he was moving into my apartment.

I liked Matt. He was easy to get along with, and he pulled his weight around the apartment. And in general, he was a nice guy. I liked hanging out with him, and with Foggy whenever he was over, too. I did feel like I hit the jackpot for roommates with him.

Matt made his way to his room. In the process, I noticed him pulling at his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. I tried not to be so obvious in my staring, until I remembered he couldn't actually see me staring at him.

Okay, yeah, I may have had fantasies about Matt. Can you blame me? He's a handsome man, and I am but a girl. Not like anything would happen between us. It couldn't happen. That'd make things incredibly awkward around the apartment.

When Matt came back out of his room, he was changed into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. I watched him navigate around the room, as if searching for something, before turning to me.

"You're hogging the fan."

I scoffed. "There was no one to hog it from until a few minutes ago."

"Well, there is now, and you're hogging it."

I rolled my eyes. "Just come sit on the couch, idiot. I'll position the fan so it's on both of us."

Matt moved slowly towards the couch. When we first started living together, I would often try to help Matt with things around the apartment, such as moving from point A to point B. I thought it was helpful, until one day Matt assured me that he could do things on his own.

"I have been blind for most my life," he had said. "I've learned how to live with it."

So, after that, I stopped helping unless Matt asked. Like now, just watching him navigate to the couch. When he got close enough, I sighed and extended a hand to him. "Grab my hand, ding dong."

He chuckled. "Ding dong? Are you 12?"

"Almost."

Matt took my hand and I slowly led him to the couch, then patted the cushion so Matt could hear where to sit. I didn't expect him to plop himself down so close to me, but he decided to sit so close that our arms were brushing against one another. I tried to ignore it by tilting the fan so it was blowing on both of us.

"We should get an inflatable pool," I suggested.

Matt chuckled. "And put it where? We live in an apartment building. We don't exactly have a backyard."

"Put it in the living room."

"I'm sure our landlord would appreciate that."

"It's not like he'd know. In all the years I've lived here, I think he's been by twice."

Matt tilted his head towards me. "I don't think it's a good idea."

I rolled my eyes and sighed. "You're so no fun, Matt."

We fell into a silence that made me remember that Matt was sat so close to me. I tried to sneak a glance at him, and then once again remembered he couldn't see me anyways, so I allowed myself to look. I allowed myself to glance at the way his shorts were riding up, showing off his thigs. I allowed myself to glance at his arms, weirdly strong for a lawyer, and now with the added touch of sweat making him glisten.

God, I'm no better than a man.

I was suddenly a lot hotter, with a particular heat pulsing between my legs.

"You alright?"

I jumped at the sudden sound of Matt's voice. "Uh, yeah. Why?"

"You're...quiet."

I chuckled. "Didn't know quiet was a bad thing."

"It's not, but you're...I don't know. There's something different about this silence."

"It's just hot."

I was on my feet before I knew what I was doing. I just needed some distance before I did something incredibly stupid. I needed this heat to fuck off so Matt and I could put more clothes on and I wouldn't have to see so much of his skin that it turned me into a prepubescent boy.

I muttered something about showering before rushing to the bathroom. Once the door was closed behind me, I let out a long sigh. I wasn't actually sure about showering at first, but now that I was away from the fan I was starting to feel too hot and sweaty again. A cold shower wouldn't go astray, and I had definitely been sweating enough all day to warrant showering.

I turned on the shower, turning the cold tap almost all the way while turning the hot tap just enough to make it so the water wasn't bitterly cold. I stripped myself of my clothes and stepped under the cold water. I don't know how I hadn't thought of a cold shower before, but it was definitely the best idea. The downside was that eventually I'd have to get back out into the hot, humid air of the apartment, but for the time being I was content with standing under the cold water until my fingers and toes were prunes.

I wasn't paying much attention to anything besides how nice the cold water felt, otherwise I might've heard the bathroom door opening. I might've heard the sound of clothes hitting the floor, joining my own discarded pile. But I definitely did not miss the sound of the shower curtain being pulled back, revealing a completely naked Matt Murdock.

I shrieked in shock, my heart racing a million miles a second from the scare.

"Matt, what the fuck?!" I snapped.

"You forgot a towel," he said, gesturing to the two towels he had laid on the counter.

"So you had to get completely naked to bring me some towels?"

"Well, to bring you a towel. The other is for me."

When he stepped into the shower, I tried to back away, but damn this small apartment with its small shower. There wasn't much further I could move from him without stepping completely under the shower head and practically drown myself. It took everything in my power to keep my eyes on his face and not to let them venture lower.

"What are you doing?" I asked him. I tried to sound forceful, confident, but instead my voice came out soft, nearly a whisper.

He didn't respond. Instead, he was reaching for me. I knew I should've pulled away, or pushed him away, or insisted that he leave because this was definitely pushing a boundary that we should not cross as roommates. That's what I should've done. Instead, I let Matt's hands find my waist. I let him pull me to him, pressing our bodies together under the cold water. I no longer had to fight not to look down between his legs, because now it was pressed against me.

"What are you doing?" I asked again.

"Your heart was racing," he said, like that answered everything.

"Yeah, you scared me. That tends to be the usual reaction."

"No, I mean earlier. One the couch. When I was next to you, it started beating harder and faster."

"How do you know that?"

"I could hear it."

If it were any other circumstances, I probably would've laughed at that. I probably would've made some quip about him having super hearing since he was blind. But my mind wasn't functioning properly. Not with Matt pressed up against me like that, holding me like that. His hands wandering over my body the way they were.

"We-we can't," I finally managed.

"Why not?"

"We live together, Matt. It'll make everything awkward."

"Or maybe we'll finally get rid of this tension between us and can find out how we wanna proceed afterwards."

Tension between us? Does that mean he's had the same thoughts I've had? Does he feel the same way I've been feeling about him?

My mind was rushing when Matt kissed me, so much so that I almost didn't register it at first. It was a shock, and then it felt right. I placed my arms around his neck, leaning into the kiss. One of his hands found their way to my hair, tangling in the wet locks to hold me in place, while the other drifted down my body until it came to rest on my ass. I could feel him pressed against my stomach, his hard cock twitching. In the time Matt and I had lived together, I had met all of his "girlfriends", who liked to brag about being with Matt because they were all threatened by his female roommate. I was glad to report that the bragging about what he was packing had not just been to make me jealous.

Matt tugged at my hair, which resulted in a gasp slipping from my lips. He smirked, and I just knew that bastard was making mental notes of everything that made me have involuntary reactions. He pulled my head back to expose my neck to him. He kissed my jawline and down my neck, nipping at areas that would certainly leave very visible marks later. He continued moving down my body, trailing kisses from my neck down over my chest, and giving ample attention to my breasts. I was now leaning against the shower wall, my head lulled back at Matt took each of my breasts into his mouth one at a time, swirling his tongue around my already hard nipples. I gasped and moaned with each flick of his tongue. I held the back of his head with one hand, grasping at the strands of hair at the nape of his neck.

Soon, Matt was on his knees on the tile shower floor. We had switched places, so the cold water was now cascading down on him. I was about to offer to move the shower head so he wasn't directly in the line of fire, but Matt cut me off by lifting my leg over his shoulder and immediately diving his tongue into my pussy. I cried out, both in shock and in pleasure.

I had been with a few guys in my lifetime, some of which didn't mind giving oral. But none of them could ever hold a candle to what Matthew Murdock could do with his tongue.

Within seconds of his head being between my legs, I had completely lost any sort of coherence. The only thing my mind could focus on was how good Matt's tongue felt running over my swollen clit; darting in and out of my pussy, as he was quite literally fucking me with his tongue; the feeling of his lips wrapping around my clit and gently sucking on it. It was like he knew exactly what I would like before I even knew. It wasn't long before Matt was holding onto my thighs as they began to quiver, holding me up as my orgasm washed over me. He kept lapping at my cunt, drinking in every drop of me that he could like a man starved.

My legs felt weak. I wasn't sure I'd be able to stay stood. Luckily for me, I didn't have to. As Matt got to his feet, he kept hold of my leg. He pressed his body against mine, holding me in place. When he kissed me, I could still taste me on his lips.

"Can I fuck you?" he asked. His tone of voice was nothing I had ever heard from him before. It was full of lust and desire. His hard cock was resting against me, begging to get its own release, but he waited. He waited until I gave him permission.

It was the barest of minimums, but there was something about Matt wanting to hear me say yes that made the dull ache of post-orgasm turn into the tingly feeling of desire once again.

"Yes," I breathed. "Please Matt, fuck me."

He wasted no time in lining himself up with my entrance. He pushed in slowly, letting me feel every inch of him as he filled me up. The stretch stung, but it felt so good. Once he was buried to the hilt inside of me, he took a moment to allow me to adjust to him. I watched as his face contorted in pleasure and I couldn't help but feel a little pride that I was making him feel this good, even if I wasn't the one doing the work.

"Fuck," he sighed. "Can I start fucking you?"

I nodded. Luckily he still had his forehead against mine, so he felt the approval instead of me having to say it outloud.

He started slow, pulling almost all the way out then pushing all the way back in. It was almost an agonizing pace. It felt so good, but every time he slipped everything except the tip out I felt hollow. He reached a spot inside of me that had only been reached a few times before, but with his pace he was only grazing it instead of constantly nudging it the way I wanted him to.

I was getting close to begging him to speed up. A desperate whine even slipped from my mouth when he pulled all the way out of me again. But this time, when he thrusted back inwards, it was fast and rough. The force pushed my ass back against the shower tile.

"Fuck," he breathed again. "I'm trying to make this last, but I really just want to fuck you until your legs are too numb to work anymore."

Another whimper. "Please."

"What was that?"

"Please fuck me," I said. "Fuck me however you want, Matt. I need it. I need it so bad."

He captured my lips in another kiss as he started thrusting into me at a ruthless pace. The sound of our wet skin colliding fill the room over the sound of the running water. It was lewd and naughty, and so good. It was something we'd never come back from as roommates, but I couldn't care less now. Nothing beyond this moment mattered.

Matt reached his other hand between us. He began to rub circles on my clit with his thumb. His thrusts changed slightly, just enough to hit that spot inside me in a way that drove me crazy. I had my arms around his neck, trying to keep myself up, but as I felt another orgasm building I knew I wouldn't be able to stay upright on my own. When the wave crashed over me, I threw my head back against the wall and cried out his name. It was more intense than the first one, so intense that my vision went completely white.

Matt's cock twitched inside of me, the only warning I had before he hit his own high. He buried himself inside me one last time, shooting himself so deep inside of me that I was sure I'd be full of him for weeks. He groaned in pleasure, resting his forehead against mine again.

The shower water had finally gone stark cold. Not that it mattered. We had definitely worked up a new sweat even with the cooling sensation beating against our bodies.

I sighed when Matt finally had to pull himself free of me. He chuckled and leaned in for one final kiss.

"Let's clean you up before we get out."

He slowly lowered me to the edge of the tub. I passed him my body wash and he lathered up his hands to clean between my thighs. He rinsed himself as well before turning off the water. The chill from the water had gotten under my skin enough that I didn't immediately become overwhelmed with heat once the shower was off. Matt wrapped the towel around himself first before wrapping one around me, and then picking me up to carry me out of the bathroom.

"I can walk myself, Matt," I said, although we both knew that was untrue.

"Your still trembling legs say otherwise," he noted.

He carried me to his bedroom. We dried ourselves off as much as we could with the towels before discarding them onto the floor and getting into his bed. Matt pulled me to him, resting my head against his chest. There was still so much we probably should discuss, but neither of us made the effort to say anything. We weren't ready to face the reality of what was next for us as roommates. Instead, we were content to lay together for just a while longer, until the heat became too much to bear once again.

I listened to his heartbeat, and I couldn't help but think about how all of this started because he claimed he could hear my own.

~~~

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[chaoticforever]

When Perfect Cracks | Eddie Diaz x Male! Reader

Summary: To the outside world, it seemed like everything was perfect. Y/n had a boyfriend who loved him, a job he worked hard for, and a life finally falling into place. But Y/n had learned long ago that perfection often came with a price.

A/n: Shoutout to the person who requested this. It’s been fun writing for the 9-1-1 fandom and I liked writing this.

It's often said that time flies when you're having fun, but being in love and sharing those happy moments with that special someone takes it to a whole new level, making time pass by even more quickly.

One year.

That’s how long Y/n L/n and Eddie Diaz had been a couple. Looking back, it was almost comical how they started dating, considering the two hadn’t exactly gotten off on the right foot. In fact, Y/n couldn’t stand Eddie, to say the least. And Eddie? Oh, he hadn’t been too fond of Y/n either.

It all started with the parking lot incident at the grocery store. Y/n could still hear Eddie’s exasperated tone, accusing him of backing into his truck when, in reality, Eddie was the one who hit him, leaving a nice, ugly dent in Y/n's car. The man had the audacity to argue, crossing his arms with that infuriating, know-it-all look like he had never been wrong a day in his life.

Realistically, Y/n should’ve called the cops, but he’d been in a rush and didn’t have time to deal with it. He just hoped he’d never have to see that dude again.

Fate, though, had other plans.

On his day off, thanks to some saved-up PTO, Y/n got a text from his best friend and roommate, Buck, asking if he could drop off the lunch he’d forgotten at their apartment. Being the good friend he was — and knowing how much Buck liked his cooking — Y/n agreed and headed to the 118 firehouse to drop it off and bounce.

And that’s when Buck introduced him to the team. Surprisingly, one of them was the one who dented his car — Eddie Diaz. The moment Eddie saw him, he let out a little sigh, as if Y/n’s mere presence was some kind of personal inconvenience. It probably was, but that was Eddie's fault. Their conversation that day? Well, it was nothing but passive-aggressive remarks.

So, yeah, Y/n was not a fan. He thought Eddie was arrogant, pompous, and far too smug for someone who acted like being a firefighter made him superior.

As it turned out, the animosity was a two-way street. Y/n later found out from Buck that Eddie had called him stuck-up. Annoying. Said he didn’t understand why Buck was friends with someone like him.

Y/n knew It would have stayed that way — two people who did not tolerate each other, held together only by their mutual friendship with Buck — if it hadn’t been for that one sunny afternoon at the park.

The 118 had been hosting a community event for local kids, setting up obstacle courses, fire safety demos, and fun little challenges. He had only agreed to attend because Buck wanted him to help out, and Y/n figured it was a decent way to spend a Saturday. He wasn’t one to pass up an opportunity to give back, so he set up a barbecue station, grilling sausages, burgers, and hot dogs for the attendees.

And then he saw Eddie with the children.

A little girl, barely six, had stumbled and scraped her knee. Y/n went to help, but Eddie got there first, kneeling down with a gentleness that caught him off guard, to be honest. Eddie's voice was warm and reassuring as he told her she was strong, it was just a scratch, that he’d had worse but always got back up. She sniffled, nodded, and, without hesitation, held out her arms for Eddie to pick her up after he finished bandaging her knee.

Y/n hadn't expected Eddie to be so kind. It was one thing to know that Eddie's job as a firefighter involved helping people, but it was quite another to see him do it off the clock with such genuine warmth and compassion. Y/n had anticipated a more gruff, no-nonsense approach, but instead, Eddie was gentle, patient, and encouraging. Just like he encouraged a nervous young boy to climb up the mini firefighter obstacle course. He certainly hadn't expected to see that little display. And Y/n definitely hadn’t expected the way his own heart softened at the sight.

Maybe Eddie wasn’t the arrogant jerk Y/n had thought he was. Eddie, it seemed, had misjudged Y/n as well. He assumed that Y/n was too stuck-up to bother with something as humble as volunteering at a community event. Yet as he watched Y/n flip burgers and hotdogs on the grill, he was surprised to see that Y/n was not only present but also actively participating and helping out. 

But somewhere between setting up activity stations together and laughing at a group of kids who somehow ended up covered in paint, the tension between them shifted. And later that day, the two talked — really talked. No snark. No jabs. Just two people realizing they had been wrong about each other in the beginning.

That day changed everything.

What followed was polite conversations that quickly turned into playful teasing. Then, Y/n and Eddie were hanging out with each other. Soon, they had late-night talks, both in person and over the phone.

Before either of them fully realized it, something more had started to form. Feelings they hadn’t anticipated. Eddie was the one who made the first move by both asking him out and kissing him first. 

Now, a year later, here they were, celebrating their first anniversary. Who would have thought? Certainly not Y/n. However, he surely wasn’t complaining because he had fallen in love with Eddie. And that was one thing he’d never regret.

Y/n slipped on a deep, rich blue shirt over his white tee, fingers working the buttons just as Buck nearly walked past his room. He had just gotten in, heading toward the bathroom, but paused when he caught sight of Y/n getting dressed.

"Well, look at you," Buck stepped into the doorway and gave him an exaggerated once-over. "Dressed up. Got big plans?"

Y/n rolled his eyes. Buck was more than aware of his plans tonight and what day he was celebrating. Hell, Buck has been celebrating today more than Y/n himself.

In fact, Buck had been making sure that Y/n knew he was aware, by sending him a barrage of "Happy Anniversary" texts — fifteen, to be exact — early that morning. But that wasn't all he did, not even close. His roommate had also brought him a cake with a sappy anniversary message, posted a shoutout to him and Eddie on his Instagram story, and recommended the restaurant they were going to. Granted, Buck mentioned it months ago and they decided to check it out tonight, but still.

Regardless, Y/n decided to play along, a small smirk tugging at his mouth. "Nah, Buck, I just enjoy wearing dressy shirts while lounging around our apartment."

Buck chuckled. "Right. Because nothing says 'lazy night in' like a button-up shirt and cologne I can smell from the hall."

"Maybe I want to smell nice for myself."

"Or maybe you just want to smell nice for Eddie," Buck teased, wiggling his brows.

Y/n shook his head as he finished buttoning up his shirt and started adjusting his collar. Okay, fine, Buck wasn’t exactly wrong. He’d chosen this new Versace cologne because he knew Eddie would like it, but he wasn't going to admit that to Buck, not out loud, at least. "You're impossible," saying that showed how Buck was right on point about Y/n.

"And yet, you continue to put up with me," the blue-eyed firefighter fired back. "So, where are you and Romeo going tonight?"

"That place you wouldn’t shut up about — Desiderata," Y/n replied, smoothing down his shirt. "And before you say anything, yes, I made the reservation a month ago."

Quickly, Buck held up his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, I’m just making sure you don’t mess this up. One year with Eddie Diaz is a big deal. The man practically had a heart attack picking out your gift."

Y/n paused mid-motion, turning to Buck with narrowed eyes. "Wait, what?" Eddie got him a gift? Even after Y/n had made it abundantly clear he did not want a gift.

Blue eyes widened as if Buck had let slip a secret he hadn't meant to share. Upon realization, Buck quickly shook his head. "Nothing. Just forget I said anything." The words tumbled out in a rush, and he didn't wait for Y/n to reply before turning on his heel and walking out of the room.

"Oh, no you don’t." Y/n grabbed his phone and then followed Buck into the kitchen, where his friend was already rummaging through the cabinets, pulling out a bag of chips. "Buck, spill it. What did Eddie get me? It better not be anything expensive."

"I am sworn to secrecy." Buck zipped his lips, making a show of locking them shut and throwing away the imaginary key. "Besides, it’s better if you see it yourself."

Y/n groaned. He really hoped Eddie hadn’t gone overboard. He wasn’t a fan of receiving gifts in general, but if Eddie had gone all out, Y/n was going to have words. That money could’ve been spent on Christopher or on something actually important rather than getting him stuff.

"Fine. I’ll just wait and see for myself." He checked his phone, noting the time. If he wanted to make it to the restaurant on time, he had to leave now. But before heading out, Y/n had one last question. "Yo, weren’t you supposed to go out with, uh... the reporter chick? Tyra?"

"Taylor," his roommate corrected, as he opened up the fridge and grabbed a can of Pepsi. "And she had to cover a story tonight, so our date's been rescheduled."

Y/n opened his mouth to respond, but before he could pry further, his phone buzzed in his hands. He looked down at it and saw Eddie’s name flash across the screen. 

Eddie: I’m at the restaurant. Take your time, but just know every second you make me wait, I’m mentally judging you.

A chuckle escaped Y/n as he shook his head and pocketed his phone. "Alright, I’m leaving. You good if I head out now?"

"Yeah, yeah. Go have your disgustingly romantic evening," Buck waved him off. He picked up the soda can and the bag of chips and headed into the living room, clearly ready to spend the evening doing his own thing. "I'll be here, watching the game," he plopped down in the armchair with a comfortable sigh. He reached for the remote and turned on the TV before adding. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do!" 

"That doesn't leave room for much, man, especially the good stuff." and that little comment was definitely a dig at Buck's playboy past before he toned it down.

"Hey!"

Y/n’s laughter echoed as he grabbed his keys from the metal hook and left their apartment, locking the door behind him. The drive to the restaurant wasn’t long, but his mind kept drifting back to Buck’s slip-up about Eddie’s gift. He really, really hoped Eddie hadn’t gone overboard. Y/n didn’t need anything fancy. Spending the night with Eddie was more than enough.

Pulling into the restaurant’s parking lot, he shifted the car into park and checked himself in the rearview mirror. His shirt? Smooth and crisp. Hair? Decent enough. Lips? Soft and chap-free. He was ready.

When he walked inside, Y/n realized that Buck wasn't exaggerating — this place was fancy. The restaurant featured gold chandeliers that hung above the patrons, pristine white tablecloths covering the tables, sleek lanterns with LED candles, a violinist playing soft, classical music, and even a waterfall inside, cascading down rocks with a soft, calming sound.

And he quickly spotted Eddie, who was sitting at a table near the waterfall. Dressed in a black button-up with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, Eddie was focused on his phone, completely unaware of the effect he was already having on Y/n. Eddie looked really good.

He is doing this on purpose, Y/n thought. He has to be. Eddie had to know how good he looked, how those damn rolled-up sleeves highlighted his toned arms, the ones Y/n had admired more times than he’d ever admit out loud. 

Y/n walked over, stopping at the chair meant for him. "How’s the date so far?"

At the sound of his voice, Eddie looked up. The moment their eyes met, a small, knowing smirk curled at his lips, the one that never failed to make Y/n’s stomach flip. His gaze lingered, taking in the deep blue shirt, the way it complimented Y/n’s skin, the way he smelled — Y/n could tell from the look in Eddie’s hazel eyes that the cologne choice had been a success.

"So far?" Eddie teased, locking his phone and setting it face down. "Pretty boring. But I think it just got a whole lot better."

"Smooth Diaz."

"Only for you." Eddie gestured to the seat across from him. "Now sit before people think I got stood up on my anniversary."

Y/n huffed out a laugh and slid into the seat, taking another glance around. "You know, Buck wasn’t wrong — this place is nice. It almost feels like we should have worn tuxes or a suit jacket." He reached for the menu but didn’t open it, instead letting his gaze drift back to Eddie. "And you look handsome, by the way. Though I see you went with the ‘roll the sleeves up and make Y/n suffer’ look. Bold choice."

Eddie smirked, casually leaning forward, and resting his forearms on the table. “Oh? You noticed?” His voice was all feigned innocence, however, his expression gave him away, revealing the truth behind his words. Eddie knew exactly what he was doing, and he was doing it on purpose.

Y/n scoffed, opening the menu to avoid looking at Eddie too much. "Hard not to."

The h/c hair male let his eyes skim over the food options, debating what to order. Normally, he’d go for something simple when he went out, such as a burger or a cheesesteak, but tonight, he figured he’d try something new; different. Something a little more fitting for tonight's occasion.

"How was work?" Eddie suddenly asked.

Y/n let out a deep sigh, setting the menu aside and rubbing his temple as if trying to massage away the stress of the day. "Very exhausting," he answered, his voice laced with a mix of frustration and relief. "I had to spend most of the day working out a strategy to close the Morgan deal. It's been dragging on for weeks, and my boss was breathing down my neck for a solid proposal by the end of the day." He sighed again, his shoulders sagging a bit as Y/n relived the monotony of his day. "So, basically, I spent my day working on the Morgan deal, staring at spreadsheets, crunching numbers, speaking to clients, and pretending like I didn't want to throw my computer out of the nearest window."

Eddie nodded. "So, a typical finance day?"

"Pretty much," Y/n muttered. "Except this time, if I screw up, we lose a multi-million-dollar deal. No pressure, though."

Except all Y/n had felt was pressure. He knew that he couldn't afford to screw up this deal, not when so much was riding on it. If he failed, he would not only lose the deal, but also his chance at getting a promotion, and that was something Y/n had desperately wanted for a while now.

The promotion would bring with it a significant pay increase, more benefits, and, most importantly, a private office, something Y/n always wanted. No more cramped cubicles, no more distractions, no more shared workspace. Just his own four walls and a door with his name on it.

Eddie studied Y/n, his head tilting to the side in a subtle, thoughtful gesture. "You don't screw up," the words that followed were a statement, not a question, and they were laced with a quiet confidence that was reassuring in Y/n's intelligence.

Y/n's eyebrows shot up, his expression skeptical. "You sound pretty sure of that." Judging from his tone, Y/n, undoubtedly, wanted Eddie to explain the basis for his confidence in him, and the man sure did.

"Because I am." Eddie shrugged as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You’re a smart guy, and you always work hard. If anyone can pull this off, it’s you."

Hearing that caused Y/n to feel warmth blooming in his chest. Eddie had a way of making him feel like he was capable of anything, even when he doubted himself. This guy sure did have a way with words.

"Thanks," he gave a small, grateful smile. "Hopefully, my boss feels the same way."

Just then, a waiter approached their table. A young man with a friendly smile and an immaculately crisp uniform. "Good evening, gentlemen. My name is Nathan, and I’ll be your server today. Can I start you guys off with something to drink?"

Eddie turned his attention to Y/n with a questioning look. "What are you feeling?"

"Hmm," Y/n's e/c eyes scanned the menu once more, his fingers tracing the edges of the page as he deliberated on his drink of choice. "I'll take a whiskey sour."

Both of Eddie's eyebrows shot up from Y/n's choice. "Going strong tonight, huh?"

"Yes, sir," Y/n confirmed without missing a beat. "I deserve this after the day I had."

Eddie's head nodded to the side as if to say that he agreed with Y/n's decision to treat himself to a stronger drink without verbally speaking. His gaze then shifted to Nathan. "I will take a Maui margarita."

Nathan's pencil moved, the tip gliding smoothly across the small notepad in his left hand as he quickly jotted down the drink orders. "Alright, I'll be back with your drinks shortly." He sent another grin.

Once the waiter left, Y/n asked about Eddie's Saturday, and Eddie explained that had spent the day watching movies with his kid and baking cookies with him.

However, their little baking endeavors had been less than successful, with the cookies emerging from the oven burnt to a crisp. In fact, they were so severely charred that even Christopher, who was typically eager to taste Eddie's food, had declined to take a bite. So, he pretty much spent his time baking for nothing. Even then, he couldn't blame Christopher for not taking a simple bite out of them.

After all, when Eddie, himself, had mustered the courage to try one of the cookies himself, he had been forced to concede that they were, indeed, inedible, which was the kindest way of putting it.

That is precisely why Y/n had taken it upon himself to handle all the baking duties whenever he visited Eddie's place. He had even assumed the role of head chef, not because Eddie was a bad cook — on the contrary, Eddie was quite good at cooking — but Y/n had always learned to appreciate the value of edible food.

Pretty soon, their drinks arrived, and Nathan set a whiskey sour in front of Y/n and a Maui margarita in front of Eddie. Then, Nathan took their food orders, jotting down Y/n's selection of the Grilled Chicken Alfredo and Eddie's choice of the New Orleans Pasta, before leaving to put their orders in. 

Once the waiter left again, Y/n lifted his glass to his lips and savored a slow sip of his whiskey sour, eyeing Eddie over the rim of the glass. He had been trying to resist the urge to mention the surprise gift Eddie had gotten him, knowing it was to be a secret until the right moment. He tried to respect the surprise. But yeah, he couldn't do it. He had to say something.

"So…" Y/n's lips parted and the word left his lips in a languid, drawn-out manner. "Word on the street is you got me a gift."

Eddie's eyes widened in surprise, his finger, which had been absently tracing the rim of his glass, stilled as he blinked in reaction to Y/n's words. A sigh left his mouth and he shook his head. "Damn it, Buck," he muttered to himself, his voice low and resigned. "I should've known he wouldn't be able to keep his mouth shut," the firefighter found his gaze on Y/n. "I specifically told him not to say anything."

"Yeah, well, it’s Buck," Y/n said matter-of-factly. "Keeping secrets isn’t exactly his strong suit." He pushed his drink aside and leaned forward. "What did you get me? I told you not to get me anything."

"And I ignored you," Eddie replied smoothly, unapologetically disregarding Y/n's wishes. "Because I wanted to get you something special. And before you start, no, what I got you is not expensive."

Y/n’s lips flattened into a thin line and he shot him a look. "That's what people say when it is expensive. So, what is it, huh?"

Eddie could see there was no way out of this. He had planned to give Y/n the gift after dinner, but he knew how persistent Y/n was, and there was no chance he’d drop it until he saw it. With a sigh, Eddie reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, neatly wrapped box, setting it on the table right in front of his boyfriend.

Y/n stared at it like it was a ticking bomb. He wondered what was inside there. It had to be some type of jewelry, judging by the box. And for one panicked second, the e/c-eyed man's brain jumped to the craziest possibility that there was a ring inside. Oh, he hoped not. He loved Eddie, but the idea of marriage, at least at this point during their relationship, was not something he was ready to consider.

All of a sudden, his thoughts screeched to a halt. He paused, his eyes still fixed on the box, as a new comment formed in his mind: now wait a damn minute—? 

"This looks expensive."

"Shut up and open it, Y/n."

Without waiting another moment, Y/n picked up the box and lifted the lid open. He let out an internal sigh of relief when he saw that it wasn’t a ring. Thank God. Nestled inside was a sleek silver chain necklace, simple yet elegant, resting on a soft, red cushion. His eyes traced over the delicately engraved plate in the center, reading the words etched into the metal.

Siempre contigo.

Y/n looked up at Eddie with a questioning look in his eyes. "What does this mean?"

Eddie's expression underwent a subtle transformation, his features softening into something more... affectionate. He reached for his drink and took a slow sip of it. "It means: Always with you."

Always with you. It was three little words, but the meaning behind them, especially in this context, carried so much weight. Y/n stared at Eddie, something in his chest tightening. He glanced back down at the necklace, then back at Eddie, who was watching him with that steady gaze — the one that meant he was waiting for Y/n to voice his opinion on the necklace.

For a moment, Y/n didn’t know what to say and was rendered momentarily mute. He simply held the necklace in his palm, feeling the cool weight of it against his skin. Eddie wasn’t usually the most openly expressive guy, but he had a way of showing how much he cared without needing to say it outright. And this? This was exactly that, and it was so touching.

The words tumbled out of Y/n's lips in a soft, barely audible whisper, as if he was still attempting to process the reality of the gift. "You really got this for me?" and Y/n's voice lacked its usual teasing edge.

Eddie's head nodded, a gentle, affirming motion as he replied, "Yes. I know you're not big on gifts, but I wanted you to have something from me. Something you can wear every day — if you want to, that is." He just shrugged and he looked almost sheepish, his eyes dropping to the table before rising back up to meet Y/n's gaze head-on. "I just… I wanted you to have something that reminded you I’m always here. No matter how crazy work gets, how tough life becomes for you, or how stressed you are — I’m with you. Always."

Y/n swallowed. He wasn't typically the emotional type, but there was something about Eddie's words, about the necklace, that had touched a deep chord within him. And dammit, Eddie really knew how to get to him, how to slip past every last one of his defenses and make his heart ache in the best way possible. He ran his finger over the smooth silver, tracing the engraving with his thumb. It was perfect.

He really, really liked it.

Actually— "I love it," Y/n said, pulling the necklace from the box and unclasping it. Eddie's hand shot out, taking the jewelry from his hands. Moving around the table, he quickly fastened it around Y/n’s neck.

"There we go," Eddie murmured once it was secured. Though, his hands lingered for a moment, grazing the warm skin at the nape of Y/n’s neck before he settled into his seat. "Now you’re stuck with me."

Y/n laughed, adjusting the necklace so it sat just right. "I’ve been stuck with you since the day you put that dent in my car."

"You put that dent in your own car." 

"That’s debatable," and it was funny how, even after all this time, neither of them had backed down from blaming the other for that infamous parking lot incident. It was a lifelong argument now, one they’d probably continue to have decades down the line. "You know, this is kind of unfair, right? Now I feel my gift for you sucks."

Eddie looked genuinely surprised. "You got me a gift?" he sounded shocked, too.

“Of course," Y/n confirmed, "I did. What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t?"

Eddie chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “And here you were, giving me a whole speech about not wanting a gift, only to turn around and get me one, too."

"Yeah, yeah," Y/n dismissively waved Eddie off, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a black box. "Guess I’m a hypocrite." And, honestly? Y/n knew that.

Eddie took the box with a curious look before opening it up. Inside sat a sleek, silver watch with a deep black leather strap. It was classic, elegant, and exactly Eddie’s style. Eddie's lips parted slightly as he traced the edge of the watch face. 

Y/n studied Eddie’s expression closely and he could tell that he liked it. "I know you’ve been wanting another watch since your old one broke. I figured I would save you the trouble of having to shop for one."

Eddie was still staring at the watch like he couldn’t quite believe Y/n had gotten him one. "Y/n, this is — this is amazing."

"Oh, I know," for a watch that cost eight hundred bucks, it better be nothing short of amazing. "I have great taste, don't I?"

Eddie's eyes lifted, meeting Y/n's gaze as a soft, breathy laugh escaped his lips. "You really didn't have to do this," he said.

Y/n tilted his head slightly. "And yet, I did."

Following that, Eddie's face broke into a wide, joyful smile as he removed the watch from its cushion sliding it onto his wrist. He fastened the buckle, making a slight adjustment to get the fit just right, before holding his arm out to admire the way the watch looked on him. "Perfect," he declared. And then, without warning, he leaned across the table, and grabbed Y/n's face, his fingers wrapping around Y/n's jaw. Before Y/n could even react, Eddie's lips were on his, pressing into a brief, but intense kiss. It was enough to make Y/n’s heart race as he kissed him back, his fingers gripping Eddie’s wrist before the firefighter finally pulled away.

"Happy anniversary, Y/n," Eddie laced his hand with Y/n’s as his thumb traced a soothing pattern over Y/n's knuckles.

The h/c-haired man gave a little squeeze to his hand. "Happy anniversary, Eddie." 

And yeah, Y/n was happy that night. Really happy. It was one of those rare, perfect nights where everything aligned just right, where nothing felt off or out of place. However, sometimes, Y/n worried when things got too perfect. Life had this way of pulling the rug out from under you and throwing curveballs when you least expected it. He’d felt that firsthand when his ex-boyfriend of two years, Brant, had cheated on him the moment Y/n had let himself believe things were solid. Brant's infidelity had left him shattered and for a long time, he had struggled to trust again. 

But Eddie was different. He wasn’t Brant. He was steady. Reliable. The kind of guy who said Siempre contigo and meant it. Y/n knew he didn’t have to worry about that with Eddie. Not tonight. Not ever.

The gift was thoughtful. The restaurant was beautiful. And the company? Well, that was the best part. Or so he thought. Because later, when the two men ended up in Eddie’s bedroom after their dinner…

Yeah, Y/n had no choice but to revise his previous stance. That was the best part.

XXXXX XXXXX

Y/n stood before the mirror, making a slight adjustment to the cap on his head to ensure it was perfectly straight. It had been weeks since he had a Saturday off from work, and he planned to make the most of his free day. Eddie suggested spending the day outside, and Y/n had thrown out the idea of going to Pacific Park on the Santa Monica Pier, a place he had always wanted to visit but never had the chance to since moving to L.A. it seemed like the perfect way to spend the day with both Eddie and Christopher.

A timer beeped from the kitchen. Turning away from the mirror, Y/n sauntered into the kitchen, where he slipped on a pair of orange mittens before opening the oven. He pulled out a tray of chocolate chip cookies, setting them on the table as he kicked the oven door closed behind him. Since Eddie's previous attempt at baking had resulted in a batch of burnt cookies, Y/n had taken it upon himself to make a batch of non-burnt ones for Christopher.

Right on cue, Eddie strolled into the kitchen, his eyes immediately locking onto the cookies like a man on a mission.

"Finally, they're done. Smells so good," Eddie’s hand reached out, intending to grab a cookie and shove it down his throat. Just as his fingers were about to make contact with the tray, Y/n swooped in and slapped Eddie's hand away with a playful swat. Eddie's eyebrows furrowed in surprise, and he looked up at Y/n with a mock-offended expression from being denied one. "What did you do that for?"

"These cookies are for Christopher," Y/n answered. "Besides, they just got out of the oven, so they need a minute to cool." 

"These cookies are for me too. Sharing is caring, as they say, cariño." Eddie's hand, once again, reached for a cookie, as if hoping to sneak one past Y/n's defenses by using the affectionate term to try and melt Y/n's resolve. But Y/n was having none of it and smacked Eddie's hand away a second time. "You know," he crossed his arms, "you’re kinda cruel for making the whole house smell like fresh cookies and then not letting me have one when I am clearly in need of a cookie fix."

"And I'm in need of some sunscreen for today. So how about you go check if you have some? Then you can have a cookie."

Eddie's face scrunched up in a scowl, and he muttered something under his breath as he turned to leave the kitchen. Y/n didn't quite catch what he had said, and he thought he was in the clear. Just then, Eddie paused and suddenly turned around. In a flash, he snatched a cookie off the tray and made a run for it, dashing out of the kitchen before Y/n could even react and, at least, attempt to stop him. That damn man. 

Shaking his head, Y/n grabbed a spatula and started transferring the cookies into a plastic container. Prior to sealing it, he picked one up and took a bite, deciding to try for himself and... wow. He mentally patted himself on the back. The cookies turned out really good. Christopher was certainly going to love them. And Eddie—

The sudden knock at the front door broke the spell of Y/n's cookie-induced reverie, and he was jolted back to reality. I wonder who that could be, Y/n thought as his feet carried him to the front door. When he opened it, he was greeted by a woman with green eyes and brown hair that fell in loose waves down her back. What caught Y/n's attention, however, was her impressive height — she was very tall for a woman. Y/n didn't know who she was. He had never seen her before.

"Hi. Can I help you?"

In return, the woman threw him a friendly smile, but it was tempered by a hint of confusion that danced in her eyes. "…Hi," her greeting was polite, courteous, but slightly hesitant, as if she was unsure of herself. Her gaze briefly dropped to the phone in her hand, as if double-checking something before refocusing on Y/n, "I'm sorry, I think I might've gotten the wrong address. I was looking for Eddie Diaz...?"

"Oh, then you have the right place. I’ll go get him. Who should I say is here—?" He ended his question in a curious manner. It wasn’t just for introductions. Y/n was also trying to figure out if Eddie had ever mentioned this woman before, and if so, what their relationship was like. Was she a friend of Eddie's? Or a family member?

The woman's mouth opened to answer Y/n's question. However, her attention was caught by the sound of approaching footsteps, which was getting louder by the second. She stopped mid-breath, with her head moving slightly to the side.

Eddie sauntered into the living room, a bottle of sunscreen clutched in his hand, eyes fixed on the label.  "You're in luck. I still have a lot — well, some — sunscreen left for you. I think I’ve earned another cookie, don't you?" He looked up, but his expression faltered as his gaze landed on the woman standing in the doorway. His eyes widened in shock, and Y/n saw a flicker of some expression on Eddie's face. Anger or, maybe, annoyance if Y/n had to guess. "What are you doing here?"

The woman, whose name Y/n still didn’t know, stared at Eddie in the way people do when they haven’t seen someone in a long time. Her eyes roamed over his face, reacquainting herself with every feature.

Then, with a subtle straightening of her back, she swallowed hard, and a small, tentative smile began to shape on her lips. The smile was hesitant, almost shy, and it seemed to tremble on the edge of her mouth, testing the waters. And it was accompanied by a greeting: "Hi, Eddie."

Y/n shifted uncomfortably by the door, his eyes darting back and forth between Eddie and the mysterious woman. A sudden sense of awkwardness washed over him. Y/n felt like an intruder in this home as if he had now stumbled into a private conversation that wasn't meant for his ears. "Uh, who is this?" He asked, evidently directing his question to Eddie.

"This is Shannon," Eddie answered, his gaze never leaving her face as he spoke. 

Oh. This was Shannon. As in Eddie’s ex-wife and Christopher’s mother Shannon. Well, this has caused Y/n to feel even more awkward. This is the woman who had left Eddie to raise their son on his own. Y/n had heard the painful story from Eddie, about how Shannon had abandoned them to care for her mother, but also to get away from Eddie. She disappeared, leaving Eddie to pick up the pieces and raise Christopher by himself. What really stuck out to Y/n was the fact that she had never come back to visit her own son or called to check in. Not even once, and that was messed up.

"Oh," Y/n said, the word escaping his lips as a default response because he didn't know what else to say at this moment. After a beat, more words tumbled out before he could stop them. "Well, uh… come inside." Y/n stepped aside, allowing her to enter.

Upon doing that, Eddie's eyes snapped to his, a look of warning or perhaps even annoyance flashing across his features. Y/n met his gaze with a sheepish shrug, apologizing silently, but he genuinely did not know what else to do in this type of situation. He didn't have a script for how to handle the arrival of Eddie's ex-wife at this moment, and he was simply trying to roll with it. Besides, Shannon was clearly here for a reason, and the two men had a good idea of what that reason might be.

Shannon nodded her thanks to Y/n as she stepped across the threshold, into the house. Y/n closed the door behind her, his eyes darting to Eddie as he tried to read his reaction. Eddie's shoulders were tense, his jaw was clenched, and his entire demeanor screamed that he was not pleased to see Shannon as he watched her walk into the living room.

Shannon's eyes roamed the living room, taking in the surroundings. It was as if she was trying to reassemble a puzzle, piecing together the fragments of a life she had purposely left behind years ago.

Her attention lingered on the framed photographs, though. Some of the photos showed Christopher alone, his bright smile capturing the camera's lens, his school photos, snapshots from the park, pictures at the carnival, and other moments from his childhood. But it was the photos of Christopher with Eddie that seemed to hold her attention the longest.

There was tension. The kind that settled heavily in the air and made the silence feel unbearable. But the silence was broken by Eddie’s voice cutting through, finally. "Why are you here, Shannon?"

"I—" Shannon let out a tiny breath, finally shifting her gaze back to Eddie, meeting his stare head-on. Her green eyes locked onto his hazel eyes. "I wanted to speak to you. And I wanted to see Christopher."

Once Shannon's words escaped her lips, Eddie's head began to shake to convey his disagreement. What exactly he was disagreeing with, Y/n couldn't tell. Was it the idea of talking to him, or the notion of seeing Christopher? Or was it both? It was most likely a no to both statements.

Just as the tension in the room seemed to be reaching a boiling point, the sound of soft footsteps echoed down the hall, as if an unseen force had been watching the interaction and decided to intervene. Christopher appeared in the living room with a bright smile on his face. He had his Dodgers cap on and his excitement for the day was obvious in his features.  

Christopher's bright smile and energetic demeanor came to an abrupt halt as his gaze landed on his mom, standing in the room with them His eyes widened, taking in the sight of her after all these years.

"…Mommy…?" he breathed, his tone uncertain, as if he was unsure if he was seeing things, if this was all just a dream or a trick of the mind. He took one step forward, never letting his eyes leave Shannon's face. "Is that really you?" 

Shannon felt her heart tighten in her chest. She nodded, her voice thick with emotion. "Yes, Christopher. It’s really me."

Without another second wasted, Christopher rushed forward. Shannon immediately knelt to meet him, wrapping him in her arms as tightly as he held onto her like he was afraid she’d disappear if he let go, leaving him with the memories of this fleeting moment. It was intense.

"I missed you so much," Christopher whispered into his mother's shirt. 

"I missed you too, baby," she responded, as she lifted Christopher up into the air. She squeezed him tightly, never wanting to let him go, never wanting this moment to end. Tears formed in Shannon's eyes and she buried her face in her son's hair.

Finally, Christopher pulled back slightly, just enough to look at her. His face was bright with excitement. "I have so much to tell you! Dad and I were going to the pier today! And Y/n was coming too!" He turned to Eddie. "Can she come with us?"

The room seemed to freeze. Eddie didn’t answer right away. His jaw was tight, but his gaze did soften slightly upon seeing how happy his son was at this moment.

Seconds stretched unbearably. Shannon turned to Eddie, too. "I would love to go," she said gently. "If that’s okay with you."

Eddie's sharp exhalation through his nose was a telltale sign of his internal struggle, as he stood there, his eyes cast downward at the floor. Y/n could almost see the battle raging inside Eddie's head. He didn't want Shannon to join them on their little trip. That much was obvious. However, Christopher was looking at him with those big, hopeful eyes — the ones Eddie had never been able to say no to.

And Shannon must've known that too, because she wisely chose to wait, to let the situation unfold without forcing the issue. She didn't try to persuade Eddie, didn't attempt to guilt trip him or beg for his permission. Instead, she allowed her son's excitement to do the talking for her.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Eddie sighed and dragged a hand over his face. "Alright," he finally surrendered to the inevitability of the situation. "You can come with us to the Pier." He added.

Christopher's face lit up with a radiant grin as he turned back to his mother. He grasped her hand and Shannon dragged him towards the door. Eddie, meanwhile, grabbed Christopher's two crutches and followed them out the door. Then, Y/n moved, trailing silently behind the trio. 

Outside, Eddie locked up the house before heading towards his truck, while Y/n made his way to his own car, parked behind Eddie's. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure he should be going with them anymore. Now that Shannon was coming, this felt like an outing that had nothing to do with him. More than that — this is family stuff.

Eddie, Christopher, and Shannon had issues to work through, and Y/n didn't feel like he needed to be a part of it. As much as he loved Eddie and Christopher, It wasn't his business, and he didn't want to intrude on their personal problems or overstep any boundaries he shouldn't. 

Just as Eddie was finishing up helping Christopher into the car and stowing his crutches in the back, he noticed that Y/n was standing by his own vehicle, making no move to get into the passenger seat of Eddie's truck. Eddie frowned. "What are you doing, Y/n?" he asked, his voice low and questioning, as he walked over to where Y/n was standing and stopped.

Y/n paused, his hand wrapped around the car door handle. "Well, I just figured that..." he rubbed the back of his neck, choosing his words with care. "Maybe I should sit this one out. This seems like a family thing and I don't want to get in the way of—" Y/n's words died on his lips as Eddie suddenly grabbed his hand, the one wrapped around the car door, and dragged him towards the truck without a word. The sudden movement left him stumbling to keep up with Eddie at first, and he almost lost his balance as Eddie propelled him forward. "—or I could still go with you guys, sure. That works, too."

XXXXX XXXXX

Night had fallen, and accompanied with it were a million stars that lit up the dark sky in an ethereal manner. It was such a beautiful sight that it could put someone to sleep from being so mesmerized by it.

And for Christopher, it had.

He had fallen asleep in the truck on the drive back from the pier, his head resting against the seat. Y/n couldn’t blame him. After a long day of riding roller coasters, playing games, and eating more sugary snacks than any child should probably have, exhaustion had caught up to him.

At least, he had a good day.

But Y/n had a feeling that what truly made this day special for Christopher wasn’t just the fun — it was the fact that both of his parents had been there with him. Despite the tension and the history between them, Eddie and Shannon had put their differences aside for the day to give their son the gift of a perfect day.

When they arrived back at Eddie’s house, Y/n was the one who volunteered to take Christopher to his room, scooping up the sleeping boy into his arms and carrying him inside. It served as an excuse that gave Eddie and Shannon the opportunity to talk alone without them being present.

Carefully, Y/n laid Christopher down on his bed, making sure not to wake him up. He reached out to remove Christopher's cap, lifting it off his head and setting it aside on the nightstand. Next, Y/n slid his glasses off his face, folding them up and placing them beside the cap before tucking the blanket up to his chin. In his sleep, Christopher mumbled something incoherent, fingers curling into the fabric.

With a final glance at Christopher's face, Y/n soundlessly stepped out of the room He left the door, slightly ajar, just in case Christopher woke up in the middle of the night, then made his way to the kitchen. He grabbed two beers from the fridge before heading into the living room, where Eddie now sat alone on the couch. Shannon was gone.

Wordlessly, the h/c-haired male sat down beside Eddie on the couch. He didn’t ask what had been said between them. Not yet. Instead, he extended his hand, offering Eddie one of those beers, and Eddie accepted it with a small nod of thanks. His eyes never left the TV that wasn't even on as he twisted off the cap and took a quick chug, downing half of it.

Y/n took a swig of his beer, letting the cool liquid settle on his tongue before swallowing. "So, what did Shannon say to you?" He asked, breaking the silence. 

Now, Y/n's curiosity was piqued, and he patiently waited with bated breath for Eddie to share what had been discussed between him and Shannon. The fact that Shannon had left so soon suggested that it had been brief, and Y/n wondered what could have been talked about in such a short amount of time. At the same time, If Eddie didn't say anything, Y/n wouldn't pry or try to force the issue. Eddie would talk to him about it when he was ready.

"She wants to meet with me on Monday," he answered, "Said she wants us to talk."

Y/n glanced over. "And? What’d you say?"

"I told her 'We’ll see.'"

"That’s a way of saying 'probably not.'"

"Yeah, well…" Eddie took another sip of his beer. "I don’t know if I want to hear whatever she has to say, Y/n." His voice was quieter now, more uncertain and his index finger tapped absently against the bottle. "She didn't just leave me. She left Christopher. The one person who needed her the most. And now, out of nowhere, she wants back in his life? Just like that? After never reaching out to us?" he shook his head. "I don’t know if I can trust that."

Y/n nodded slowly, letting Eddie’s words and his frustration settle between them. He understood, deeply, where Eddie was coming from. How could he not? The pain of Shannon's departure served as a double-edged sword, cutting deep into the hearts of both Eddie and Christopher. The hurt was still raw. She had left Eddie to pick up the pieces and left Christopher with nothing but questions and an empty space where his mother should’ve been. Now, just because she had decided she wanted to come back, Eddie's supposed to just let her? No, It wasn’t that simple.

But still... 

The silence between them had stretched out briefly. Then: "You should talk to her." Y/n suggested, his words a gentle nudge in a specific direction for Eddie to reopen a door that had been locked for so long.

Eddie’s eyebrows furrowed slightly as he considered Y/n's suggestion. "Should I?"

"Yeah." Y/n’s voice was unwavering and he was sticking to his assertion. "Look, man, I’m not saying you have to forgive Shannon or even put any trust in her. But don’t you think it’s at least worth hearing her out? Not for her, but for Christopher."

Eddie did not respond right away, but he also didn’t immediately argue, which Y/n took as a good sign for him to continue.

"You saw how happy he was today. It’s been a minute since he’s seen his mom, and despite everything, he still loves her. That’s not gonna change." He turned his body slightly to face Eddie fully. "I know you don’t want to talk to her, but ignoring Shannon will not make this situation go away. If she’s serious about being in his life again, then you'll need to lay down some boundaries. Figure out what this means for Christopher. And the only way to do that is to talk to her. Face to face."

Hazel eyes drifted over to meet e/c eyes. "Speaking from experience, aren't you?"

There was no denying it. "You know that I am," the words slipped out Y/n’s mouth, quiet and tentative, his gaze drifting off.

It was a well-known fact that Y/n's childhood had been far from traditional. His mom had left when he was just five years old, abandoning him and his two siblings to be raised by their dad alone. He was forced to play the role of both mother and father to three chaotic boys.

Y/n didn't have a lot of memories of her. But one thing that remained etched in his mind was the overwhelming sense of sadness and hurt that had engulfed him when his father broke the news that she left and would not be coming back.

The concept of abandonment had been beyond his comprehension. All he knew was that his mother — the woman who was supposed to love and care for him, had chosen to leave. The confusion and pain had been suffocating, and Y/n had struggled to make sense of it all. He had wondered, as many children do when it comes to those types of situations, if it was something that he had done wrong.

Had Y/n been naughty? Had he not been good enough? The questions had swirled in his mind, fueling a deep-seated fear that he was somehow to blame for this. He even thought maybe it was his dad's fault or his siblings'. Or maybe they all had done something to drive her away?

Whatever it was, he had been convinced that if she just came home, everything would be okay and that they could work through their issues and be happy again.

Things that are broken could be fixed.

Despite the pain and confusion of his mother's departure, Y/n's love for her had never wavered. He had held onto the hope, the desperate wish, the silent plea, that she would one-night return to the family she had abandoned. Y/n had often found himself lying awake at night, long after his dad had tucked him in and turned out the lights. He would sneak out of bed and make his way to the window, pushing back the curtains to keep watch. He would be ready when she came back.

But she never came, and Y/n's hopes had faded. His desire for reconciliation gave way to a sense of resignation, and eventually, to a deep-seated indifference.

He stopped idly waiting for his mother to come back, stopped wondering what had driven her away, and stopped caring about the situation altogether. Or, that's what he told himself after all this time.

Thinking about it now, Y/n... wasn’t sure if that wound had ever truly healed. But if there was one thing he was sure of, it was that he didn’t want Christopher to go through the same thing he had. Because, unlike Y/n’s mother, Shannon had come back to reconcile with Christopher. She was trying. That counted for something.

A quiet sigh slipped past Eddie’s lips. He couldn’t deny that Y/n had made a pretty good point, particularly when it came to his son. He noticed how Christopher kept grinning all day, barely letting go of his mom’s hand, talking her ear off like he'd saved every story just for her. That kind of happiness? It mattered to Christopher, and because of that, it mattered to Eddie too. And yet— "What if she leaves again?"

There it is. That was the real fear, wasn’t it? That Shannon would step back into Christopher’s life, make him believe she was staying, and then disappear all over again. That she'd give him hope, only to rip it away. That she’d hurt him. Again. And Eddie would have to deal with the effect that would have on Christopher.

"I don’t know, man," Y/n admitted gently, not pretending to have all the answers. They're not psychics. They can't predict the future, but they can control how they respond to the present. "Maybe she will. Maybe she won’t. Regardless, don’t you think it’s better to hear her out? To see if she’s serious about making things right?"

Eddie looked away, his lips pressing into a thin line as he turned Y/n's words over in his mind, weighing them against all his fears. Silence took over, and, when Eddie didn't respond after a minute, Y/n placed a hand on Eddie's knee. "Talk to her. Not for Shannon's sake, but for your sake. And, most importantly, for Christopher’s."

Eddie took a deep breath and held it before exhaling slowly through his nose. Y/n always had a way of cutting through the noise and making hard things sound simple, even when they weren’t far from simple. But maybe that was because this situation was something Y/n understood better than anyone since he lived it, too.

"Yeah. Maybe you're right," he muttered.

A small smirk appeared. "I usually am."

That pulled a tired chuckle out of Eddie, and he shook his head. "Don’t get cocky."

Y/n gave Eddie’s knee a squeeze before leaning back onto the couch. "Too late."

The two fell into another easy silence, and after a moment, Eddie took another sip of his beer. Y/n did the same, and for the first time since Shannon showed up, Eddie was allowing himself to breathe.

And that? That was one step forward.

XXXXX XXXXX

Monday morning had arrived, and Y/n was settled into his cubicle, surrounded by the familiar trappings of his workday routine. He was hunched over a glowing screen with his business activity reports spread out in front of him, half reviewed and half waiting. His half-drunk cup of coffee sat to his left, lukewarm by now, while a notepad filled with bullet points, reminders, and scribbles lay on his right.

With a pen in hand, Y/n's handwriting flowed effortlessly across the page as he added a few more important notes to his list, eyes flicking between the screen and the page until a soft chime from his computer pulled his attention away. A message popped up in the corner of his screen from his boss, James Thompson.

Please come to my office immediately. 

Upon reading that, Y/n felt his heartbeat quicken slightly. It wasn't that he was afraid of his boss, or that he had a bad relationship with him. On the contrary, James was a kind and understanding boss, and Y/n had always appreciated his supportive and encouraging nature.

Y/n respected him both personally and professionally. Despite their nice working relationship, Y/n's mind couldn't help but wander to all the possible reasons why he might be summoned to James's office since the message had no context and no pleasantries.

Was it something good, or something bad? Had he done something wrong, or was it just a routine meeting? Or worse, did he screw up the Morgan deal in any way? He hoped not, but the only way to figure it out was to go to James' office and face whatever was waiting for him.

Pushing away from his desk, Y/n stood, adjusted his tie, and smoothed the front of his shirt. He took a steadying breath, then made his way toward the executive offices. His feet came to a sudden stop in front of the familiar gray metal doors and Y/n raised his hand, knocking on it.

There was an immediate: "Come in."

Y/n turned the handle and stepped inside. The curtains were drawn wide, letting in slats of golden morning light.  James sat behind his desk, fingers mid-typing until he gazed up to see Y/n enter.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Y/n asked, closing the door behind him with a quiet click since this conversation was meant to be private. His tone was even, though, his nerves were bubbling hotly in his gut.

The dark-skinned man sat up in his chair, steepling his fingers together as he studied Y/n with a neutral expression, one that was impossible for Y/n to read. His silence stretched for just a beat too long, making Y/n shift slightly where he stood. "Have a seat," James finally said, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk.

Y/n did as he was told and sat down in the seat, his hands resting on his thighs, and he waited for whatever was coming.

James studied him for a moment before letting out a sigh. "Y/n, do you know why I called you in here?" and here we begin.

Y/n swallowed, the dryness of his mouth making his tongue feel like sandpaper against the roof of it. "I, um… not really, no." I didn’t do anything! He screamed in his head. Well, I don't think I did anything.

James hummed, nodding slightly. "Well, let me ask you this." He leaned forward, "Is there anything you’d like to tell me?"

Y/n’s brain went into overdrive. Shit. That sounded like something a parent would say when they already knew what you did and were just waiting for you to confess. And James's tone implied he already knew something and was just waiting for Y/n to finally spill the beans.

Y/n's mind scrambled to review every possible mistake he could have made.

Had he made a critical error in the financial reports? Or perhaps he had accidentally sent a sensitive email to the wrong client, compromising confidential information? As he mentally reviewed his recent work and interactions, Y/n did not think it was anything that mundane. He was a diligent and competent employee, always careful to double-check his work and follow procedures. He got along well with his coworkers, and his performance reviews had always been glowing, so no write-up or a serious talking-to. So, what could it be, then? Suddenly, it struck him.

The Morgan deal, Y/n thought. He hadn't received any updates on how it went. And, judging by the way James was looking at him, Y/n had this sinking feeling that he might have screwed it up. He needed to be certain, of course, but he couldn't help but think that he had blown it, that he had made a mistake that would have serious consequences for the company.

Y/n cleared his throat — a nervous habit that showed his otherwise unconfidently calm demeanor. "Uh... not that I know of."

James’s eyes narrowed. "Are you sure?"

Y/n nodded quickly. "Yes. I-I think so..."

The silence that followed was deafening. James just studied him, unreadable, for one… two… three painfully long seconds before breaking into a wide grin. "Well, that’s good," he said casually, "because I was just about to congratulate you, man."

Say what? Y/n blinked rapidly as if trying to clear away the disbelievement and the confusion that had suddenly descended upon him. "Wait... what?" Just moments ago, he had been bracing himself for bad news, for criticism or disappointment, and now... now James was smiling and about to congratulate him? What the hell was happening—? He was very confused.

James chuckled, clearly amused. "Relax, Y/n. I was messing with you." He opened a drawer, pulled out a thick folder, and placed it squarely on the desk. "I called you in here to personally commend you on finalizing the Morgan deal. You handled it better than some of our senior managers would’ve, honestly."

Immediately, Y/n let out a breath he had been holding in. His shoulders, which had been tensed up in anticipation of bad news, sagged slightly, relaxing into a more natural position as the tension seeped out of his body. "Oh," he exhaled a soft laugh. "That's good. You seriously had me thinking I was about to get fired."

James' face broke out into a smirk. "If I ever plan to fire you, I promise I won’t be so dramatic about it." He tapped the file. "The Morgans were impressed with your professionalism and strategic approach. So much so that they officially signed the contract this morning. The deal's closed."

Relief flooded Y/n’s chest, followed by a sense of pride. He did it. He actually did it. Guess all those eleven-hour shifts, six days a week, had paid off in the best way possible.

"Wow…" he breathed. "That’s… incredible."

James nodded. "It is. And because of your hard work, this firm just secured one of the most lucrative partnerships we've had in years." A deliberate pause followed before adding: "Which means, you have more than earned a promotion."

Y/n’s head jerked up. "I’m sorry — what?" His voice might've gotten a tad higher as he grinned at the man behind the desk. 

James chuckled at his expression. "You heard me. I’m recommending you for the Hedge Fund Portfolio Manager position."

Y/n blinked twice. "You're serious?" He needed to confirm that he heard James correctly, that this wasn't just some kind of cruel joke or a misunderstanding. The position that James had mentioned was a highly coveted one, a role that Y/n had never imagined he'd be considered for, especially not at this stage in his career.

Y/n was aware that there were others in the company who had been working towards a promotion like this, who had more experience and more seniority, and yet James was offering it to him. This is insane. Y/n hadn't been gunning for this role, but he would gladly accept the offer.

"Completely. You have proven yourself capable of handling high-profile clients and complex negotiations. It’s time you get the title and the paycheck to match."

For a moment, Y/n was left speechless. This was something he had been working towards for almost seven years, since he had first walked through the doors of the company as a secretary, fresh out of college and eager to make his mark.

He had always known that it wouldn't be easy, that he would have to put in the long hours, endure the stress, and pour over endless spreadsheets and financial reports. But he had never thought that it would pay off so soon. He had assumed that it would take a few more years, even a decade before he would be considered for a position like Hedge Fund Portfolio Manager. Guess he had been wrong.

"I… I don’t even know what to say."

"A ‘thank you’ wouldn’t be a bad place to start." James teased, loving his reaction, layers of amusement laced in his voice.

Y/n laughed under his breath. "Thank you, James. Seriously. This means a lot." He couldn't stop smiling. But as he was basking in the glow of his good fortune, a sudden thought occurred to him, and his expression turned curious. "I didn't even know that position was available."

The sentence had a profound effect on James' expression, causing his features to shift from a warm and congratulatory grin to a more serious and introspective look. It had caught Y/n off guard. "That's because the position isn’t available here."

Y/n's face scrunched up in confusion, his brows furrowing. "What do you mean?"

"The Hedge Fund position is available at Bridgewater Associates in Austin, Texas."

For a moment, Y/n just... stared. It was like someone had hit pause. His brain stalled, like a car engine sputtering on a cold winter morning. And then, suddenly, his brain kicked back into gear. "Texas?" he said, "As in... not Los Angeles, Texas."

James gave a single nod. "That’s right."

"That’s… that’s pretty far." Like really far. 

"It is pretty far." James’s tone softened. "And I know how much you like working here, how much you’ve built a life in L.A. But this is an incredible opportunity, Y/n. Bridgewater is one of the top investment firms in the country. Getting in with them at this level? It’s not something that comes around often. It’s the kind of break people wait decades for. This is a chance to take your career to the next level, to work with the best of the best."

Y/n's mouth opened, then closed, as if he was trying to find the right words to express his thoughts, but they seemed to be stuck in his throat. Then, it opened again like a fish out of water and he was about to speak, but still, no words came out. This was not what he had expected when he walked into James' office today.

A promotion? Yes, that had been a possibility, a welcome surprise, even. A promotion that required relocating to a completely different part of the country? That... was something entirely different.

James must’ve sensed the storm of his thoughts because he continued, "I'm not asking for an answer right this second. I just wanted you to be the first to know. You’ve earned this, Y/n. But I get it. It’s a big decision. Take a little time to think it over." Then came the kicker. "But not too much time. If you accept, they will want you in Austin by the end of next month."

The end of next month. Seven weeks, barely any time at all, to make a decision that would change the course of his life. Regardless, Y/n forced himself to nod to give James some indication that he was taking the offer seriously. "Sounds good."

James slid a folder across the desk. "Here’s everything you need to know about the position, the firm, the salary—" he shot Y/n a knowing look, "—which, by the way, is extremely generous. This also includes relocation support and benefits. Look through it and weigh your options. And whatever you choose, just know I’m in your corner. We’d hate to lose you, but we’d be damn proud to see you move up."

Another nod from Y/n. "I appreciate it."

"Of course." James stood and extended a hand. "No matter what you decide, just know that you’ve done exceptional work here. I know you’ll keep doing good work, whether it’s here or it's across state lines."

Y/n stood and shook James' hand, firm and steady. He picked up the folder and left the office, walking toward the break room with a mind that was spinning way faster than he could keep up with. Gosh.

Austin, Texas.

Y/n could practically feel the weight of this choice pressing on his shoulders. He knew that James was right. This was a rare opportunity for someone like him. Most people would jump at the chance to work for such a prestigious company without hesitation and he felt grateful to have been considered for the role. But on the other hand, accepting the promotion would mean leaving everything behind. His friends, a job he genuinely enjoyed, and the city that had become his home.

Amidst the pros and cons, one thought stood out to Y/n above the rest. Leaving Los Angeles would mean leaving Eddie, the man he had fallen deeply in love with.

Fuck.

What the hell was he supposed to do?

Y/n didn’t have the answer. Not yet. But he knew he needed to think. Really think. That’s exactly what he was going to do.

Stepping into the break room, Y/n grabbed his lunch bag from the fridge and made his way outside. The sun was out, the breeze was light, and it felt like a waste to eat indoors on a day like today. Jela, his best friend, was already waiting for Y/n at one of the patio tables, waving him over as soon as she spotted him.

Jela asked what took him so long to arrive here, even though he was only five minutes late, and Y/n gave her a recount of what happened inside James's office.

"You can’t move to Texas, Y/n," Jela exclaimed, immediately rebuking Y/n’s possible future plans to leave California.

"Oh, really?" Y/n snorted, stabbing a fork into his container of mac and cheese. "And why not?" He had to hear this.

"Because you can't leave me here, that's why not!" she took a slow sip of her drink, Sprite — with extra ice — before adding, "Besides, you won't like it in Texas. It's not your scene, Y/n. You're a California boy, through and through. You thrive on the laid-back, sun-kissed vibe of LA, the overpriced coffees, the late-night tacos, and the traffic-related rage we have. Not the cowboy boots and country music of Texas," Jela then drove home her point. "More importantly, there's no me there."

"I’ll come back and visit." 

"Nope. Visiting isn't good enough. You're staying here," she declared as if she had the power to make that decision for him. Y/n couldn't help but chuckle at her bossy tone, but he knew that she was only looking out for him. Jela took a bite of her sandwich, chewing quickly and swallowing before continuing. "I doubt your little firefighter would be happy that you moved away," she set her sandwich down on her plate. "Speaking of that, how was your little weekend with him? Did y'all go to the Santa Monica Pier?"

"Yes," the h/c haired male confirmed. "we did. Christopher was there too along with…" a slight pause formed on Y/n’s lips for a second. "along with Eddie’s ex-wife."

All of a sudden, Jela froze, the chip in her hand hovering in mid-air, more than halfway to her mouth. Her eyes flickered over to Y/n, and she blinked. "Eddie's ex-wife is back?" she questioned, and Y/n nodded. "And what is she doing back?"

Y/n's shoulders shrugged in a casual, nonchalant manner, "She wanted to see Christopher and talk to Eddie. If I had to guess, I'd say that she wants to be back in the picture and be a part of their lives." 

The brunette's eyes never left Y/n's face as she searched her friend for any signs of unease or discomfort. "And you're just okay with her being back in the picture?"

"Uh, yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?" Y/n’s tone took on a bit of perplexity and confusion.

He didn't understand why Jela was questioning his reaction to Eddie's ex-wife being back in the picture. He didn't feel like he had any reason to be upset or concerned, but Jela appeared to think otherwise. Y/n could tell Jela was trying to imply something, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what the implication was.

"Oh, I don't know," and Jela's tone implied that she did know something. "Maybe because ex-wives have a funny way of suddenly stepping back into the picture and messing things up? You don't think there's even a chance that Eddie might... I don't know, start re-evaluating things now that she's back. You're telling me you're not even a little worried that if she sticks around, you'll get pushed aside?"

Y/n's mouth fell open slightly. Her words hit him. He hadn't even considered the possibility that Eddie's ex-wife's return could threaten his own relationship with Eddie. Maybe it was because Y/n knew Eddie loved him. Maybe it was because he trusted that Eddie wouldn’t just drop him like a hot potato if Shannon decided to stick around Eddie and Los Angeles.

Sure, yes, Eddie and Shannon had...well, history. A marriage. A child. They shared something that Y/n could never fully be a part of, no matter how much he loved Christopher or how close he was to him.

But still, he shook his head, pushing that thought aside. “Eddie and I are solid. I’m not worried about that," and he wasn’t. Or at least, he hadn’t been until Jela put the idea into his head. "And Shannon sticking around doesn’t change that."

Jela's eyes narrowed slightly as she studied Y/n, her expression skeptical. She didn't seem convinced by his words at all and Y/n could tell that she was still concerned about the potential impact of Shannon's return on his relationship with Eddie. "Mmm," she popped a chip into her mouth. "Just promise me one thing?"

Y/n placed his fork down. "What?" 

"Put yourself first. Always. Don’t let yourself be the last priority in your own life. You are worth much more than that."

Y/n didn’t answer immediately. He stared down at his lunch, his appetite suddenly not as strong as a minute ago. But after a long pause, he finally nodded.

"Yeah," he murmured quietly. "I promise."

It was a reasonable promise for Y/n to make, but he had nothing to worry about.

Oh, how he hoped he didn’t. 

XXXXX XXXXX

By the time Y/n pulled up to Eddie’s house that evening, the sun was slowly dipping below the horizon, casting long, golden streaks across the wide sky. He had come here tonight to see how the talk with Eddie and Shannon went. Y/n hoped that it went well and that the two had come to some sort of an agreement.

When he unlocked the door and stepped inside, he was immediately struck by the quiet atmosphere of the house. He didn't see Christopher anywhere, which was a bit unusual, but his attention was quickly drawn to Eddie, who was standing near the couch, eyes glued to his phone. He looked up when he heard the door open.

"Hey, cariño," Eddie greeted with a smile, crossing the living room and planting a kiss on Y/n’s lips. "Didn't expect you."

"I wanted to check in to see how the talk went with you and Shannon," Y/n replied, taking a small step back. "How did it go?"

"It was fine. We had a long talk," Eddie gestured for Y/n to sit with him on the couch. Once they were settled, Eddie continued recounting the conversation with Shannon. "We went over everything. Why she left, why she stayed away, what she wants now. And in the end, I decided that she could co-parent with me. Full Time. Christopher wants her in his life, and, as much as I hate how things went down, I can't deny how happy he was to see her. I can't take that away from him."

Y/n nodded slowly, processing Eddie’s words. "That’s great, Eddie," he said, and he meant it. He was truly happy they had been able to actually have a productive conversation and come to a decision that would benefit Christopher. The kid deserved to have both of his parents in his life, and Y/n was glad that Shannon, for all her past mistakes, was making a conscious effort to be a part of it now. That's more than Y/n ever got from his.

Eddie gave a small smile. "Yeah. Me too."

Still, Y/n could tell that, despite the small smile and the words of agreement, Eddie was carrying some uncertainty. The decision to co-parent with Shannon wasn't going to be an easy one, however, Eddie was trying for Christopher’s sake. That was the only thing that mattered.

All of a sudden, Y/n's gaze drifted from Eddie's eyes to slightly downward, and he took note of what Eddie was wearing. Tan dressy shirt, paired with black pants that accentuated his lean physique, and — Y/n's nose sniffed the air — Eddie was wearing cologne. If Y/n didn't know any better, he would have thought that Eddie was getting ready for a night out on the town, perhaps, even a date. But Y/n was certain they didn't have any plans tonight.

Curiosity hit Y/n. "Going somewhere?"

Eddie cleared his throat, a slight nervousness creeping into his voice. "Yeah, actually. Christopher said that he wanted me and Shannon to take him out to dinner tonight..." and he watched Y/n attentively. "I hope that's okay with you."

"Oh! Oh, uh, yeah — of course that’s okay with me," Y/n hated how high-pitched his voice came out as he reassured Eddie. "I actually have... plans myself," that was a lie. He didn't have any plans with anyone. "Buck and I were actually going out to a bar tonight. Grabbing food, hanging out, having fun... you know, just a guys' night out. I should probably go and get ready."

It was a bullshit excuse, but Eddie didn’t seem to pick up on it. And that gave Y/n the opening to leave. He stood,  heading towards the door, but Eddie reached out and gently grabbed his wrist, his fingers wrapping around it in a firm but gentle hold, stopping him from leaving just yet. 

"Wait." Eddie stood too. "How was work?"

For the briefest moment, Y/n hesitated in answering the question. He could tell Eddie now — he could tell him, right here and now, that he had been offered a job in Texas and had a big decision to make.

But he looked at Eddie, dressed up for dinner with his son and ex-wife, finally starting to rebuild something important. He realized that he just… couldn’t. Y/n didn’t want to ruin his night. He couldn’t drop that bomb right before Eddie went to dinner. It didn’t feel right. Not tonight. Not when Eddie deserved this moment of peace from having figured out the co-parenting situation, dealing with his ex, and giving Christopher what he wanted.

Therefore, Y/n pasted a smile on his lips, trying to seem nonchalant and carefree. "It was good. I closed the Morgan deal."

Eddie’s face immediately brightened, his mouth curling into a proud smile. "That’s amazing," he said, his grip on Y/n’s wrist loosening as his hand slid down to lace their fingers together. "I knew you would."

Y/n massaged the back of his neck. "Yeah, well… wasn’t easy, but it’s done." And it earned me a job offer in another state, went unsaid. "You should probably get going. Don’t wanna be late for dinner."

"Yeah," Eddie nodded, adjusting his shirt. "You should go get ready, too," he leaned in, pressing another kiss to Y/n’s lips softly. "Have fun tonight. Text me later?"

"Sure," the word slipped out of Y/n's mouth with ease, as he backed towards the door. "I will. I hope you have fun, too."

And with that, he left.

As he drove away, Jela’s question from earlier echoed in his head, looping like a song he couldn’t turn off, a lingering itch he needed to scratch. You’re telling me you’re not even a little worried that if she sticks around, you’ll get pushed aside?

Would Y/n get pushed to the side by Eddie now that Shannon was back into the fold? What if Jela was right? What if Shannon did threaten their relationship?

No, Y/n shook his head. Just because Shannon's back, doesn't mean anything. Eddie loves me. He would never do that.

Too bad the man didn't feel confident at all saying that inside his own head. The reassurance did not land. It felt hollow; forced. And as time went on, Y/n would find himself returning to Jela's question, and his unconfident reassurance, again and again. There were moments, three in particular, that would make Y/n question everything. Moments when he didn’t just feel pushed aside. He was pushed aside.

The first time it happened, Y/n had tried to brush it off as no big deal. It had been a long, exhausting week for the two men, and they had planned a much-needed night in. Just the two of them. Takeout, a fun action movie, and some peace and quiet. Shannon had said she would have Christopher at her apartment that night, therefore. It was the perfect opportunity. Y/n had even stopped by Eddie’s favorite Mexican place after work, grabbing their usual order of soft tacos and quesadillas.

Unfortunately, just as Y/n was pulling up to Eddie's house, his phone buzzed with an incoming text message. He glanced down to see Eddie's name on the screen.

Eddie: Y/n, I have to reschedule tonight. Shannon wants to take Christopher out for ice cream, and he wants me to come with him. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.

Y/n stared at the message before letting out a tiny breath. It’s fine, he texted back.

He told himself it’s fine as he went home with enough Mexican food for two. It’s fine as Y/n ate alone in his apartment, scrolling through Netflix with no real interest. It’s fine because, logically, Eddie was doing what a good dad should do, being there for his kid, making sure Christopher got time with both his parents. He could not, in good conscience, be upset with that.

Yet, despite the rationalizations, despite the understanding that Eddie was doing what was best for Christopher, Y/n still felt disappointed and frustrated. He just wanted to spend some time with Eddie. That night had been for just them. And suddenly, it wasn’t. Ever since Shannon had come back into the fold, they hadn't spent any real time with just each other.

The second time it happened, the hurt cut deeper. It was during one of Bobby's famous firehouse gatherings, a monthly tradition that brought the 118 together to unwind, share some good food, and enjoy each other's company in a more relaxed setting. Family and friends were always invited. Y/n, himself, had been to a few of these gatherings before. It was something he always looked forward to.

So, when Buck mentioned the upcoming firehouse gathering, Y/n had assumed that he and Eddie would attend together, just like they had done previously. It was a natural assumption, given their history and the fact that, well, they were dating. Except, two days before the event, Eddie casually mentioned that he was bringing Shannon along with Y/n and Christopher.

"She's been getting along with Buck and Hen really well," Eddie didn't even look up from his phone as he spoke. "Figured it’d be good for her to meet my entire team."

Y/n had nodded, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Yeah. Makes sense." It did not make any sense. He had felt a pang of disappointment and hurt, but he didn't want to show it, didn't want to give Eddie a reason to think he was being jealous or unreasonably possessive over him. Stop.

And that's how Y/n ended up walking into the gathering alone that day. It was a weird, disorienting sensation like he was observing the scene from outside his body. Eddie was there, of course, but he was nowhere to be found, at least not in the way that Y/n was used to. Instead of being together, sharing drinks, talking with the team, stealing touches when no one was looking, and laughing together, Eddie... he was glued to Shannon's side.

The entire time.

Y/n was annoyed.

Because, suddenly, Shannon was the one laughing at his jokes. She was the one sitting next to him at the table. She was the one who Eddie turned to when someone casually mentioned their son.

She had, seamlessly, inserted herself into their little world, and Mr. Diaz was more than happy to accommodate her. Well, he supposed it was her world, too.

And Y/n? He felt invisible. 

But what made Y/n's annoyance spike to a whole new level was when he was making some small talk with Bobby and Athena. His eyes suddenly drifted over to Eddie and Shannon, Eddie had his hand on Shannon's back, with his fingers gently resting on the curve of her spine, and Shannon was leaning into his side.

Y/n frowned. What the hell was that? It’s fine, he had to tell himself that yet again.

But this time, it didn’t feel fine.

The third time, though? That was the one that broke something inside of Y/n. He had known for months that his dad and stepmom were planning something big for his birthday. He didn't want a huge party. Just a small gathering, something low-key, but they had insisted. Thirty is a milestone, his father had said. You only turn it once, son. So, his dad rented out an upscale rooftop venue in downtown LA, with a breathtaking view of the city.

Fancy lights, good food, and a ridiculous guest list. Okay. Fine. He could deal with the whole "big party" thing. It wasn't his ideal way to celebrate his birthday, but if it made his dad and stepmom happy, he was willing to go along with it. But the one thing he did want? Eddie there. So, he had told him weeks in advance and made sure he put it in his calendar. Y/n had even reminded Eddie multiple times.

Eddie had promised he'd be there.

And yet. As Y/n stood in the middle of an expensive rooftop venue, surrounded by friends, family, coworkers, and unfamiliar faces, Eddie was nowhere to be found.

At first, he gave him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe something came up with Christopher. Maybe he was running late or had an emergency. Y/n sent a quick text.

Hey, everything okay?

No reply.

Minutes turned into an hour. Then two. Y/n checked his phone — no messages. He tried calling — no answer. Voicemail.

Not even a simple Happy Birthday. The thought echoed in Y/n's mind like a cruel joke, and it hurt more than he expected. Even if Eddie couldn’t make it, he should have remembered. Y/n’s older brother had flown in from Maryland to celebrate. And Eddie, who lived in the same state, couldn't even be bothered to send a text.

The party carried on, but a quiet sort of numbness settled into Y/n’s bones as went through the motions. He accepted hugs and well-wishes from his friends and family, thanked them for their gifts and kind words, smiled when he needed to, laughed when someone made a joke, posed for pictures, and even danced to the music. But all he could think about was the fact that Eddie wasn’t there.

After Y/n blew out his candles and the party picked back up, Y/n, surprisingly, managed to sneak out of his own party without anyone knowing. He wanted to check on Eddie. If something had come up to where he couldn’t make it, then Y/n could accept that. He just needed to see for himself if that was the case. 

Inserting a key into the lock, Y/n twisted it to the right and pushed the door open, stepping inside. Relief washed over him first because Eddie was home. He was safe. He looked perfectly fine. Oh, thank God. And then, just as quickly, that relief turned into something sharp and painful.

Shannon was with Eddie on the couch. And Eddie was kissing her. On the lips.

"…Wow," he breathed. It came out small, nearly silent, but enough for them to hear.

The soft whisper startled them apart like they had been caught in a guilty act. Eddie jerked back so fast like he’d been burned. His eyes snapped to Y/n, "Y/n—" 

Y/n's hand shot up, palm facing Eddie as if to ward off any further explanation or apology. "Don't," he made sure to keep his voice calm, even, somehow, despite wanting to scream and cry. "Just don’t." 

He didn't want to hear the lies, the half-truths, or the rationalizations that would only serve to further hurt and betray him. Y/n didn't want to talk to Eddie at all. He ran out of the house, not stopping until he reached his car, where he flung open the door and slid into the driver's seat. Y/n could hear Eddie's voice, calling out to him, pleading with him to stop, to talk, to listen. But Y/n was beyond listening. He started the car and quickly drove away. 

When Y/n pulled into his apartment complex and turned off the engine, Y/n allowed himself to feel. The scream that tore out of his throat was anguished and raw and spoke of how he was currently feeling. He let it rip, allowing himself to release all of that pain and hurt that had been building up inside him for weeks.

Tears fell down his face as he cried, racking sobs shaking his entire body. God, he felt like he was falling apart like his world was crumbling around him. Y/n slammed his fist into the steering wheel. Again and again, until his knuckles hurt.

Eddie. His Eddie. The man he loved with every fiber of his being. The man he had trusted with his heart, secrets, and fears. This same man had cheated on him with his ex-wife. Eddie forgot his birthday to be with Shannon. Y/n had spent all night making excuses for him. Had bent over backward convincing himself there had to be a good reason Eddie didn't come.  As it turned out, the only reason Eddie hadn’t shown up… was because he was with her. Y/n felt like an idiot. He was one.

And he felt like he was going to be sick. 

His phone buzzed in the passenger seat, jolting him out of his current state. Y/n glanced at it and wasn’t surprised to see Eddie’s name flash across the screen. Y/n stared at it before pressing the decline button. Not now. He put his phone on silent mode, silencing the ringing and the notifications before putting it face down on the seat. He didn't want to talk to him.

He didn’t give up, though. For days, Eddie made a concerted effort to reach out to Y/n, to apologize and explain and make amends for his betrayal. He called Y/n's phone, but it went unanswered. He sent text message after text message, but Y/n never responded to them. Eddie even left him voicemails, but they went unacknowledged. He even showed up at Y/n's apartment, hoping to catch him off guard and force a conversation. But Y/n avoided him at all costs. He made sure to leave for work early and come home late to avoid any chance encounters with him. 

It wasn't until the hazel-eyed firefighter showed up at Y/n's workplace, bursting into an important meeting and causing a scene, that Y/n finally felt compelled to confront him. The interruption was embarrassing, to say the least, and Y/n's colleagues were shocked by the sudden appearance of his estranged partner. Eddie's timing couldn't have been worse, and Y/n's professional reputation was at risk of being tarnished by the drama that was unfolding. When Eddie threatened to return the next day, and the day after that, until Y/n agreed to talk to him, Y/n decided to give Eddie that conversation.

Which was how he found himself sitting at the kitchen table of his apartment, with Eddie choosing to sit next to him. Buck was out, leaving the two of them alone. Y/n had agreed to talk to Eddie, but he hadn't agreed to make it easy for him. He avoided eye contact, refusing to meet Eddie's gaze, instead, focusing on the lines and creases on his own hands.

Eddie was the one to break the silence.

"How have you been?"

How has he been? Was Eddie serious right now? That’s what he was leading with? Y/n’s jaw clenched and he finally looked up at him. "What did you want to talk to me about?" he asked flatly, cutting straight through the small talk. He didn't even bother answering Eddie's question.

Eddie shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. "I... I wanted to apologize to you."

Y/n didn’t say anything. He just stared at him, waiting for more words to spill out.

Eddie swallowed, running a hand through his hair. "I fucked up," he admitted, "I should have been at your birthday. I should have at least called. There’s no excuse for that. And I sure as hell shouldn’t have—" He cut himself off, shutting his eyes for a brief second as if he couldn't bear to say the words out loud before exhaling heavily. "I shouldn’t have done what I did with Shannon that night."

There it was, verbally spoken. The thing Y/n had been replaying in his head on a loop since that night. Y/n inhaled slowly, holding his breath for a moment before letting it go. Then, softly, he asked, "Did Shannon kiss you… or did you kiss her?"

He wanted to know if Eddie had been a willing participant or if Shannon was the one who initiated the act. The distinction may seem insignificant, but to Y/n, it was everything. It was the difference between a moment of weakness and a deliberate choice, between a mistake and a betrayal. 

Eddie’s lips parted slightly, and Y/n could see the shame and guilt flicker across his features before he even answered.

"I kissed her."

Y/n felt a piece of his heart break from the admission, but he didn’t let his face betray his feelings. Not visibly or audibly. He had been hoping, desperately hoping, that Eddie would voice something else.  That he would claim it was all a mistake, that Shannon had kissed him and he was going to push her away. But no, Eddie had kissed her. He had made a choice, a deliberate choice to betray Y/n's trust and hurt him in the worst possible way.

Don't do it. Don't you dare let him see you cry! He screamed silently to himself. He would not give Eddie the satisfaction of seeing him break down, of seeing him vulnerable and weak. Instead, he gave a slow, numb nod, letting the words settle between them. Let it sting. And then, he asked the question that had been eating away at him ever since that fateful night.

"Why?"

Eddie's hands rose to his face, rubbing over his eyes and cheeks as if trying to scrub away the exhaustion and guilt that marred his countenance. "I don’t know," he muttered at first. But when Y/n shot him a look that said he was full of shit, he sighed. "That’s not true. I do know."

"I've been..." he paused, his eyes darting around the kitchen, seemingly searching for the right words, the right explanation. His gaze finally settled back on Y/n, and he took a deep breath before continuing. "...spending so much time with Shannon these days. Mostly because Christopher wanted us to. And it's been... just... easy."

Y/n felt his throat tighten, but he did not say anything. He just let Eddie talk freely.

Eddie exhaled. "She’s different now. More present. More committed to being there for Christopher. And for the first time in forever, we felt like…" his voice trailed off before he finally admitted, "Like a family. And I liked it. A lot. It made me... happy."

The truth was finally out, laid bare and unvarnished. Y/n had been too afraid to acknowledge it, too afraid to confront the possibility that Eddie's heart still belonged to someone else. But now, it was impossible to deny. Eddie still had feelings for Shannon, feelings that went beyond mere co-parenting or friendship. And Shannon, well, she clearly still had feelings for him, too. That was evident.

"You know, I thought we were good," Y/n said quietly. "I thought we were solid."

"We were," Eddie replied quickly. "We are."

The sound that escaped Y/n's lips was a quiet, bitter laugh, a harsh and mirthless thing that seemed to cut through the air like a knife. "No, no, we're not. You don’t forget your boyfriend’s birthday if things are solid. You wouldn't have ignored my calls, left me hanging and wondering if everything was alright with you. And you sure as hell wouldn't have kissed her."

Eddie didn't argue. He couldn't.

"I get it, though," Y/n continued softly. "She’s Christopher’s mom. You two have history. After everything, you want that family unit and to give your son what he needs. And that’s okay." His lips pressed together. "I can’t be in the middle of that."

"Y/n—" Eddie’s voice cracked.

"We can’t be together," Y/n said, even as it broke him to say it. "Not after this. Not after you kissed Shannon and made me feel neglected. You still love her. I see it."

Eddie's shoulders sagged. "It wasn't—" he started, but then stopped himself, as if realizing that any excuse or justification would be useless. The words died on his lips, and he was left with only the truth. "I do love you, Y/n. That hasn't changed."

Y/n looked away, blinking hard before meeting his eyes again. “Maybe not," he honestly didn’t know if he believed Eddie loved him. "But that's not enough, is it?"

Eddie looked like he wanted to argue. Like he wanted to fight for them. But the problem was, Y/n could see the truth for what it was now, and he deserved to be someone's first choice, not their second. He deserved to be loved with a love that was whole and complete, not a love that was fragmented and divided between him and someone else. He's worth more.

Y/n stood up, swallowing past the ache in his throat. "I think that you should go."

Eddie hesitated, his eyes searching Y/n’s face as if looking for some sign that he could fix this. But Y/n didn’t give him one. After a long pause, Eddie slowly stood, too. He looked like he wanted to say more, but in the end, all he said was:

"I’m sorry."

Y/n nodded once. "Me too."

Eddie lingered for a second longer before turning and walking toward the door. The moment it closed behind him, Y/n immediately headed up to his room. The closing of the door was like a final note to a song he hadn’t wanted to end. His e/c eyes landed on the photo sitting neatly in its frame on the bedside table.

He and Eddie.

It was one of Y/n's favorite memories. A candid shot of them at the carnival, taken by Christopher. The two of them were laughing as they stood in front of the Ferris wheel. Eddie’s arm was slung around his shoulders, pulling him close. Y/n remembered exactly how he had felt in that moment — happy, safe, and loved.

His fingers trembled as they reached for the frame, gripping it tightly as he sank onto the edge of the bed. His eyes clung to Eddie’s smile, so familiar, so beautiful.

And then — finally — he broke.

Y/n had tried to hold them back, tried to swallow down the lump that had been forming in his throat, but it was useless. The first tear fell, hitting the glass of the frame with a muted sound, like a single drop of rain landing on a still pond. And then another tear fell, and another. Y/n didn't try to stop them, didn't try to wipe them away. He just let them fall, freely and unashamedly, as he let go of all his inhibitions and allowed himself to feel the full weight of his painful emotions.

"Why wasn’t I ever enough?"

The question slipped from his lips in a whisper, cracked and broken, lost in the stillness of the room, barely audible even to himself. Why wasn’t he ever enough for someone to choose him?

He wasn’t enough for his mother to stay. He wasn’t enough for Brant to stay loyal. Now, he wasn’t enough for Eddie to not do the one thing that would shatter him.

A sob tore its way out of his throat, raw and painful. All of this is too much. The betrayal, the loneliness, the heartache — it collapsed on top of him like a wave crashing over someone who'd already stopped swimming. He had given Eddie everything. His love. His trust. His whole heart. Somehow, that still wasn’t enough.

"I just wanted to be loved."

A plea to no one. The universe? Maybe. That’s all he ever wanted. Not something conditional. Not something temporary. Just love. Someone who wouldn’t forget he existed. Someone who wouldn’t look at him and think of him as replaceable. Someone who wouldn’t see him as second place. Someone who would stay.

But maybe that was too much to ask for. Maybe he was destined to be almost enough. Close, but not quite. Worth holding, but not worth keeping.

He wanted to hate Eddie, to direct all his anger and hurt towards the person who had caused him pain. He wanted to hate Shannon, too, to blame her for being the surprising yet unsurprising catalyst that set off the chain of events that led to his heartbreak. He wanted to hate his mom, to lash out at her for being the first one to make him feel like he wasn't enough. But all he felt was tired. So damn tired of being almost enough. So goddamn tired of being the one people moved on from.

His fingers tightened around the frame, and for a brief moment, he considered throwing it. Smashing it. Destroying it the same way Eddie had destroyed both him and their relationship. But he didn’t.

Instead, he set the picture face-down on the small table. He couldn’t bear to look at it anymore. Then, he reached up and unclasped the silver necklace Eddie had given him: Siempre contigo. This was a lie. He yanked it off and threw it across the room, where it hit the wall and fell to the floor with a muted thud. Eddie lied.

Then, Y/n's eyes wandered to the desk, where the folder James had given him lay waiting. Bridgewater Associates — Austin, TX, the cover read. He picked it up and opened the file, flipping through the pages. The job details, the salary, the benefits, and the important information.

Maybe this new job in Texas wasn’t just an opportunity. Maybe it was an escape.

They say time flies when you’re having fun, but when you’re heartbroken, time seems to stop altogether, trapping you in the ache of yesterday with no escape.

XXXXX XXXXX

[queensunshinee]

Two Birds On A Wire || Art Donaldson x reader

Rating: Explicit (18+) Warnings: SMUT (Oral, fingering), drinking, very slow burn, I swear it's too slow, once again- I really don't know what's going on here

Word Count: 9.9k

Two birds on a wire

You and Art became friends only at Stanford. You had opportunities to be friends before; it’s impossible to ignore the fact that both of you studied at the same school since you were 12. But Art was friends with people like Patrick Zweig, and you, well, you were one of the people Patrick Zweig spent too much time laughing at.

So when you both get accepted to the same college, you’re aware of his presence because he’s on the tennis team, and his ugly face (even in your thoughts, you find it hard to lie to yourself so blatantly) is plastered on every poster, in every corner. He finds out you’re there at the beginning of the second semester, when you both end up at the same party. If anyone asks him, he came there with a purpose- to get drunk and forget that Tashi Duncan exists or that she’s dating his best friend. If anyone asks you, you got there by accident- you were practically dragged, and you planned to leave after half an hour. But then he saw you, and his confused expression turned into an amused one, then into a challenging one, and then into a series of other expressions that, to this day, you keep in a small box in your memories of Art Donaldson.

“This is weird,” was the first thing he said to you, and you could see from his flushed cheeks that he had already been drinking. Probably more than one beer. “What’s weird?” you asked in response, and he leaned his curls closer to you, expecting you to ask the question again because it was impossible to hear anything with that music blasting at such volume. “What’s weird?” you repeated directly into his ear. For a moment, you wondered if your breath could reach his nose. If that was something he would even notice. If that little breeze made his hair tickle the nape of his neck. If, if, if. “That you’re here, I guess?” You weren’t sure if there was a question mark at the end or if it was just his facial expression studying you intently. As if you had committed a crime, but he was both the cop interrogating you and the lawyer defending you. All roles at once. The thought made you swallow down a chuckle.

“I study here,” you said briefly and took a sip from the drink Josie had made for you. It had more orange juice than vodka because she knew otherwise you wouldn’t even agree to hold it. “I study here too,” he said, and now it was your turn to raise an eyebrow at him. “I know that, Donaldson,” you replied with staged ease. It took a lot out of you. This was probably the longest conversation you’d ever had, if you completely ignored that one time in ninth grade when he saw you crying over something one of his friends had said and just sat down next to you. Actually, there wasn’t much to ignore- he hadn’t said anything to you back then. He just waited for you to stop crying quietly, as if there was nothing he could say that would actually make things better. He placed his water bottle next to you and left when he saw that you were able to open it and drink on your own.

“You just know that?” he was amused. He didn’t seem angry to see you. He didn’t seem like your presence annoyed him, just that it confused him to his core. “Your face is on all the posters,” you shrugged, because it was obvious. Everyone knew Art Donaldson. He never tried to stand out. He never did anything special to make it happen, not even in high school. While people like Patrick Zweig reeked of effort, Art Donaldson drew people in effortlessly and quietly. With a calm that radiated from him in all directions. “Well, if your face were on all the posters, I’d know you were here too. What are you studying?” he asked, with a lightness that was impossible to explain. As if you had been friends your entire lives. As if the fact that he hadn’t known you were so close to him was a crime against humanity.

"Bio-chem," you said concisely, wondering if this would end the conversation, but his face said otherwise. There was genuine amazement at the subject. “Damn, (Y/N), I knew you were smart, but I didn’t know you were planning to save the world one day,” the amused look returned as you rolled your eyes. “What are you studying?” you asked, because it was the polite thing to do, and if there was one thing that could definitely be said about you- it was that you were very polite. “Tennis.” He shrugged and chuckled, as if it was the best joke he could tell. He saw the confusion on your face and quickly added, “Not really, Sports Management. But it’s not even a plan B. If I don’t make it pro, then all of this is pointless,” he explained. You wondered if he also felt this wasn’t a conversation suited for a party. If he, too, was asking himself why he was speaking to you so openly.

You nodded, assuming the conversation would end there, especially when one of his friends approached him, but Art stayed by your side, even introduced you- like you were an old friend from high school. Like you two go way back. Talking with Art was effortless and funny. His humor was on point. His manners weren’t far from yours. He didn’t touch you too much, only pulling you slightly closer when he felt you were drifting away. Almost marking territory when one of your friends came over to say hi. When Josie gave him a scrutinizing look, he simply smiled and introduced himself. She nodded, handed you a fresh cup of the same drink, and disappeared just as quickly as she had arrived.

“I could’ve made you a drink, you know,” he said suddenly, the amused look never leaving his face as he studied you. “Josie makes the perfect drink,” you replied, and he took it from your hand, taking a sip without breaking eye contact. “The perfect drink is just orange juice?” He raised an eyebrow as he handed the cup back to you. “There’s vodka in there,” you rolled your eyes, trying to regain some of the dignity you felt you had just lost. “Do you want to dance with me?” he asked. “Where did that come from?” You couldn’t hide your surprise. “We’re at a party, and I want to dance,” he shrugged for what felt like the millionth time, speaking as if every word coming out of his mouth was an undeniable fact. “I’m fine right here.” You tried to wrap up the conversation, assuming that would be the end of it and that he’d just let you stay in your quiet corner and eventually go home, just as you had planned when you first arrived.

But he took a few steps back, keeping his eyes on you. “Why settle for fine when you could be having fun?” he asked. And there was something about Art Donaldson, you learned in that moment- he always operated exactly like that. ‘Why settle for fine, when you could be having fun?’

So, you downed the drink in one gulp and decided that this time, you’d dance with him. After all, you wouldn’t see him tomorrow anyway, and you’d both go back to acting the way you did two hours ago. Life would return to normal. So, you danced- sometimes ridiculously, sometimes seriously. His hands were on your waist, and he quietly asked if it was okay. All you could do was nod, because why settle for just "okay" when you could have fun? And with Art Donaldson, you thought you might actually have fun.

An hour later, you were already on your way to your dorm. His fingers brushed against yours, each time a different one wrapping around one of your fingers, gently hinting that maybe he’d like to hold your hand but giving you the option to pull away. You were both half-drunk- him more than you, of course, otherwise you didn’t think he’d be walking away from that party with you. You tried not to focus on intrusive thoughts about high school or Patrick Zweig, because no one else deserved to intrude on this moment. You always knew Art wasn’t like them. He never acted like them. He always looked down, turned away when someone was messing with you. You appreciated that.

"Can I come in?" he asked, half-amused, looking at you. Completely prepared to hear the word 'no' if necessary. "Well, you're already here." For a moment, neither of you could believe you’d said that, but he didn’t wait for you to change your mind and stepped inside. He studied your room like he was looking for secrets. He stared at a framed childhood photo longer than you were comfortable with. He examined the posters your roommate had on the wall and the books you had on your shelf.

His lips were on yours a few minutes later- minutes that felt like an eternity. It started hesitant, restrained, almost cautious. You couldn’t believe you were kissing Art Donaldson. That was all you could think about- Fuck, fuck my life, I’m about to sleep with Art Donaldson. I’m about to lose my virginity to Art Donaldson. And the more you spiraled into those thoughts, the more intense the kiss became. His hands found their way to every exposed inch of your skin as you both settled onto your bed, never breaking apart. He kissed your neck like a starving man, like you were his last meal before execution, like his very breath depended on the exact spot where you had sprayed perfume before leaving for the party.

"I’m gonna go to the bathroom for a sec, okay?" Your voice sounded strange even to you for a moment. "Now?" He sounded confused but not upset, speaking into your neck, making it seem like physically separating from you would be painful. "I have to pee," you blurted out the first thing that came to mind, and he pulled back for a second, looking at you with sparkling eyes- whether from alcohol or something else, you couldn’t tell. He nodded, and you stood up, hurrying to the tiny bathroom attached to your room.

You looked at yourself in the mirror as you applied deodorant, shaved your legs quickly (knowing you’d regret it tomorrow), gargled mouthwash, and stared at yourself again, psyching yourself up to walk back out in nothing but a bra and panties to have sex with Art Donaldson. A sentence you had to repeat to yourself over and over just to believe it was actually happening.

When you walked out, you tried to move as seductively as you knew how. Like in the movies. In Josie’s heels, which were a size too small but, for some reason, were in the bathroom, and panties with a flower on them- but at least you had a lace bra on. You had to work with what you got. You hobbled toward him while he lay in bed with his back to you. He didn’t react at all, which made you frown in confusion and step closer.

"Art?" You murmured toward him, but he didn’t move an inch. That’s when you realized that while you had been shaving and putting on heels that made you wobble, Art Donaldson had simply fallen asleep in your bed.

The level of humiliation you felt in that moment could have been worse if he had been awake to see you limping toward him, half-naked, in those ridiculous heels and questionable underwear. So, all you did was throw on the oversized T-shirt that said "Science is Sexy" (you had your doubts, but it made Josie laugh, and she had bought it for your birthday a month ago), took off the heels, and climbed into Josie’s bed- she had already texted you earlier that she wasn’t coming back to the room that night.

By morning, Art Donaldson was gone, and if you hadn’t slept in a different bed, you might have thought you had imagined the whole thing. . . . Almost a week had passed since Art Donaldson fell asleep in your bed before you found him sitting on the steps outside the Faculty of Exact Sciences. His wave in your direction was hesitant as you kept walking toward him. "Hey," was the first thing that came to your mind to say, because what else could you even add? You felt your heart pounding, and you knew you weren’t doing a great job of hiding your confusion- hiding emotions was never your strong suit. "Hey," he smiled- that same familiar yet foreign smile. The kind that had never been directed at you before, and you had always wondered what it would feel like to be on the receiving end of one of his smiles.

"What are you doing here?" you asked. You didn’t mean to be rude, but seriously, what the fuck was he doing here? "Finished practice early and thought it’d be nice to invite you to eat at our cafeteria. The food there’s better," he said. If there was any hesitation or nervousness in his voice, you couldn’t pinpoint it. "Oh." Again, you weren’t really sure how to talk to people like Art. "I have a four-hour lab now, so I don’t think I can. But thanks for the invite, Donaldson." The more you spoke, the steadier your voice became.

"Maybe tomorrow?" His hand moved to the back of his neck as he shook his hair, still not fully dry from the shower. "Maybe," you nodded, because what else was there to do. "Are you on Facebook?" he asked as you started walking toward the building, and he walked beside you. "No, why do you ask?" You threw the question back, it felt safer. "Everyone's on Facebook. How are you not on Facebook?" he replied, amused, nudging his shoulder against yours. "I don't know, it just feels like a waste of time," you said, half-truthfully. The full truth was that you had no one to keep in touch with. All your friends were here, at Stanford, and opening Facebook just to stay in touch with your dad felt pathetic.

"Well, do you have a phone?" His voice cracked for a second but quickly recovered. You nodded briefly, and he reached out his hand, waiting for something. "Oh, right, one sec," you said, digging through your oversized bag, which held far too many things that had no business being there, like star stickers and shoelaces. "Here," you handed him the device, and he typed in a number, calling himself so he’d have yours too.

"I wanted to apologize for, you know, falling asleep. I feel like a dick." His hand found its way to the back of his neck again. You decided to start paying attention to when he did that. "Don’t worry about it," you waved your hand dismissively. "It’s a funny story we can tell someday if anyone asks what’s the weirdest situation you’ve been in after a party," you added with a chuckle, completely ignoring the fact that he didn’t laugh. "This is my lab," you said, pointing at the classroom in front of you. He nodded, furrowing his brows slightly, but still nodded.

When you agreed to sit with Art for lunch, you didn’t understand that you had committed to a soul friendship, but when you think about it sometimes, you suspect that he already understood. Sometimes you think he planned it all with endless devotion, from the second he saw you at that party. That he decided to tie his fate to yours without giving you any way to escape. The conversations were deeper than any you’d had with someone your age before. You found yourself telling him about pets you’d had and listening when he told you about his grandmother, who raised him when his parents didn’t have the patience or ability.

The only taboo between you during those months was the years you studied together before. You didn’t bring it up with particular persistence and he didn’t know how to bring it up without feeling self-hatred and remembering bad choices and thinking about the time he wasted. The only time he said Patrick’s name near you was when he introduced you to Tashi as his girlfriend, and even then, he said it and stared at you as if he expected you to fall apart just from hearing the name of his best friend. But you didn’t fall apart, you smiled at Tashi the warmest smile he’d ever seen. And you started a conversation about her scholarship, joked as if you had no worries. As if any connection between you and the quiet girl sitting in the back corner of the class was purely coincidental. As if no one had ever laughed at you. . . . “Do you hate the fact that I’m here?” Art asked as you sat on a carousel outside a fancy building where there was a party he’d heard about by chance. “What?” you took another sip of the wine you were passing between you and mostly didn’t understand where that was coming from. You’d hardly been apart for the past few months; you went to his practices when you had free time and he sat with you in the library during his. On weekends you studied together (you were studying and Art was dozing off on your bed or his, depending on whose room you were in).

“You know what I mean,” he shrugged like a carefree person, even though his brows were furrowed and his hand brushed the back of his neck. “Here on the carousel? Here on the planet? Here in-” you started listing all the things he could’ve meant, because who even knows what Art Donaldson ever means. “Here at Stanford. Here; where you are.” he clarified. “Why would I hate that?” you were even more confused than before. “Sometimes I think you really hate me and just don’t know how to get rid of me,” he tried to chuckle but his expression gave him away. He was really scared of that.

“I don’t think it’s possible to hate you, I don’t think anyone could even not like you, Art” you sighed toward him, and it was the truth. Art pulled people in so naturally. A magnet for humans. He made everyone around him feel like they were lucky at any given moment. You weren’t an exception. The fact that he chose to spend time with you or be around you never stopped surprising you. “You’re full of shit,” he smiled his signature smirk and took another sip from the nearly empty wine bottle. “You never talk about the fact that we already knew each other. It’s like I met you here,” he got to the heart of it.

“You don’t think you really met me here?” you asked. Because to be honest with yourself, you’re not even sure he knew who you were in high school. “I always knew who you were,” you saw in the dim lighting of the park that he was shrugging, guessing exactly what was going through your mind. “Knowing who someone is isn’t the same as knowing them,” you tried to explain, “I knew who you were, I knew who your friends were, I knew you played tennis,” you said all the dry facts that characterized Art Donaldson, “but I didn’t know you. I didn’t know you liked comics, I didn’t know you talk to your grandmother three times a week, I didn’t know you prefer writing in a notebook instead of on a computer. I didn’t know you’re in love with your best friend’s girlfriend,” you said the last part casually, even though he had never told you about his feelings for Tashi. “How did you find out?” He didn’t look scared that you knew. He looked calm, like you’d just told him it was going to be sunny tomorrow. “Because I know you now. I know how you look at people you love,” you said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Art nodded to himself, like someone who just reached a deep realization he had no intention of sharing with you. “Do you really hate him? Patrick, I mean,” he tried to break the imaginary silence pact between you two.

“I don’t hate him at all,” you said. There was a time when you did hate Patrick, because he was the villain in your story. But truthfully, you probably weren’t even a character in his. So, you learned to let it go. The anger you carried was mostly toward different life circumstances, toward the fact that some people start from a certain point, and others don’t even have a way to start. You could hate Patrick when you thought about how much luck it took for you to even get to where you are, compared to the fact that Patrick had everything handed to him to get into the best college in the world, and he decided to throw it all away to play tennis.

“How can you not hate him? He was so awful to you,” Art sounded like he was, in a way, demanding that you hate him. Like he needed someone to tell him it was okay not to always love Patrick. He knew you were the right person to tell him that. He wanted to share with you his anger and disappointment and frustration and all the negative emotions that chewed him up every time he thought of his best friend. He wanted you to give him permission to be mad. But that’s not your way. You’re not an angry person- you’re forgiving and calm and level-headed. You don’t have time to be mad. Life will leave you behind if you waste it on negative feelings.

“You know, we never had much money at home,” you started to say, while Art drank you in with his eyes, just wanting to learn more about who you are. “My dad was a taxi driver and my mom used to work three jobs at once,” you explained quickly. “When Damon Jenkins, the headmaster of the Academy, called my mom in for a meeting, he told her I was gifted and that he was willing to cover all the expenses for me to transfer to the boarding school he ran. It was like a gift dropped into our laps. Like winning the lottery, in a way- realizing I could have a different future. That I wouldn’t be stuck in that same cycle. That if I played my cards right, I could actually do something with my life. Something a twelve-year-old shouldn’t have to understand, but I did,” you added, because twelve-year-olds shouldn’t worry about money. But you’d seen your parents worry since the day you were born.

“My mom sewed me two dresses, and to me, they were perfect. Most of my clothes were hand-me-downs from my sister and brother, so two new dresses were basically part of the celebration. My dad sat me down before we left for the academy. He told me people would always have something to say. Always. But as long as I hadn’t done anything wrong, that wasn’t my problem.”

“In our first week at school, there was this welcome party- you probably don’t remember. But Patrick laughed at my dress. The same dress my mom made for me. He said it looked like something someone bought secondhand because it was so ugly. Everyone laughed, but I didn’t care, because Patrick didn’t know how much my mom loved me. He didn’t know how much effort she put into that dress. And he didn’t know that that was his problem, not mine. Because I didn’t do anything wrong.” You took a deep breath.

“So no, most of the time I didn’t hate Patrick. I was too busy being grateful for the chance I had to one day get to Stanford. He thought we were playing some power games, but the truth is- I was never playing.” You shrugged and took the last sip from the bottle.

Art looked at you like someone would look at a protected flower. And he knew it was his job to protect you. He didn’t quite understand when that became his role, but people like Patrick weren’t going to get close to you anymore. Even if it cost Art his best friend. . . . The first time you ran into Patrick was completely by chance. He walked around campus like the place belonged to him. Like he was born there- but you suspect that people like Patrick walk that way everywhere. While life taught you to be grateful for opportunities, it hadn’t taught him the same lesson. Your eyes met in the cafeteria and for a second, he looked surprised, but you looked away too quickly for it to mean anything. It shook you enough to lose track of the conversation you were in. It shook you enough to make you want to skip lunch and head back to your room.

You’d promised Art you’d come to his game, and you’re the kind of person who, for some reason, keeps promises. So you dragged Josie along and hoped Patrick wouldn’t notice you in the crowd. You wondered how Art would act if he saw you. You wondered if his personality would shift completely. You wondered if the guy you’d gotten to know over the past few months- like any of your other friends, maybe a little more, to be honest- would suddenly become unrecognizable. You wanted to believe he wouldn’t. But you didn’t want to test that belief, so you didn’t go up to him after he won.

You texted him something short about a paper you had to finish but that you stayed through the end of his game and you were sorry you couldn’t stick around. He replied with a simple "okay". And the knock on your door came after two long hours of reading an article.

“Did he say something to you?” was the first thing Art asked as he stepped into your room without waiting for an invite. “What?” “Patrick, did he say something, and that’s why you left?” He tried to explain himself, but what came out was mostly a stream of half-sentences as he paced back and forth. “Why would Patrick say anything to me?” You looked at him with the most indifferent expression you could manage, not betraying how heavy his best friend's presence sat on your soul. “He’s supposed to go back on tour in two days. He came to visit Tashi,” Art rolled his eyes. “He didn’t even tell me he was coming, otherwise I would’ve told you in advan-” He didn’t even stop to breathe in the middle of his apology. “Art, I’m a big girl. I’m not afraid of Patrick Zweig,” you cut off his guilt with a necessary sharpness. “Besides, you had a good game. He’s probably feeling threatened seeing you play,” you added, trying to ease the tension as Art dropped himself onto your creaky twin bed. “I don’t think Patrick’s ever felt threatened by anything,” he laughed, a bitter laugh that didn’t quite suit him. “I think Patrick feels threatened all the time,” you said almost in a whisper. And even if Art heard you, he chose not to answer. . . . A year and three months later, you walked into your new apartment carrying yet another box of your stuff. Until that exact moment, you still hadn’t fully understood how Art had convinced you to start your third year of college sharing an apartment with him. It had seemed like a terrible idea at first. But over the past year, Art had planted the idea slowly and patiently. Like someone who had all the time in the world to let it grow inside your head. He talked about scholarship money. About Nike showing interest in him and offering to invest in his living conditions while they considered sponsoring him after Stanford.

“It’ll be cheaper than the dorms, and you’ll have your own room- you won’t have to share with Josie,” he’d said so many times throughout the past year. “We can do movie nights with a real TV, not on my crappy laptop,” he’d add little things he knew you liked. Your privacy. Quality time- which you barely had at all during your second year.

Until you gave in. Until you found yourself carrying boxes into an apartment with two bedrooms, a living room, and a kitchen you wouldn’t have dreamed of in a parallel universe.

“Hey! I told you not to carry the heavy boxes,” he shouted from his room, running toward you and tripping over trash bags full of clothes scattered on the floor. “I can carry a box of books, Art,” you almost rolled your eyes at him. “You can also watch tennis matches with me- it doesn’t mean you actually do it,” he said, grabbing the box from your hands and walking it into the room that was about to become yours. It was almost ridiculously bigger than the room you used to share with Josie on campus.

“I can’t believe we’re actually here,” you said, sticking your head into the empty freezer to cool off. “Took me a whole year to convince you to live a life of comfort. You’ll never be able to go back to the dorms now- not after sleeping on a real mattress and a double bed. I’ve ruined you forever,” his voice was amused as he drank from the cold water you’d left out for him. “I don’t get spoiled that easily, Donaldson. You should know that by now,” you replied, not lifting your head from the freezer to look at him. “I’m working on changing that,” he said with the same playful tone. But if you’re honest with yourself, you didn’t look his way to catch the determined look he threw at you. . . . You stood in front of your open closet. Not really looking, just letting your eyes settle on fabrics so you wouldn’t have to think about what was going to happen in an hour. The conversation you’d have with someone you barely knew, the measured smile, maybe a glass of wine to help you forget you didn’t actually want to be there. You pulled out a white shirt, slightly misshapen from the last wash. You laid it carefully on the bed. You didn’t love it, but it was neutral. And right now, that’s what you needed. From the kitchen came the sound of a drawer slamming shut. Too loud for a drawer full of utensils. “How much quinoa does one person need to survive?” Art’s voice came from the hallway- not so much through the question itself, but the way he closed the cabinet. Like he was trying to say something without saying it. “It’s not quinoa. It’s whole wheat couscous,” you answered, not raising your voice. Not looking away from the shirt.

Twenty-seven seconds passed (you counted) before you heard his footsteps down the hallway. He showed up in your doorway with an open water bottle and a towel dragging on the floor. Standing there like it just happened to be on his way. “That new?” he asked, nodding toward the shirt on the bed. “Not really.” He didn’t move. Just looked. And you didn’t ask why.

You pulled out another shirt. Maybe jeans instead of the nicer pants. Not because you were changing your mind- just testing. “What’s this guy’s name again?” he asked, one hand resting on the doorframe like he needed to hold himself back from walking in. “Jamie. I told you already, he's in my lab.” “Huh.” There it was again. That silence. Not heavy. But not easy, either.

You sat in front of the mirror. Looked for earrings. Found a small gold pair. Put them on without using the mirror. When you looked up, you saw his reflection in the hallway mirror. Leaning there, drinking water, checking his phone- or pretending to. “You think you’ll be gone a while?” “No idea.” “Because if so, I might invite people over. Or just leave the apartment dark and play depressing music. See which one messes with your conscience more.” It was a joke. Almost. You smiled, but it was too brief to be convincing. “You want me to leave the light on for you?” he asked. “Or is this one of those nights where you come back only if you really need something from the house?” You didn’t answer. Just grabbed your bag, walked out, and closed the door quietly behind you. The date wasn’t terrible. Jamie did everything right. He wasn’t too focused on himself, didn’t go on about chemistry or your shared lab. He let you lead, which you didn’t even know you needed. You don’t think you’ve ever led anything outside of your lab. You might not say it out loud, but it was nice. Being in a position where you got to decide.

He walked you home after no more than two hours. A completely acceptable amount of time. Kissed you on the cheek. Very gentlemanly. Very modest. You didn’t know whether to be glad or disappointed that his lips didn’t land on yours by the end of the night. Maybe you were hoping for more and didn’t want to admit it. Maybe his choice to “respect” you affected you the opposite way. You deserve to be respected, your inner voice said. It’s great that there was chemistry and he didn’t kiss you. It’s exactly what you need. To take things slow.

When you opened the door, Art was asleep on the couch in the dark living room, earbuds in. Listening to music at a volume loud enough to reach the hallway. It was metal—something he didn’t usually listen to. Like he was trying to drown out any unnecessary sound, no matter if it burst his eardrums or gave him a migraine. He was blocking out noise like his life depended on it. And all you could ask yourself, as you gently pulled the earbuds from his ears and covered him with a sheet, was what awful thing he thought he’d have to hear when you came back home.

When you woke up, Art was already on his feet, coffee cup in hand. Over time, you’d learned that Art wasn’t really a morning person. Not like you, at least. “You’re not gonna ask how it went, Donaldson?” you tried to start a conversation, and he handed you a cup of coffee exactly how you liked it—with soy milk he couldn’t stand. “Are you going to see him again?” he replied instead. “You don’t want to know where we went? How it was? What time I got back?” you tried to pull a reaction from him, anything. “I’d rather stab myself in the eye with a fork than talk about that nerd before I finish my coffee,” he said flatly, placing his cup in the sink. On his way out, he passed by you, pressed a quick kiss to the top of your head, paired it with a half-hug that clearly meant: end of conversation. He threw his tennis gear over his shoulder and left the apartment without another word.

You couldn’t shake the feeling that Art was acting like someone who knew something neither of you was ready to admit. . . . “Do you want to come home with me for the holidays?” you asked one evening while you were sitting on the couch watching another episode of Friends. “What?” You could guess from his surprised tone that he was looking at you with a confused expression. “Look, we don’t really do Christmas or anything- Hanukkah is the big thing at my house. And you might have to sleep on the couch ‘cause there’s no guest room, but-” you started rambling, wondering why you even brought it up. You just figured his grandma in the nursing home wouldn’t be able to host him, and two and a half weeks in a house like his sounded lonely. “I figured I’d just stay here, maybe get some extra training in or something.” You could tell he was embarrassed, and for once, you actually looked at him. “That’s dumb. I mean- my house isn’t big or anything, but it’s full of people and everyone’s loud and yelling, and there’ll be food ‘cause my mom’s an amazing cook and-” You tried to pitch something you knew wasn’t exactly appealing: your family. “Okay,” he cut you off. “I’d really like that, (Y/N). Thanks.” You’d known Art for almost two years now, and you couldn’t imagine a more sincere look than the one he gave you just then. So you just nodded, and the two of you went back to staring at Jennifer Aniston talking, without hearing a single word she said.

“So, just a reminder- my mom’s name is Sarah, and my dad’s John. My uncles will probably be there, and my grandpa’s this grumpy guy who complains about everything, but he means well. They’ll talk about Hanukkah like the miracle happened in our living room or something. You can ignore ninety percent of what they say and still understand everything.” It was a mantra you’d repeated at least ten times over the past week. But to his credit, Art didn’t comment on it while he drove. You left at six in the morning and stopped twice for coffee, and Art insisted on picking up flowers and a bottle of wine on the way, because apparently he couldn’t show up empty-handed.

“Wanna drive?” he asked at some point. “No,” you said too quickly, making him glance over with a raised eyebrow before turning his eyes back to the road. “I don’t know how to drive. It’s not that I want you to do the whole eight hours,” you added, feeling like it was kind of rude to dump it all on him. “You’re twenty-one. How do you not know how to drive?” He sounded more amused than judgy, like he didn’t actually hold it against you- just wanted to understand. “My dad tried teaching me one summer in high school and I crashed into Meredith’s trash bin -she's our neighbor- and cried for three straight hours. After that I decided driving wasn’t for me.” You said it fast, like it was a totally obvious decision.

“That’s insane. You know that, right?” He wasn’t trying to insult you, and honestly, you weren’t even offended. “I can’t believe I didn’t know that. Feels like something I should’ve known,” he added, and you just shrugged. “It’s not a big deal. A lot of super smart people never got a license. I manage just fine,” you said, with your usual conviction. “You could manage in an igloo. Doesn’t mean you should live in one,” he chuckled, and you gave him a light smack on the shoulder. “You sure you wanna pick a fight with me while we’re on the way to my house, Donaldson? My dad will poison you,” you said, and his laugh got louder.

You parked in front of your house, and it looked exactly the way you remembered it. A small garden your dad put way more effort into than he had to, an even smaller set of front steps, and beige-colored walls. You smiled without meaning to, but you knew Art was watching you, so you looked back at him. “It’s smaller than you’re probably imagining, okay?” You tried to prepare him. You didn’t want him to be surprised. Didn’t want him to hold anything your parents lacked against them. “I’m sure it’s perfect.” His smile didn’t waver for a second.

Your mom hugged him before she hugged you, which in a parallel universe might’ve been concerning, but you knew the woman who raised you well enough to understand that she showed love exactly as she felt it- with no delay. “These are for us? You’re sweet, but you really didn’t have to,” she said, taking the flowers and wine from him. “You both look way too skinny. Fancy college and they don’t feed you at all,” she concluded after giving you both a full once-over, acting like she’d known Art since birth. “Ben, Daniela, and Lily are already here. Becca’s coming tomorrow,” she gave you the general update, nodding as you and Art followed her into the house. Your brother, Ben, is nine years older than you and married to Daniela. Lily was born two years ago. They live not far from your parents. You’d never been especially close to Ben- the age gap, the boarding school, the constant distance. But Lily was like an angel dropped into the family.

You and Becca were a different story. Three years apart, and she never got the kind of chances you did. She’d always had to give up clothes she loved so you’d have something to wear, and she was never good enough in school for anyone to offer her a scholarship. College wasn’t in the cards for her. She worked mornings at a checkout counter and evenings as a waitress. Sometimes, when you thought about it too much, you wondered if she resented you for it- for all the times you heard “yes” while she heard “no.” You could cry just thinking about it too much, because she’d never done a single thing to make you feel like that.

Dinner was full of humor, just like you remembered your home to be. Every now and then you glanced over at Art to see if he was overwhelmed by the shouting, the crude jokes, or even Lily’s crying. But he was simply present, weaving tennis stories with his usual charisma. Drawing the room in with every word out of his mouth. You could feel his hand occasionally pinch your knee, a quiet reminder that he was here with you- even as his attention stayed perfectly inside the conversation.

“Sunny, can you get some fruit from the fridge?” your mom suddenly asked. “Sunny?” Art asked, shifting a curious look from her to you. “It’s just a sill-” “When she was little and started making sense of things,” Ben cut in, “she realized the sun goes down every day. And for weeks, she’d wait for sunset, hoping maybe this time it wouldn’t happen. And then when it did, she’d cry for hours about how unfair it was that for us to sleep, the sun had to leave. Every night, for weeks. The nickname stuck.” You hadn’t known Ben remembered the story in all its embarrassing detail.

All you could do was roll your eyes and ignore the way Art’s eyes sparkled as they stayed fixed on you while you pulled out fruit from the fridge. By the time your mom basically shoved you and Art into your childhood bedroom, tossing a couple of blankets your way, it was already late. “You can sleep on the bed, Donaldson,” you told him firmly. “Don’t be stupid,” he shot back. “You’re a guest in my house and you were expecting at least a couch. I didn’t know my grandpa was staying with us for the holiday,” you said, starting to lay out a layer of clothes on the inflatable mattress you found in the storage room a few minutes earlier. “Your room’s cool,” he said, ignoring your comment as he looked over the books on your shelves and the pictures you’d once pinned to a corkboard. You felt absurdly exposed. “It’s fine. I decorated it when I was six,” you rolled your eyes, and he raised an eyebrow at you.

The compromise was that every night you were there, you’d take turns sleeping arrangements. One night you on the crappy mattress, the next one, he will. You didn’t say it out loud, but you suspected the actual mattress on the bed probably didn’t meet Art’s standards either.

“Your house is perfect,” Art said into the dark, almost whispering. It was his way of erasing the awkwardness he knew you felt, and you couldn’t bring yourself to say “thank you,” because you weren’t sure if he meant it. “They really try,” you whispered back. “I don’t think anyone in my family, besides my grandma, ever tried,” he admitted. “I’m sorry,” you said the only thing left to say. “Thanks.” And you didn’t know if he was thanking you for the chance to see a family different from his and be part of it, or for letting him say what he felt without being ashamed.

“Art?” “Hmm?” “I’m glad you came,” you tried to tell him he had nothing to thank you for. “I’m glad I came too, Sunny,” he wrapped up the conversation, and each of you closed your eyes in your corner of the room. . . . It was one of those days where you felt the wind knocked out of your sails. Your last lab was a total failure, showing the exact opposite results from the research you’d been working on, which meant you’d have to redo it over the weekend. The discussion section you TA for part-time, refused to take you seriously in any way, mostly because you were, well... a girl. Which honestly made you imagine those first-year guys going up in flames. So after experiencing failure, catching the lingering sad glances Jamie kept throwing your way since your half-baked date, and a heavy dose of misogyny- you finally made it to the apartment you shared with Art around 9 PM. Wondering if he’d finally bought a corkscrew, because that bottle of wine had been yelling at you from the fridge for two weeks.

“Did you buy a cork-” The person sitting on the couch wasn’t Art. There was no sign of Art. The person sitting fully spread out on the couch, shirtless like he owned the place, was Patrick Zweig. “Oh.” You felt stupid for walking in like that.

He looked at you like you were the one who barged into the wrong apartment, even though this was your living room. Your safe space. And now, suddenly, Patrick Zweig, of all people, was in it. “Art’s in the shower,” he said quietly, and all you could do was nod and head to your room- feeling your heart beating way too fast for someone who shouldn’t mean anything to you anymore.

You were pretty sure you heard Art mutter something like, “I told you to wait in the room, why can’t you ever just do what you’re asked?!” right before you recognized the familiar rhythm of his knock. “Yeah?” you tried to keep your voice steady as you stared at your laptop screen. There was an article open in front of you that you hadn’t read a single word of- just there to make it look like everything was normal. “I didn’t know he was coming, I swear,” Art’s voice was laced with a kind of panic you’d learned to recognize by now. “He got into a fight with Tashi and had nowhere to go, and you weren’t answering your phone all day and-” “Art, breathe. It’s fine. He’s your best friend and this is your home. You can have whoever you want here. I don’t mind.” You looked at him with a calculated calm, hoping it was enough to cover what you were actually feeling. “Wanna go get dressed?” you added, smiling as you slowly took in the sight of him- wearing nothing but a towel.

“Do you want him to leave? I can find him somewhere else to stay-” He wasn’t buying the smiles or the focus on your screen. Sometimes you thought nothing you staged ever fooled him, that he could read you like an open book. “It doesn’t matter, Art. It’s been years since he was part of my life; and even then, it was barely a role.” It was a full-on lie, but he didn’t push. Just nodded and stepped out of the room, like he already knew why you needed him to do just that. You woke up earlier than usual, hungry because you hadn’t eaten anything the day before, and mostly hoping that by some miracle, Patrick would already be gone from your apartment. But there he was. In your kitchen. Holding your favorite coffee mug and drinking from the fancy tea Art bought you half-jokingly when you were both drunk. But the point stood- the tea was yours.

You felt your jaw clench at the sight of his half-smug smile. Your body tensed in front of this person who, just three years ago, made it his mission to make your life miserable every chance he got. “Art went to practice,” he said, like he was trying to break the most painfully awkward silence either of you had ever taken part in. “I’m not his babysitter,” you answered, defensive in a way that didn’t even match what he said.

“Do you want some coffee?” he asked. “I can make my own coffee,” you replied, trying to move toward the machine behind him. “It’s fine, I’ll make it- I’m already here,” he said, and somehow, in the middle of the dumb little coffee standoff, his hot tea ended up on your shirt, and your favorite mug shattered on the floor.

“I hate you.” It came out of you half-whimpered, way out of sync with your usual control. Frustration took over every part of your body, along with tears that he didn’t deserve to see- but he saw them anyway. And he looked terrified. “You just have to ruin everything, huh?” you mumbled, crouching to pick up the pieces of your mug.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick sounded lost. “I really am. I- I’ll get you a new glass. I’ll bring it to Art next time I see him,” he said, stepping back while you gathered the broken ceramic. “It’s not a glass. It’s a mug. And it has sentiment. But you wouldn’t get that, because if you had any sentiment at all -anything beyond arrogance and smugness- you wouldn’t be such a piece of shit,” you snapped, dumped the pieces into the trash, and headed to your room to change your shirt and breathe for a second.

You tried to remind yourself that you had a long day ahead. That you needed to finish your lab work. That Patrick Zweig showing up in your life like some cursed reminder of who you used to be would vanish just as easily. That he was the weak one now. The lost one. The one who didn’t know how to appreciate anything. You didn’t need his pity. You didn’t need his apologies. You had friends like Josie and Art. You liked the life you’d built for yourself. You tried to remind yourself that people like Patrick didn’t get to shake you anymore.

“I really am sorry,” he muttered when you came out of your room again. “I could not care less, Patrick,” you said in a firm voice that didn’t sound like you at all- and slammed the door behind you, hoping that when you came back, he’d be gone. . . . When you came back to the apartment, almost at the exact same time as the night before, the one sitting on the couch, alert and ready, was Art. “Hey,” you mumbled as you walked in with way too much stuff in your hands, which made him get up to help you without needing to be asked. “You want this in your room?” he asked. “If you could put it on the desk, that’d be nice,” you said and opened the fridge. You relaxed a little when you realized Patrick wasn’t there. You felt Art’s hands on your shoulders within seconds, his lips on the top of your head, making you close your eyes for a second in front of the half-empty fridge- typical of student life.

“Hey,” it was his turn to say. “I’m a shitty roommate. I should’ve at least warned you he’d be here,” he said quietly. “Art, he’s your best fr-” you sighed. “You keep saying that, but it’s not true. You’re my best friend. And I should’ve thought about you yesterday, and I didn’t. Just accept the apology.” He said it formally, still speaking into your hair. “I’m hungry,” you replied. “I made pasta and a salad,” he said and stepped away from you. It made you wonder when you’d gotten so used to his presence that you actually felt his absence the second his body heat pulled away.

“Patrick and Tashi broke up,” he said after you’d nearly finished the bottle of wine you’d been dreaming about since yesterday, and were sitting on the couch together in front of the TV. “Oh. You gonna shoot your shot, Donaldson?” you asked what you felt like you had to, but you didn’t want to hear the answer. You didn’t want him to say he was going to try with Tashi. “I don’t need any more luck than what I’ve got, Sunny,” you caught the smirk in his tone. “I’m not into Tashi. It ended the same way it started. Some things are more important than chasing someone who used to date a guy who used to be my friend.” His hand was on your knee, giving a light squeeze with a meaning you couldn’t afford to examine. You felt that if you thought too hard about it, you’d start crying.

“He’s still your friend, Art,” you said, not moving your leg away from his touch. “I don’t think so,” he replied quietly. “Why?” you asked softly, assuming the answer would be Tashi, or distance, or time. The things life just naturally leads you to. “Because I can’t love someone who treated you the way Patrick did. I tried. I can’t,” he said with a kind of honesty that sliced through whatever defenses you had left. “Why?” you asked again, your voice even softer, slightly shaking. “You know why.” Where your voice trembled, his steadied. And his face was suddenly in front of yours so fast you didn’t fully understand how you ended up at this point.

“I-” “Can I kiss you?” Art looked at you in that moment like you were holding the universe in your hands. All you could do was nod, and his lips were on yours. His hands explored every inch of your body they could reach. It felt desperate and deep and right. Like oxygen after the two days you’d both just been through. “This is all I’ve wanted to do since the second I fell asleep in your stupid dorm,” he mumbled into your neck, running his tongue over a spot just after biting it gently.

“This makes no sense,” you managed to say as you pulled his shirt off. Your hand wandered over the muscles of his stomach like a sculptor admiring his most precious work of art. He didn’t answer, but the two of you moved silently toward his room, only breaking apart to breathe and keep shedding layers of clothes. “You’re so beautiful,” he said as his hand unhooked your bra and cupped your left breast.

It was ridiculously erotic, the kind of thing Josie would giggle and roll her eyes at when you told her about it- but you didn’t care. His mouth was on your right nipple, and for a second you forgot your own name. The high-pitched sound that came out of you came from deep in your stomach. You tried to stay composed, to hold on to some dignity, but Art’s eyes met yours just as you saw your nipple in his mouth, and your breathing completely fell apart. Your hand found one of the curls at the back of his neck, and somehow you got a groan out of him without even doing much.

His mouth kept moving across your body exactly like you’d only ever let yourself imagine in your most repressed nights over the past two years. “Can I?” he asked as his face hovered near your underwear, his voice so turned on it sounded like speaking actually hurt. You were the reason. Maybe the blame. Depending on who you asked. “You can do anything,” you declared. And it was true. You felt like if he wanted to start painting you fully nude right then, you’d let him. “That’s the sexiest thing you could’ve said to me,” he said, and your underwear ended up on the floor.

“No one’s ever-” You felt a little embarrassed as you started to say no one had ever been where he was right now, but you caught the look in his eyes. Calming. “Do you want to stop?” he asked, with a calm you had no idea where he summoned from. “No!” It came out almost as a yell.

“Okay,” he nodded, and his mouth started to explore your pussy- first in light, teasing licks, then in slow, swirling motions you didn’t think a human tongue could make. The sounds coming out of you made him moan into you. His fingers joined in, and you could feel the intensity of the orgasm building so fast you didn’t even have time to warn him, but he stayed exactly where he was, whispering into you that you were perfect. That he’d never tasted anyone like you. Only when your legs stopped trembling did he start kissing his way up your stomach, soft and slow, until his forehead rested against yours. It felt like a small victory. You didn’t know whose, but you wanted to believe neither of you had lost.

“Do you want me to...?” you asked softly, reaching for the waistband of his boxers. He was clearly struggling. But he only shook his head. “Tonight was about you. I want it to be about you.” He smiled and lay down beside you, playing with your hair while you felt your eyes start to drift shut.

You think this might be the definition of peace and calmness. And somehow, all these years had been hiding it from you. . . . In the morning, you were hit with panic when you woke up and Art wasn’t next to you. Even if you weren’t in his bed, you knew you wouldn’t be able to forget the night you’d just shared. It wasn’t like the first night -at that party- when he’d fallen asleep and you never talked about it again. This time, there was intimacy. The kind you were scared to lose. A person so deeply part of your life, it sometimes felt like he filled every inch of you.

When you came out to the kitchen, you saw your broken mug on the table, glued back together with what you could only assume was some shitty glue he found at the house. 'Went to practice. Tried to fix it, but water still leaks through the cracks. Sorry, Sunny. We’ll get you a new one.' The note was short, the handwriting barely legible. But you looked at that mug with tears in your eyes and knew that the sentiment had completely changed- and somehow you loved it just as much.

Maybe even more. . . .

So, I honestly don’t even know what this is. As always, I’d love to hear from you- my DMs are always open. And hey, I hope at least some of you weren’t bored out of your minds reading this...... Talk to me ❤️

[honeyedfate]

thinking 'bout you | 심재윤

pairing. jake sim x idol!fem!reader

as a poster child for the ISTJ personality type, jake has always been on the more rational and practical side. he preferred things to be direct and upfront, carrying the sentiment over to this love life as well. unfortunately, he has the fattest crush on you but not the guts to confess. so instead, he writes secret love letters in his little journal and hopes the feelings will fade away. bullet-proof plan, right?

warnings. none it's just disgustingly sweet

wc: 6591

a/n. looks who's backkkk. me!! hope u enjoy x

jake was too old to be writing love letters. 

at 22, he shouldn’t have been scribbling into his little black notebook that he had shamelessly named his ‘songwriting journal’ while absentmindedly fiddling with the fading pokémon sticker on the cover—courtesy of jungwon. 

really, he should have been bold and fearless, booking a table at the finest restaurant in the city and shooting you a curt text that simply read, ‘taking you out for dinner at 7. put on the red dress. you look beautiful in it.”

except that he didn’t even have your number, let alone know if you owned a red dress. he was sure you’d look beautiful in it regardless, but the point was, he was not that guy. he just wasn’t. which was exactly why he had been curling into himself on the couch of the le sserafim dance practise room for the past five minutes whilst the others were looping an illit song to have, what appeared to be, a murderous dance off to it.

halting his excessive eulogising for a moment, he glanced up to witness jay whip his hair back and forth to the beat of ‘tick-tack’ just as jungwon flew past him and nearly kicked him in the head. both stared at each other before dropping into a starfish-shaped pile of limbs to the floor. jake shook his head at them fondly.

it was that time of the day again where everyone was positively losing their mind. they had a long day of schedules and evening practise behind them, and with the sweet relief of going home on the horizon, everyone was being a little stupid. another reason why jake was bearing his heart to his sinful notebook, penning the third love letter of the day that you’d hopefully never get to read.

for a second, the fleeting image of you magically getting ahold of this book sent a visceral reaction through his body that left him rattled and shivering. jake almost screamed when sunghoon plopped down beside him without warning, tossing a water bottle on his lap. 

“you look pale,” he simply said. ever a man of few words. 

jake swiftly closed his book and stuffed it behind a pillow, mumbling a croaky thank you. he hadn’t even noticed how thirsty he’d been until the cold water hit the back of his throat and he drank like someone had abandoned him in the desert. which honestly wasn’t that far off.

a dry, endless site that was slowly but surely destroying him and turning him into a parched, crazy man with no hope of escape or pay-off? sounded like his love life.

next thing he knew, he’d be shrivelling up like a raisin and his last words would be some besotted nonsense since he’d obviously be too busy mooning over your smile or the way you always smelled so nice to even notice his own dying in the first place. young love, right?

it was all so ridiculous and absurd because jake was never the type to moon. he was all rationality and practicality. how many times a day did he drive sunoo insane with how often he’d say ‘what are you talking about?’ and ‘stop saying nonsense.’ this wasn’t him. and yet, when heeseung came over and asked him if he was ever going to hear the lyrics he’d been furiously scribbling into his notebook, he vehemently shook his head, ears burning up because he knew that if they ever found out what he’d really been writing, they would rip on him until all that was left were his red ears and a puddle of shame.

as if the universe had read his thoughts and only wished him worse, the door swung open and in came a chorus of giggles that quickly faded once they caught sight of the temporary occupants of their practice room. 

“oh, hello,” chaewon said cheerfully, looking around with surprise etched on her face. that brought about an avalanche of greetings and bows, in which jake joined while his gaze instinctively sought out the pair of eyes he’d been daydreaming about for weeks. 

“your practice room is still being renovated?” yunjin asked jay politely, who happened to be standing closest to the door.

he nodded. “yeah, the ac is still broken. thanks again for letting us use your room. i think we would’ve died in ours.”

“of course.” yunjin smiled as the others spread out to unpack their backs and start stretching. “don’t mention it.”

a familiar awkwardness hung in the air as everyone attempted somewhat stilted but friendly small talk, all while his members were scrambling to pack their belongings at a socially acceptable pace, fixing up the room as best as they could. jake was cramming his own backpack with all the clothes surrounding him, not caring which ones belonged to whom, when the couch suddenly dipped beside him and he looked up.

“hi,” you said, beaming a soft smile at him that nearly had him sliding forward and falling to his knees. clearing his throat, he mirrored it and racked his mind for something to say.

“what’s it going?” 

he internally punched himself. he could hear the voice inside his head teasing him. sim jaeyun. enhypen member, prada ambassador, smoothest person on the planet. it sounded suspiciously like ni-ki’s. he felt the heat rise to his face.

“what’s it going yourself?” the corner of your mouth twitched as you threw the question back at him.

he chuckled, glad the others were too busy with their own hopefully more embarrassing conversations to notice his lack of grace and sheepishly said, “sorry, got a little tongue-tied.”

you waved him off with a small laugh, pulling your bag to your lap to take out a cap he had seen you wear a few times. “my mind never works after practice either.” 

jake hummed, watching you fiddle with some strings of hair as they got tangled with your earrings, which he had also seen you wear often. they were dangly and always drew his attention to the smooth column of your neck. his hands itched to help you.

“how was practice?” you asked casually, glancing at him.

jake cleared his throat and forced himself to look away. he was supposed to be normal about this whole thing. totally fine and not nervous at all. “it was good,” he said with an air of easy-going confidence he didn’t feel. “we learned a new choreo for the comeback. i think our fans will like it.”

your eyes twinkled. “oh, that’s nice, i can’t wait to see it. i think i heard a snippet the other day when i walked past.” you said it with so much genuine interest and sincerity that jake felt his cheeks flush, chest blossoming with warmth. it was all very short lived though, once you pulled out a lip balm.

jake nearly bolted out of the room then. he was just not your strongest soldier.

thankfully, eunchae called out your name and both of you looked over, giving him enough time to get his act together. “y/n, is this your camera? can i take some photos?” 

you squinted, trying to identify the object from across the room and settled for a shrug, calling back, “sure, go ahead.” 

eunchae gave a little squeal which prompted you to look over at jake and share an amused, almost conspiratorial look with him. he didn’t really get what it meant, but he was happy to be in on this little secret with you. whatever it was.

by some mysterious force, his body stayed seated as you applied the lip balm. from the corner of his eyes, he could see the boys opening the door, getting ready to leave, but despite his earlier qualms, he had no intention of leaving. he wanted to stay right there forever.

the sweet scent of cherries drifted to his nose and he realised with a start how close you two were sitting. from his periphery, he watched with an uncalled intensity as your bottom lip was being coated in a glossy reddish tint. he bit his own lip, bringing himself to look away only to lock eyes with yunjin who was stood at the armrest to his right. a knowing glint sparkled in her eyes. 

“you alright?”

“i’m fine,” jake said way too quickly, flashing her a despairingly flustered smile as he zipped up his bag and stood up. the members were bidding their goodbyes as ni-ki held the door open, waiting for him to get out as well. which, honestly, he should’ve done in one swift and smooth motion, sparing the bit of dignity he still had left, but jake wouldn’t be jake if he didn’t look back.

so he did. 

and that time, his knees genuinely buckled when he looked down at you. 

because there you were, staring up at him with your sparkly eyes, glossy lips, your skewed cap, and your dangly earrings that he wanted to feel between his fingertips so bad. jake didn’t knew he had moved until you let out a little “oh” and sat up a little straighter. 

eyes widening, jake pulled back his hands from your cap and jammed them into the pockets of his trousers.

“sorry.” he cleared his throat for the hundredth time. “it was crooked.”

“i figured,” you said, sounding amused.

“probably should’ve asked first,” he mumbled.

“i didn’t mind.”

“it’s, erm, straight now.”

you smiled up at him. “thanks.”

“you’re welcome.” jake felt himself smiling. he made to say more, but the sound of ni-ki’s stifled snicker stopped him. he took a step back. “i’ll see you around?”

you were grinning then. “sure. see you around, jake.”

he caught a glimpse of kazuha swatting your arm in the mirror as he yanked a giggly ni-ki out of the room and shut the door behind him. it was going to be a long ride home.

***

jake woke up the next morning with a refreshed mind and a better understanding of his emotional state, which at some point started heavily relying on you. was it a bit pathetic that the deciding factor of whether he had a bad or good day depended solely on whether or not he saw you that day? yes, absolutely, but at least he was finally admitting it to himself.

jungwon had tried to make light conversation with him in the car to iron out some organisational stuff, but after he had realised how useless his hyung was being, it was a civilly quiet drive to the company building—if you didn’t count the repetitive chanting of your name inside jake’s head, of course.

once the car pulled into the garage, a newfound spirit seized him. they hadn’t even come to a full stop yet and jake was already out of his seat. he knew that if he hurried, he might still be able to catch you up at the cafeteria where you usually had your breakfast by the last table in the far-left corner. he also knew you’d have earphones in, probably nodding or tapping your foot to the music with your nose in a book, shutting out the outside world. 

none of that he could tell jungwon though, so jake just threw some jumble of encouraging words at him for his meeting with the managing team and dashed to the lift without waiting for a response. 

once inside, his eyes darted between the red, rising numbers and his reflection in the mirror as he ran his hand through his hair more often than was necessary. he didn’t exactly know what he was expecting to happen, but after the small interaction the day before, he had fallen asleep to multiple made-up scenarios of how he would finally approach you. how you would smile at a joke he made or how your eyes would shine when he asked about your upcoming comeback. 

going through a myriad of possible outcomes was how he usually tackled everything in life just to be prepared. he liked having a plan and, in that moment, jake felt like he was ready for everything.  

just as he’d expected, he saw you sitting at your usual table with your back to him. for a moment, he considered getting something to eat, so it’d at least seem like he just coincidentally ran into you at breakfast. even though he never ate breakfast at the company. the image of him stumbling over his feet and dropping the tray, causing a mess right in front of you and everyone else, also crossed his mind and he decided the best approach was to simply walk up to you.

so he did. 

every step matched the resounding pounding of his heart as he neared your table.

jake was determined though. he had plan. he was going to tap you on the shoulder, the left one, then swivel to the right, so you’d be confused. just for fun. then he’d flash you a slow, easy smile that he knew always got a good response. it was bullet proof. his million-dollar smile. after that, he’d ask if the seat opposite of you was ta—

he froze.

completely stopped. dead in his tracks. 

he did none of the things he’d pictured himself doing. he just stood there and stared as the ground beneath him tilted. off-balance. the rushing in his ears rose. drowned out the clatter of cutlery and rosy morning chatter. off-kilter. 

he just stared. 

at the notebook laying on the table.

his notebook.

he might have had a heart attack then.

as if sensing that, you glanced over your shoulder and flinched at the presence standing so ominously and motionlessly close behind your chair. jake might’ve apologised if he had known how to speak. unfortunately, all he could bring himself to do was tear his eyes off the familiar pokémon sticker and meet your gaze.

something unspoken passed between you then. jake couldn’t pinpoint what it was exactly, but by the uncertainty glinting in your eyes, he thought it was reasonable enough to deduct that you had read the entire thing, front to back, and now thought of him as a pervert who was going to get security called on him any moment if he didn’t back the fuck off.

so, after taking a huge step back, jake tried to ground himself by picturing how his future would look like if he quit kpop, moved back to australia, and went by the name james.

he shook his head.

james sim was a ridiculous name—

“don’t leave,” you suddenly said, cutting through his thoughts like a bucket of ice as you seemed to have somehow read his inner turmoil. you hesitantly pushed your chair back and stood up, eyes flitting over his fight or flight stance before softening. gently, like you were talking to a frightened deer, you said, “please don’t leave. i was hoping i could talk to you.”

he didn’t mean to, but his gaze bluntly cut to the notebook and because you weren’t blind, you noticed. he could see you swallow thickly, looking to the side almost guiltily, and jake fought the simmering urge to get mad at you. he knew he wasn’t actually mad at you for invading his privacy. 

after all, he was the one who knew precisely what you always had for breakfast if you had gone to the gym earlier. if it was anyone else, then, yes, his anger would’ve been justified, but getting mad at you felt more like a defence mechanism, and he knew that, so he tried to breathe slowly through his nose. then, in a steady voice that didn’t give much away, he asked, “did you read it?”

he watched as your bottom lip got caught between your teeth, gaze avoiding his. you fiddled with the necklace around your neck and, for once, jake hated how his mind recognised the habit. he hated how he couldn’t help but want to learn all these tiny things about you. hated how he thought it was cute. 

a little sigh escaped you, and your arms fell to your side. you stood a little straighter and looked him in the eye, still seeming plenty guilty, but jake could appreciate that you wanted to be honest about it, at least.

“i read a few pages,” you said, voice quiet but firm. “i know i shouldn’t have, it was not for me to read and i know that. i’m really sorry.”

when jake didn’t reply, you went on. “the girls and i were joking around after practice, just throwing around pillows, and your notebook landed in front of me with the pages open. i just meant to pick it up and close it, but i saw my name, so i put it in my bag before the others could get their hands on it. i told them it’s my old songwriting journal that i’ve been looking for.”

if jake hadn’t been too busy trying to regulate his breathing while taking in all the possible outcomes of this situation, he might have laughed. his life had become a comedy show and he was the joke. as if to emphasise that, your phone rang just as he opened his mouth to speak. it might’ve been for the better though because he truthfully didn’t know what to say.

apologetically, you held up your phone and took the call, leaving jake to stare at the notebook again.

his mind was reeling with every minute and hour he spent writing in that thing after he had heard about how much it was supposedly going to help him get his mind of things. what nonsense. if anything, jake just became more obsessed. thinking about you became a comforting pastime activity. he did it in between schedules, on his way home, in his bed before he’d fall asleep, in his bed after he’d just woken up. 

he wrote about the videos he saw of you on variety shows, easily wrapping both the hosts and the viewers around your finger with your easy charisma and unexpected humour. he admired how it all came so naturally to you. he wrote about the nice perfume you wore when you rode the lift together, and how you always asked him how he was doing and if he had eaten yet. you always gave him the best restaurant recommendations.

he also wrote about the one time he caught your beautiful voice drifting through the open door of a practise room and how, when you finally saw him in the mirror, you just smiled at him brightly and waved him in. you spent the rest of the evening sitting on the floor and singing high school musical songs together through the mics, talking about which movie was the superior one before having takeout delivered so you could watch said movie together while having late dinner. 

he then wrote about how those off-the-chance moments, which he seemed to have often with you, were the only few moments in his life that still made him feel real. like he wasn’t just aussie kpop idol jake who had golden retriever energy and a clean reputation to uphold. 

you made him feel like a person. someone that was allowed to have those kinds of memories that stayed in his heart and made him feel warm and alive. a guy who fell in love with a pretty girl that was kind and smart and hardworking and somehow, it was okay. he had written many times about how you made him feel like he could let things matter.

it hit him then, how jake had many things to thank you for. in a way, he almost wanted you to have read his love letters because that was what they were. letters filled with love.

even if you were never meant to read them. that was never the point. he never wrote them because he wanted to win over your feelings or declare his love, and he definitely didn’t write them to end up in this situation. he just wrote them because when he thought about you, the things he wanted to cherish and praise and hold close to his heart were endless.

and he thought about you a lot.

jake had enough love for you to fill the sea, and if by acknowledging it and writing it down, it was somehow going to come back to you in whatever shape or form—perhaps a gesture of kindness by the universe—then that was enough for him.

jake didn’t even notice that you had ended the call until you were handing him his notebook with a guarded look in your eyes. wearily, he took it, watching as you quickly packed your headphones and book into your purse and grabbed your tray. “i have to go, but i really want to talk to you.” you looked at him a bit more hopefully and something in his chest unfurled. “when are you done today?”

“at 9,” he heard himself say, surprising himself with how collected he sounded.

you nodded to yourself, pushing your chair in with your hip. “i think i’ll be done by then. can you meet me at the convenience store down the street next to the bank?”

jake started walking you to the tray return point. he had no idea what he was agreeing to, but you seemed eager enough to have this conversation with him—whatever it was—that he felt like he almost owed it to you. “erm. yeah, sure. i’ll come find you.”

“or just text me?” you said with a hint of amusement, making it all feel horribly familiar. jake longed for it. a very selfish part of him didn’t want to show up at all, just in hopes that if he never had that conversation with you, then maybe he would be able to pretend that none of this happened and you could just return to how things were before you had found his notebook. that wouldn’t be jake though, so he pressed the button to the lift and turned to you with a weak smile and a raised brow.

“do i have your number?”

your lips fell into a silent ‘O’ shape as the realisation dawned on you. honestly, it really was a joke in and of itself how you most likely had read about how jake dreamed of the softness of your voice all while not ever having exchanged a singular text with you. a real simp diaries.

the lift arrived and you both stepped in as you rummaged in your purse. you pressed the button to the fifth floor and swiftly pulled out a pen, meeting his eye expectantly as if to ask where he wanted you. the logical and rational part in him knew offering him the notebook to write in was the sensible thing to do, but he would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the way his heart thudded when he pulled up his sleeve and offered his arm to you instead. 

he was shamelessly smirking when he caught you eyeing the veins on his forearm before you snapped out of it, holding onto him with one hand while the other gently pressed the tip of the ballpoint pen to his skin to trace your phone number. the last number was written just in time for you to let go of him and get off the lift. 

you shot him one last smile, still unsure but sincere and sweet enough to have jake instinctively return it in earnest. then the doors closed and he slumped against the wall with a sigh. absolutely defeated. how was he meant to concentrate on anything until 9? 

the answer was: he didn’t. his mind was off the rails the whole day, lingering on any minuscule motion and word exchanged that morning to dissect, and effectively costing him any shared sanity amongst the members. 

the others had noticed, of course. in true enhypen fashion, they just had the grace to not mention it, is all. simply brushing it off and under a carpet is what they did as their act of kindness.

until jake literally walked into a wall with a loud thud! in an otherwise deadly quiet room where all seven of them had been lounging in between meetings, and sunoo, clearly having had enough of his strange behaviour, was the first to break. 

“hyung, what the hell is wrong with you today?”

jake rubbed a hand over his face, partly because he was not ready to explain himself, partly because he wasn’t entirely sure if he had a big bump on his forehead yet. 

“you have been acting weird lately,” heeseung chimed in, stating it in such an observant, matter-of-fact tone that it left him no room to argue. not that jake had it in him anyway. it said a lot that it was heeseung who voiced what everyone was thinking since he usually stayed out of private matters if the members didn’t come to him first. jake must’ve been behaving really odd then. he heaved a long sigh.

“there’s just a lot on my mind right now,” he muttered, avoiding their heavy gazes.

***

all suffering eventually finds its conclusion, and jake was eternally grateful that he was not exempt from it. he had imagined this moment so ridiculously often throughout the day that it genuinely shouldn’t have affected him the way it did when he rounded the corner and finally saw you. 

you were sitting on the porch of the convenience store, face hidden mostly by the hood of your jacket as a few pieces of hair peeked out and blew lightly in the wind. you were just sitting there, staring at your shoes, but jake swore it was like a scene in a movie. since the store was in one of the pedestrian side alleys next to the main road, it was as good as empty to that time of the day. only the faint sound of the occasional car driving by filled the street. 

he took a deep breath and walked over slowly, coming to a halt in front of you. he was swept up in another déjà vu moment then by the way you looked up at him and your eyes lit up, knocking the breath out him. 

“hi,” he said, suddenly feeling shy.

“hi.” a soft expression came over your face. “you came.”

“of course, i came.” jake forced a chuckle as he sat down beside you, taking the cup you handed him with a small thanks. it was a different colour from the one you were holding. he also glimpsed the tension leaving your frame as if his appearance had genuinely been like a roll of the dice. “you thought i wouldn’t?” he couldn't keep the surprise out of his tone.

you shrugged and chewed on your lip, angling your body more towards him. he thought you were going to say something—anything—but silence forced its way in between you. it felt familiar. he knew it well when it came to you, though it was usually jake’s fault. normally, you always found something to say to him. it was all very confusing. 

did you want him to make the first move? was he supposed to? he didn’t even know how you felt about the whole thing! frustrated, he looked away and took a sip from his drink. his brows arched, and he looked at it. 

“this is grape juice.” he held it up as if it was a magical object.

you blinked at him. “so?”

“it’s my favourite drink,” he said, amazement so clear in his voice. anyone passing by might’ve believed you had just invented the drink and let him be the first one to taste it.

something like disbelief flickered over your face, and jake wondered if he had said something wrong. it was gone as fast as it had appeared though, so he might’ve just imagined it. with a sigh, you spoke with a downcast gaze and a voice that barely touched the air. “yeah, well. you’re not the only one paying attention, jake.”

his heart stuttered in his chest. was that his opening? a beat passed and your words still hung in the air.

“i didn’t know,” he heard himself say, mind still whirring. he could feel the silence approaching again, like a massive wave which he could either face or run away from. however, something told him the decision was not going to be his to make if he didn’t act soon. vividly, he saw you leaving, scuffing your feet and mumbling something under your breath before disappearing behind the corner, taking his last chance with you. he could see it so richly in his head that something inside of him snapped. 

“y/n,” he said with such a firmness that you looked up. a sliver of hope glinted in your eyes, and jake took it as the green light to put all his cards on the table. he didn’t want to you leave. not yet.

“i don’t know what you must be thinking of me right now, but i can’t image it’s anything good,” he began in a low voice, feeling like he was walking the plank. “to be honest, i’m not sure how well i’d take it either if someone i thought was my friend had written all of those things about me. and it’s obviously not my place to tell you how to feel, but i guess i’d be confused? maybe uncomfortable, too. and i’m sorry if i made you feel that way. if you, you know, wanted nothing to do with me anymore, i guess i wouldn’t blame you.” jake was not proud of how devastated he sounded, but he had to see it through. “my point is, i don’t expect anything from you. if you don’t want to talk to me anymore or even be near me, then i would understand.” 

he swallowed the lump in his throat, eyes darting back and forth between yours to gauge what you were thinking, but it was hard to tell. for the first time, it was really hard to tell. he put his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and glanced up at the sky. “i never wrote any of it with an ulterior motive, i promise. i was just thinking about you. a lot.” he huffed self-deprecatingly. “clearly.” 

a helpless laugh escaped you, and he nearly let out a sigh of relief. it wasn’t much, but jake took it a good sign. 

a sad smile hung off his lips as he continued. “it was eating me alive sometimes, you know. but i couldn’t stop. it’s like i couldn’t control my mind. i just kept thinking about you because, well… i like you.” his voice had grown quieter with every word. every sentence had stripped him bare and made him fragile. all he could do now was pray you’d be kind to him. “i like you. that’s all.” 

he was staring at your hands as they fiddled in your lap, not brave enough after all to look you in the eye. you didn’t say anything. no rebuttal, no insult, no reciprocation. just silence. somehow that was the worst outcome. 

then, imperceptibly, you shifted closer. your legs touched his, and jake finally noticed how, at some point during his speech, you had been very slowly bending towards him. or maybe it was him who had inched nearer. he often found himself wondering how both of you always ended up so close. in any case, his heart rate had picked up as your perfume wrapped around him.

next thing he knew, your hand was gently cupping his face, and he went completely still. didn’t dare to move. he held his breath as you looked for something in his gaze again, searching, and whatever it was, you must have found it because you finally leaned in. your lips brushed against his, tentatively, for the first time. and there it was.

that was first time you kissed him.

it was gentle. a reassurance. a secret revealed. he could taste the cherry gloss on your lips as they softly pressed against his, moving in rhythm with your fingers as they played with the hair at the nape of his neck. his own hands found themselves on your waist, the small of your back, the softness of your hair. if jake hadn’t tried to picture this very moment, written about it for pages, he might’ve thought it was a dream. but he knew those very well by now and he knew that this was real.

he was chasing after your lips when you made to pull away, giggling when he tried to steal another kiss. “jake,” you said with a smile and a shyness curling around your voice, gently pushing him away by the chest. “jake, i need to breathe.”

“i don’t,” he murmured, eyes still closed as he leaned closer with every small peck until you squealed and he had to catch you by the waist to keep you from falling back on the porch. grinning toothily, he pulled you back into his chest and mouthed a little sorry.

“you’re greedy,” you said, narrowing your eyes at him, but it only elicited a half shrug from jake. he felt like he was on top of the world.

“i just found out the girl i like might actually not hate my guts. it’s a great day to be greedy.”

you laughed. “might? you still think i might hate you after that speech? that kiss?”

a part of him knew the answer, but he felt suddenly very vulnerable. logic and reason were run over by a turmoil of emotions, and it must have shown on his face because the smile on your face flickered, and you moved closer, knees bumping as you took his hands in yours. 

“jake, i don’t hate you,” you said it so calmly and with so much conviction that despite himself, he found himself believing it. “i’m not even sure what i could hate you for because you did nothing wrong. you were probably the first person in history to ever apologise for writing someone love letters. ones that were never even sent.”

he let those words sink in. hope flickered in his chest, but he tried to snuff it before it got too big to kill. “so you’re not creeped out?” he asked, sounding uncertain.

you shook your head.

“i was…surprised, i guess? i assumed we were friends since we saw each other in the company often, and you were always so kind and thoughtful to me, but i didn’t know you felt that way. i was honestly a bit freaked out.” you laughed nervously, and jake’s eyes widened. 

“not in the way you think!” you quickly assured him. “i wasn’t freaked out—well, maybe, a little, but not how you think, i just—” you bit your lip and looked away as jake’s heart hammered in his chest. you looked awfully small then, and he felt bad about it although he had no idea why. he squeezed your hand, and you looked at him, returning it with a timid smile.

“i was scared i wasn’t the person you were writing about,” you confessed, voice barely above a whisper.

jake was completely caught off-guard. the words had hit him like a punch in the face.

he also needed a moment to thank all the facial expression training he’d ever gotten that had prepared him to somewhat contain the absolute bewilderment on his face. although something told him he was just blatantly gaping at you. when you shifted under his gaze, he gave his head a small shake and focused, clearing his throat.

“not to make myself sound more like a loser and a stalker than i already do,” he said slowly, “but i must’ve written your name about a billion times in there, y/n. who else did you think i was talking about?” 

the corner of your mouth quirked up, and you playfully rolled your eyes at him. “that’s not what i meant.” 

“oh?” jake was at a loss. “then what are you saying?”

you loosened a breath and tucked a loose piece of hair behind your ear, momentarily distracting jake as your earrings caught the light, glinting.

“i was afraid you’d be disappointed,” you admitted with a breath of hesitation. “once you found out that the person you’ve been writing about was not who you were expecting, i was scared you’d lose interest. it was just a matter of time, really, and i didn’t want to let you down and—oh, please, don’t look at me like that.”

the words drew out of you so fast that jake had to bend closer to hear you, but once he did, he shot back almost theatrically, shaking his head vehemently and not even trying to stop the furrow of his brows or the protest sitting on his tongue.

“no, i have every right to look at you like that,” jake sputtered, sounding as rattled as he felt. “because that’s nonsense. it’s actually insane. do you know what you’re saying?”

“do you?” you raised a brow, pulling back a little. “jake, we might’ve hung out a few times, but you barely know me.”

that stung a lot more than he’d like to admit. and yet, he was fired up. there was no way he was going to let you push yourself away before you had even allowed him to be yours. 

“that’s not fair, y/n—” his voice faltered slightly, but it was tinged with resolve and stubbornness. “sure, i might not know what your favourite colour is, but i know you enough in the ways that matter. like all those times i’ve sat with you in silence while you worked in the studio because you had a bad day and i know you didn’t want to talk, but you also didn’t want to be alone? or when you were worried about sakura’s health but didn’t want to make it a big deal, so i asked you to take me to the pharmacy so you’d have an excuse to get her medicine? and when i got you the candy i know you liked from when you were younger afterwards? go on and try to tell me i barely know you.”

he had held your hands while he was speaking, but you were pulling them out of his grasp then, wiping at your face and giving a little helpless laugh as your eyes sparkled. looking into them, jake felt like he was watching the sun set over a lake. there were ripples in the water and it was all a little distorted, but he knew it would all settle and calm down. plus, it was still so, so beautiful.

jake drew nearer, making sure the next words felt like an oath. “if you just give me the chance to be with you and to know you in all the ways you'll let me, i can promise you that all i’ll be able to do is only fall more for you.” 

he knew that must’ve sealed it then because you gave him a teary smile and threw yourself at him, diving into his embrace and making his heart race with pure delight as he wrapped his arms around you. pressing a delicate kiss to it as he buried his face in your shoulder. 

“you promise?” he heard you say close to his ear as though you were afraid the words might scatter. 

jake almost laughed.

“i’m already in too deep, baby.”

[silens-oro]

Tight Five

Not all fics have adult content, but this blog is 18+. Dr. John Shen x f!R4!Reader Fluff/Established Relationship

The Pitt Playlist located here Masterlist

Synopsis: John and his wife get a little silly after the wildest shift of their careers Word Count: 970 Content Warning: Bad jokes A/N: as I have stated previously, Dr. John Shen has bewitched me -mind, pussy & soul. I need so much of him next season.

“You know,” John started, elbowing you gently as he sat next to you outside on the curb. The shift from hell had finally ended and you were so dead on your feet, you didn’t think you could get yourself up even if you wanted to. “I didn’t hear a single bad joke from you all night.”

“I don’t think an MCI is the place to run a tight five, ya know?” You turned slightly to smile softly at him. He was watching you, scooching closer and closer to you until your sides were snug up against each other, then he casually wrapped his arm around your shoulders to pull you into him. John kissed the top of your head affectionately, letting his lips linger as the toll of the night started to make its way through him.

Typically you’d just get in the car and go home, but you both agreed that you needed a few minutes outside to decompress before either of you got behind the wheel. John was usually as cool as a cucumber in any situation -it’s one of the things that attracted you to him and why he did so well in the trauma unit, but the events surrounding the MCI (mostly Dr. Robby's abnormal behavior and whatever was happening there) are what threw him for a loop last night and you could tell it genuinely affected him. 

“I don’t know." He shrugged, "I think an audience who can’t go anywhere might be the best people to run your lines by.” John bit his lip as he laughed. You pushed him playfully, but laughed with him nonetheless. The humor was grim, the scene you walked out of was even worse, but this is how you coped -you and John at least. He pulled you back to his side, his warmth leached into you in the most welcome way. “Come on, I know you have one brewing in there. I can almost sense how bad it's going to be, too.” You scoffed.

“Are they bad jokes if you laugh at them?”

“I’d say that makes them worse.” You rolled your eyes, but took a second to think before once came to you. “There it is,” John said with a laugh when he saw your smile grow and a metaphorical light bulb turn on above your head.

“Alright, what happens to a frog’s car when it breaks down?” You turned to look back at him expectantly, your grin only getting bigger.

You were on the cusp of delirium, running on fumes because you didn't get the normal sleep you usually got before a shift, but these quiet moments with John made you feel like you were on another planet in the best way possible. His dark eyes narrowed, knowing whatever you were about to say was going to be so astronomically stupid, it would make his entire night.

The jokes always did. 

“What happens?” He played along like a good sport.

“...It gets toad.” There was a brief silence before you let a giggle out, your head falling over onto John’s chest. He didn’t outwardly laugh, but your head bounced from the chuckles he was trying to hold in. “You want to laugh! It was good!”

“It was fine.” He stood up with a grunt, holding a hand out for you to take. 

“It was funny.” You argued, still giggling as you let him pull you up. He held you there for a moment, looking down at you with adoration in his eyes. “I don't know how, but we got through it last night,” You sighed, leaning your head onto John’s chest. His hands rubbed circles on your back as you held him to you. “And we get to come back tonight.” John groaned and shushed you, dropping down to capture your lips with his.

“We don’t talk about work outside of work.” He murmured against your lips, his forehead resting against yours. 

“We are literally at work, you dork.” You laughed.

“We are literally outside of work, you dork.” He shot back, a smug look taking over his features as he sassily bobbed his head just slightly. 

“Semantics, John. Don’t argue with your wife.” You gave him a pointed look. His eyes narrowed again. 

“You only say that when I’m right, by the way. I’ve caught onto it.” 

“Only took you five years.” You stepped onto your tip toes and kissed him once more, bringing a dopey smile to his face. Your legs felt like they were made of jello and every muscle ached down to the bone as you stepped back down. 

Last night was supposed to be your night off. Neither of you were supposed to be here, but duty calls in the PTMH ED. This was the first mass casualty event that you both encountered, and while it was horrific in every way imaginable, you felt a sense of pride at being able to help so many people with your team. 

John’s arm returned to your shoulders, holding you while you both walked to the garage as the sun rose. Your arm around his waist was one of the first things you looked forward to at the ends of your shifts. You weren't always on the same schedule together, so you allowed yourself to find any comfort you could with him when you were.

You both maintained complete professionalism at work without a single drop of PDA, so when you did manage to get your hands on him, it felt like his life force was anchoring you to him in the most loving, warmest way imaginable. 

“I’ve got another one, unless you’re ready to start throwing tomatoes,” You looked up at him, the grin returning to your face. John sighed, but nodded for you to continue. “What did the elephant say to the naked man?”

“Oh no,” John groaned, tilting his head back. “I’m gonna regret asking, but what?”

“How do you breathe out of something so small?” A snort left John before he could comprehend it and you immediately started wheezing in laughter. Your laughter echoed through the garage until you made it to John’s SUV. 

“Get in before I come to my senses,” He gave you a light push to the passenger side, finishing with a tap to your very tired ass. 

“Hey, that’s grounds for a visit to HR, Dr. Shen. Watch it."

please comment & reblog :)

[petersasteria]

yes, and? - G Dragon/Kwon Jiyong

Pairing: sibling!jiyong x sibling!reader (both idols) Summary: your older brother is your hero

☆*: .｡. eternal sunshine masterlist .｡.:*☆

"My face is sitting, I don't need no disguise (I don't need no disguise). Don't comment on my body, do not reply. Your business is yours, and mine is mine. Why do you care so much whose dick I ride? Why?"

Ever since you debuted with your group, DAWN, Jiyong made sure everyone knew how proud he was of you. He'd actively post stories using your songs to get the hype it deserves, he'd post pictures of you on his Instagram, and he'd even mention you a lot in interviews.

But of course, being THE G-Dragon's little sister isn't all sunshine and rainbows. There was a lot of scrutiny when you debuted, and you mostly blamed yourself for all the negative attention DAWN received. No one blamed you, but you felt responsible for it. You never told Jiyong, but he knew what was happening. He was your brother, after all.

He made a secret account that no one knew about and joined a Discord server, a DAWN subreddit, DAWN Tumblr communities, Facebook groups, Twitter group chats, etc. Everyone seemed to hate you all because everyone thought your talents weren't up to par with Jiyong.

Jiyong watched you grow into a woman you weren't meant to be. He always saw you as outgoing and growing into your features and talent. But because of the hate, you just became... hollow. It saddened him deeply. He saw the spark in your eyes vanish as years pass and he noticed how you're more quiet compared to when you debuted.

It wasn't until he read the comments on your Instagram pictures that he finally threw a fit in front of his best friends.

"Get a load of this bullshit: y/n pls get plastic surgery bc there's something wrong with your face. How could someone say that?!" Jiyong exclaimed angrily, continuing to scroll down.

"Jiyong, don't make yourself angry by reading those." Seunghyun warns him. "You're not getting any younger; you might get high blood pressure. Calm down."

"I don't care! They shouldn't talk about my sister that way." Jiyong sighed angrily.

"Well, you can address it in your interview. It's tomorrow, right? Just address it there." Youngbae suggested.

So, that's what he did. He just had to wait for the right time to say it. The right time came when the interviewer asked about you. It was then that he unleashed his anger and annoyance towards all of it.

"What's it like seeing your sister being an idol like you?"

"It's great! I just don't like seeing the hate she gets. It's so unnecessary! I read all of it. She's just nice enough to not tell me anything. Everything people say about her are so hurtful. They don't know that it hurts me too because I'm her brother." Jiyong said.

"I'm sure it does." The interviewer nodded. "But how do you feel about Y/N dating a BTS member when she was just dating Park Bo-gum not too long ago?"

Jiyong rolled his eyes, "That's her business, neither mine nor everyone else's. She can date whoever she wants to date. My only concern is if they treat her right. She's young, but she's also an adult. She can handle herself. I'll only interfere if she asks me for help."

"Is it true that Y/N got a nose job?"

"Alright, let me make this clear: she never got anything done. It also hurts mine and my family's feelings that people are actively telling her to fix her face. Why would she do that? If any of you really look at her, we look alike. Telling her to get her face done is like telling me to get my face done. And why would we do that, when we look like a mix of our parents? That's like telling us our parents are ugly." Jiyong explained.

"If she gets plastic surgery, what happens then? Will everyone be happy? Of course not. They'll find a new thing to hate on her. The other day pictures of her sitting down at a cafe while eating with her date went viral. I thought it was because she was on a date, which is ridiculous to be viral for in the first place, but turns out, she went viral because of her body roll. That's insane! Everyone has that. It's normal! When are we all going to stop policing people for having a normal body? She also got viral for having cellulite. I mean, come on! It's insane to hate a little girl so much."

"Little girl?"

Jiyong closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, "Sorry. Sometimes, I still see her as my 5-year-old sister who did nothing but dance. She's very sweet and she doesn't deserve all of those things."

Jiyong got a lot of pats on the back and he got praised for being a good brother, but the only person he wanted to hear from was you. When you called him in the middle of the night, he immediately answered.

"Y/N?" His voice a bit hoarse from being tired all day.

"Thank you." You said after a moment of silence. Jiyong smiled to himself and said, "You're my sister, Y/N. I have to set an example for you. I will defend you until my last breath, okay? I have your back."

"And I have yours." You said softly. Jiyong grinned, "Just know that everyday, I'm so grateful to be your older brother."

"I don't know how to cope with all of it." You cried.

His heart broke. "Y/N, don't listen to anything you hear and don't absorb anything you read. Their opinions don't matter because what matters is what you think. But I'm afraid I'm gonna have to nag you about a few things. Like, don't get plastic surgery and don't reply to whatever comment people have about your body. I'm going to be strict with those. It's your business, anyway."

"That's true. I mean, why do they care about who I ride, anyway?"

"Okay, that's-" Jiyong coughed. "I did NOT need to know that, but that's, uh, that's true. Why do they care, anyway? They're just jealous it's you and not them."

You chuckled, wiping your tears. "Love you, Jiyong."

"I love you too." He smiled. "Now, it's time for you to come clean. I just want to know- who are you really dating?"

"JIYONG!!!"

"I mean, I just want to know if I have a new brother-in-law!"

-

a/n: whoever reads this, i love you. pls be kind to yourself. pls allow yourself to grow into your features before getting poked and prodded by needles and all <3

permanent taglist: @redhoodedtoad @billiesiousji @hayd3n8 @sherrayyyyy @ldydeath @wcnderlnds @infinetlyforgotten @emmiesoverthemoon @breakmeoff @sayugarper @gdinthehouseee

jiyong taglist: @loveesiren @aizshallnotbefound

eternal sunshine taglist: @sevendaysummer @sherxoo @whotfiscamellia @multifanxtvshows @patheticgirl127 @amyyforshort @sylviavf @steponupbabe @galgal-egg

[fandom-random-help]

Part 1 Part 2

Part 3 of Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Military!Reader

Simon stared at his phone in a bit of shock. He wasn't stupid, but now he was second-guessing that. He was putting pieces together in his mind while his phone buzzed over and over with calls from Price. How could his sweet little bird lie to him? Why would she even lie about this?

Things started to make sense now. The constant "business trips", you knowing how to shoot a gun (multiple in fact, but he didn't know that), and the slip of the tongue when you would respond to and/or understand military jargon. All of those things made Simon believe you were Grasshopper, and right now he needed to see you. He got dressed in his casual clothes, an army green shirt, black sweat pants, and a black surgical mask to match. He snuck out of his room and quietly walked as fast as he could to the infirmary. He couldn't believe you never told him about what you really do for work, but he also understood why you would keep it a secret. He knew it all too well. The worry, the agony of not knowing if you would come home alive at the very least, the thought of possibly putting those you love in danger. He knew those thoughts, hell he's had them ever since you two started dating. He needed to hear those words from you though.

You sat in your bed. You were glad to be in somewhat familiar territory and you didn't have to wear that stupid mask anymore. The infirmary was nice, but void of anything lively to say the least. Your recovery was going quite well. There were even discussions of you getting to go home in a couple days. With all of the good news surrounding your recovery you were drowning in the thought of having to confess to Simon about everything. You've talked yourself up, gaining confidence and finding the words you wanted to say for when you would see Simon again. Suddenly, a faint knock on your door pulled you out of your thoughts. A young nurse carefully walked in and closed the door. "Sergeant (Y/L/N) there's a Lieutenant Riley here to see you. Would you like for me to send him in?" The nurse asked almost in a whisper even though you were wide awake. You nodded your head, "Let him come in."

When Simon walked in his eyes scanned your form. You looked so different in a hospital gown. So fragile that if you even attempted to get out of bed you'd break. He didn't say a word as he sat down beside your bed, his eyes still on you. After a brief moment of looking at each other in pure silence, you spoke up. "Simon, I'm sorry I never told you. I was worried about how you would take it. I wanted to have both my job and you. I didn't want you to worry about me or make me change my career because it didn't fit your perception of me." Before you could continue Simon cut you off with a chuckle. "Love, I don't want none of that. I get why you did it. I get why you kept it from me, but don't think I didn't worry. I do gotta say though, you had me fooled in the beginning." You looked at him in suprise. "Wait really? How? I felt like I had the most ridiculous mask covering my face. My jokes with the guys weren't funny. I was almost useless the entire time. I felt so out of place." You explained. Simon shook his head. "No love, you are an entirely different person at work than you are at home. You were bold, confident, you spoke your mind when need be, and let's not forget the stress ball. I didn't know you kept little things like that with you, but you did and it came in handy. You were incredible out there darlin'. So what, you took a bullet? You were lucky and quick enough on your feet that that's the only wound you suffered the entire time we were gone." You blushed at his words and then he leaned closer. "I'm lucky to call you my girlfriend. Wanna know why?" You smile and nod your head. "Because I have the most gorgeous and badass woman I've ever had the pleasure of knowing." Your heart swelled at his words. Simon was never the affectionate type, and you didn't mind. But this? This was a whole different side of him you've never really seen all too often. "You wanna know something else?" He said. You giggled, "What baby?"

"Before I knew you were my girl under the mask. I fell for Grasshopper pretty hard. I gotta say she was pretty irresistable. Hard not to think of her bossing me around if she was rightfully mad." His confession had you a laughing mess. "So what are you saying? You liked Grasshopper more than me? Your precious little doll?" You chuckled. "No love, it just means I fell in love with a new side of you. To me, it felt like falling in love all over again with you." Simon whisperd.

The rest of the night was spent with you two telling each other about your military stories. The good, the bad, and the awesome stories were all laid bare to each other in the silence of your infirmary room. Simon even cuddled with you on the hard bed for the remainder of the evening. When the sun rose, you were greeted by a firm knock at the door as the doctor stepped in. Simon quickly got out of bed and sat back in the chair beside you, listening intently on what the doctor said about your recovery. You were going to need some time to rest at home. No strenuous activities or heavy lifting. The doctor handed you the discharge papers and you signed them eagerly. Simon waited for you outside of the room while you gathered all your things.

But then he noticed Price, Johnny, and Kyle at the front desk. He could only assume they were there to see you on your way out.

"Bloody hell." Simon cursed under his breath.

Part 4 coming soon!

Taglist!!!!! (I almost forgot)

@camcvpidd

@thatoneghostcosplayer

Love you guys!!!!!

[etherealeowyn]

"Like Real People Do" - Joel Miller x Fem Reader

Fluff

Word Count: 770

Just because Joel and Y/n don't have the ranch they've been dreaming about, that doesn't mean they can't share sweet moments together like the world hasn't fallen into complete chaos.

Y/n’s fingers flipped through the stack of vinyl records, her eyes scanning every single one, trying to find the perfect one to slow dance to. The woman had never danced with anyone before, and when she told Joel that it had always been her dream to slow dance with someone in the kitchen, he ultimately agreed.

Y/n wasn’t sure at first if he would, but little did she know, a piece of Joel’s heart had been yearning to experience soft and sweet moments like that with the woman he loved.

Before falling asleep, they’d share their dream about the ranch they’d live on together, and the quiet life they’d spend with one another. Even though they didn’t have the ranch, Y/n would still come up with ideas about what she and Joel could do to experience a small part of their dream.

“I found the perfect song!” Y/n exclaimed, grabbing the record and hugging it against her chest excitedly.

“Which one did you pick?” Joel asked, getting up from the couch and following her into the kitchen.

“Like Real People Do by Hozier, I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of this song,” the woman giggled, as she took the record out of the sleeve and placed it delicately on the record player, placing the needle between the edge of the record and the first groove.

“I like that one too,” Joel responded, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, before the woman found a place between his arms.

Once the music began playing, her arms draped around the man’s neck, and his hands rested on the small of her back. Neither one of them said a word; rather, they just looked into each other’s eyes and studied all the emotions behind them.

Joel’s eyes were brighter than usual, and Y/n could tell that he was genuinely happy. It wasn’t the kind of fleeting happiness that came and passed with the blink of an eye, it was the kind of moment that would be forever etched in their memories. The one thing they’d always think about when they needed to cheer up or escape from the incessant tragedies of the infected world.

The soft yellow glow emitted from the light fixture in the kitchen fell upon Y/n’s features, and Joel couldn’t help but notice the way it made the whole situation feel like a dream. As if the woman he was holding on to was too good to be true.

She was one of the only people he knew who could see the good in every situation and make the most out of small moments of joy. Before her, he never would’ve pictured slow dancing in the dilapidated kitchen of his piece of shit apartment in the Boston QZ, it sounded ridiculous. But now, he would never be able to look at the small room without being reminded of Y/n and how it felt to hold her in his arms.

Almost every area that used to torture him to look at was revitalized by her presence, and he would never truly be able to express just how much he appreciates Y/n for changing his life for the better. Though that doesn’t mean that he wouldn’t try.

“Have I ever told you that you’re the most gorgeous woman I have ever seen in my life?” Joel spoke; his words were slightly louder than a whisper.

“Joel, my love, you tell me that every day,” Y/n replied with a bit of a laugh, causing him to smile down at the woman.

“Hey, I’m just making sure you know how special you are, especially to me,” he said, the edges of his eyes crinkling from the smile that spread across his whole face.

“Don’t worry, I already know,” she responded, blushing at his comment. “And I hope I do a good job making sure you know just how special you are to me.”

“You do a great job, honey,” Joel started, pausing for a second before saying, “In fact, you do such a great job that for the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m worth something.”

“You’ve always been worth something, you might not have recognized it, but you were. You just needed someone to show you. Luckily, or unluckily for you, I’m the one you’re stuck with that’ll be the one to show you,” Y/n chuckled, tilting her head slightly as she did so.

“I’m lucky that it’s you,” he said, his body halting all movement as the music faded into nothing. “And I’ll always be lucky that you decided to take a chance on me.”

[pomelace]

mouse and the red bull

pairing: frank langdon x afab!intern reader

content warnings: fluff, no physical desciptors used for reader, reader is an intern, doesn't take place during the shows timeline, medical imagery, blood (mention), suggestive tension, let me know if I missed anything!

magui speaks! : I’m such a slut for workplace slowborn romance, especially since I have a major crush on my much older coworker lol. I hope you all love this as much as I loved writing it, I may or may not write a part two. as always, j hope you enjoy!

word count: 2021

There’s a particular kind of panic that sets in when Frank Langdon walks through the door—like your brain short-circuits and your coffee sloshes over your knuckles before you even register the burn.

He always arrives at the same time: ten minutes to seven, just before shift change, with his black backpack slung over one shoulder and his sweater dangling from his hand.

The first time you saw Frank, he was arguing with a vending machine. You should’ve known right then he’d ruin your peace.

He’d punched E7 four times before realizing the machine had taken his money and offered no drink in return.

“You’re robbing me in broad daylight,” he muttered. To a vending machine.

You stood ten feet away, pretending to check your phone, pretending not to watch the way his jaw clenched and his shoulders tensed under his black scrubs. How he cursed under his breath and hit the glass—just enough to make the machine rattle, not enough to get written up.

There was something about the way he stood there. Frustrated. Alone. Fighting something small because the big things were too much to name.

Minutes later, he knew your name. Two weeks later, you were his favorite intern.

“Morning,” he says, voice low, right behind you before you even hear him approach.

You nod. Try to answer. End up choking on lukewarm coffee instead.

He leans casually over the counter beside you, the scent of his cologne cutting straight through the sterile air.

“You’re quieter than usual, mouse,” he says, the nickname curling around your throat and making speech even harder.

Mouse.

He called you mouse. His excuse? You worked quietly. A person of few words, but always focused, always reliable. That’s why he kept you close—stealing you away from the other attendings, handpicking you for his rounds, his patients.

He liked you.

Liked the way you listened. No interruptions. No “buts.” Just quiet attention, steady hands, and quick learning.

“I know we’re not supposed to have favorites, but you’re mine, mouse,” he’d whispered once, bent beside you over a deep gash you were stitching, like it was a secret meant only for the thread and your trembling fingers.

“Just tired,” you finally manage, turning your head slightly to meet his gaze.

His blue eyes lock onto yours, sharp and unrelenting. You smile, like you always did when it came to him.

Then your eyes drop to his hand. Empty. No Red Bull, for once. He always had one in the morning—more times than you could count on your fingers.

“Vending machine’s empty,” he says, like he’d read your mind.

“No drinking yourself into cardiac arrest today, thank god,” you blurt out before your brain had time to veto it.

He chuckles, but you see something flicker across his face—surprise, maybe. Like you’d caught him off guard for once.

“You gonna start rationing my caffeine intake now?”

“Someone has to,” you reply, tone light, even as your pulse jumps.

He leans in slightly, like he might say something else—something to make your breath hitch.

“If my heart ever stops, I know I can count on you to start it again,” he whispers.

You freeze, cup in hand, half-turned toward him. It was nothing. Meant nothing. Just a compliment. A nod to your competence, your training. Textbook professional.

And yet your pulse flutters in your throat like it’s already preparing to fail.

“Don’t give me a reason to,” you say, quieter than you mean to. Steady, but barely.

He smiles. That same crooked, effortless smile that never quite reaches his eyes.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, mouse."

You turn away before he can see what that nickname does to you—how it slinks under your skin, curls up in the hollow of your ribs like it belongs there.

The coffee’s gone cold in your hands, but you take a sip anyway. Bitter. Grounding.

Behind you, the silence stretches. Not awkward. Not quite. Just full.

“Good morning,” a voice cuts between the two of you, slicing clean through the moment. It gives you both an excuse to look away.

Dr. Robby walks towards you, coffee in hand, his gaze flicking between you and Frank with a hint of curiosity.

“Mind rounding everyone up for morning rounds?” he asks Frank, setting his cup down by his computer.

Frank gives a small nod, brushing past you with the faintest graze of his hand agaisnt your back. It could’ve been accidental. You both know it wasn’t.

“On it,” he says, already halfway past the nurses station.

You keep your eyes on the counter, pretending to study the steam curling up from Dr. Robby’s coffee. Anything but let your gaze follow Frank.

Dr. Robby takes a sip, watching you over the rim of his cup.

“Everything alright?”

You nod, too quickly. “Of course.”

But your voice doesn’t sound quite like your own.

𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹

After rounds, just like always, Frank asks for you—claiming your time before any of the residents or even Dr. Robby could pull you into a case.

His hand rests lightly on your back as he guides you, steering you toward one of the rooms. As you walk, he explains the case in detail—his voice low, confident, precise.

You try to focus on his words—the vitals, the imaging, the differentials—but it’s hard not to feel the warmth of his hand through the thin fabric of your scrubs.

“This one’s tricky,” he says, glancing sideways at you.

“Thought you’d like it.”

You hum in response, trying to sound neutral, professional.

“You mean you thought I could handle it.”

A small smile plays on his lips. “Same thing, isn’t it?”

You don’t answer. Not right away.

Inside the room, a patient waits—young, pale, anxious. A dinner fork juts out just above their collarbone, the prongs buried deep in soft tissue of their neck, surrounded by a bloom of dried blood. It’s an ugly wound, surreal in its domestic absurdity.

You slip into your role with practiced ease, letting your voice settle into something calm and clinical. You feel his eyes on you as you speak to the patient. Not in the way that makes you self-conscious, but in the way that makes you hyper-aware. Seen.

The patient shifts, wincing as you approach, and you take a steadying breath, refocusing. You reach out to examine the wound, careful, methodical. The metal feels cold beneath your gloved fingertips, the jagged edges of the fork pressing against the skin like it belongs there.

“Stay still,” you murmur, your tone soothing, even though your mind races through protocols and possibilities.

"We should get her to X-rays," you say to Frank, your voice steady, before turning back to the patient.

"From there, we can figure out the next steps."

You meet the patient’s anxious gaze, offering a reassuring smile.

"The X-rays will help us check for any underlying damage—nerves, blood vessels, anything important that might be caught between the fork. We just need to be cautious."

You remove your gloves slowly, methodically, your movements deliberate as you step aside to give Frank room to take the lead. His words fade into the background, your focus narrowing to the way his lips move, the steady rhythm of his hands as he works.

It’s almost like you're watching him in slow motion, and for a moment, nothing else exists except the quiet hum of the room.

"Hey," Frank's voice cuts through, pulling you back to the present. You meet his gaze, steady and intense.

"Get her line in for the X-ray, and everything else looks good. If you’re up for it, I might just let you pull this one out," he says, his tone casual.

A smile tugs at your lips, excitement flickering in your eyes as you nod, barely containing the rush of adrenaline.

You walk away, the tablet pressed close to your chest as you make your way toward the nurses' station.

The X-ray comes back clear—no major damage, no vessels hit. The fork is safe to remove, and Frank’s words bring excitement to your face.

You stand over the patient, gloved hands moving automatically as you adjust the patient, positioning her on her side.

The fork is lodged in the side of her neck, gauze wrapped around the area, the injury fully exposed under the bright light overhead.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Frank says, standing across from you, his eyes focused, though his posture tenses slightly.

You nod, wiggling your fingers inside the gloves, shaking off the rush of adrenaline. You take a steadying breath. You move closer, fingers gripping the fork carefully as you prepare to remove it.

Slowly, you ease the fork out, steady and controlled, until it slips free. You drop it into the metal tray with a soft clang. A small smile tugs at your lips as you glance at the patient.

“It’s out,” you say gently, already reaching for gauze to clean the wound.

You move with practiced care, cleaning the area and checking for any sign of bleeding. Once you’re done, you step back and peel off your gloves, your eyes finally lifting.

Frank’s already watching you, a faint smile on his face.

He doesn’t say anything—but he doesn’t need to. You can tell. He’s happy with your work.

After checking in with the patient one last time, you both step out into the hallway.

“So, how did that feel?” Frank asks, his tone casual but curious.

“Great,” you say, unable to hide your grin.

“Really great.” The excitement still buzzes in your chest, warm and electric.

He watches you for a moment, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes—then he looks away.

“Good. Now get the prescription written and the discharge papers ready,” he says, his voice shifting—firm, all business again.

That familiar sharp edge returns to his expression, like the moment between you never happened.

You follow his instructions without hesitation—talk the patient through her prescription, explain the aftercare, hand her the discharge papers.

Once everything’s done and she’s officially discharged, you walk her out of the room, offering a kind goodbye as a nurse takes over and escorts her down the hall.

Frank’s at the nurses’ station when you spot him, hunched slightly over a computer, his focus locked on the screen. You hesitate for a beat, debating whether to approach.

But you do.

“She said thank you,” you offer, stopping beside him.

He doesn’t look up. Just hums, eyes still glued to whatever’s on the monitor.

“You did a good job,” he says, flatly—no warmth, no real inflection. It lands wrong, and you feel it immediately.

A small twist in your gut.

You turn to leave, footsteps already starting to shift away, but something keeps you rooted. You pause, then glance back at him.

“Did I do something wrong?” you ask quietly, not sure if you're overthinking or missing something important.

He finally looks at you.

There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—guilt, frustration, maybe even regret—but it’s gone before you can name it. He straightens up, pushing a hand through his hair.

“No,” he says. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You nod, unsure if that settles it or not. The air between you still feels off. You glance at the counter, then back at him.

“I, um…” You reach into the pocket of your surgical pants and pull out a cold can of Red Bull.

“You said you couldn’t get one this morning and I guess I want to support your unhealthy relationship with caffeine today.”

He blinks, then actually smiles—small, real, the kind that barely lifts the corners of his mouth but feels like more than any words he’s said today.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says, but he takes it anyway, his fingers brushing yours for just a second too long.

“I know,” you say simply, trying not to let the warmth in your chest show on your face. “But I wanted to.”

He looks down at the can, then back at you, like he’s trying to say something without saying it.

“Thanks,” he says quietly.

And for the first time today, it feels like he actually means it.

©pomelace 2025